CHAPTER XIVA DESCENT INTO ARAGONThere was an unwonted excitement in the air when I boarded the train next morning for the longest unbroken ride of my Spanish journey. Pernales, the anachronism, the twentieth-century bandit of the environs of Córdoba, had fallen. Aboard the train newspapers were as numerous as on the New York "Elevated" at a similar hour. I bought one and was soon lost like the rest in the adventures of this last defier of the mighty guardia civil.The story was simple. Two evenings before, about the time I had been yawning over the king's fireworks, Pernales had met a village arriero among the foothills of his retreat, and asked him some question about the road. The rustic gave him the desired information, but guessing with whom he was speaking, had raced away, once he was out of sight, as fast as he could drive his ass before him, to carry his suspicions to the village alcalde. The rest was commonplace. A dozen guardias stalked the unsuspecting bandolero among the hills, and coming upon him toward sunrise, brought his unsanctioned career abruptly to a close.[image]The Roman walls of Leon"Our special correspondent" had dismally failed to cast over his account the glamour of romance, but in compensation had taken a reporter's care to give the precise point in the right temple where the ball had entered, with the exact dimensions of the orifice, as well as the life story of the hero who had bored it. Nay, with almost American haste and resourcefulness the paper printed a full-length portrait of the successful hunter--or one at least of a man who could not have been vastly different in appearance, in a uniform that was certainly very similar. Alas! The good old days of the bandit and the contrabandista are forever gone in Spain; the humdrum era of the civil guard is come. Pernales' is but another story of a man born a century too late.[image]The land of the boina. Alfonso XII at a picnicAll day long as we toiled and twisted over the Cantabrian range and descended southward, this only was the topic of conversation of all grades and sexes of travelers. An hour's halt at Miranda and we creaked on along the bank of Spain's greatest river, the Ebro, talking still of bandoleros and the regret of their passing. Slowly the green tinge in the landscape faded away and in its place came reddish cliffs and a sun-seared and all but desert country spreading away from either bank of the red-dyed river, sterile rolling plains relieved only by small oases of fertility and isolated and in all probability bigoted villages standing colorless on colorless hillsides. As central Spain may be likened to rocky Judea, so this resembles in some degree Egypt, with the Ebro as the Nile.It was late in the evening when I arrived in Saragossa and, crossing the broad river by the Puente de Piedra, found myself in one of the most labyrinthian cities of Spain. But so practiced had I grown in such quest that in less than an hour I had engaged accommodation at my own price, which by this time had descended to two and a half pesetas.The "sight" par excellence of Saragossa is of course her "Virgen del Pilar." The story runs that Santiago, who is none other than Saint James, while wandering about Spain, as he was wont to ramble in various corners of the earth, was favored one evening by a call from the Mother of Christ, who, during all their little chat, stood on the top of a stone pillar. That the tale is true there seems little chance for doubt, for they have the pillar yet; and it is over this that has been erected the vast cathedral to which flock thousands of pilgrims during every month of the year.I repaired to it early, but was soon turned melancholy with the recollection of Puck's profound saying anent the folly of mankind. The interior of the edifice is as impressive as that of an empty warehouse. Under the main dome is a large chapel screaming with riches, in the back of which, on her pillar, stands the Virgin--turned to black, half-decayed wood--dressed in more thousands of dollars' worth of gold and silver, of resplendent robes and vociferous gaudiness than god Juggernaut of India ever possessed at the height of his influence. Before it worshipers are always kneeling. In the back wall of the chapel is an opening through which one can touch the pillar--and find a cup-shaped hole worn in it by such action during the centuries. I sat down on a bench near the far-famed orifice, and for close upon an hour watched the unbroken procession file past. Beggar women, rag-pickers, ladies of wealth, cankerous old men, merchants, city sports, lawyers--Saragossa is the one city of Spain where even men go to church--every grade and variety of Aragonese pressed close upon the heels one of another, each bowing down as he passed to kiss the hole deeper into the pillar. At bottom the difference is slight indeed between the religion of the Spaniard and that of the Hindu.In the city swarms a hungry, ragged people, more often than not without shoes, yet one and all with the proverbial haughty pride and somber mood of Aragon in face and bearing, stiff-shouldered, bristling with a touch-me-not-with-a-pole expression. Here, too, may still be found, especially among the peasants from the further districts, the old provincial costume,--knee breeches, a jacket reaching barely to the waist, and a red cloth wound about the head.Tiring of such things, there is a pleasant promenade along the banks of the Ebro, whence one will drift naturally through the Portillo gate where the "flying Gaul was foil'd by a woman's hand." It is startling to find the settings of two such world-famed dramas so close together, but from the gate one has only to saunter a few yards along the Madrid highway to come upon the weather-battered Aljafería of "Trovatore" fame. To-day it is a barracks. Within its towers, through now unbarred windows, may be seen soldiers polishing their spurs and muskets, humming now and then a snatch of popular song; but one may wait in vain to hear some tuneful prisoner strike up the expected "miserere."There is one stroll in Saragossa that I would commend to the wanderer who finds pleasure in gaining elevations whence he may look down, as it were, on the world. It is out along the Canal Imperial, past the swollen-paunched statue of its sponsor Pignatelli, and across the Huerva; then winding lazily southwest and upward the stroller comes suddenly out on the crown of a bald hillock. There, below him in its flat valley, spreads all Saragossa, far enough away to lose the crassness of detail, yet distinct, the two finished towers of the Pilar rising above it like minarets, the whole girded by the green huerta, and beyond and all around the desert in gashed and gnarled hills like the Libyan range of another continent. Here I lounged until the setting sun, peering over my shoulder, cast the radiant flush of evening on the city below, which gradually fading away was at length effaced in the night, its sounds mingling together in a sort of music that drifted up to me long after the scene itself had wholly disappeared.I descended for supper. It is the lot of man that he has no sooner climbed to a height where he may look down calmly on the scramble of life than