LORCA
We still had money for another three weeks, although we had been four
months in Spain. The weather in Murcia was very cold; damp, chilling
winds blew down the valley. We decided to go westwards, to explore
Lorca, which we had heard was both fine pictorially and also which was
called "the City of the Sun." On suggesting the idea to some of our
Murcian friends, they advised us not to go. "It is a town of bad
people," they said; "they are all gipsies." We had heard before of these
towns of bad people. One lay on the far side of the Murcian valley; a
village which clustered round the foot of the peak of rock on the top of
which was a ruined castle. These people had the reputation of chasing
out intruding strangers with sticks and stones. Antonio, fishing in the
vicinity of this village, had once been maltreated. The villagers were
proud of this brutality.
"Yes," they would say, "we _are_ brutes. We _are_ uncultivated. We are
the biggest brutes for fifty miles around, and we mean to remain so."
Other people had said that Lorca was charming. So we decided to find out
for ourselves. We hoped to find rooms in a posada, and we reduced our
luggage to moderate dimensions; most of it we put in the van, leaving
ourselves only the guitar and the laud to look after.
The train left early in the morning, and stopped at the first station,
where we had to change. We rushed across the line, having to clamber
under a long train of waggons which blocked the way, and won corner
seats. A lanky boy of eighteen, dressed in a long white travelling
ulster, with a _béret_ on his head, took most of the other seats in the
carriage, filling them with packages. The young man seemed very familiar
with railway travelling: he called all the porters by name, and
exchanged smokes with the engine-driver.
But the train did not move. Presently the youth came back and said:
"The engine is a bad one. It won't start. They are sending to Murcia for
another."
He went away once more. A luggage train rumbled into the station. This
brought our boy back with a rush.
"Here," he cried, "spread out, spread out as much as you can. It's an
agricultural train, and we shall be swamped with labourers."
He pushed his boxes and packages more widely over the seats. His
prediction was justified. A horde of unshaven men, carrying sacks and
implements clambered up the side of the train and peered with round eyes
into the windows.
"No room here, no room here," cried the youth.
"But there is nobody in the carriage," protested one of the
agriculturists.
"They are in the fonda," said the youth.
In spite of the energies of officials accommodation could not be found.
Soon the agriculturists were wailing their protests, wandering forlornly
up and down. At last the heart of our youth was softened.
"Here," he cried. "Room for two. Got to let some in," he added to us in
an undertone, "or they'll push the lot in on us."
The two who accepted the invitation were very subservient, almost
cringing, and we stowed their sacks and other luggage between our legs.
They talked together in hoarse whispers. In time most of the peasants
were placed, but one man who carried an enormous sack of potatoes
seemed to be unplaceable, for he refused to be parted from his sack. The
officials said the sack was too big for carriage traffic: it ought to go
in the van. But no protestation moved the owner. He was determined that,
come what might, he and his sack would never part. Eventually, as
usually happens in Spain, he was allowed to do as he liked. He and his
sack were crushed into another carriage.
Then ensued another dreary wait, and at last, three hours late, the
train drew out of Alcantarilla.
As soon as we were well under way, the youth said: "I'm off to a
second-class carriage."
He opened the carriage door, got down on to the running board and
clambered off. After half an hour he returned.
"They collect tickets round about here," he said.
Sure enough within ten minutes came the ticket collector.
The train stopped at a station. The youth got out on to the platform
with a carriage whip and a square parcel, which he handed to a waiting
man, for which service he received money. This he did at other stations,
and gradually we realized what was his occupation. In one part of Murcia
we had noted shops which called themselves Agencies. They had large
notices saying, "Commissions for Lorca, for Barcelona, for Zaragoza,
etc., etc."
We had not understood their purport, but by some jump of intuition
connected the youth with these shops. He was the only Spanish substitute
for the parcels post.
At Totana two gipsy women came into the carriage, very friendly and
talkative. At the next station the two workmen left us. In the carriage
they had appeared good-humoured, inadequate morsels of humanity. But
they descended into the bosoms of their family. Wives and daughters
crowded round them and seized and shouldered their bags, packs, sacks
and implements. The men seemed to swell out like a dry thing cast into
water, blooming like a dead sea lily as they stood receiving the
caresses of their womenfolk. The last we saw of the more insignificant
of the two was a picture of him striding like a king along the dusty
road to the village with his family in humble though happy procession
behind. Well does the Spanish proverb say, "It is better to be the head
of a mouse than the tail of a lion."
