They shrugged their shoulders in a very low-spirited fashion and one replied despairingly,—
“It’s ticketed to Granada, so there’s no chance for us. Five hours longer of it! It’s enough to drive one mad.”
It was certainly enough to drive one into a very evil temper. The smell of salted tunny-fish is nearly as bad as anything in the way of smells can be, and reminds one of those odious combinations with which clever chemists once proposed to supersede shot and shell in driving away one’s enemies. The victims in this instance were very long-suffering, and seemed to forget their troubles in a cigarette. They, too, ordered chocolate, but, like ourselves, had to wait for it.
At the last moment, just as the diligence was ready to start, came cakes and chocolate, and after hastily swallowing a little of both, we entered our berlina. Here another amusing scene occurred. At the tail-end of the last moment, such packages as were addressed to Loja, the name of our halting-place, had to be brought from the roof to the diligence. Amongst others, was a light deal-box, which, by some mismanagement or other, fell with an awful crash into the gutter! Out came, as if by magic, all the paraphernalia of some poor little maiden’s wardrobe and belongings: mantilla, gloves, dresses, slippers, needle-work, chocolate-boxes, love-letters tied up with ribbon, missal, rosary,—all lay sucking up the mire in inextricable confusion. Driver, postilion, landlord, and gendarme, stood still, looking overwhelmed and hopeless. After some minutes the driver picked up a glove, the postilion a shoe, the landlord a love-letter, the gendarme a thimble. Then, as if by mutual consent, they slowly and patiently rescued the miry treasures, stopping now and then to sigh over the ruinous condition of each. It was a very humble little outfit, doubtless of some nursemaid or milliner’s apprentice, which made the accident all the more deplorable, and I daresay many of those muddy spots were washed out by tears alone. No one grumbled at the delay, and no one seemed to think that the reason of it was not a legitimate one. How unlike our English promptitude and bustle! It was quite touching to see the concern of the stately gendarme when he took up a neck-ribbon the beauty of which was gone for ever. “La pobrecita! La pobrecita! (Poor little thing! poor little thing!) she’ll never be able to wear that again,” he ejaculated.
When everything had been replaced in the broken box, we went on. Now came the tiresome part of the journey. The early morning air was very cold, the road monotonous, and the berlina seemed to become narrower and more suffocating every league we went.
At last we reached Granada. At first sight we were disappointed with the aspect of the place; and indeed Cordova and Toledo are infinitely more impressive as approached by the ordinary road, but afterwards our preconceived ideas were a hundred-fold realised.
Crowds of beggars, the halt, the lame, and the blind, surrounded the diligence, and it was with some difficulty we got out. Some of the beggars were of loathsome appearance, victims of horrible disease and depravity, and all were terribly importunate. Amongst the crowd was a tall, thin, poor-looking old man, wrapped in a shabby Spanish cloak, who came up to us at once and said in excellent English, “How much baggage have you, ladies?” and on our replying, busied himself with it, and with us, in a way that seemed a little unwarrantable. Commissionnaires and guides stick to you like leeches, and we had determined to employ Bensaken, the well-known cicerone of Ford, of Owen Jones, and of hundreds of travellers. This old man looked more like a beggar than anything else, and, but for his proud manner, I think I should have bribed him with a few cuartos to go away. As it was, I sent a little lad after a fiacre, and managed my luggage myself, not feeling inclined to accept anonymous services, after having heard such golden reports of Emmanuel Bensaken. Our old friend, however, seated himself on the box, and not thinking it worth while to deprive him of the pleasure of the drive, we said nothing, and drove off.
Never was a hotel so enchantingly situated as the Hotel Ortiz, to which we had been recommended.
The Hotel Ortiz stands in the Alhambra gardens. The windows let in golden sunshine, and you look over bright yellow avenues of elms and panoramic views of plain and mountain. The Alhambra is quite near. Here you have a glimpse of battlement, superb in colour and outline, there a tower. The air is light, and warm, and balmy. Everybody has a pleasant smile and a brisk air, and goes about singing. The rooms are sunny, and have charming views, and the Alhambra is close by! It seems too good to be true.
After a bath and some excellent tea and bread and butter, the first we had tasted in Spain, and a little rest, we asked for Señor Bensaken.