he must again plunge down into it toeat--or to earn more bread. To-morrow I must set my face toward the frontier, toward New York and a return to labor.On my way to the five-o'clock train next morning I passed through Saragossa's vast covered market and halted to lay in a last supply of figs. The cheery old woman who sold them grasped my fifteen céntimos tightly in her hand and solemnly made with it the sign of the cross. I expressed surprise, and a misgiving lest I had unwittingly parted with coppers possessing peculiar virtues."Cómo, señor!" she cried, in wonder at my ignorance. "It is the first money of the day. If I do not say a paternoster with it I may sit here until nightfall without selling another perrito-worth, you may be sure."The train labored back along the Ebro to Castejon, where I changed cars and journeyed northward, every click of the wheels seeming to cry out that my Spanish summer was nearing its end. At high noon I descended in a dusty plain before the sheer face of the rock on which stands Pamplona of Navarre. When I had climbed into the city I inquired of the first policeman for a modest casa de huéspedes. He rubbed his head a moment and set off with me along the street, chatting sociably as we went. Soon we came upon another officer, to whom the first repeated my question. He scratched his head a moment and fell in beside us, babbling cheerily. Fully a half-mile beyond we accosted a third officer. He rasped his close-shaven poll yet another moment and joined us in the quest, adding a new stock of anecdotes. Here was courtesy extraordinary, even for Spain. Had the police force of Pamplona discovered in me some prince incognito, or was mine to be the rôle of the rolling pancake? We rambled on, but without success, for not another officer could we find in all our circuit of the city. It was certainly close upon an hour after my original inquiry, and something like a hundred yards from the same spot, that we entered a side street and mounted, still in quartet, to a cheap but homelike boarding-house high up in an aged building. The courtesy was quickly explained. The landlady, having expressed her deep gratitude for being brought a new guest, begged each of the officers to do her the favor of accepting a glass of wine. They smacked their lips over it, exchanged with the household the customary salutations and banter, and sauntered back to their beats.When I had eaten, I descended for a turn about the city with the uncle of my grateful hostess, a mountain-hardened Basque of sixty, in the universal boína, who had but recently retired from a lifetime of rocky hillside farming. Of both his province of Navarre and of himself he talked freely until suddenly my tongue stumbled upon some question of military conscription. He fell at once silent, his jaws stiffened, and into his face came the reflection of a bitter sadness. For the Basques are by no means reconciled to the loss of their cherishedfueros, or special political privileges. In silence the sturdy old man led the way half across the city to one of her gates and, climbing a knoll that gave a good view of the surrounding fortifications, said in cheerless tones:"Don Henrico, we have here the strongest city walls in Spain. But what use are they now against the king's modern artillery? No hay remedio. We must serve in his armies."As we threaded our way slowly back to the boarding-house I halted at a money changer's to buy a twenty-franc piece. The transaction left me only a handful of coppers in Spanish currency, and I went early to bed lest there be not enough remaining to carry me out of the country.On a glorious clear September morning I turned my back on Spain and set forth from Pamplona to tramp over the Pyrenees by the pass of Roncesvalles, being just uncertain enough of the road to lend zest to the undertaking. At the edge of the plain to the northward of the city a highway began to wind its way upward along the bank of a young river, not laboriously, but steadily rising. Habitations were rare. Late in the morning a spot above whirling rapids in shaded solitude suggested a plunge; but as I pulled off my coat a sound fell on my ear and, looking across the stream, I saw a half-dozen women kneeling on the bank and staring curiously across at me. When I retreated, they laughed heartily and fell once more to pounding away at their laundry-work on the stones.Some distance higher I found another pool in which, by rolling over and over, I won the afterglow of a real swim. Sharper ascents succeeded, though still none steep. I was soon surrounded by a Tyrolian scenery of forest and deep-cut valleys, and among up-to-date people--the farming implements being of modern type and the smallest villages having electric lights run by power from the mountain streams. Every fellow-mortal, young or old, as is usual in mountain regions, gave me greeting, not with the familiar "Vaya!" nor the "Buenos!" of Galicia, but with "Adiós!" which seemed here to mean much more than the grammatical "Good-by." In the place of guardias civiles were carabineros in a provincial uniform, whose advances, if less warm and companionable, were none the less kindly.Toward evening the road flowed up into a broad, oblong meadow, ankle-deep in greenest grass, musical with the sound of cow-bells, across which it drifted as if content to rest for a time on its oars before taking the final climb. The sun was setting when I reached Burguete at forty-four kilometers, station of the trans-Pyrenean diligence and the point that I had been assured I should do well to reach in a two-day's walk. But I felt as unwearied as at the outset; the towers of Roncesvalles stood plainly visible five kilometers ahead across the green tableland. I rambled on in the cool of evening and by dark was housed in a good inn of the mountain village.When the supper hour arrived, the landlord stepped across to me to ask whether I would eat as a guest or as a member of the family. I inquired what the distinction might be."No difference," he answered, "except that as a member of the family you pay a peseta upon leaving, and as a guest you pay two."It was of course en famille that I supped, and right royally, at a board merry with good-humored peasants and arrieros rather than in the silent, gloomy company of a half-dozen convention-ridden travelers in an adjoining room.Roncesvalles would have been an unequaled spot in which to pass an autumn week, roaming in the forest glens of the mountains, dreaming of the heroic days of Roland. But the hour of reckoning and of New York was near at hand. Of all sensations I most abhor the feeling that I must be in a given place at a given time.A short climb through wooded hillsides strewn with gigantic rocks and I found myself all at once and unexpectedly on the very summit of the Pyrenees. In no sense had the ascent been toilsome, vastly less so than several scrambles of two or three hours' duration between Lugo and Oviedo. From the French side, no doubt, it would have been far more of a task. Gazing northward I recognized for the first time that I stood high indeed above the common level of the earth. Miles below, blue as the sea, lay France, the forested mountains at my feet rolling