[Illustration]
Two gendarmes--greenish khaki in uniform, with the schoolgirlish
helmets--armed with rifles took the place of the peasants. The younger
gipsy woman addressed them. One of the gendarmes grunted, the other
glared his eye round and said nothing. Again she made a remark, and
again there was no reply. Then she said:
"But it _was_ you who arrested José."
"Well," answered the gendarme with a beard, "what of it?
"But why did you arrest him?" said the gipsy. "He was innocent. He did
not murder Ramon."
"So you say."
"But it is true. He is a cousin of Conchita here. He was at her house
that evening. There is no evidence."
"There was enough to get him arrested."
"But that was all made up. You see, Esteban hates him, and Esteban got
up that false evidence. You look up what Esteban was doing. I don't say
that he was the murderer, but he knows something about it."
"Yes, he knew that José did it."
"But I tell you José was with Conchita here."
"Well, tell that to the Judge. It is nothing to do with me. I was told
to arrest José and I arrested him. Hum"--he looked at Conchita--"I
suppose she is going to see him now?"
"Yes, we are going to see José. Poor fellow, and him innocent."
"Well, if his defence is all right, he'll get off. If it isn't, he
won't--that's all."
We did not think that José's neck was in any danger. We had gained an
impression that the average sentence for casual murder in Spain is about
two or three years' imprisonment. This conversation went on for some
time. The gipsies talked round the subject, over it, under it, twisted
it inside out and outside in. With all these variations it lasted till
we arrived at Lorca, when we all, gipsies, gendarmes, agency boy and
ourselves, got down from the train.
We put our luggage into the luggage-room and set out to look for the
town, which we had learned by experience would be found at some distance
from the station. A boy who carried a rope over his shoulder accosted
us, but we declined his services. We strode out into a dusty road, and
there stood undecided, for there were two paths to choose from. The boy
with the rope, who now had a huge box on his shoulders, came up, and
saying, "Follow me, Señores," walked on. We looked at him and realized
that here again we had touched the East. Here was a cord porter straight
out of _The Arabian Nights_. The rope was round the box and he held it
to his shoulders. With his rope he earned his living. We followed him,
asking him for some place where we could eat. He named the dearest hotel
at once. We declined, explaining that we wanted the cheapest possible,
that is, as long as the cooking was fit to eat.
"I understand," he said. "Follow me."
The long avenue of lime trees came to an end--and our first view of
Lorca was opened out. The town was almost like a mathematical line,
length without breadth. It skirted the foot of a hill for three miles,
almost one long street, which we were looking at end on. Spires towered
into the air, and on the top of the cliff the walls of a great Saracen
ruin overlooked the town. The whole hill-side, between town and castle,
was covered with the grotesque foliage of the prickly pear. The cord
porter took us down to the river, which was crossed by a plank, then up
into the town. He led us through small streets which fringed the great
main street, put down his box at a corner, led us up another street and
stopped at a high barricaded gate. Two filthy children were playing on
the step. The cord porter rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer.
He rapped again loudly. A hoarse voice cried out in questioning reply.
"It's Paco," shouted the porter. "I've got two customers here."
A quarrel ensued through the keyhole.
There was a sound of a rusty lock and the door swung open. A woman
heated with cooking and with annoyance began to curse the cord porter.
"Why couldn't you bring them to the proper entrance?" she cried.
But she let us in, took us through a yard in which huge stew-pots and
frying-pans were cooking over a wood fire, and ushered us upstairs, past
rooms filled with workmen diners, into a long chamber lit by a window at
one end, with bullfight posters on the walls. She brought us a plate of
stew and wine. We asked for bread.
"Why didn't you bring your own?" she said.
"We did not know," we answered.
"Oh, all right. I'll give you bread this time. But, next time, bring
your own bread with you."
We thought, "Lorca is a rough place." There was a sound of loud
chaffing, and in walked our agency boy of the train.
"Hullo," he exclaimed to us. "Are you here?"
"Yes," we answered. "And, now we see you here, we are sure this is the
best place."
