I
Xiormonez is the most inaccessible place in Spain. Only one train
arrives there in the course of the day, and that arrives at two o'clock
in the morning; only one train leaves it, and that starts an hour before
sunrise. No one has ever been able to discover what happens to the
railway officials during the intermediate one-and-twenty hours. A German
painter I met there, who had come by the only train, and had been
endeavouring for a fortnight to get up in time to go away, told me that
he had frequently gone to the station in order to clear up the mystery,
but had never been able to do so; yet, from his inquiries, he was
inclined to suspect--that was as far as he would commit himself, being a
cautious man--that they spent the time in eating garlic and smoking
execrable cigarettes. The guide-books tell you that Xiormonez possesses
the eyebrows of Joseph of Arimathea, a cathedral of the greatest
quaintness, and battlements untouched since their erection in the
fourteenth century. And they strongly advise you to visit it, but
recommend you before doing so to add Keating's insect powder to your
other toilet necessaries.
I was travelling to Madrid in an express train which had been rushing
along at the pace of sixteen miles an hour, when suddenly it stopped. I
leant out of the window, asking where we were.
'Xiormonez!' answered the guard.
'I thought we did not stop at Xiormonez.'
'We do not stop at Xiormonez,' he replied impassively.
'But we are stopping now!'
'That may be; but we are going on again.'
I had already learnt that it was folly to argue with a Spanish guard,
and, drawing back my head, I sat down. But, looking at my watch, I saw
that it was only ten. I should never again have a chance of inspecting
the eyebrows of Joseph of Arimathea unless I chartered a special train,
so, seizing the opportunity and my bag, I jumped out.
The only porter told me that everyone in Xiormonez was asleep at that
hour, and recommended me to spend the night in the waiting-room, but I
bribed him heavily; I offered him two pesetas, which is nearly
fifteenpence, and, leaving the train to its own devices, he shouldered
my bag and started off.
Along a stony road we walked into the dark night, the wind blowing cold
and bitter, and the clouds chasing one another across the sky. In front,
I could see nothing but the porter hurrying along, bent down under the
weight of my bag, and the wind blew icily. I buttoned up my coat. And
then I regretted the warmth of the carriage, the comfort of my corner
and my rug; I wished I had peacefully continued my journey to Madrid--I
was on the verge of turning back as I heard the whistling of the train.
I hesitated, but the porter hurried on, and fearing to lose him in the
night, I sprang forwards. Then the puffing of the engine, and on the
smoke the bright reflection of the furnace, and the train steamed away;
like Abd-er-Rahman, I felt that I had flung my scabbard into the flames.
Still the porter hurried on, bent down under the weight of my bag, and I
saw no light in front of me to announce the approach to a town. On each
side, bordering the road, were trees, and beyond them darkness. And
great black clouds hastened after one another across the heavens. Then,
as we walked along, we came to a rough stone cross, and lying on the
steps before it was a woman with uplifted hands. And the wind blew
bitter and keen, freezing the marrow of one's bones. What prayers had
she to offer that she must kneel there alone in the night? We passed
another cross standing up with its outstretched arms like a soul in
pain. At last a heavier night rose before me, and presently I saw a
great stone arch. Passing beneath it, I found myself immediately in the
town.
The street was tortuous and narrow, paved with rough cobbles; and it
rose steeply, so that the porter bent lower beneath his burden, panting.
With the bag on his shoulders he looked like some hunchbacked gnome, a
creature of nightmare. On either side rose tall houses, lying crooked
and irregular, leaning towards one another at the top, so that one could
not see the clouds, and their windows were great, black apertures like
giant mouths. There was not a light, not a soul, not a sound--except
that of my own feet and the heavy panting of the porter. We wound
through the streets, round corners, through low arches, a long way up
the steep cobbles, and suddenly down broken steps. They hurt my feet,
and I stumbled and almost fell, but the hunchback walked along nimbly,
hurrying ever. Then we came into an open space, and the wind caught us
again, and blew through our clothes, so that I shrank up, shivering. And
never a soul did we see as we walked on; it might have been a city of
the dead. Then past a tall church: I saw a carved porch, and from the
side grim devils grinning down upon me; the porter dived through an
arch, and I groped my way along a narrow passage. At length he stopped,
and with a sigh threw down the bag. He beat with his fists against an
iron door, making the metal ring. A window above was thrown open, and a
voice cried out. The porter answered; there was a clattering down the
stairs, an unlocking, and the door was timidly held open, so that I saw
a woman, with the light of her candle throwing a strange yellow glare on
her face.
And so I arrived at the hotel of Xiormonez.