themselves out into hills, the hills growing lower and lower and spreading away into the far, far distance like another world. The modern world--and I was all at once assailed with a desire to ask what it had been doing in all the days I had been gone. Then the highway seized me in its grasp and hurried me away down, racing, rushing, almost stumbling, so fast I was forced to break away from it and clamber down at my own pace through dense unpeopled forests, to fall upon it again far below and stalk with it at lunch-time into the village of Val Carlos. Yet another hour's descent and I crossed a small stream into the little hamlet of Arneguy; the long-forgotten figure of a French gendarme slouched forth from a hut to shout as I passed, "Anything dutiable, monsieur?" and my Spanish journey was among the things that have been.CHAPTER XVEMIGRATING HOMEWARDIn reality almost as much as in fancy I had entered another world. It is chiefly in retrospect that a journey through Spain, as through Palestine, brings home to the traveler the full difference between those gaunt regions of the earth and the world to which he is accustomed. Here the change was like that from a squatter's cabin, a bachelor's quarters to a residence of opulence.Arrived while the day was still in its prime at St. Jean Pied de Port, I found myself undecided how to continue. The rescuing forty dollars awaited me--postal errors precluded--in Bordeaux; but Baedeker having now become mere lumber, I had no means of knowing which of two routes to follow to that city. I halted to make inquiries of an old Spaniard drowsing before his shop--so like one of mine own people he seemed amid this babble of French. But though he received me with Castilian courtesy he could give me no real information. Under the awning of a café a hundred paces beyond, two well-dressed men were sipping cooling drinks. Their touring-car stood before the building, and not far away, in the shade of an overhanging shoulder of the Pyrenees, loitered a chauffeur, in all the accustomed accoutrements of that genus. He had the appearance of an obliging fellow. I strolled across to him, hastily summoning up my dormant French."Monsieur," I began, "vous me pardonnerez, mais pour aller d'ici à Bordeaux vaut il mieux passer par Bayonne ou bien par Mont de--"He was grinning at me sheepishly and shifting from one leg to the other. As I paused he blurted out:"Aw, I don't talk no French!""Then I suppose it 'll have to be English," I answered, in the first words of that language I had spoken in ninety-six days--and in truth they came with difficulty."Go' bly' me!" burst out the astounded knight of the steering-wheel. "'Ow ever 'd you get in this corner o' the world? Say, I ayn't said more 'n 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir' to their lordships--" with a slight jerk of the head toward the men under the awning--"in so long I 've bally near forgot 'ow. 'Ere it is Sunday an'--""Saturday," I interrupted."Sunday, I say," repeated the chauffeur, drawing out a card on which were penciled many crude crosses. "Ere 's 'ow I keep track--""Señora," I asked, turning to a woman who was filling a pitcher at a hydrant behind me, "qué día tenemos hoy?"Her lip curled disdainfully as she answered:"Tiens! Vous me croyez un de ces barbares-là?"--tossing her head toward the mountain range behind us."Mille pardons," I laughed. "Force of habit. This monsieur and I are disputing whether to-day is Saturday or Sunday.""Out again without your nurses!" she cried sarcastically. "Saturday, of course.""Now 'ear that!" said the chauffeur, almost tearfully, when I interpreted. "'Ow ever can a man keep track of anything in this bally country? Say, what was that question you was tryin' to ask me?""I 'm walking from Gib to Bordeaux," I remarked casually, and repeated my former inquiry. His expression changed slowly from incredulity to commiseration. Suddenly he thrust a hand into his pocket."I say, won't you 'ave a mite of a lift? Why, we took near all yesterday to come from that place. You couldn't walk there in a month.""No, thanks, I 'm fairly well heeled," I answered."Better 'ave a yellow-boy," he persisted, drawing out several English sovereigns. "Lord, you 're more 'n welcome, y' know. They ayn't no bloomin' use to me 'ere!"At that moment I noted that the milords under the awning had spread out before them a large touring map, and I left the chauffeur gasping at my audacity as I stepped across to them. The older was struggling to give an order to the waiter, who crouched towel on arm over them. There is a strange similarity between a full-grown Briton attempting to speak French and a strong man playing with a doll."Beg pawdon, gentlemen," I said, when I had helped them out of the difficulty, "but would you mind my glancing at your map? I want to find--""Ah--why, certainly," gasped one of the startled nobles.But even with the chart before me I was no nearer a decision, for the two roads appeared of almost equal length. As I turned away, however, a poster on a nearby wall quickly settled my plans. It announced a great bullfight in Bayonne the next afternoon, with Quinito, Mazzatinito, and Regaterm, among the most famous of Spain's matadores--far more so than any it had been my fortune to see in that country.I sped away at once along a macadamed highway at the base of the Pyrenees beside a clear river--a mere "rivière" to the French, but one that would have been a mighty stream in Spain. Its banks were thickly grown with willows. On the other hand the mountain wall, no less green, rose sheer above me, bringing an unusually early sunset. Along the way I met several old men, all Basques, who noting that I also wore the boína greeted me in their native "Eúscarra." Not a word of any other tongue could they speak; and when I shook my head hopelessly at their hermetical language, they halted to gaze after me with expressions of deep perplexity. So, too, in the mountain-top village of Bidarry to which I climbed long after dark after a dip in the river, all speech was Basque; though some of the younger inhabitants, finding I was of their race only from the cap upward, fell to talking to me in fluent French or Spanish.The first hours of the following clay were in the highest degree pleasant. Thereafter the country grew hilly, the sun torrid, and as I was forced to set the sharpest pace to reach the bullring by four. I put in as dripping a half-day as at any time during the summer; and I have yet to be more nearly incinerated in this life than in the sol of the great "Place des Taureaux" of Bayonne, crushed between a workman in corduroys and a Zouave in the thickest woolen uniform the loom weaves.The fight, like the ring, was Spanish in every particular, though the programmes were printed in French. It was by all odds the greatest córrida I was privileged to attend during the summer, for the three matadores stand in the front rank of their profession. Yet it was somehow far less exhilarating than those I had seen in Spain. One had a feeling that these past masters were running far less risk than their younger colleagues; one enjoyed their dexterity as one enjoys a seasoned public speaker, yet the performance lacked just