Queen Leaves Spain

Today’s installment concludes 1868 Spanish Revolution,
our selection from his article in Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 18 by William I Knapp published in 1905.

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Previously in 1868 Spanish Revolution.

Time: 1868

On the first vibration of the fatal wires, Isabella knew her doom was sealed. The cloud that had hung over the throne vanished and disclosed vacuity. Smarting under the wounds of ingrates; writhing under the silent contempt of the “Parvenu of Biarritz”; anticipating the sentence of a merciless world, and dreading its cruel decrees more than those of a merciful God, she summoned her expiring Cabinet. The session was stormy; it lasted all that night, until the dawn of the 19th. No one can report in our day all the ravings and recriminations that passed in that council.

Isabella II raved and wept before her astonished Cabinet. She had forgotten the divorce from the Crown pronounced by her people in 1856 and renewed in the last three years. So, blinded by ambition, she cast away the lessons of her father, confounding partial duty with treason.

The rest is soon told. The ministers resigned and Manuel Concha became Dictator of the realm. He divided the land, as the augurs of old divided the sky, into four zones, over each of which loyal men were set. He put the country under the law of the sword and hastened to the swaying capital.

On the 29th it was all over. The field of Alcolea, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, had been the valley of decision to the sovereign. Her best friends had done for her all that duty and honor could demand. Their mission was discharged with her reign; fifteen thousand had poured out their precious lives in either cause. Her General had been loyal to his trust and sealed his valor with his blood.

September 29, 1868, the date of the Spanish Revolution, was a bitter day to Isabella. It was a twofold anniversary. Thirty five years before, on that same day, her father, Ferdinand VII, had breathed out his troubled spirit. Thirty five years before, on that same day, she became the Queen of the Spains. And now in eleven short days she had been despoiled of her ancestral throne by that same Spanish people whose attachment to the native monarchy had ever been proverbial. The hitherto secret committees now became provisional governments. To them the dependents of the late situation handed over their powers. No telegrams, no reports, no bulletins came to Isabel now. Her very name reverted to the simplicity of private life. Henceforth she was known as “Doña Isabel de Borbon.” The scepter slipped from her grasp; her crown was an empty jewel.

The Central Junta of Madrid telegraphed to “know why San Sebastian hesitates to join the nation.” The Governor informed the wretched Queen, as the executioner reminds the condemned. “Oh, yes! she would go tomorrow: “she could not go that day. The people of San Sebastian were too gallant, the Spanish people too chivalrous, not to comprehend. The nation could afford to wait a little over a history, an agony, like this. The next morning, the 30th, the ex-Queen emerged from her lodgings at about ten o’clock. Her attire was neglected, her hands ungloved. She wore a gray impermeable cloak and a French straw bonnet garnished with a crimson plume. Her face was ruddy and swollen ; a forced smile lingered on her lips. Her consort followed, pale and haggard. He was plainly dressed in black without insignia. As they passed to a carriage a group of Frenchmen cried feebly, but politely, “Hommage a la Reine!“ She turned and said, “To the Frenchmen, thanks for their courtesy.”

At the door of the station there was still the faded trumpery of a floral arch crowned by two Spanish flags. Within were a guard of soldiers and a waiting crowd. No bustling inspectors flourished as usual their lace and gold. The engine slowly backed to the train, which pointed toward France. At five minutes past ten came the roll of a drum. The soldiers presented arms. The eager crowd looked up; many whispered, “Jes ella!” (“It is she! “).

Father Claret led her in. Nervously he held out his fingers. Nobody wanted the proffered blessing; not one advanced to receive it. The Archbishop of Cuba forgot that it was a judgment day. The Prince Consort followed next, never so insignificant as now; then Don Sebastian and the Princess. Alfonso, though a child of only eleven years, bustled about to hide his emotion, as if he fully comprehended the sad situation. The three little infantas ran up to the train enchanted at the prospect of a ride in the cars. Their innocent jubilee forced the tear from the eyes of many who saw it. The mother appeared resigned now, but it was the resignation of a dream. Her eyes wandered or glistened with a filmy stare. At one time she turned to the crowd on the platform, as if they could save her now. They were the same that in 1840 took her in their arms, while they drove her mother to exile. But today Isabella stands before them as Maria Christina did then. Those October days in Valencia call to these September days in Guipuzcoa. “With fate,” says the Arab poet, “it is idle to reason.” So the convoy moved away from the station, and the people cried, “Long live Spain!”

The fall of Isabella in 1868 was an imperious necessity. Her reign had come to be incompatible with the honor and aspirations of her country. By a series of arbitrary measures, she had divorced herself from her people; she had chilled the national heart. Her expulsion was not the catastrophe of a plot; she was not the victim of a conspiracy. It was not the work of Topete, Serrano, or Prim, of army or navy, of party or banner. Public opinion, the latent instinct of Spain, arose after the long probation, and thrust out the unworthy sovereign. Questionable means were of course employed, but underneath lay the pressure of an inexorable law.

In Madrid the first days passed in a prolonged outburst of joy. The elasticity of freedom expanded to its utmost tension. The populace filled the fora —- those breathing — places in the dense purlieus of ancient cities -— but there was no panic, no apprehension of disorder. Fraternization and conciliation were the order of the day. The throng moved along the streets demolishing the emblems of Bourbon rule. On the Ministry of Finance, or the Exchequer building, they set up this apocalyptic inscription: “The spurious race of the Bourbons is fallen, is fallen forever!”

This ends our series of passages on 1868 Spanish Revolution by William I Knapp from his book his article in Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 18 published in 1905. This blog features short and lengthy pieces on all aspects of our shared past. Here are selections from the great historians who may be forgotten (and whose work have fallen into public domain) as well as links to the most up-to-date developments in the field of history and of course, original material from yours truly, Jack Le Moine. – A little bit of everything historical is here.

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