He grinned, chucked the waitress under the chin, and ordered a complex
meal. As soon as the staff perceived our acquaintance with the agency
boy, their manners changed. They became charming, inquiring after our
need with a lively solicitude. We asked the diners about a posada. A
bluff man, with a walrus moustache, seated at the same table, said the
posada at which he was staying was comfortable.
"When you have finished your meal," he said, "I will lead you there and
introduce you to the proprietor, an excellent fellow. But you come
unluckily. To-day is market day. There are many farmers in from the
country, and it is possible that you will find difficulties."
As we went out the waitress came running after us. "You have left your
bread behind," she cried.
With our new friend we went off. But the posada was full for the night.
"There is another one, we will look at that," said our guide. "If the
other is full also, you shall have my room, and I will find a bed
somewhere until a room is free. Tomorrow the place will be emptier."
On the way to the second posada, we fell in once more with the cord
porter.
"You are looking for rooms," he cried. "Why didn't you tell me before? I
know of a splendid place. I will lead you there."
[Illustration]
"Perhaps that will be better," said the man. "I do not think the other
posada would really suit you. They say it is the meeting-place of loose
women. You understand?"
The cord porter took us to a house outside of which were about ten
hen-coops. In the midst of the coops an old woman was sitting on a low
chair. She was an extraordinary shape; like a Chinese lucky image,
Hotei. Her knees were perched on the rung of the chair, and so large was
her stomach that it rose in front of her like a balloon, coming in its
highest part well to the level of her chin. She looked dingy and
unwashed, but we could not well draw back, for the cord porter had told
her our needs. The obese woman stood up, balancing her fantastic stomach
by a backward bend of the spine.
She had two rooms, one with a single bed, one with a couple. The single
bed was small, the ceiling looked as if it were not innocent of vermin.
We chose the double-bedded room after the conventional bargaining.
"You will indeed be better there," said our friend. "Two beds are better
than one."
The cord porter was commissioned to fetch our luggage and we went off
with the other man. We had invited him to take coffee with us. He
preceded us to a small _buvette_, and the waiter showed us into a room
partitioned into private boxes by means of canvas screens.
"Here one is at one's ease," said our acquaintance. We told him that we
were painters.
"I am a zapatero,"[30] he said. "I have been here some weeks looking for
work. My proper town is Aguilas, though I was born here. But Aguilas is
not large. There was another zapatero in the town. The people all took
their work to him. They said, 'He is a fool, but you are clever.
Therefore he can make a living only where he is known, and where folks
sympathize with him; while you can easily make good elsewhere.' So I had
to come away. But times are bad. They say that there are too many
zapateros in Lorca already.
"Times are so bad in Lorca," he went on, "that I don't expect you will
do the business here that you hope. Now, if you are the painters you
ought to be, I have a proposal to make. You come with me to some towns I
know of down the coast. You will put up your easel in the main street,
and will paint, and I will sell lottery tickets at three goes for the
real. We will do a splendid business. I can assure you that."
Had the offer come at another moment we would have jumped at the chance
of the fun. But we had a London Exhibition hanging over our heads. We
dared not waste the time. This we explained to the zapatero, adding also
our regrets and how well the idea would have gone in the book we were
projecting. His expression altered at once.
"Books?" said he. "You are book people?"
"Yes."
"But," he persisted, "you don't mean to say that you are that kind of
persons? Not with _those_ books that Englishmen come selling. You are
book people"--his voice rose with indignation--"you have to do with
those Bibles!"
Shades of Borrow! we roared with laughter. Somewhat reassured the
zapatero resumed his seat. We explained.
"Ah," he said, "I did not think that you could be that sort of persons
and yet ... You are English. I," he added proudly, "am an Atheist! Of
course I let my little boy read _that_ book, one has to learn to read
somehow. But I say to him, 'Don't believe it. Use it if you like, but
don't be taken in by it.'"
We went back to the house to find that our luggage had arrived. A button
was coming loose from my boot, so the zapatero borrowed needle and
cotton and sewed it on professionally. Then, as he said he liked the
guitar, we took out our instruments and began to play. The female Hotei
ran into the entrada waving her hands.
"Oh, oh," she cried, "you mustn't play here! You mustn't play here! The
owner of this house died three days ago, so we cannot allow any music
here. It would show the greatest disrespect."