the thrill of amateurishness.Here, too, I saw Spain's greatest picador, the only one indeed I ever saw accomplish what the picador is supposed to do,--to hold off the bull with hisgarrocha. This he did repeatedly, placing his lance so unerringly that he stopped the animal's most furious charges and forced him to retire bellowing with rage and with blood trickling down over his shoulders. In all the afternoon this king of the pike-pole had but one horse killed under him. It was in connection with this one fall that Quinito, the boldest of the matadores, won by his daring such applause as seemed to shake the Pyrenees behind us. Moreno lay half buried under his dead horse, in more than imminent danger of being gored to death by the bull raging above him. In vain the anxious caudrilla flaunted their cloaks. All at once Quinito stepped empty handed into the ring and caught the animal by the tail. Away the brute dashed across the plaza, twisting this way and that, but unable to bring his horns nearer than an inch or two of his tormentor who, biding his time, let go and vaulted lightly over the barrier.I quitted Bayonne with the dawn and for four days following marched steadily on across the great Landes of France. Miles upon miles the broad highway stretched unswerving before me through an ultra-flat country between endless forests of pine. On the trunk of every tree hung a sort of flowerpot to catch the dripping pitch. There was almost no agriculture, nothing but pine-trees stretching away in regular rows in every direction, a solitude broken only by the sighing of the wind sweeping across the flatlands, where one could shout to the full capacity of one's lungs without awakening other response than long rolling echoes. Once in a while a pitch-gatherer flitted among the trees; less often the highway crossed a rusty and apparently trainless railroad at the solitary stations of which were tumbled hundreds of barrels of pitch.My shoes wore out, those very oxfords "custom-made" in America and honestly tapped in Toledo, and I was forced to continue the tramp in alpargatas, or what had here changed their name tosandales. As my twenty-franc piece melted away a wondering began to grow upon me whether I was really homeward bound after all; so myriad are the mishaps that may befall a mere letter.Still the unswerving road continued, the endless forests stretched ahead. Such few persons as I met scowled at me in the approved French fashion, never once imitating the cheery greeting of the Spaniard. Now and again a man-slaughtering automobile tore by like some messenger to or from, the infernal regions, recalling by contrast one of the chief charms of the land I had left behind. Hardly one of those destroyers of peace and tranquillity had I seen or heard in all Spain.Four months afoot had not improved my outward appearance. It was not strange that the post-office officials of Bordeaux stared at me long and suspiciously when I arrived at length one afternoon with a single franc in my pocket. The letter was there. When I had, after the unwinding of endless red tape, collected the amount of the order, my journey seemed over indeed.The "Agents Maritimes" to whom I applied accepted me readily enough as an emigrant to America, agreeing to pick me up in Bordeaux and set me down unstarved in New York for the net sum of two hundred and three francs. But there came a hitch in the proceedings. The agent was firing at me with Gaelic speed the questions prescribed by our exacting government--"Name?" "Age?" "Profession?"--and setting down the answers almost before I gave them, when:"Have you contracted to work in the United States?""Oui, monsieur."He stopped like a canvas canoe that has struck a snag."C'est impossible," he announced, closing his book of blanks with a thump. "We cannot of course sell you a ticket."I plunged at once into an explanation. I advanced the information that the contract labor law was not framed to shut out American citizens. I protested that I had already toiled a year under the contract in question, and for my sins must return to toil another. I made no headway whatever."It is the law of the United States," he snapped. "Voilà! C'est assez."Luckily I had a day to spare. By dint of appealing to every maritime authority in the city I convinced the agent at last of his error. But it was none too soon. With my bundle and ticket in one hand and a sort of meal-sack tag to tie in my lapel--if I so chose--in the other, I tumbled into the night train for Paris just as its wheels began to turn. Emigrant tickets are not good in France by day. There was one other tagged passenger in the compartment, a heavy-mannered young peasant likewise wearing a boína. Being thus drawn together we fell gradually; into conversation. He was at first exceeding chary, with the two-fold canniness of the Basque and of the untraveled rustic whose native village has warned him for weeks to beware wily strangers. When I displayed my ticket, however, he lost at once his suspicion and, drawing out his own, proposed that we make the journey as partners. He was bound for Idaho. We did not, however, exchange ideas with partner-like ease, for though he had passed his twenty-five years in the province of Guipuzcoa he spoke little Spanish.Near midnight a few passengers alighted and I fell into a cramped and restless sort of dog-sleep from which I awoke as we screamed into Versailles. When we descended at the Montparnasse station we were joined by three more Basques from another compartment. They, too, wore boínas and, like my companion, in lieu of coats, smocks reaching almost to the knees. They were from near Pamplona and had tickets from Bordeaux to Fresno, California, having taken this route to avoid the difficulties of leaving Spain by sea.The Paris agent of the "American Line" did not meet us in silk hat and with open arms; but when we had shivered about the station something over an hour an unshaven Italian of forty, with lettered cap and a remarkable assortment of unlearned tongues picked us up and bore us away by omnibus to his "Cucina Italiana" in the Passage Moulin. Breakfast over, I invited my fellow-emigrants to view Paris under my leadership. They accepted, after long consultation, and we marched away along the Rue de Lyon to the site of the Bastille, then on into the roar of the city, the Spaniards so helplessly overwhelmed by the surrounding sights and sounds that I was called upon times without number to save them being run down. At length we crossed to the island and, the morgue being closed, entered Notre Dame. I had hitherto credited Catholic churches with being the most democratic of institutions. Hardly were we inside, however, when a priest steamed down upon my companions."Sortez de suite!" he commanded. "Get out! How dare you enter the sacred cathedral in blouses!"The Basques stared at him open-mouthed, now and then nervously wiping their hands on the offending smocks. I passed on and they followed, pausing where I paused, to gape at whatever I looked upon. The priest danced shouting about them. They smiled at him gratefully, as if they fancied he were explaining to them the wonders of the edifice. His commands grew vociferous."Ces