Life in a Spanish _Posada_—Spanish Peasants—The Toilers of the Field and
other Workers—The _Cigarreras_ of Seville—The _Kermesse_ in the Esclava
Gardens—The Love of Festivals—Easter Day in a Spanish Village—Third-class
Travelling—Wild Life in Spain—Fishing in the Country Districts.
To know Spain it is not enough to visit the towns. It is when the
stranger leaves the beaten tracks of travel, and goes to the country
districts, where the outcome of modern progress is still unknown, that he
sees the life of ancient Spain almost unchanged. I know of no experience
more necessary to the understanding of the country and its people than a
lengthened stay in a village _posada_. The life, indeed, will be hard in
many ways, and it will be wise for the stranger to cultivate the stoicism
and indifference to personal comfort that characterize the Spaniards
themselves; but the experience is excellent, and the people you meet are
charming in their kindness and perfect courtesy.
The _posada_ is the _casa huéspedes_, or house of hospitality for the
neighbourhood. The title is no misnomer, but stands for what the village
_posada_ truly is. To stay there is to find a new meaning in the word
“hospitality”; it is to know willing service, restrained by the fine
Spanish courtesy from offensive attention.
[Picture: A bridge and country homes in the mountains of Northern Spain]
It is more than probable that the first sight of the _posada_ may disturb
the stranger. It is built with a spacious vestibule. On one side of the
stone staircase, which gives entrance to the upstairs living-rooms, is a
dark wineshop, where the men of the village foregather to talk and drink
the black native wine; while the other side serves as the stable, in
which the mules, donkeys, oxen, and other animals belonging to the house,
have their home. Many odours cling about the dark staircase; the scent
of closely packed animals mingles with that of garlic, while the air
reeks with the fumes of rancid _aceite_, or oil—the never-to-be-forgotten
smell that belongs to every _posada_. The noise in the vestibule is
deafening and incessant; the men talk in loud voices which are piercingly
vibrant and metallic. Cackling hens, with maybe a fat black pig or
little woolly lamb, block the way as one climbs the staircase to the
living-room.
This room is bare, but never dirty; the filth which I had been led to
expect from my experience of some of the smaller inns in the towns does
not exist in the village _posadas_. The large windows open on to wooden
balconies which look out on to the tree-shaded _plaza_. The walls are
freshly whitewashed, and the bare boards of the floor are scrubbed to
snowy whiteness by their daily scouring with sand; the curtains, too,
when there are any, are always white. Sometimes a few highly coloured
and amazing religious prints in black frames hang upon the walls, but,
fortunately, more often they are bare. The furniture is of the simplest
description—a large table, bare of any cloth, that fills most of the
room, wooden chairs and a Spanish press, a great cupboard which holds the
linen of the family. The beds are placed in small alcoves which lead out
of the living-rooms; and these beds are always comfortable, with spotless
linen, embroidered, lace-trimmed, and brought from the lavender-scented
chest. There is no fireplace in the living-room, and if, as often
chances in winter and early spring, the weather is cold, the only heat is
gained from the _brasero_, whose charcoal ashes give the very faintest
glow of warmth. The Spaniards accept cold without murmur; they wrap
themselves in their cloaks, and wait till God sends out the sun.
[Picture: The Village Posada at Matarosa]
The _posada_ is ruled by the señora. She sways a rod of iron over her
husband, relatives, servants, guests, and the arrangements of the house,
being full of energy and the vigour of character that is common to
Spanish women even in old age. She is the characteristic type of the
Spanish woman of the people, her face a formidable mass of wrinkles;
_jamona_, or stout in body, but of surprising agility; she is witty,
smiling, and contented. From break of day until late evening she bustles
about, shouting orders as she goes from one task to another, yet she
seems never hurried, never overburdened. How happy she is if her efforts
are appreciated and her guests enjoy the fare she has provided! how her
face saddens and clouds if any dish is sent from the table uneaten.
“Mas, mas!” (More, more!), is her constant cry as she enters the room at
the beginning of every course to urge her guests to eat.
To have English visitors staying at her posada filled the good señora
with pride. Her satisfaction reached its zenith when letters arrived
from England. She was loath to yield them up. “The great English people
will know of my _posada_ now,” she said on one occasion, pointing to the
address in triumph. With comical humility she asked that, in my
goodness, I would give her the envelope. How well do I remember the joy
with which she carried away the torn trophy!
