Poor Folk in Spain Part 10

CHAPTER XIII

AN EXCURSION

Murcia was very hot, very dusty and very sultry. We did not mind mere heat--though Spanish midsummer heat was not the best of pick-me-ups for the influenza--dust we could outlive, but the sultriness of the Murcian valley was beyond our physique. This flat valley, which is ten miles wide between abrupt mountains, is irrigated over the whole of its breadth and is one of the richest agricultural parts of Spain. The evaporation of the water makes the heat of Murcia damp; the summer in addition was cloudy, and the sun shining on to the clouds seemed to cook the air enclosed in the valley until the atmosphere resembled that of a gla.s.s-house for orchids. We wished to leave Murcia in spite of an affection which was growing in us for the town.

Luis met us at one o'clock on the terrace of the Reina Victoria. We had _cafe au lait_ while waiting for the tartana. Luis said that the milk in the coffee was not good: he deduced preservatives. But the lean waiter stood loyally by his hotel.

"The milk is excellent, I a.s.sure you, Senor," he said. "My stomach is excessively delicate; the slightest thing and it is ... I a.s.sure you that I drink pints of this milk in this hotel. In fact my stomach is so delicado that I am a connoisseur in milk, es vero.[11] If the milk were bad this fatality would happen to me."

He gave a dumb-crambo exhibition of the results of bad milk on his delicate digestion; it needed no words.

With deference he then proposed a new _cafe au lait_, which Luis sipped with a judicial but unconvinced manner.

The tartana was a tight fit. It is about as large as a governess-cart inside, and we were six. Luis, Jan and myself, a monk in brown, a thin pale Senor who had long eyelashes and many rings, and another pa.s.senger, a world type, the result of overwork and underpay, neither smart nor slovenly, with a rough manner covering a kindly nature.

THE DRIVE

[Ill.u.s.tration]

We discovered why tartanas have bulging hoods. The vehicles roll and rock so much over the bad roads that it is necessary to make room for the pa.s.sengers' heads to jerk backwards. Otherwise cerebral concussion would be the invariable result.

_Luis_ (to the little monk): "Excuse me, but are not your clothes very hot?"

_The Monk_ (spreading out his hands): "They are hot, but nevertheless they keep out the sun."

We come out of the town into the gardens. There are flat fields of cultivation spotted with mulberry trees, the trunks of which seem vivid purple in the afternoon light.

I make a remark in Spanish. (Jan was still at the stage of appreciative listener).

_The Clerkly Man_: "Senora, your Spanish is good for a stranger--you can p.r.o.nounce the Spanish J, which is difficult for foreigners."

_I_: "I have learned that from speaking German; it is rather like the German _ch_."

A discussion on idioms at once begins. The Spaniard, though he speaks foreign languages badly, has an inextinguishable interest in the subject of tongues. If ever you are bored in Spanish company start an argument about languages. After the discussion has been going on for some while the pale Senor says:

"Nevertheless it is sad that the Catalans wish to root Castilian out of their country."

_Luis_ (with some heat): "Well! why should they not? They are the hardest working and the most valuable people of Spain. Why should not they do as they like? Why should everybody not do as he likes if he hurts n.o.body else?"

_The pale Senor_ (with frigidity): "But that is Bolshevism."

_Luis_ (with increasing heat): "If that is Bolshevism then I do not mind being a Bolshevik."

Conversation is at an impa.s.se. The carriage flings us to and fro for a while.

A motor-car pa.s.ses us. The dust which is about six inches deep on the road is whirled up in a cloud so thick that we have to halt for a few minutes to allow it to settle, or we might have driven into the deep water-channels which edge each side of the road.

_Luis_ (to the Clerkly Man): "My friends want to live for a while out in the mountains. Do you by any chance know of a house?"

_The Clerkly Man_: "I am living with my family in the monastery of Fuen Santa. There is a guest house there and habitations are to let. I will find out all about them if you wish."

_The pale little Senor_ (who has apparently forgotten all about Bolshevism): "There are one or two houses in my village of Verdolay. The proprietor is a friend of mine. I will inquire for you about it."

The tartana stops.

In front of a solitary house is a small wooden frame on which a few strips of dusty meat are hung. The driver buys some of this from the woman who comes out of the house.

_The Driver_ (confidentially to the pa.s.sengers): "Better get a bit of meat while you have the chance."

n.o.body follows his example. The carriage b.u.mps on.

The sun is now shining through the thin dust-laden trees which edge the road: they appear as flames of pale gold.

We mount over a bridge. A broad deep but waterless ca.n.a.l stretches away to right and left.

_The little Senor_: "We are now nearing Verdolay. It is still too hot for you to go hunting for a house. I shall be delighted if you will take possession of my house until the sun is cooler."

_Luis_: "Senor, I thank you very much, but we cannot do it."

_The little Senor_: "I insist--you will come?"

_Luis_: "Thank you very much."

This is Spanish courtesy. A single invitation is for politeness only, like the last piece of bread and b.u.t.ter left for Miss Manners. A second invitation means that it is really offered.

We pa.s.s a group of houses the colour of baked bread; the most arid-looking spot we have seen as yet. The gardens come to an abrupt end. The road rises slightly, and grey-green olive foliage over gnarled trunks throw a thin lacework of shadow on the dry earth.

The tartana stops.

We all get out.

The clerkly man goes east; the priest south; we, led by the pale Senor, west.

We were at the entrance of a village. It spread over a mound at the foot of the higher hills. It was like a pyramid with toy houses coloured yellow, orange, green and grey upon the ledges, and all around trees like those from a child's play box. The village was fronted by a line of houses painted a deep crimson-vermilion. An iron windmill for pumping water was placed on the extreme point of the mound.

The little Senor showed us through the village to his house and left us in the entrada, while he went to get beer. The room was decorated with wooden "art-nouveau" chairs, oleographs and an extremely bad oil painting of a bull with banderillas shedding much blood. On a cane table was a gramophone.

The little Senor had shut a door made on the system of a Venetian blind to keep out the sun, and presently the lattice-work was crowded with children trying to peer in at us.

The Senor returned preceded by a large English setter. He drew the corks of the beer and asked us to make ourselves at home.