We said au revoir to the zapatero, and went out to examine Lorca. The
houses on one side of the long street had swelled up the hill towards
the Saracen castle. Through this we went clambering upwards. In
appearance it was the oldest town we had seen. The houses were of all
shapes, but of a uniform colour, like yellow rust, and the earth was of
the same tint. The houses piled themselves up in fine shapes, but Lorca
suffered from the same drawback as Murcia, a drawback we had feared: it
was too big. Had we attempted to sketch in the streets we should have
been swamped by people as I had been in the market-place. The streets
were full of men sitting in groups making alpagatas. They called out
after us as we passed. The songs were different from those of Murcia or
Jijona. Here is one, a guajiras which a woman was singing:
"Love is an insect
Which enters the body,
And no rest is left there
When it takes possession.
It gnaws like a wood-louse
The tree where it burrows;
And in time it devours
Volition and strength,
Leaving only desires
For the one who is worshipped."
We scrambled up to the castle and from thence found a view of the
surrounding country. On the south there was a passage not unlike that of
Murcia, a flat cultivated valley; but to the north it looked as though
giants had been at mining operations. The hills looked not like the
result of nature but of artifice, they appeared to be huge mine dumps
and slag heaps. It was fantastic and unpaintable. The town itself was
too much like the conventionally picturesque mud coloured compositions
of Southern Europe that every painter brings back from his travels, and
we decided that Lorca was not a painting ground for us; and that we
would go back to Murcia on the following day, looking for some suitable
spot at which to paint on the homeward route to Barcelona.
We came down by a different path, passing a cluster of seven white
hermitages built on a square plateau. They were small box-like
structures, and once, we believe, hermits did live in them, but now they
are deserted. We reached Mrs. Hotei's house both tired and hungry. A
crowd of women in black had just returned from the landlord's funeral.
They consented to boil us some eggs for supper, which we ate under Mrs.
Hotei's piercing eyes. From the ceiling of the supper-room hung clusters
of quinces, and on the mantelpieces were some interesting specimens of
antique Spanish pottery.
We went to bed early, and to our dismay found that one of the beds had
been taken away. There was no washing apparatus in the room, and the
window looking on to the road was curtained by an old dirty sack.
"Well," said we, "we are in for it. Pray Heaven that there are no bugs."
As we were about to undress we heard scuffling and giggling which drew
our attention to another drawback, one to which we would not submit.
There was a second door to our room, half glazed, and the glass was
covered by a hanging drapery. But this drapery, which was outside the
glass, had been pulled aside, and a row of faces of curious children
were staring in on us. We rang the bell. The daughter of Mrs. Hotei was
half surprised at our objection to publicity and that we were so
squeamish about undressing as a popular spectacle. But we persuaded her
to pin up a pink shawl on our side of the door, and we then went to bed.
To bed, but not to sleep.
The bed was distressingly narrow. We could remain in it by clinging
together, but if we loosened our grip, one or the other began to roll
out. After some while Jan had ideas of getting out and of sleeping on
the floor, but the floor was of stone and the only mat in the room was
small and circular. Our determination to leave Lorca strengthened as the
night wore on. At last we found a partial solution, we lashed ourselves
together with the blankets. When sheer weariness was making us doze
off, a man upstairs began to take off his boots. The floors were thin,
and he seemed to be a centipede. Boot after boot he hurled into a
corner, but even his feet were not inexhaustible, and at last we slept
fitfully.
We awoke very early, grateful at least that no bugs had disturbed us. In
spite of the many warnings we had had of the verminous condition of
Spain, it has not been our experience to encounter in the provinces of
Murcia and Alicante even as much insect life as one might easily find in
Chelsea. Fleas, of course, there are, but in a hot dusty country fleas
are to be expected.
Washing things were brought on demand, though I think they had expected
us to wash at the public sink in the outhouse. Then we breakfasted on
bread, coffee and grapes, while Mrs. Hotei sat by resting her stomach on
the edge of the table and chanting in a hollow voice a pæan of her own
virtues. It ran somewhat thus:
"I am la gorda,
The fat one of Lorca.
My stomach is ill.
Of an illness which makes it
Swell up like a football.
But my heart has no illness;
It is sound, it is loving,
And makes no distinctions
Between different peoples.
"I am la gorda,
The fat one of Lorca.
My home is well known
Because of its cheapness
And the love of a mother,
Which I shed o'er my lodgers.
Nowhere else will you
Find meals of such richness
Or cooking so luscious
For people whose purses
Are small in dimensions.