Nothing was too good for these strangers who had come from a foreign land
to stay at her _posada_. The best of everything the house contained was
given up for our use, special food was cooked, and the village was
ransacked to provide things fitting for _los Ingléses_. On one occasion,
when I had asked for a certain food not to be obtained in the
neighbourhood, a messenger was sent on horseback twenty miles over the
mountains to the nearest town to procure it. Nor was any payment allowed
for the service. No, the English señora was her guest; she had asked for
something, it was her duty to provide it. The trouble! the expense! she
did not understand. In the old Spain service is not rendered for
payment.
It is in the villages that one is best able to study the peasants and the
gipsies. Sunday is the _dia festivo_, when the youths and maidens,
dressed in the picturesque native costumes, dance and sing to the music
of the village piper, who plays the _dulzaina_, a kind of clarionet. He
marks the time by beating on a drum which is slung around his waist. The
singing is the tuneless chanting heard so often in Spain, a kind of
interminable dwelling on one piercing note, not beautiful to unaccustomed
ears, but disturbing in its strange appeal, which so persistently recalls
the East. The dances are danced by boys and girls and men and women
grouped in couples of four or six. There is a great deal of movement;
the hands keep time with the feet, playing castanets hung with
bright-coloured ribbons.
In all parts of Spain there are gipsies, but it is in the districts of
the south that the stranger will see them best, for there would seem to
be a special affinity between the Andalusian and the gipsy character.
The Gitanas and Gitanos live in communities, often in houses carved out
of the mountain sides. It is among them that we find the most typical of
the Spanish dancers. Dancing is a universal accomplishment, a part of
life, in which every girl and boy takes his or her share.
[Picture: A mediæval ox-cart, Province of Guipúzcoa]
On one day in the week the market is held in every small town, on the
open ground of the _plaza_, under the overspreading trees. Let us look
at the market-place at Ampuero, a large village in the Basque province of
Guipúzcoa. The whole ground space is filled with booths that are piled
up with fruit and vegetables, with dress-stuffs, pots, water-jugs,
furniture, and a medley of wares that give bright colour to the scene.
Peasants from the surrounding hamlets have all come to buy and sell.
They are dressed in the native costume—the men with the _boina_, or cap
of dark blue wool, shaped like a Scotch tam-o’-shanter, short smock
jackets, trousers of bright blue linen, and red or black body sashes; and
the women with their many-coloured handkerchiefs of silk, bright skirts
that are short and very wide, and still brighter blouses. The Spanish
peasants have the delight in vivid colour that belongs to all primitive
and happy people.
The sellers and buyers stand about in groups talking in the ancient and
mysterious Basque language, which once, as place-names prove, was spoken
over the greater part of the Peninsula. All business is carried out in
the vivid, primitive Spanish manner. And what impresses the stranger
most is the courtesy and happy good-nature, which makes the universal
bargaining a game enjoyed alike by buyer and seller.
In one corner of the _plaza_, under an archway, is a stone image, beneath
which burns a sacred lamp, and always, as they pass, the men and women
pause, cross themselves, and make a genuflection; religion is part of
business. The mules and ox-carts stand at the outskirts of the plaza.
The mules are shaved on the upper part of their bodies and their tails
and ears, and have a curious appearance; they are thin and badly cared
for, but this is hidden by their gay trappings. The ox-waggons are
exceedingly primitive, and as each one arrives a hoarse and deafening
noise pierces the air. The peasants leave the wheels of the cart
unoiled, and delight in the frightful music, which can be heard half a
league away; they believe that the sound drives off demons. A peasant
would not own a cart that did not “play.”
The Basques claim to be the oldest race in Europe; and it is now
generally acknowledged that they represent the primitive Iberians of
Berber stock, who form the fundamental population of all Spain. Many
primitive customs survive among them, and one of the most interesting is
that by which the eldest daughter in some districts takes precedence over
the sons in inheritance. They are a people of the mountains, and to know
the Basques you must live in their villages; even their one town, Bilbao,
in spite of its industrial and commercial prosperity, is really an
overgrown village more than a city. It offers a striking contrast to
Barcelona, the other great Spanish seaport, and the most perfect example
of a commercial city.
[Picture: Harvesting wheat in the Basque Province of Guipúzcoa]
To see the Basques at their finest you must watch them in the fields,
where the women work side by side with the men, and appear to have equal
strength with them. They use a large and primitively-shaped fork on
which both feet are placed to force the implement into the ground, and
the work is carried out with surprising rapidity.
