Chapter 34

BEFORE setting out from Seville we had had our Foreign Officepassports duly VISED. Our profession was given as that oftravelling artists, and the VISE included the permission tocarry arms. More than once the sight of our pistols causedus to be stopped by the CARABINEROS. On one occasion theseroad-guards disputed the wording of the VISE. They protestedthat 'armas' meant 'escopetas,' not pistols, which wereforbidden. Cayley indignantly retorted, 'Nothing isforbidden to Englishmen. Besides, it is specified in ourpassports that we are 'personas de toda confianza,' whichcheckmated them.

　　We both sketched, and passed ourselves off as 'retratistas'

　　(portrait painters), and did a small business in this way -rather in the shape of caricatures, I fear, but which gavemuch satisfaction. We charged one peseta (seven-pence), ortwo, a head, according to the means of the sitter. Thefiction that we were earning our bread wholesomely tended tomoderate the charge for it.

　　Passing through the land of Don Quixote's exploits, wereverentially visited any known spot which these had renderedfamous. Amongst such was the VENTA of Quesada, from which,or from Quixada, as some conjecture, the knight derived hissurname. It was here, attracted by its castellated style,and by two 'ladies of pleasure' at its door - whose virginityhe at once offered to defend, that he spent the night of hisfirst sally. It was here that, in his shirt, he kept guardtill morning over the armour he had laid by the well. It washere that, with his spear, he broke the head of the carrierwhom he took for another knight bent on the rape of thevirgin princesses committed to his charge. Here, too, it wasthat the host of the VENTA dubbed him with the covetedknighthood which qualified him for his noble deeds.

　　To Quesada we wended our way. We asked the Senor Huespedwhether he knew anything of the history of his VENTA. Was itnot very ancient?

　　'Oh no, it was quite modern. But on the site of it had stooda fine VENTA which was burnt down at the time of the war.'

　　'An old building?'

　　'Yes, indeed! A COSA DE SIEMPRE - thing of always. Nothing,was left of it now but that well, and the stone trough.'

　　These bore marks of antiquity, and were doubtless as thegallant knight had left them. Curiously, too, there wereremains of an outhouse with a crenellated parapet, suggestiveenough of a castle.

　　From Quesada we rode to Argamasilla del Alba, where Cervanteswas imprisoned, and where the First Part of Don Quixote waswritten.

　　In his Life of Cervantes, Don Gregorio Mayano throws somedoubt upon this. Speaking of the attacks of hiscontemporary, the 'Aragonian,' Don Gregorio writes (I giveOzell's translation): 'As for this scandalous fellow'ssaying that Cervantes wrote his First Part of "Don Quixote"in a prison, and that that might make it so dull andincorrect, Cervantes did not think fit to give any answerconcerning his being imprisoned, perhaps to avoid givingoffence to the ministers of justice; for certainly hisimprisonment must not have been ignominious, since Cervanteshimself voluntarily mentions it in his Preface to the FirstPart of "Don Quixote."'

　　This reasoning, however, does not seem conclusive; for theonly reference to the subject in the preface is as follows:

　　'What could my sterile and uncultivated genius produce butthe history of a child, meagre, adust, and whimsical, full ofvarious wild imaginations never thought of before; like oneyou may suppose born in a prison, where every inconveniencekeeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation?'

　　We took up our quarters in the little town at the 'Posada dela Mina.' While our OLLA was being prepared; we asked thehostess whether she had ever heard of the celebrated DonMiguel de Cervantes, who had been imprisoned there? (I willquote Cayley).

　　'No, Senores; I think I have heard of one Cervantes, but hedoes not live here at present.'

　　'Do you know anything of Don Quixote?'

　　'Oh, yes. He was a great CABALLERO, who lived here someyears ago. His house is over the way, on the other side ofthe PLAZA, with the arms over the door. The father of theAlcalde is the oldest man in the PUEBLO; perhaps he mayremember him.'

　　We were amused at his hero's fame outliving that of theauthor. But is it not so with others - the writers of theBook of Job, of the Pentateuch, and perhaps, too, of the'Iliad,' if not of the 'Odyssey'?

　　But, to let Cayley speak:

　　'While we were undressing to go to bed, three gentlemen wereannounced and shown in. We begged them to be seated. . . .

　　We sat opposite on the ends of our respective beds to hearwhat they might have to communicate. A venerable old manopened the conference.

　　'"We have understood, gentlemen, that you have come hitherseeking for information respecting the famous Don Quixote,and we have come to give you such information as we may; but,perhaps you will understand me better if I speak in Latin."'"We have learnt the Latin at our schools, but are moreaccustomed to converse in Castilian; pray proceed."'"I am the Medico of the place, an old man, as you see; andwhat little I know has reached me by tradition. It isreported that Cervantes was paying his addresses to a younglady, whose name was Quijana or Quijada. The Alcalde,disapproving of the suit, put him into a dungeon under hishouse, and kept him there a year. Once he escaped and fled,but he was taken in Toboso, and brought back. Cervanteswrote 'Don Quixote' as a satire on the Alcalde, who was avery proud man, full of chivalresque ideas. You can see thedungeon to-morrow; but you should see the BATANES (water-mills) of the Guadiana, whose 'golpear' so terrified SanchoPanza. They are at about three leagues distance."'

