Alhambra, the Mosque of Córdoba, the Cathedrals of Seville, Toledo, and
Burgos,[46] and the picture-galleries of Seville and Madrid, can
scarcely be said to have been in vain. But to know Spain and the
Spaniards it is necessary to go further afield, to the small towns and
villages of Andalucía and Castille, for here, rather than in the larger
towns, is to be found the true spirit of the race. Some five thousand
villages are still to be reached only by bridle-paths, and in these
there has been little change since Cervantes went his rounds collecting
taxes; so that for those who care to leave the beaten track there still
remain many unexplored districts, and much first-hand knowledge to glean
of the country and its inhabitants. To many, no doubt, Spain is the
country of dance and song and sun-burnt mirth, of the flutter of fans
and the flash of dark eyes; the country of the bull-fight and the white
mantilla and carnations in the hair; of Roman ruins and Moorish palaces
set in groves of myrtle and orange; of--
“Cloaked shapes, the twanging of guitars,
A rush of feet and rapiers clashing,
Then silence deep with breathless stars,
And overhead a white hand flashing.”
and if any shadows fall across the picture they are those of the
brigand and the priest-inquisitor. Then comes the inevitable reaction.
Those who visit Spain find that it is for them indeed _un pays de
l’imprévu_. The former image in their mind soon perishes, and they cry
out upon this “ciel insalubre,” this--
“pays endiablé;
Nous y mangions, au lieu de farine de blé,
Des rats et des souris et pour toutes ribotes
Nous avons dévoré beaucoup de vieilles bottes.”
But, to judge from many books published about Spain, most European
countries would seem to have entered into a league to look upon the
Peninsula solely as a land of a poetical unreality, its inhabitants
divided into inquisitors, monks, brigands, and conspirators, lending--
“the colour of romance
To every trivial circumstance.”
A well-balanced and accurate account of the country is singularly rare.
It is true that in some respects Spain has changed little since the
sixteenth century, but, on the other hand, during the twentieth century,
while she has been making laborious progress, foreign ideas of Spain
have remained stationary, with the prejudices and fixed opinions of
fifty years ago. No error or exaggeration concerning Spain is too
ridiculous to be affirmed and readily believed, and those who take no
thought to study the Peninsula in quiet days save as a land of vague
romance, when trouble occurs are officious with wise criticisms and
stern common-sense, based on ignorance. Quite recently the hysterical
visions of prisoners tortured in Spanish dungeons, and of priestly
cruelty and greed, might persuade one that Mr. Kipling’s “Little Foxes”
was written not before, but after, the events of 1909 in Spain. One
forgets that it is of Ethiopia, not Spain, that Mr. Lethabie Groombride,
M.P., exclaims, “What callous oppression! The dark places of the earth
are full of cruelty!” Like the natives of Ethiopia, the courteous
Spaniards are “much pleased at your condescensions;” but they too have a
sense of humour, and note with amusement the ignorance of nations which
declare that Spain’s chief need is more education and culture.
For the traveller who wishes to explore the remote parts of Spain, and
to escape from Spanish trains, the simplest method is to proceed on
horseback. Walking and bicycling and motoring are possible in the North,
and especially in the Basque Provinces, where the inns are good and the
roads excellent. But in most parts of Spain they are practically
impossible; the roads are too stony or too dusty even for walking, and,
moreover, in fifty kilometres you may find hardly one inn. There remains
the _diligencia_--_coche_, _tartana_, _diabla_, call it what you
will--but a single experience of it will probably be sufficient. It
rolls and lurches heavily to the loud, continuous shouting of the driver
to his horses: _Caballo-allo-allo-allo_, _Mula-ula-ula-ula_. The
traveller, if he has the misfortune to be in the interior, is beaten
against the wooden sides, the windows rattle, the bells jingle, the
vehicle sways slowly on its way, groaning and complaining of the
breadth, as well as the length, of the road[47]--_nosotros tambien
llegaremos, si Dios quiere_, as a driver said when passed by more rapid
travellers, “if it is the will of Heaven.” Occasionally at a country
railway station may be seen a boy who is a pillar of dust or mud. He is
the _zagal_ of the _diligencia_, who runs by its side through dirt and
mire, urging on the horses, or stands to rest on the step at the back.