Great flocks of sheep are reared in Spain, especially in Estremadura;
each flock belonging to one proprietor is called a _cabaña_, and many
contain 50,000 sheep. The shepherd who guards the _cabaña_ is one of the
most constant figures in the country districts. A million arrobes of
wool—an arrobe is about 25 pounds—are said to be obtained in each year,
and the wool is famed throughout Europe. Although manufactures are not
extensively developed, I have seen cloth made at Guadalajara that for
beauty of colour and quality would compare favourably with the
manufactures of England or France. It is worth noting that in some
manufactories it is the custom to set aside a portion of the wool to be
sold for the benefit of souls in purgatory—an instance of how in Spain
religion is connected with everything.
The most important industries of Spain are wine-making and fruit-growing.
The country makes all the common wines for her own consumption, and the
brandies, rich wines, and fruits exported form a considerable source of
wealth. Many thousands of men, women, and children, are employed in
these industries. At Seville and other towns in the south, the women
pick the oranges ready to be taken to the ships. Great heaps of golden
fruit line the groves, which are afterwards sorted, the better fruit
being wrapped in paper before it is packed.
One of the oldest industries is pottery. The _jarro_, or earthen pots
used for water, are made of white or red clay, unglazed, and very
beautiful in shape. The _jarro_ are sold by women in the markets of the
towns for a few reales—that is to say, about five or six English pence.
[Picture: An orange-picker, Seville]
Spanish workers are universally poor, receiving wages so low that it is
surprising how they live. But they are thrifty and sober, while their
needs are simple, and their hardships are mitigated in some measure by
the fact that almost all industries are carried on out of doors. In the
streets of the towns you see men and women at work at the edge of
pavements, making and mending boots, working sewing-machines, preparing
leather goods, ironware, and other commodities. The shops and small
manufactories are open to the street; you can see the occupants within
making ropes and baskets, saddlebags, brushes, and a variety of wares.
What impressed me was that these workers always looked happy.
Women play an important part in the life of workaday Spain, and the
splendid types of these women workers make the foreigner think deeply.
They are full of energy and vigour even in old age. They work as well as
the men in the fields, turning the soil with forks, training the vines,
and garnering the grapes and chestnuts. I have seen women carrying
immense burdens, unloading boats, acting as porters, removing household
furniture. I saw one woman with a chest of drawers easily poised upon
her head; another, who was quite old, carried a bedstead. A beautiful
woman porter in one village carried our heavy luggage, running with it on
bare feet, without sign of effort. For what surprised me most was that,
in spite of hard physical labour, these women are beautiful. They are
always happy and contented; in their faces, and especially in their eyes,
is that indescribable expression, the wonderful smile of Spanish women.
A visit to the _fábrica de tabacos_ at Seville will show the stranger a
charming scene of labour. The rooms of the factory are large, and,
although low, are airy. They open into outer courts, and the great
chambers, supported by pillars, resemble a church. Each room has its
altar, which is decorated with flowers and offerings. As the workers
pass they cross themselves, and never fail to make the customary
genuflection. Yet, with the easy familiarity which is the special
feature of the Spaniard’s religion, they will often place their outer
garments upon the altar. The _cigarreras_ are deeply religious, and at a
recent Easter festival one of the _pasos_ of the Virgin was presented
with a splendid new mantle at a cost of 9,000 dollars, for the purchase
of which the 7,000 workers had each contributed two _centimos_ a week
during the preceding year.
The _cigarreras_, in brightly coloured costumes, sit at work making
_polvo de Sevilla_ and _tabaco de fraile_. A skilful worker can easily
accomplish ten _atados_, or bundles of fifty cigars, daily. The murmur
of conversation never ceases; talking seems to aid the Spaniards in work.
Many of the women have their babies with them, whom they tend in the
intervals of work; children a little older play happily together in
groups. It is enough to have seen these smiling, contented, industrious
women to know that life is happy to most women in Spain.
The _Kermesse_, which is held each year in the Esclava Gardens, is the
festival of the _cigarreras_; it is a kind of fair. The stalls and
booths, where every variety of wares are sold, are presided over by the
_cigarreras_, dressed in the beautiful Andalusian attire. They chaffer
over every sale, but they do not seek customers, and appear to be more
occupied in talking than in selling their goods. All day long the
gardens are full of gay noise. The women pass to and fro; some sit on
seats, some rest upon the grass under the trees. In the centre of the
gardens a platform is erected, where in turn the women dance the
_sevillanas_ and other dances with charming spontaneous enjoyment. The
sound of castanets and clapping of hands never ceases; the talking is
deafening. Sometimes there is a quarrel, but this is rare. There is a
natural refinement in these women, and because they are really happy they
have no need of riot to convince themselves that life is pleasant.