messieurs, sir," I remarked at last, "are Spaniards and do not understand a word of French.""You then, tell them to get out at once!" he cried angrily."You must pardon me, monsieur," I protested, "if I do not presume to appoint myself interpreter to your cathedral."We continued our way, strolling down one nave to the altar, sauntering back along the other toward the entrance, the priest still prancing about us. In the doorway the Basques turned to thank him by signs for his kindness and backed away devoutedly crossing themselves.At the Louvre, however, the smock-wearers were halted at the door by two stocky officials, and we wandered on into the Tuileries Gardens. There the quartet balked. These hardy mountaineers, accustomed to trudge all day on steep hillsides behind their burros, were worn out by a few miles of strolling on city pavements. For an hour they sat doggedly in a bench before I could cajole them a few yards further to the Place de la Concorde to board a Seine steamer and return to the Cucina. I left them there and returned alone to while away the afternoon among my old haunts in the Latin Quarter.Soon after dark the razorless son of Italy took us once more in tow and, climbing to the imperial of an omnibus, we rolled away through the brilliant boulevards to the gare St. Lazare. Here was assembled an army of emigrants male and female, of all ages and various distances from their last soaping. In due time we were admitted to the platform. A third-class coach marked "Cherbourg" stood near at hand. I stepped upon the running-board to open a door. A station official caught me by the coat-tail with an oath and a violence that would have landed me on the back of my head but for my grip on the door handle. Being untrained to such treatment, I thrust out an alpargata-shod foot mule-fashion behind me. The official went to sit down dejectedly on the further edge of the platform. By and by he came back to shake his fist in my face. I spoke to him in his own tongue and he at once subsided, crying:"Tiens! I thought you were one of those animals there."We were finally stuffed into four cars, so close we were obliged to lie all night with our legs in one another's laps. The weather was arctic, and we slept not a wink. Early in the morning we disentangled moody and silent in Cherbourg. Another unshaven agent took charge of my companions' baggage with the rest, promising it should be returned the moment they were aboard ship. I clung skeptically to my bundle. We were herded together in a tavern and served coffee and bread, during the administration of which the agent collected our tickets and any proof that we had ever possessed them, and disappeared. The day was wintry cold. All the morning we marched shivering back and forth between the statue of Napoleon and the edge of the beach, the teeth of the south-born Basques chattering audibly. At noon we jammed our way into the tavern again for soup, beef and poor cider, and were given rendezvous at two at one of the wharves.By that hour all were gathered. It was after four, however, when a tender tied up alongside. A man stepped forth with an armful of tickets and began croaking strange imitations of the names thereon. I heard at last a noise that sounded not altogether unlike my own name and, no one else chancing to forestall me, marched on board to reclaim my credentials. A muscular arm thrust me on through a passageway in which a Frenchman in uniform caught me suddenly by the head and turned up my eyelids with a sort of stiletto. Before I could double a fist in protest another arm pushed me on. At six a signal ran up, we steamed out through the breakwater, and were soon tumbling up the gangway of the steamerNew York. At the top another doctor lay in wait, but forewarned, I flung open my passport, and flaunting it in his face, stepped unmolested on deck.Some four hundred third-class passengers had boarded the steamer in England, and no small percentage of the berths were already occupied. Unlike the nests of thePrinzessin, however, they might reasonably be called berths, for though they offered no luxury, or indeed privacy, being two hundred in a section, the quarters were ventilated, well-lighted, and to a certain extent clean. I stepped to the nearest unoccupied bunk and was about to toss my bundle into it when a young steward in shirt-sleeves and apron sprang at me."No good, John," he shouted, in Cockney accents and striving to add force to his remarks by a clumsy pantomime. "Berth take. No more. No good, John. All gone. But--" jerking his head sidewise--"Pst! John! I know one good berth. One dollar--" holding up a hand with forefinger and thumb in the form of that over-popular object--"All take, Joh--""Say, what t'ell's the game, anyhow, mate?" I interrupted.His legs all but wilted under him."Sye, ol' man," he cried, patting me on the shoulder. "S'elp me, I took you for one o' these waps, as why shouldn't I, in that there sky-piece an' make-up? Of course you can 'ave the berth. Or sye, over 'ere by the port'ole's a far 'an'somer one. There y' are. Now, mite, if ever I can 'elp you out--" and he was still chattering when I climbed again on deck.Unfortunately, in the rough and tumble of embarking I had lost sight of the Spaniards. When I found them again every berth was really taken, for there was a shortage--or rather considerably more than the legal number of tickets had been sold; and the quartet, having withstood the blackmail, were among those unprovided. That night they slept, if at all, on the bare deck. Next day I protested to the third-class steward and he spread for them two sacks of straw on a lower hatch. There, too, the icy sea air circulated freely. Worst of all, in spite of the solemn promises of the agent, their bags, in which they had packed not only blankets and heavier garments, but meat, bread, fruit, cheese, and botas of wine sufficient to supply them royally during all the journey, had been stowed away in the hold. For two days they showed, after the fashion of emigrants, no interest in gastronomic matters. When appetite returned they could not eat American--or rather English food. "No hay ajos!