Sometimes the _diligencia_ descends into river-beds, usually dry; and
after much rain it is apt to stay there, and darkness falls and the
frogs croak mockingly, while more mules are fetched to help in the work
of extrication. Often it proceeds by night, throwing strange, fantastic
shadows in the narrow streets of sleeping villages. The driver must
undergo not only extremes of heat and cold, but is often in danger of
snowdrifts and swollen torrents and rocks from the hill-sides. A
Navarrese innkeeper, an old soldier of Santa Cruz, introduced a driver
of a _diligencia_ as “the bravest man of my acquaintance.” Spanish
travellers accept all these discomforts with a marvellous, fatalistic
resignation and equanimity; but even a pedestrian will go further and
fare better in an afternoon than a traveller in _diligencia_ during a
whole day. Still, as a unique experience, a _diligencia_ drive must be
undertaken; and the driver is good company, sparing time from the loud
praise and blame meted out to his mules to bestow pithy comments on the
living and the dead--
“The crosses in the mountain pass,
Mules gay with tassels, the loud din
Of muleteers, the tethered ass
That crops the dusty wayside grass,
And cavaliers with spurs of brass
Alighting at the inn.”
The inns, _mesones_, _ventorrillos_, _ventas_, _posadas_, _paradores_,
are still much the same as in the times of Cervantes, moderately clean,
immoderately uncomfortable, bare alike of furniture and food.[48] Still
to your first inquiry the answer is, “_Hay de todo_, we have
everything,” still to your further inquiry the abstract _todo_ shrinks
to _nada_. But for an understanding of the Spanish people, nothing is
more interesting and one may add, more pleasant than to listen to their
talk as they sit round some great inn fire of crackling scented twigs
burning on the stone floor of the court and kitchen. The discomfort and
hardships of travel in remote parts of Spain are repaid in flowing
measure. Here a solitary peasant is seen ploughing land so precipitous
and steep that the stones rattle down as he advances; there the mules
stand hour by hour at the plough while the peasants--in this case
servants on some great estate--play cards, the large earthenware
_botijos_ of water standing ready to their hand; or a group of workers
in the fields stand shivering in early morning round a great common
_puchero_, dipping their spoons in turn, and in turn raising the _bota_
high above their heads to drink; or one has a glimpse of some peasant’s
dress[49] of brilliant colouring, of some ancient vanishing costume of
leather or velvet, silk embroidery or silver buttons--at every turn some
quaint custom, some curious picturesque scene and colour appears, and
the talk of the peasants is a delight. The two most successful English
travellers in Spain were beyond doubt, Ford and Borrow. They won the
respect of all classes of Spaniards, and saw practically the whole of
Spanish life three-quarters of a century ago. Borrow describes himself
on one occasion as “dressed in the fashion of the peasants of the
neighbourhood of Segovia in Old Castile, namely, I had on my head a
species of leather helmet or _montera_, with a jacket and trousers of
the same material.” And Ford says: “In all out-of-the-way districts the
traveller may adopt the national costume of the road, to wit, the
peaked hat (_sombrero gacho_), the jacket of fur (_zamarra_).” But
without the peaked hat, now almost extinct, or Borrow’s leathern helmet,
a few changes of dress and especially what Ford calls “a graceful and
sleeveless Castilian _manta_” or rather _capa_, excellently suited to
the climate, will bring many advantages. For to the ordinary traveller,
with red book and camera, the Spaniard will hardly disclose his true
nature, and remains an impenetrable mystery; not that the foreigner
often realizes the existence of the unsolved riddle, the Spaniard
presenting a sufficient number of striking aspects to make a swift
superficial impression. The best guides to Spain are still Ford’s
“Gatherings,” and a thorough acquaintance with “Don Quixote,” a fluent
knowledge of Spanish, and, lastly, the advice of Spaniards, since as
Sancho sagely observed, “más sabe el necio en su casa que el cuerdo en
casa ajena.” The traveller in Spain may in the heat of summer listen to
the silver plashing of fountains in marble _patios_, and feel the
coolness of snowy Sierras; he may in early morning gather frozen oranges
to be eaten later beneath a burning sun; but it is this sun which with
the cold winds tends to limit his wanderings to a brief period of spring
or autumn. Martial indeed says--
“Aestus serenos aureo franges Tago
Obscurus umbris arborum.”
