Things seen in Spain

by C. Gasquoine Hartley

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.

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.

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.