--It has no garlic!" they complained. Once or twice I acted as agent between them and an under cook who sneaked out of the galley with a roast chicken under his jacket, but they grew visibly leaner day by day.On the whole steerage life on the New York was endurable. The third-class fare was on a par with most English cooking,--well-meant but otherwise uncommendable. The tables and dishes were moderately clean, the waiters, expecting a sixpence tip at the end of the passage, were almost obliging. In the steerage dining-room, large and airy, was a piano around which we gathered of an evening to chat, or to croak old-fashioned songs. Here it was that I felt the full force of my long total abstinence from English. It was days before I could talk fluently; many a time my tongue clattered about a full half-minute in quest of some quite everyday word.On the fourth day out the oldest of the Spaniards appealed to me for the twentieth time to intercede for them with the third-class steward."Hombre," I answered, "it is useless; I have talked myself hoarse. Go to him yourself and it may have some effect.""But he understands neither Castilian nor Eúscarra!" cried the Basque."No matter," I replied. "He is a man in such and such a uniform. When you run across him touch him on the sleeve and lay your head sidewise on your hand--the pantomime for sleep the world over--and he will remember your case."An hour or more afterward I was aroused from reading a book in an alleyway aft by the third-class steward."I say," he cried, "will you come and see what the bloomin' saints is biting these Spanish chaps? They ayn't no one else can chin their lingo."I followed him forward. Before the dispensary stood a wondering and sympathetic group, in the center of which was the Basque making wry faces and groaning, and the ship's surgeon looking almost frightened."What's up?" I asked."Blow me if I know!" cried the medicine-man. "This chap comes and touches me on the arm and holds his hand against his cheek. I gave him a dose for toothache, and the beggar 's been howling ever since. Funny sort of creatures."The Spaniards got no berth during the voyage, though I carried their appeal in person to the captain. They were still encamped on the lower hatch on the morning when the land-fever drew us on deck at dawn. Soon appeared a light-ship, then land, a view of the charred ruins of Coney Island, then a gasp of wonder from the emigrants as the sky-scrapers burst on their sight. We steamed slowly up the harbor, checked by mail, custom, and doctor's boats, and tied up at a wharf early in the afternoon. Rain was pouring. I appeared before a commissioner in the second cabin to establish my nationality, bade the Basques farewell as they were leaving for Ellis Island, and scudded away through the deluge. In my pocket was exactly six cents. I caught up an evening paper and with the last coin in hand dived down into the Subway.The Summer's Expense Account:Transportation ................... $90.Food and Lodging ................. 55.Bullfights, sights, souvenirs .... 10.Miscellaneous .................... 17.-----$172*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKFOUR MONTHS AFOOT IN SPAIN***
CHAPTER XIV
A DESCENT INTO ARAGON
There was an unwonted excitement in the air when I boarded the train next morning for the longest unbroken ride of my Spanish journey. Pernales, the anachronism, the twentieth-century bandit of the environs of Córdoba, had fallen. Aboard the train newspapers were as numerous as on the New York "Elevated" at a similar hour. I bought one and was soon lost like the rest in the adventures of this last defier of the mighty guardia civil.
The story was simple. Two evenings before, about the time I had been yawning over the king's fireworks, Pernales had met a village arriero among the foothills of his retreat, and asked him some question about the road. The rustic gave him the desired information, but guessing with whom he was speaking, had raced away, once he was out of sight, as fast as he could drive his ass before him, to carry his suspicions to the village alcalde. The rest was commonplace. A dozen guardias stalked the unsuspecting bandolero among the hills, and coming upon him toward sunrise, brought his unsanctioned career abruptly to a close.
[image]The Roman walls of Leon
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The Roman walls of Leon
"Our special correspondent" had dismally failed to cast over his account the glamour of romance, but in compensation had taken a reporter's care to give the precise point in the right temple where the ball had entered, with the exact dimensions of the orifice, as well as the life story of the hero who had bored it. Nay, with almost American haste and resourcefulness the paper printed a full-length portrait of the successful hunter--or one at least of a man who could not have been vastly different in appearance, in a uniform that was certainly very similar. Alas! The good old days of the bandit and the contrabandista are forever gone in Spain; the humdrum era of the civil guard is come. Pernales' is but another story of a man born a century too late.
[image]The land of the boina. Alfonso XII at a picnic
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The land of the boina. Alfonso XII at a picnic
All day long as we toiled and twisted over the Cantabrian range and descended southward, this only was the topic of conversation of all grades and sexes of travelers. An hour's halt at Miranda and we creaked on along the bank of Spain's greatest river, the Ebro, talking still of bandoleros and the regret of their passing. Slowly the green tinge in the landscape faded away and in its place came reddish cliffs and a sun-seared and all but desert country spreading away from either bank of the red-dyed river, sterile rolling plains relieved only by small oases of fertility and isolated and in all probability bigoted villages standing colorless on colorless hillsides. As central Spain may be likened to rocky Judea, so this resembles in some degree Egypt, with the Ebro as the Nile.
It was late in the evening when I arrived in Saragossa and, crossing the broad river by the Puente de Piedra, found myself in one of the most labyrinthian cities of Spain. But so practiced had I grown in such quest that in less than an hour I had engaged accommodation at my own price, which by this time had descended to two and a half pesetas.
The "sight" par excellence of Saragossa is of course her "Virgen del Pilar." The story runs that Santiago, who is none other than Saint James, while wandering about Spain, as he was wont to ramble in various corners of the earth, was favored one evening by a call from the Mother of Christ, who, during all their little chat, stood on the top of a stone pillar. That the tale is true there seems little chance for doubt, for they have the pillar yet; and it is over this that has been erected the vast cathedral to which flock thousands of pilgrims during every month of the year.
I repaired to it early, but was soon turned melancholy with the recollection of Puck's profound saying anent the folly of mankind. The interior of the edifice is as impressive as that of an empty warehouse. Under the main dome is a large chapel screaming with riches, in the back of which, on her pillar, stands the Virgin--turned to black, half-decayed wood--dressed in more thousands of dollars' worth of gold and silver, of resplendent robes and vociferous gaudiness than god Juggernaut of India ever possessed at the height of his influence. Before it worshipers are always kneeling. In the back wall of the chapel is an opening through which one can touch the pillar--and find a cup-shaped hole worn in it by such action during the centuries. I sat down on a bench near the far-famed orifice, and for close upon an hour watched the unbroken procession file past. Beggar women, rag-pickers, ladies of wealth, cankerous old men, merchants, city sports, lawyers--Saragossa is the one city of Spain where even men go to church--every grade and variety of Aragonese pressed close upon the heels one of another, each bowing down as he passed to kiss the hole deeper into the pillar. At bottom the difference is slight indeed between the religion of the Spaniard and that of the Hindu.