but under the fierce Castilian sun--and there are said to be 3600 hours
of sunshine in the year--the imagination produces no golden tints in the
Tagus, and trees are few. Comfort the traveller will scarcely find, but
serviceableness and courtesy on all sides. If he is wise, he will,
however, imitate the Spaniards not only a little in their dress, but
greatly in their manners. He will arm himself with an inalienable fund
of patience. He will be courteous even while chafing at delay. His
courtesy will never go unanswered. “_La cortesía tenerla con quien la
tenga_, Courtesy to him who has it,” as one of Calderón’s characters
says. Money often obtains much, but the offer of a cigarette or a cigar
is often not less effective. Without a courteous manner the money will
be treated as an insult and the cigar refused. Calderón says again: “_El
sombrero y el dinero son los que hacen amigos_, Raising the hat and
money make most friends.” Few peoples respect themselves more than the
Spanish, and they look for respect from others. “The sensitive Spaniard
bristles up like a porcupine against the suspicion of a disdain.” They
do not forget that they were once the greatest people in Europe, and
they regard it as an accident that the march of modern civilization has
left them behind, being, indeed, too mechanical for their pride to
adopt. And still the golden rule for the traveller in Spain is never to
be in a hurry or never to show that he is in a hurry, for by doing so he
will increase delays and defeat his object. He must learn the Spanish
proverb thoroughly--_Paciencia y barajar_, “Patience, and shuffle the
cards.” Patience and courtesy he will find to be above rubies. The
Spaniard, so sensitive and excitable, remains unmoved by delays and
petty official tyrannies which drive an Englishman into a kind of
despair and fury of impatience.[50] But the lower officials in Spain are
apt to be ignorant and self-important, very official, and curt inquiries
only remind them that they represent the whole majesty of the Law and
the State; they multiply their shrugs and inscrutable _No se puede_’s.
On the other hand, a polite speech, though it occupy several of the few
minutes that the traveller may have to spare, is in Spain time well
spent and performs miracles;--if, that is, he still persists in
considering the value of time, and has not found it simpler to accept
the less accurate methods of the Spaniard. For he may ask in a
cathedral, “When is Mass going to be celebrated?” and the answer is,
“_No sé, Señor_; _Cuando vengan los canónigos_”--when it is the good
pleasure of the Canons to appear; or he may ask in a station, “When does
the train start?” and must not be surprised if the answer is again, “_No
sé, Señor_.” He had best content himself once and for all to breakfast
at five-o’clock tea, and will find consolation in the thought that here
at least there is no unseemly rush and strain, in this original and
exquisite land of To-morrow--_Mañana por la mañana_.
III
ON THE SPANISH FRONTIER
The Bidasoa, in the last part of its course, divides Spain from France.
It further divides Basque from Basque. It has thus a local and an
historic interest. It is the scene of smuggling between French and
Spanish Basques and, as a frontier river, it has seen many a quaint and
solemn episode in the past--the passage of Wellington’s troops, for
instance, in 1813, or the exchange in boats of Francis I. against two
hostages (his sons) in 1526, the King showing an eager haste to win
across the river and reach the friendly inhabitants of St. Jean de
Luz[51] and the sheltering walls of Bayonne. But it is the passing
beauty of the whole Bidasoa valley that attracts the visitor, the
loveliness of the river and the hills and the villages by the river. The
Bidasoa is beautiful during its whole course from where it rises near
the village of Maya, a little mountain stream running swiftly through
woods of oak and chestnut. At times the hills break abruptly down, the
water lies deep and dark-green beneath, and there is a look of Ullswater
about both hills and river. A little above Endarlaza the road leaves the
river, and from here may be had a glimpse of the Bidasoa of unrivalled
beauty. For it runs in a long, irregular stretch, irregular for the
rough backbones of hill covered with boulders and bushes of box. At each
hill-ridge one might expect the river to bend and vanish, but still it
appears beyond. Nearer the village of Vera it contracts to a narrower
flow, and the water lashes over rocks, magnificently white and green.