"I am la gorda,
The fat one of Lorca.
My house is so loved by
The folk of the district
That _my_ bedrooms never
One moment are empty.
I'll give you an instance:
Last night, for example,
Each bed carried double
And would have contained more
Could one but compress folks
To smaller dimensions.
"I am la gorda,
The fat one of Lorca.
Those who once come here
Come back again, always.
My card I will give you
That you may remember
That Lorca possesses
A kind-hearted mother,
Or, anyhow, one who
Will fill that position
As long as you settle
The bill she presents you."
In this plain song she explained both the disappearance of our second
bed and the centipedal man upstairs. When she had finished we broke to
her the news of our imminent departure. We lunched once again at the
eating-house, which this day was full of peasants. Three women in black
who might have stepped out of the pages of the Bible faced us. They were
not friendly in manner. A small soldier, half tipsy, came in and, soon
after him, the agency youth. The latter began to tease the tipsy
soldier, and in a short while both had pulled out knives and were
threatening each other in mock earnestness. But one could see that it
needed little--an accidental word, a sentence misunderstood--to swing
the drunken soldier over from joking to earnest. We took coffee at a
café in the central street. La gorda rolled up the street, came to our
table, and accepted a glass of anis dulce for the illness of her
stomach.
We set off to the station followed by a small boy wheeling our luggage
on a barrow. As I went people shouted after me: "Sombrero, Sombrero."
The train was, of necessity, late. We sat down in the station hall, and
the gipsy woman who had come from Totana joined us. A blind woman led by
a child took up her position at the booking-office exit, cunningly
begging from the folk as they were handling their small change. The
small child had one bad eye and was wiping both eyes with the same
handkerchief. One could see that she, too, was threatened with
blindness. The zapatero came, having dined at a friend's house.
A good deal of farm produce was being prepared for the train. There were
crates of chickens, which were thrown about from hand to hand; but some
unfortunate turkeys were not even as lucky as the hens. About twenty of
them were packed loosely into a large net bag. The porter picked up each
bag and, the turkeys squeaking loudly, pitched it up to a man who was
standing in the truck. The bags were packed one on the top of another
with a total lack of consideration for the turkeys' feelings. There is
no S.P.C.A. in Spain.
Jan told the zapatero that if he were coming to Murcia he could give him
an address which might be useful. He then wrote Antonio's name and
direction, which the zapatero accepted almost with reverence. Jan went
off to the ticket-office, while I, aided by the zapatero, found a
carriage in the train, which had just arrived. The gipsy woman came with
us; and an old man also got into the carriage. Up and down the platform
a hawker was walking with a broad basket over his arm. He was selling
thin circular cakes. I bought five, one for each person in the carriage.
The old man accepted the cake which I offered him, took a large bite,
ruminated for a moment over it and remarked:
"These cakes value nothing."
The zapatero and the gipsy woman each took a bite. Opinion seemed
unanimous. I then bit in my turn. The cake had a queer taste: it was
something like a thin cold muffin flavoured with cayenne pepper. The
gipsy woman collected the cakes, each with a bite out of it (like the
mad hatter's saucer), and put them into her basket, saying, "Oh, the
children won't grumble at them." But I was determined that Jan should
have the experience.
As he came out of the ticket-office he was intercepted by the
cake-sellers, who said to him:
"Señor, you have a wife, who is a remarkable woman." The old man turned
to the zapatero.
"Who are these people?" he demanded.
The zapatero began to give an account of us.
"They are painters," he said; "they travel about the country making
pictures with paint and brushes, not with a machine. Not content with
that they are amateur musicians, and can play. There are their
instruments. But better than all this they can read and write; and what
is more I can prove it."
With an air of pride he drew from his bosom the card on which Jan had
written Antonio's address.
The old man took it. He perched a pair of horn spectacles on his nose
and read the address through from end to end.
Then he handed the treasure back solemnly to the zapatero.
"And very well done too," he said.
We said good-bye to the zapatero, and the train drew out of the station
some two hours late. Gradually the night darkened. There was a long wait
at Alcantarilla, and we arrived at Murcia within the four hours' limit
which one must place on the Spanish time-table. We left our van luggage
to be collected in the morning, and carrying our instruments in our
hands walked back to the Paseo de Corveras.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 30: Bootmaker.]