[Picture: Pottery vendors in a Spanish Market]
Their love of festivals is shared by all Spaniards, and everywhere
holiday-making is a part of life. In the country districts, as in the
towns, the _Pascua de Resurrección_ of Easter is the most popular
festival, when the days are spent in a curious combination of religious
ceremonial and holiday-making.
It was my good fortune to spend one Easter in a mountain village, where I
had an opportunity of seeing the customs of the people of old Spain. On
Palm Sunday the village was filled to overflowing with peasants, many of
whom had travelled long distances, riding on mules or driving in the
wooden ox-carts, from the hamlets among the mountains. They were dressed
in the native costumes. The men wore velvet breeches adorned with silver
buttons, and leather gaiters, open to show the calves; bright sashes of
red or yellow silk; jackets of brown cloth, with embroidered cuffs and
collars; blue or maroon cloaks, brightly lined; and pointed hats, adorned
with silver tassels. The fantastic dress gave the scene an aspect more
African than European. The women were not so gay, and were almost
universally attired in black; but the _mantilla_ with the white flower,
which all wore, gave them an incomparable grace. All day the streets
were filled with bustle and life. Vendors of palms were stationed in
every corner selling their wares, while boys ran to and fro among the
crowds with arms full of olive branches.
The great function was the procession, when the _pasos_ were carried
through the streets after the celebration of Mass. In the _plaza_ a
stand had been erected, and every seat was filled; people crowded the
pavements, and in the balconies of every house men and women were closely
packed. The gendarmes of the little town walked first, marching gravely,
the representatives of law and order; then followed the children, clad in
white, and bearing the consecrated palms and olive branches; while after
them came the priests, dressed in robes richly embroidered and trimmed
with lace. Upon the shoulders of hidden bearers was carried the litter,
illuminated with hundreds of candles, upon which rested the figure of the
Virgin, the patron saint of the village. The image was hideous, quite
without beauty, and decked out in cheap tawdry finery, strangely
incongruous. But to the peasants she was the Mother of God. I saw no
sign of levity; the attitude of the men as well as of the women was
perfectly dignified, perfectly religious. All eyes were riveted upon the
sacred figure, heads were bared, and each man and woman bowed and made
the sign of the cross as the lighted litter passed. Prayers were
murmured and blessings invoked. “Holy Mother, cause the crops to ripen,”
“the sick child to be healed,” “the lover’s heart to soften”—such were
the cries of the women. Children pressed forward, dodging unchecked
among the gendarmes and priests, clamouring for a blessing. One small
_niña_ knelt upon the pavement in front of the _pasos_, holding up a
white carnation in offering. A priest stepped forward, took the flower,
and placed it upon the litter.
To the children of the village the Easter days brought special enjoyment.
The part they played in the festival was a strange one, giving an example
of the old-world customs that live so persistently in Spain. On the
_Viernes Santo_, or Good Friday, each boy and girl went to church armed
with a horn and large wooden clapper, upon which strange instruments they
played to frighten the spirit of the traitor Judas Iscariot, who betrayed
Señor Dios, the name by which they quaintly designate the Saviour. They
blew and rattled with a will, and the hideous, deafening noise mingled
strangely with the music of the Mass, for the evil spirit must not
escape. Incomprehensible survival of an old superstition, blending the
grotesque with the most sacred service of the Church—how often the
stranger is surprised in Spain!
[Picture: A Basque peasant-girl driving an ox-cart]
The Spaniards are more friendly with one another than any people that I
know. The stranger will realize this travelling in the third-class
trains, as he must in the country districts, where the expresses do not
stop. These trains are known as _mixto_, and convey luggage as well as
passengers. The carriages are uncomfortable, and not always clean, and
the speed is very slow. Patience is a quality that the visitor to Spain
must cultivate. The train may start before the advertised time; it may
be an hour late. No Spaniard is disturbed by such trifles. At the
stations there is always a crowd of people waiting. There is a kind of
fatalistic patience in their appearance; they seem not so much to be
waiting for a particular train, as hoping that presently a train will
come that will take them to their destination. Even when the train
arrives there is no hurrying; a start will not be made until everyone is
ready, for punctuality is a small virtue compared with politeness. The
long-drawn cry of _A-a-gua fresco_! is always heard. Much time is
occupied, as everyone in the train seems to want to drink.