The river is known to fishermen as well as to smugglers and Carlists and
lovers of Nature. Certainly the wisest travellers, before passing on to
the bleak uplands of Castille, will stay to explore this little strip of
green country, with its fresh woods and valleys and villages full of
state and ancientry. Vera, in a sunny hollow, has an especial
fascination. The vine-covered balconies and projecting roofs keep the
houses in shade, and on two sides is the rustle and flow of water. The
houses stand on different levels, several storeys of them mounting roof
above roof from the river to the church. They are curious in their
sculptured stone, their quaint carved buttresses, their nail-studded
doors or rounded arches leading to the outer court, their crazy wooden
balconies, their coats-of-arms, their inscriptions. At the very
entrance of the Bidasoa stands Fuenterrabía, beneath gently sloping
Jaizquibel. It is a little town of marvellous, narrow streets, steep and
crooked, and overjutting houses carved in wood and stone. In front is a
little bay, black with fishing-boats, and seen from across the water,
Fuenterrabía’s clustered group of houses, yellow and brown and grey,
crowned by the ancient church and tenth-century castle, is of a rare and
enchanting beauty. Not only a narrow strip of river, but several
centuries separate it from Hendaye opposite, with its shore on the
Bidasoa and its shore on the sea, and its woods above the river, crowded
in spring with daffodils. The sudden change from everything that is
French to everything that is Spanish cannot but be surprising. It is
due, no doubt, to the fact that beneath the French and the Spanish
civilization and language, the people have an older language and
civilization common to either side. The Basque spoken varies but little,
being merely a little broader in Spain than in France. Mme. d’Aulnoy
noticed the abrupt change wrought by a few yards of travel. “It’s
certain, as soon as I past the little river of Bidassoa, I was not
understood unless I spake Castilian; and not above a quarter of an Hour
before I should not have been understood had I not spoke French.”[52]
Obstacles and delays begin: “Here are Toll-gatherers who make you pay
for everything you carry with you, not excepting your Cloaths. This Tax
is demanded at their Pleasure and is excessive on Strangers.” Letters
are no longer received in a well-ordered service: “There is in this
country a very ill order touching commerce, and when the French carrier
arrives at St. Sebastian, all the letters he brings are deliver’d to
others who are good footmen and ease one another. They put their packets
into a sack tied with rotten cords to their shoulder, by which means it
oft happens that the secrets of your heart and family are open to the
first curious body who makes drunk the Footpost.” Mme. d’Aulnoy is
irritated by the unintelligibility of Basque: “This country called
Biscaye is full of high mountains where are several iron mines.[53] The
Biscays climb up the rocks as easily and with as great swiftness as
stags. Their language (if one may call such jargon language) is very
poor, seeing one word signifies abundance of things. There are none but
those born in the country that can understand it; and I am told that to
the end it may be more particularly theirs they make no use of it in
writing: they make their children learn to read and write French and
Spanish according to which King’s subjects they are.” “They are said to
understand one another,” said Scaliger of the Basques, “but, for my
part, I doubt it.” The most famous scene of peace witnessed by the
Bidasoa was the meeting held in the _Île des Faisans_, or _de la
Conférence_, a narrow island, now worn to a mere strip by the flow of
the tide, between Philip IV. of Spain and Louis XIV. of France in 1660.
It was a scene of lavish splendour and magnificence, and Velázquez, then
in the last year of his life, superintended the decorations and
assisted at the interview.[54] But most often we hear of the Bidasoa as
a scene of strife and anxiety, escape and pursuit. The very river was an
object of dispute between the Governments of France and Spain, until it
was decided that the one half of it belonged to France, the other to
Spain; in the centre of the bridge of Béhobie is the dividing line,
marked in blue for France and red for Spain. Many a time has the sight
of its waters, flowing swiftly to the sea, been welcomed by men in
danger of life and liberty. Colonel Péroz[55] has graphically described
his escape by swimming the river during the last Carlist war. On May 5,
1808, Marbot reached the Bidasoa, after riding day and night through
hostile country to bring the Emperor (then at the Château de Marrac,
near Bayonne) news of the _Dos de Mayo_ rising at Madrid. At the
beginning of November Napoleon himself crossed the frontier, and as he
rode rapidly along the _route d’Espagne_ and beneath the Church of
Urrugne, with its ancient, sad inscription,[56] little thought that the
enterprise upon which he was now engaged was to be a main cause in
bringing him swiftly to the last hour that kills.