　　The old gentleman added that he was proud to receivestrangers who came to do honour to the memory of hisillustrious townsman; and hoped we would visit him next day,on our return from the fulling-mills, when he would have thepleasure of conducting us to the house of the Quijanas, inthe cellars of which Cervantes was confined.

　　To the BATANES we went next morning. Their historicalimportance entitles them to an accurate description. Nonecould be more lucid than that of my companion. 'Theseclumsy, ancient machines are composed of a couple of hugewooden mallets, slung in a timber framework, which, beingpushed out of the perpendicular by knobs on a water-wheel,clash back again alternately in two troughs, poundingseverely whatever may be put in between the face of themallet and the end of the trough into which the water runs.'

　　It will be remembered that, after a copious meal, Sanchohaving neglected to replenish the gourd, both he and hismaster suffered greatly from thirst. It was now 'so dark,'

　　says the history, 'that they could see nothing; but they hadnot gone two hundred paces when a great noise of waterreached their ears. . . . The sound rejoiced themexceedingly; and, stopping to listen from whence it came,they heard on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abatedtheir pleasure occasioned by that of the water, especiallySancho's. . . . They heard a dreadful din of irons and chainsrattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes intime and measure which, together with the furious noise ofthe water, would have struck terror into any other heart thanthat of Don Quixote.' For him it was but an opportunity forsome valorous achievement. So, having braced on his bucklerand mounted Rosinante, he brandished his spear, and explainedto his trembling squire that by the will of Heaven he wasreserved for deeds which would obliterate the memory of thePlatirs, Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Belianesas, with thewhole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times past.

　　'Wherefore, straighten Rosinante's girths a little,' said he,'and God be with you. Stay for me here three days, and nomore; if I do not return in that time you may go to Toboso,where you shall say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that herenthralled knight died in attempting things that might havemade him worthy to be styled "hers."'

　　Sancho, more terrified than ever at the thoughts of beingleft alone, reminded his master that it was unwise to temptGod by undertaking exploits from which there was no escapingbut by a miracle; and, in order to emphasize this verysensible remark, secretly tied Rosinante's hind legs togetherwith his halter. Seeing the success of his contrivance, hesaid: 'Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears andprayers, has ordained that Rosinante cannot go,' and thenwarned him not to set Providence at defiance. Still Sanchowas much too frightened by the infernal clatter to relax hishold of the knight's saddle. For some time he strove tobeguile his own fears with a very long story about thegoatherd Lope Ruiz, who was in love with the shepherdessTorralva - 'a jolly, strapping wench, a little scornful, andsomewhat masculine.' Now, whether owing to the cold of themorning, which was at hand, or whether to some lenitive dieton which he had supped, it so befell that Sancho . . . whatnobody could do for him. The truth is, the honest fellow wasovercome by panic, and under no circumstances would, or did,he for one instant leave his master's side. Nay, when theknight spurred his steed and found it could not move, Sanchoreminded him that the attempt was useless, since Rosinantewas restrained by enchantment. This the knight readilyadmitted, but stoutly protested that he himself was anythingbut enchanted by the close proximity of his squire.

　　We all remember the grave admonitions of Don Quixote, and theingenious endeavours of Sancho to lay the blame upon theknight. But the final words of the Don contain a moralapposite to so many other important situations, that theymust not be omitted here. 'Apostare, replico Sancho, quepensa vuestra merced que yo he hecho de mi persona algunacosa que no deba.' 'I will lay a wager,' replied Sancho,'that your worship thinks that I have &c.' The brief, butmemorable, answer was: 'Peor es meneallo, amigo Sancho,'

　　which, as no translation could do justice to it, must be leftas it stands. QUIETA NON MOVERE.

　　We were nearly meeting with an adventure here. While I wasbusy making a careful drawing of the BATANES, Cayley's ponywas as much alarmed by the rushing waters as had been SanchoPanza. In his endeavours to picket the animal, my frienddropped a pistol which I had lent him to practise with,although he carried a revolver of his own. Not till he hadtied up the pony at some little distance did he discover theloss. In vain he searched the spot where he knew the pistolmust have escaped from his FAJA. Near it, three rough-looking knaves in shaggy goatskin garments, with guns overtheir shoulders, were watching the progress of my sketch. Onhis return Cayley asked two of these (the third moved away ashe came up) whether they had seen the pistol. They declaredthey had not; upon which he said he must search them. He wasnot a man to be trifled with, and although they refused atfirst, they presently submitted. He then overtook the third,and at once accused him of the theft. The man swore he knewnothing of the lost weapon, and brought his gun to thecharge. As he did so, Cayley caught sight of the pistolunder the fellow's sheepskin jacket, and with characteristicpromptitude seized it, while he presented a revolver at thethief's head. All this he told me with great glee a minuteor two later.