In the city swarms a hungry, ragged people, more often than not without shoes, yet one and all with the proverbial haughty pride and somber mood of Aragon in face and bearing, stiff-shouldered, bristling with a touch-me-not-with-a-pole expression. Here, too, may still be found, especially among the peasants from the further districts, the old provincial costume,--knee breeches, a jacket reaching barely to the waist, and a red cloth wound about the head.
Tiring of such things, there is a pleasant promenade along the banks of the Ebro, whence one will drift naturally through the Portillo gate where the "flying Gaul was foil'd by a woman's hand." It is startling to find the settings of two such world-famed dramas so close together, but from the gate one has only to saunter a few yards along the Madrid highway to come upon the weather-battered Aljafería of "Trovatore" fame. To-day it is a barracks. Within its towers, through now unbarred windows, may be seen soldiers polishing their spurs and muskets, humming now and then a snatch of popular song; but one may wait in vain to hear some tuneful prisoner strike up the expected "miserere."
There is one stroll in Saragossa that I would commend to the wanderer who finds pleasure in gaining elevations whence he may look down, as it were, on the world. It is out along the Canal Imperial, past the swollen-paunched statue of its sponsor Pignatelli, and across the Huerva; then winding lazily southwest and upward the stroller comes suddenly out on the crown of a bald hillock. There, below him in its flat valley, spreads all Saragossa, far enough away to lose the crassness of detail, yet distinct, the two finished towers of the Pilar rising above it like minarets, the whole girded by the green huerta, and beyond and all around the desert in gashed and gnarled hills like the Libyan range of another continent. Here I lounged until the setting sun, peering over my shoulder, cast the radiant flush of evening on the city below, which gradually fading away was at length effaced in the night, its sounds mingling together in a sort of music that drifted up to me long after the scene itself had wholly disappeared.
I descended for supper. It is the lot of man that he has no sooner climbed to a height where he may look down calmly on the scramble of life than he must again plunge down into it toeat--or to earn more bread. To-morrow I must set my face toward the frontier, toward New York and a return to labor.
On my way to the five-o'clock train next morning I passed through Saragossa's vast covered market and halted to lay in a last supply of figs. The cheery old woman who sold them grasped my fifteen céntimos tightly in her hand and solemnly made with it the sign of the cross. I expressed surprise, and a misgiving lest I had unwittingly parted with coppers possessing peculiar virtues.
"Cómo, señor!" she cried, in wonder at my ignorance. "It is the first money of the day. If I do not say a paternoster with it I may sit here until nightfall without selling another perrito-worth, you may be sure."
The train labored back along the Ebro to Castejon, where I changed cars and journeyed northward, every click of the wheels seeming to cry out that my Spanish summer was nearing its end. At high noon I descended in a dusty plain before the sheer face of the rock on which stands Pamplona of Navarre. When I had climbed into the city I inquired of the first policeman for a modest casa de huéspedes. He rubbed his head a moment and set off with me along the street, chatting sociably as we went. Soon we came upon another officer, to whom the first repeated my question. He scratched his head a moment and fell in beside us, babbling cheerily. Fully a half-mile beyond we accosted a third officer. He rasped his close-shaven poll yet another moment and joined us in the quest, adding a new stock of anecdotes. Here was courtesy extraordinary, even for Spain. Had the police force of Pamplona discovered in me some prince incognito, or was mine to be the rôle of the rolling pancake? We rambled on, but without success, for not another officer could we find in all our circuit of the city. It was certainly close upon an hour after my original inquiry, and something like a hundred yards from the same spot, that we entered a side street and mounted, still in quartet, to a cheap but homelike boarding-house high up in an aged building. The courtesy was quickly explained. The landlady, having expressed her deep gratitude for being brought a new guest, begged each of the officers to do her the favor of accepting a glass of wine. They smacked their lips over it, exchanged with the household the customary salutations and banter, and sauntered back to their beats.
When I had eaten, I descended for a turn about the city with the uncle of my grateful hostess, a mountain-hardened Basque of sixty, in the universal boína, who had but recently retired from a lifetime of rocky hillside farming. Of both his province of Navarre and of himself he talked freely until suddenly my tongue stumbled upon some question of military conscription. He fell at once silent, his jaws stiffened, and into his face came the reflection of a bitter sadness. For the Basques are by no means reconciled to the loss of their cherishedfueros, or special political privileges. In silence the sturdy old man led the way half across the city to one of her gates and, climbing a knoll that gave a good view of the surrounding fortifications, said in cheerless tones:
"Don Henrico, we have here the strongest city walls in Spain. But what use are they now against the king's modern artillery? No hay remedio. We must serve in his armies."
As we threaded our way slowly back to the boarding-house I halted at a money changer's to buy a twenty-franc piece. The transaction left me only a handful of coppers in Spanish currency, and I went early to bed lest there be not enough remaining to carry me out of the country.
On a glorious clear September morning I turned my back on Spain and set forth from Pamplona to tramp over the Pyrenees by the pass of Roncesvalles, being just uncertain enough of the road to lend zest to the undertaking. At the edge of the plain to the northward of the city a highway began to wind its way upward along the bank of a young river, not laboriously, but steadily rising. Habitations were rare. Late in the morning a spot above whirling rapids in shaded solitude suggested a plunge; but as I pulled off my coat a sound fell on my ear and, looking across the stream, I saw a half-dozen women kneeling on the bank and staring curiously across at me. When I retreated, they laughed heartily and fell once more to pounding away at their laundry-work on the stones.
Some distance higher I found another pool in which, by rolling over and over, I won the afterglow of a real swim. Sharper ascents succeeded, though still none steep. I was soon surrounded by a Tyrolian scenery of forest and deep-cut valleys, and among up-to-date people--the farming implements being of modern type and the smallest villages having electric lights run by power from the mountain streams. Every fellow-mortal, young or old, as is usual in mountain regions, gave me greeting, not with the familiar "Vaya!" nor the "Buenos!" of Galicia, but with "Adiós!" which seemed here to mean much more than the grammatical "Good-by." In the place of guardias civiles were carabineros in a provincial uniform, whose advances, if less warm and companionable, were none the less kindly.