In the Middle Ages the pilgrims to the shrine of Santiago went through
the Basque country and across the frontier in fear of their lives. The
Basques were fierce and brave, and fond of plunder. In 1120 a Bishop was
obliged to lay aside his episcopal robes, and taking with him only two
servants and a guide who understood the “barbarous tongue of the
Basques,” so passed through to Compostella. In later times the pilgrims
would sing, as they left Irun,--
“Adieu la France jolie
Et les nobles fleurs de lys
Car je m’en vais en Espagne,
C’est un étrange pays,”
and would look back with sighs to the good cheer of France:
“Quand nous fûmes á Saint Jean de Luz[57]
Les biens de Dieu en abondance,
Car ce sont gens de Dieu élus,
Des charités ont souvenance.”
The older way into Spain was the Roman road from Dax to S. Jean Pied de
Port and Roncesvalles--where, indeed, and not “by Fontarabia,”
Charlemagne was attacked by the Basques;[58] but often this road was
rendered impassable by war. In the middle of the 12th century the French
Basque country passed, with the rest of Aquitaine, into the possession
of the English Crown, and henceforth many were the battles and frontier
raids between the Basques on either side. In 1296 we read of a truce in
the quarrels between San Sebastian and “Fuent Arrabia,” and of an
agreement made between them not to “send or take bread, or wine, or
meat, or arms or horses, or other merchandise to Bayonne, or England, or
Flanders while the war lasts between the King of France and the King of
England.” On July 19, 1311, a peace is made between Bayonne and Biarritz
(Beiarritz) on the one hand, and Laredo, Castro-Urdiales, and Santander
on the other. A few years later we find the King of Castille writing to
the King of England to complain of the seizure of the goods of his
vassals of Biscay by the Seneschal of Aquitaine, “against all right and
reason.” As often before and after “en ce temps avoit grand rancune
entre le roy d’Angleterre et les Espagnols.” In 1352 a treaty is formed
between “England and the people of the coast of Cantabria,” who were
famous for their prowess in catching whales, as well as in frontier
warfare, and came into rivalry with English fishermen. In 1482 “amicable
intelligences” are concluded at Westminster between “Edward, by the
Grace of God King of England and France and Lord of Ireland” and “the
inhabitants of the noble and loyal Province of Guipúzcoa.”[59] During
the 17th century the frontier raids continued, and in 1636 (as before in
1558) the town of St. Jean de Luz was taken and pillaged by the
Spaniards. Up in the hills, near the little village of Sare, the
Spaniards of Vera were defeated, and Sare still displays on the walls of
its _mairie_ the coat-of-arms given by Louis XIV. after the victory won
by the bravery of its inhabitants, with the following inscription in
Basque:--“Reward of courage and loyalty, given to Sare by Louis XIV. in
1693.”[60] In the Peninsular War, Sare and its mountain, La Rhune,
played a prominent part, and many a vivid description, such as the
following, occurs in Napier:--“Day had broken with great splendour, and
three guns were fired as signal of attack from Atchuria. The French were
driven from La Rhune, Sare was carried, and the enemy brushed away from
Ainhoa and Urdax: “It was now eight o’clock, and from the smaller
Rhune[61] a splendid spectacle of war opened upon the view. On the left
the ships of war, slowly sailing to and fro, were exchanging shots with
the fort of Socoa, and Hope, menacing all the French lines on the low
ground, sent the sound of a hundred pieces of artillery bellowing up the
rocks, to be answered by nearly as many from the tops of the mountains.
On the right the summit of the great Atchuria[62] was just lighted by
the rising sun, and fifty thousand men rushing down its enormous slopes
with ringing shouts seemed to chase the receding shadows into the deep
valley.” The description of the passage of the Bidasoa in October, 1813,
is equally graphic: “From San Marcial seven columns could now be seen at
once, moving on a line of five miles, those above bridge plunging at
once into the fiery contest, those below appearing in the distance like
huge, sullen snakes winding over the heavy sands.” The mountainous
character of the frontier, causing Spain to be entered by one or two
narrow passages, has indeed concentrated upon a few points a picturesque
variety of traffic through the centuries--a historical pageant of
soldiers, pilgrims, smugglers, Kings and Queens dethroned or released
from imprisonment, wily agents, gorgeous ambassadors, fugitive
politicians, exiled Jesuits, heretic missionaries, Carlist conspirators,
with a large sprinkling of visitors and adventurers from many lands.
IV
ESKUAL-ERRIA
I.--BASQUE COUNTRY