In the carriages the company talk together with excessive volubility, and
have the appearance of being members of one family. As soon as you enter
questions will be asked. “Where are you going to?” “Are you Francéses
or Ingléses?” “Why have you come to visit their country?” “Are you
married, and is the señor who is with you your husband?” “How many
children have you?” “How old are you?” “Why do you wear a hat, and not
a _mantilla_?” “And how is it you have no earrings and no fan?” You
will soon become accustomed to this interrogation, which is made with no
hint of familiarity, and is the outcome of a friendliness that wishes to
make the stranger at home.
The natives seem to be without a thought of themselves, and incapable of
considering personal comfort. They will crowd upon one seat of the
carriage to give the English strangers more room. If the weather is
cold, they will insist upon giving you their cloaks. They talk to you
incessantly, explaining to you the scenery and various places through
which the train passes, with delightful childish enthusiasm. They will
offer you everything in their possession that you chance to admire.
[Picture: Sherry a half-century old, Jerez]
I remember saying to a little Spanish maid, “What a beautiful carnation
in your hair!” Off came the flower. “It is at your disposal, señora.”
I protested with the fitting answer: “A thousand thanks, but, no, I could
not accept.” But the offer was quite sincere, and, in spite of protest,
the flower was fastened into my hair, amidst the compliments and
congratulations of every occupant of the carriage. On another journey a
fan and a beautiful peasant brooch, which I rashly admired, were pressed
upon me with the same delightful politeness.
When meal-time arrives, each peasant brings out the _alforja_, or
embroidered wallet, which Sancho Panza kept so well filled. A huge
Spanish loaf is produced, and some of the long thin garlic sausages.
Slices of the bread are cut to serve as plates. But before the meal is
begun a hearty _gusta_ invites all the other occupants to share in the
feast. It is customary at this stage to refuse, and “Muchas gracias” is
politely murmured. Soon the black-leather wine-bottle is brought out of
the wallet and a packet of some kind of sweetmeat. Now is the time for
acceptance; the bottle is handed round for everyone to drink, and small
pieces of the sweetmeat are divided. It is a charming experience,
provided that you have acquired the skill to drink from that curious
long-spouted bottle of leather. And if you fail, the Spaniards will
enjoy the task of teaching you the art.
But, indeed, there is no limit to the helpful friendliness of these
simple happy people. On one occasion a workman abandoned his own
journey, and, in spite of our protests, came with us. When we arrived at
our destination, he spent several hours in assisting us to find suitable
lodgings in the village in which we had planned to stay, where there was
no regular house of hospitality. He introduced us to the inhabitants of
the place as his friends, and expended much energy to insure our comfort.
It is only when work is profitable that the Spaniard is ever lazy. He
delights to expend an immense amount of effort, which may not be
considered useful, so long as the work makes appeal to his Spanish love
of romantic effects. It is because this trait is so often overlooked by
the stranger, who too quickly condemns “the lazy Spaniards,” that I
recount this characteristic incident. Our friend was genuinely surprised
when we offered payment for his services; there was a note of dignified
sorrow in the “Muchas gracias” of his refusal. It had been a privilege
to assist _los Ingléses_, whom he admired. Had he not once visited our
country? We were a great people. He desired that we should think well
of his country. All he would accept was to share our meal, after which
he left us—I suppose, to continue his own journey.
Among the mountains and in many country districts there are still no
railways. The stranger who travels here has to use the diligences, which
on certain days in the week run from the nearest town to the outlying
hamlets. The diligence is a kind of coach without springs. I know of no
other conveyance so uncomfortable, except the long car of Ireland. It is
drawn by a team of gaunt mules, usually six in number, with gay harness,
and each animal has jangling bells around its neck. The driver wears a
picturesque dress: a brown jacket with coloured collar, a red sash and
knee-breeches, and a peaked hat adorned with tassels. He drives with a
tremendous amount of noise, stamping his feet, shouting, and brandishing
his whip. He beats incessantly the wretched mules. The coach is kept at
full gallop, and ascends and descends the steep hills with a rapidity
which is often alarming; but accidents are rare, owing to the
sure-footedness of the mules.
[Picture: Ruins of the Old Aqueduct, which supplied the Alhambra with
water, Granada]
It was when travelling in these mountainous districts that we gained some
knowledge of the wild animals of Spain. We were often near to the haunts
of boars, wolves, and deer. Bears are common in many hilly districts,
and that fine wild creature, the ibex, ranges the peaks of the higher
mountains. Foxes are plentiful everywhere, and the wild-cat is far from
scarce. The marten is often found, and otters live in most of the
rivers.
