Part 7 (1/2)
Together we went outside the hotel and sat at a table in the open place facing the princ.i.p.al promenade of Murcia. The river was on the right-hand side, and on the left was a line of tall buildings, some cafes, others munic.i.p.al. The heat attacked one in waves, it seemed as palpable as though it possessed substance. When we took our seats the plaza was empty because the siesta was not yet over, but after four o'clock had pa.s.sed gradually the life of the town blossomed out.
The army of beggars attacked us; in monotonous undertones they moaned their woes.
”Hermanito, una limosna qui Dios se la pagara,”[5] they whined.
To those who seemed unworthy Luis answered, ”Dios le ayude.”[6]
How exquisite is the courtesy of the Spaniard even to a beggar. Our manners have not this fine habitual touch--after the international occupation of Scutari the beggars of the town had learned two English phrases; one was ”G'arn,” the other ”Git away.” It is true that under this harsh exterior the Englishman may hide a soft heart; he may be like the schoolmaster who feels the caning more poignantly than does the schoolboy; indeed many a man puts a deliberately rough exterior on to mask the flabbiness of his sentimental nature; and the Spaniard, for all his courtesy, may have the harder nature. Yet the courtesy which recognizes a common level of humanity is a precious thing. It may be that by refusing alms with respect one may be preserving in the beggar finer qualities than would be generated by giving with contempt. A Spaniard once said, ”I like a beggar to say 'Hermanito, alms which G.o.d will repay.' It is naf and simple. It has a beauty for which one willingly pays a copper. But when a beggar whines that he has eaten nothing for three days, it is offensive. It is an insult to give a man a halfpenny who has eaten nothing for three days; and one cannot afford to give him the price of a square meal; and anyhow one knows that he is lying.”
As well as the pitiful beggars there were the musical beggars. Two men came playing the guitar and laud. Another followed with a gramophone which he carried from his shoulder by a strap. Then came the barrel-organ. We had not noted its arrival. Suddenly the most appalling din broke out. Awhile ago in Paris M. Marinetti organized a futurist orchestra; one could imagine that it had been transported in miniature to Murcia. There were bangs and thumps and crashes of cymbals, and tattoos of drums, and tinkles of treble notes, and plonkings of base notes intermixed apparently without order, rhythm or tune. What a state the barrel must have been in! Once we presume that it played a tune, but now it was so decrepit that nothing as such was recognizable. It was dragged by a donkey and a cart and shepherded by a fat white dog which had been shaved, partly because of the heat, partly because of vermin.
It was an indecent-looking dog, and the flesh stood out in rolls all round its joints. No sooner had this musical horror disappeared round the corner than another organ in an equal state of disrepair took its place.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A MURCIAN BEGGAR-WOMAN]
”It is all right,” Luis rea.s.sured us; ”you have suffered the worst.
There are only two in the town.”
A crowd of urchins carrying home-made boot-blacking boxes pestered us with offers of ”Limpia botas.” A man and a woman sauntered between the tables bellowing and screaming ”Les numeros”; these were state lottery sellers.
Also there were sellers of local lotteries, which were promoted by the Church in aid of the disabled whom they employed to sell the tickets.
Nuns, too, were amongst the beggars. There were boys selling newspapers; men selling meringues and pastry, others hawking fried almonds, very salt to excite thirst; children hunting between the legs of the tables and chairs for cast cigarette ends or straws discarded by the drinkers; a man peddling minor toilet articles--toothpicks, scent, powder, b.u.t.tonhooks--and another with a basket of very odorous dried fish.
The smell of the fish banished our new-won universal brotherhood and we waved the fish vender away without courtesy. But an elegantly dressed young man sitting near accosted him and began to chaff him. But what was pretence to the dude was earnest to the salesman. He had some talent for selling and he pestered the dude for nearly half an hour, at the end of which the latter in self-defence and for the sake of peace bought a portion of the smelly commerce. Probably the fishmonger's total gain out of the transaction was a fraction of a penny. But the Spanish is not a wasteful nation. When the dude walked off home he took with him the fish wrapped in his newspaper.
At last we called the waiter by the Spanish custom of clapping the hands, paid for the drinks, and guided by Luis set out to visit the house which our friend had lent us for the summer. Habits of cleanliness were shown in the streets. Young girls were hard at work, each industriously brus.h.i.+ng the dust from the sidewalk in front of her house, even though that sidewalk were itself of dried mud. To us it seemed that the story was being repeated of the old woman who tried to besom the tide out of her front door.
Many of the householders had spread their sphere of influence even beyond the sidewalk, and had soaked their patch of road, turning the dust into viscous mud. The pavements were already beginning to be enc.u.mbered by chairs, and by groups of people sitting out in the cooling day.
The Paseo de Corveras is a one-sided street darkened by tall trees. On the other side stretch maize fields surrounding a small farm, and walled-in gardens filled with tall feathery date palms. The dates were already hanging in orange cl.u.s.ters beneath the sprouting heads of fronds. Luis took us to the house of Antonio Garrigos, who lived at No.
12.
Antonio was a handsome man of pure Spanish type, giving an impression of nervous vitality. He produced three keys, each of about a pound in weight and large as any key of a theatrical gaoler. The house key was of monstrous size, and he a.s.sured us that we would have to carry it with us wherever we went. Our friend's apartment at No. 26 was on the first floor and spread right across two humbler dwellings below. It was cool and roomy, filled with specimens of Spanish draperies, pottery and furniture, which he had collected during several years in Spain. At the back was a kitchen, with large earthen vessels for water, and Spanish grids for cooking on charcoal. The bed was big for one, but very small for two, so we suggested taking off the spring mattress and laying planks in its place. Antonio at once said that to-morrow he would get the planks in time for the night.
Then, feeling very tired but thoroughly pleased with our prospective house, and with the new acquaintances we had found, we walked back to the hotel, had a supper as liberal as the lunch, and went to bed.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: ”Little brother, alms which G.o.d Himself will repay.”]
[Footnote 6: ”G.o.d will help you.”]
CHAPTER IX
MURCIA--SETTLING DOWN
By the time we left the hotel, which we did on the second day, the maid had reviewed her decision as to the state of our mentality. Receiving her tips she shook our hands warmly, asked where we were going and said that she would without fail call upon us. The tatterdemalion bootblack at the hotel door, who could never quite make up his mind whether he were bootblack or lottery-ticket seller--neglecting each business in favour of the other--helped us with our luggage. He also on receipt of a tip inquired our future address and a.s.sured us that he would call upon us. The driver of the tartana told us that he would look us up one day to see how we were getting on; and another visit was promised by a ragged lounger whom we called in to aid us in getting our luggage upstairs.
”Spain,” we said, ”seems to be a sociable country.”