　　When we got back to Argamasilla the Medico was alreadyawaiting us. He conducted us to the house of the Quijanas,where an old woman-servant, lamp in hand, showed the way downa flight of steps into the dungeon. It was a low vaultedchamber, eight feet high, ten broad, and twenty-four long,dimly lighted by a lancet window six feet from the ground.

　　She confidently informed us that Cervantes was in the habitof writing at the farthest end, and that he was allowed alamp for the purpose. We accepted the information withimplicit faith; silently picturing on our mental retinas theimage of him whose genius had brightened the dark hours ofmillions for over three hundred years. One could see thespare form of the man of action pacing up and down his cell,unconscious of prison walls, roaming in spirit through theboundless realms of Fancy, his piercing eyes intent upon theconjured visions of his brain. One noted his vast expanse ofbrow, his short, crisp, curly hair, his high cheek-bones andsingularly high-bridged nose, his refined mouth, smallprojecting chin and pointed beard. One noticed, too, as heturned, the stump of the left wrist clasped by the remaininghand. Who could stand in such a presence and fail to bowwith veneration before this insulted greatness! Potentatespass like Ozymandias, but not the men who, through the ages,help to save us from this tread-mill world, and fromourselves.

　　We visited Cuenca, Segovia, and many an out-of-the-way spot.

　　If it be true, as Don Quixote declares, that 'No hay librotan malo que no tenga alguna cosa buena' ('there is no bookso worthless that has not some good in it'), still more trueis this of a country like Spain. And the pleasantest placesare just those which only by-roads lead to. In and near thetowns every other man, if not by profession still bypractice, is a beggar. From the seedy-looking rascal in thestreet, of whom you incautiously ask the way, and whopiteously whines 'para zapatos' - for the wear and tear ofshoe leather, to the highest official, one and all hold outtheir hands for the copper CUARTO or the eleemosynarysinecure. As it was then, so is it now; the Government wantssupport, and it is always to be had, at a price; deputiesalways want 'places.' For every duty the functionaryperforms, or ought to perform, he receives his bribe. TheGovernment is too poor to keep him honest, but his POUR-BOIRES are not measured by his scruples. All is winked at,if the Ministry secures a vote.

　　Away in the pretty rural districts, in the little villagesamid the woods and the mountains, with their score or so ofhouses and their little chapel with its tinkling old bell andits poverty-stricken curate, the hard-working, simple-mindedmen are too proud and too honest to ask for more than a pinchof tobacco for the CIGARILLO. The maidens are comely, and aschaste as - can reasonably be expected.

　　Madrid is worth visiting - not for its bull-fights, which aredisgusting proofs of man's natural brutality, but for itspicture gallery. No one knows what Velasquez could do, orhas done, till he has seen Madrid; and Charles V. waspractically master of Europe when the collection was in hishands. The Escurial's chief interests are in itsassociations with Charles V. and Philip II. In the dark andgloomy little bedroom of the latter is a small window openinginto the church, so that the King could attend the servicesin bed if necessary.

　　It cannot be said of Philip that he was nothing if notreligious, for Nero even was not a more indefatigablemurderer, nor a more diabolical specimen of cruelty andsuperstition. The very thought of the wretch tempts one torevolt at human piety, at any rate where priestcraft and itsfabrications are at the bottom of it.

　　When at Madrid we met Mr. Arthur Birch. He had been withCayley at Eton, as captain of the school. While we weretogether, he received and accepted the offer of an Etonmastership. We were going by diligence to Toledo, and Birchagreed to go with us. I mention the fact because the placereminds me of a clever play upon its name by the Etonscholar. Cayley bought a Toledo sword-blade, and asked Birchfor a motto to engrave upon it. In a minute or two he hitoff this: TIMETOLETUM, which reads Time Toletum=HonourToledo, or Timeto Letum=Fear death. Cayley's attempts,though not so neat, were not bad. Here are a couple ofthem:-Though slight I am, no slight I stand,Saying my master's sleight of hand.

　　or:-Come to the point; unless you do,The point will shortly come to you.

　　Birch got the Latin poem medal at Cambridge the same yearthat Cayley got the English one.

　　Before we set forth again upon our gipsy tramp, I received aletter from Mr. Ellice bidding me hasten home to contest theBorough of Cricklade in the General Election of 1852. Underthese circumstances we loitered but little on the Northernroads. At the end of May we reached Yrun. Here we sold ourponies - now quite worn out - for twenty-three dollars -about five guineas. So that a thousand miles of locomotionhad cost us a little over five guineas apiece. Not countinghotels at Madrid and such smart places, our daily cost forselves and ponies rarely exceeded six pesetas, or threeshillings each all told. The best of it was, the triprestored the health of my friend.