The swamps and ponds are filled with big green frogs, and lizards of the
same colour are common. The frogs are much larger than the English frog,
and their peculiar cry, a sort of monotonous rumbling, is so loud that it
can be heard a mile away. The legs of these green frogs are a table
delicacy much esteemed in many districts.
In the country hamlets the stranger must be prepared to meet discomfort.
One of the trials will be hunger. In the _fondas_ of the Basque
provinces and in the smaller towns the fare is ample, and as a rule well
cooked. But the peasants of Central and Southern Spain are the most
frugal people, who subsist on a diet that would be refused by the poorest
workers in England. For the stranger the peasants do their utmost, but
the diet is limited to eggs, leathery, quite tasteless beef, hard stale
bread, and thin wine. The cooking is always indifferent. The first meal
of the day consists of a cup of chocolate or coffee, often without milk,
and a lump of dry bread. There is no butter, and no milk except goat’s
milk, and, strange as it seems in this fertile land, vegetables and fruit
are always scarce in the country villages. The universal dish is
_garbanzos_, a large dried pea, which is cooked with garlic as a flavour.
We spent several months fishing in these districts, and, although
sometimes we fared tolerably well, more often we had to be content with
indifferent and inadequate meals. But for the sake of experience the
stranger can endure discomfort with fortitude.
[Picture: Beaching fishing-boats: the Blue Mediterranean]
There are numerous sport-giving rivers in all parts of Spain, which
possess all the qualities for the production of fish-life. Such rivers
as the Sil and Minho contain trout as big as any in Europe. The fishing
is free, except for a licence costing about three shillings. There can
be no doubt that with proper cultivation these rivers might become a
fisherman’s paradise in the course of a few years. But a complete
revision of the _ley de pesca_—fishing law—is necessary. Rivers are not
stocked, and trout hatcheries are almost unknown. The poacher is
everywhere, using snares, spears, and the deadly dynamite. Thousands of
small fish are scooped out of the small pools of the tributaries with
pole-nets during dry seasons. But, on the other hand, Spain is, happily,
almost free, except in the mining districts of the north, from poisoned
and contaminated waters. There are thousands of miles of beautiful
rivers with no factories, works, or big cities within many leagues of
their lengths. Then, the fish in the Spanish rivers are splendidly
prolific. Trout teem in many rivers, where the deep pools baffle the
poachers, who devote their attention to the shallows and tributaries.
Salmon are found in many rivers; shad or sábalos, escalos—a kind of cross
between a chub and a dace—barbel, bogas, and other coarse fish, and eels,
are plentiful. The barbel is different from the barbel of England, being
a handsomer fish and not so coarse; it is more golden in colour, and the
scales are less thick. The beautiful silvery sábalos are caught in sunk
nets, whose opening is concealed by a green bough which looks like
water-weed, and so deceives the travelling fish. The sábalos will not
rise to any bait. They vary from 4 pounds to 12 pounds in weight, and
are an excellent fish to eat, resembling the salmon.
In all parts of Spain there are native anglers. The tackle they use is
of the rudest description—a rod made of maize stalks, with a hazel switch
for the top, coarse casts, and flies clumsy and big. But they are all
keen, and many of them are clever fishermen. At Materosa, a small hamlet
on the wild Sil, some leagues from the town of Ponferrada, the peasants
gain their living by fishing with the rod for trout, which they send to
the market at Madrid.
I recall Estanislao, a _chico_ who fished with a great bamboo rod, which
he looked too small to handle.
We talked to him.
“You are also a fisherman?”
“Yes, señora; I have fished all my life, and my father before me.”
This _chico_ was a good angler. Standing on a great boulder, he cast
with a loud swishing noise across the river, letting his dozen flies swim
on the rough water. At each cast the weight of his great rod nearly
threw him into the whirling current. But he caught more fish than we
did.
We offered him a present of some of our flies. He looked at them and
smiled.
“Muchas gracias, they are very pretty. But how can I catch big trout
with these little hooks?”
He laughed till the tears ran down his face. But in a minute he
remembered the good manners in which every Spanish child is trained. He
added:
“Mil gracias, señora! Es favor que usted me hace (A thousand thanks,
señora! It is a favour you make me). _I will keep them as toys_!”