Wanderings in Spain. Theophile Gautier

to the galera. We had given up mules. This horse fully justified the one which has been so much criticised in the "Triumph of Trajan," by Eugene Delacroix. Genius is always right. Whatever it invents, exists; and Nature imitates it in almost its most fantastic eccentricities. After crossing a road skirted by mounds and jutting buttresses, which presented a tolerably monumental appearance, we at last entered Valladolid, slightly bruised, but with our noses undamaged, and our arms still hanging to our bodies without the assistance of black pins, like the arms of a new doll. I cannot say much for our legs, in which we seemed to feel all the pins and needles that were ever manufactured in England, as well as the feet of a hundred thousand invisible ants. We alighted in a superb and scrupulously clean parador, where we were ushered into two splendid rooms, with balconies looking out upon a square, coloured matting, and walls painted in distemper, yellow and russet-green. As yet we had met with nothing which could justify the charge of uncleanliness and poverty, which travellers make against Spanish inns; we had not found any scorpions in our beds, and the promised insects had not made their appearance.

      Valladolid is a large city that is almost entirely depopulated. It is capable of containing two hundred thousand souls, and the number of its inhabitants scarcely amounts to twenty thousand. It is a clean, quiet, elegant town, possessing many peculiar features that tell us we are approaching the east. The façade of San Pablo is covered with marvellous sculptures, of the commencement of the Renaissance period. Before the entrance, and arranged like posts, are granite pillars, surmounted by heraldic lions, holding in every possible position a shield with the arms of Castile upon it. Opposite this edifice is a palace of the time of Charles V., with a courtyard surrounded with extremely elegant arcades and most beautifully sculptured medallions. In this architectural gem, the government sells its ignoble salt and detestable tobacco. By a lucky chance, the façade of San Pablo is situated in a square, so that a daguerreotype view can be taken of it, which there is generally a great difficulty in doing in the case of edifices of the Middle Ages, almost always hemmed in by a heap of houses and abominable sheds; but the rain, which did not cease for a moment during our stay in Valladolid, prevented our profiting by this circumstance. Twenty minutes of sunshine, piercing the streams of rain at Burgos, had enabled us to take very clear and distinct views of the two spires of the Cathedral and a large portion of the portal; but, at Valladolid, we did not have even twenty minutes, a circumstance which we regretted all the more from the fact of the town abounding in charming specimens of architecture. The building which contains the library, and which they wish to turn into a museum, is built in the most pure and delicious style; and although certain ingenious restorers, who prefer bare boards to bas-reliefs, have scraped away the admirable arabesques in a shameful manner, there is still enough left to render the edifice a masterpiece of elegance. We would particularly direct the attention of draughtsmen to an internal balcony, which cuts the angle of a palace situated on this same Plaza de san Pablo, and forms a mirador of the most original description. The outline of the small column uniting the two arches, is peculiarly happy. According to the tradition, it was in this house that the terrible Philip II. was born. We may also mention the colossal fragment of an unfinished cathedral, of granite, by Herrara, in the style of St. Peter's at Rome. This edifice was abandoned for the Escurial, that lugubrious and fantastic production of Charles V.'s melancholy son.

      In a church that was closed, we were shown a collection of pictures that had been made at the time the convents were suppressed, and taken to Valladolid in obedience to an order of the superior authorities. This collection proves those who pillaged the convents and churches to be excellent artists and admirable connoisseurs, for they left none but the most horrible daubs, the best of which would not fetch fifteen francs in a broker's shop. The Museum contains a few tolerable specimens, but nothing at all first-rate; to make up for this defect, there is a great quantity of wood carving, and a large number of ivory figures of our Saviour, but they are more remarkable for their size and antiquity than for the actual beauty of the execution. Persons who go to Spain for the sake of purchasing curiosities will be greatly disappointed; they will not find a single valuable weapon, a rare book or a manuscript. Such objects are never to be met with.

      The Plaza de la Constitucion at Valladolid is very handsome and very large. It is surrounded by houses, which are supported by columns of bluish granite formed of a single block. These columns produce a fine effect. The Palace de la Constitucion is painted russet-green, and ornamented with an inscription in honour of the innocente Isabella, as the little queen is called here; it also possesses a clock which is illuminated at night, like that of the Hôtel de Ville at Paris, an innovation whereat the inhabitants seem greatly to rejoice. Under the pillars are established swarms of tailors, hatters, and shoemakers, whose callings are the three most flourishing ones in Spain. Here, too, are the principal coffee-houses, and the whole life of the population seems to be centered in this one spot. In the other parts of the town you will only meet at rare intervals some straggling individual or other, a criada going to fetch water, or a countryman driving an ass before him. This appearance of solitude is augmented still more by the large extent of ground occupied by the town, in which the squares are more numerous than the streets. The Campo Grande, near the principal gate, is surrounded by fifteen convents and could make room for a great many more.

      On the evening of our arrival, the performance at the theatre consisted of a piece by Don Breton de los Herreros, a dramatic author who is greatly esteemed in Spain. This piece bore the strange title of El Pelo de la Desa, which signifies when literally translated, The Hair of the Pasturage, a proverbial expression which it is rather difficult to explain, but which answers to the French saying, "La caque sent toujours le hareng" (what is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh). The plot of the piece turns upon the fact of an Aragonese peasant being about to marry a young girl of noble birth, but having the good sense to feel that he can never be fitted for polite society. The comicality consists in the perfect imitation of the Aragonese dialect and accent, a kind of merit that is not easily perceived by foreigners. The baile nacional, without resembling the "Dance of Death" quite as much as that at Vittoria, was but a poor affair. The next day they played Victor Hugo's Hernani, ou l'Honneur Castillan, translated by Don Eugenio de Ochoa. We took care not to neglect so fine an opportunity. The piece is rendered verse for verse with scrupulous exactitude, save some few passages and scenes which were necessarily omitted to suit the public taste. The Scene of the Portraits is reduced to nothing, because Spaniards consider it insulting, and imagine that they are indirectly ridiculed in it. There are also some passages omitted in the fifth act. In general, Spaniards feel affronted when they are spoken of in a poetical manner; they assert that they are calumniated by Victor Hugo, Mérimée, and most of the authors who have written on Spain; yes—calumniated by being represented nobler than they are. They most strenuously disavow the Spain of the Romancero and the Orientals; they almost invariably assert that they are neither poetical nor picturesque, and their assertion is, alas! but too well founded. The drama was well played. The Ruy Gomez of Valladolid was most certainly equal to that of the Rue de Richelieu, which is not saying a little. As for the Hernani, that rebelle empoisonné, he would have been highly satisfactory, had he not had the bad taste to dress himself up like the troubadour on a clock. The Doña Sol was almost as young as Mademoiselle Mars, without her talent.

      The Theatre at Valladolid is of a very pleasing shape, and although the interior is only decorated with a coat of white paint, ornamented with cameos on a grey ground, it produces a pretty effect. The decorator has hit upon the strange fancy of painting the partitions of the stage-boxes, so as to resemble windows with spotted muslin curtains, exceedingly well imitated. These windows have a very singular appearance. The balcony and the front of the boxes are formed of open-work, which enables the spectator to see whether the women have small feet and well-made shoes; indeed, it also enables him to see whether they possess a neat ankle and well-fitting stocking. This, however, cannot be at all disagreeable to Spanish women, who are nearly always irreproachable in this respect. I perceived by a charming feuilleton written by my literary substitute (for the Presse penetrates even into these barbarous regions), that the boxes of the new Opéra Comique are constructed on the same plan.

      Beyond Valladolid the character of the country changes, and the vast heaths recommence. They possess, however, the advantage over those of Bordeaux of being dotted with clusters of green dwarf oaks, and fir-trees that spread out more