Toward evening the road flowed up into a broad, oblong meadow, ankle-deep in greenest grass, musical with the sound of cow-bells, across which it drifted as if content to rest for a time on its oars before taking the final climb. The sun was setting when I reached Burguete at forty-four kilometers, station of the trans-Pyrenean diligence and the point that I had been assured I should do well to reach in a two-day's walk. But I felt as unwearied as at the outset; the towers of Roncesvalles stood plainly visible five kilometers ahead across the green tableland. I rambled on in the cool of evening and by dark was housed in a good inn of the mountain village.
When the supper hour arrived, the landlord stepped across to me to ask whether I would eat as a guest or as a member of the family. I inquired what the distinction might be.
"No difference," he answered, "except that as a member of the family you pay a peseta upon leaving, and as a guest you pay two."
It was of course en famille that I supped, and right royally, at a board merry with good-humored peasants and arrieros rather than in the silent, gloomy company of a half-dozen convention-ridden travelers in an adjoining room.
Roncesvalles would have been an unequaled spot in which to pass an autumn week, roaming in the forest glens of the mountains, dreaming of the heroic days of Roland. But the hour of reckoning and of New York was near at hand. Of all sensations I most abhor the feeling that I must be in a given place at a given time.
A short climb through wooded hillsides strewn with gigantic rocks and I found myself all at once and unexpectedly on the very summit of the Pyrenees. In no sense had the ascent been toilsome, vastly less so than several scrambles of two or three hours' duration between Lugo and Oviedo. From the French side, no doubt, it would have been far more of a task. Gazing northward I recognized for the first time that I stood high indeed above the common level of the earth. Miles below, blue as the sea, lay France, the forested mountains at my feet rolling themselves out into hills, the hills growing lower and lower and spreading away into the far, far distance like another world. The modern world--and I was all at once assailed with a desire to ask what it had been doing in all the days I had been gone. Then the highway seized me in its grasp and hurried me away down, racing, rushing, almost stumbling, so fast I was forced to break away from it and clamber down at my own pace through dense unpeopled forests, to fall upon it again far below and stalk with it at lunch-time into the village of Val Carlos. Yet another hour's descent and I crossed a small stream into the little hamlet of Arneguy; the long-forgotten figure of a French gendarme slouched forth from a hut to shout as I passed, "Anything dutiable, monsieur?" and my Spanish journey was among the things that have been.
CHAPTER XV
EMIGRATING HOMEWARD
In reality almost as much as in fancy I had entered another world. It is chiefly in retrospect that a journey through Spain, as through Palestine, brings home to the traveler the full difference between those gaunt regions of the earth and the world to which he is accustomed. Here the change was like that from a squatter's cabin, a bachelor's quarters to a residence of opulence.
Arrived while the day was still in its prime at St. Jean Pied de Port, I found myself undecided how to continue. The rescuing forty dollars awaited me--postal errors precluded--in Bordeaux; but Baedeker having now become mere lumber, I had no means of knowing which of two routes to follow to that city. I halted to make inquiries of an old Spaniard drowsing before his shop--so like one of mine own people he seemed amid this babble of French. But though he received me with Castilian courtesy he could give me no real information. Under the awning of a café a hundred paces beyond, two well-dressed men were sipping cooling drinks. Their touring-car stood before the building, and not far away, in the shade of an overhanging shoulder of the Pyrenees, loitered a chauffeur, in all the accustomed accoutrements of that genus. He had the appearance of an obliging fellow. I strolled across to him, hastily summoning up my dormant French.
"Monsieur," I began, "vous me pardonnerez, mais pour aller d'ici à Bordeaux vaut il mieux passer par Bayonne ou bien par Mont de--"
He was grinning at me sheepishly and shifting from one leg to the other. As I paused he blurted out:
"Aw, I don't talk no French!"
"Then I suppose it 'll have to be English," I answered, in the first words of that language I had spoken in ninety-six days--and in truth they came with difficulty.
"Go' bly' me!" burst out the astounded knight of the steering-wheel. "'Ow ever 'd you get in this corner o' the world? Say, I ayn't said more 'n 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir' to their lordships--" with a slight jerk of the head toward the men under the awning--"in so long I 've bally near forgot 'ow. 'Ere it is Sunday an'--"
"Saturday," I interrupted.
"Sunday, I say," repeated the chauffeur, drawing out a card on which were penciled many crude crosses. "Ere 's 'ow I keep track--"
"Señora," I asked, turning to a woman who was filling a pitcher at a hydrant behind me, "qué día tenemos hoy?"
Her lip curled disdainfully as she answered:
"Tiens! Vous me croyez un de ces barbares-là?"--tossing her head toward the mountain range behind us.
"Mille pardons," I laughed. "Force of habit. This monsieur and I are disputing whether to-day is Saturday or Sunday."
"Out again without your nurses!" she cried sarcastically. "Saturday, of course."
"Now 'ear that!" said the chauffeur, almost tearfully, when I interpreted. "'Ow ever can a man keep track of anything in this bally country? Say, what was that question you was tryin' to ask me?"
"I 'm walking from Gib to Bordeaux," I remarked casually, and repeated my former inquiry. His expression changed slowly from incredulity to commiseration. Suddenly he thrust a hand into his pocket.
"I say, won't you 'ave a mite of a lift? Why, we took near all yesterday to come from that place. You couldn't walk there in a month."
"No, thanks, I 'm fairly well heeled," I answered.
"Better 'ave a yellow-boy," he persisted, drawing out several English sovereigns. "Lord, you 're more 'n welcome, y' know. They ayn't no bloomin' use to me 'ere!"
At that moment I noted that the milords under the awning had spread out before them a large touring map, and I left the chauffeur gasping at my audacity as I stepped across to them. The older was struggling to give an order to the waiter, who crouched towel on arm over them. There is a strange similarity between a full-grown Briton attempting to speak French and a strong man playing with a doll.
"Beg pawdon, gentlemen," I said, when I had helped them out of the difficulty, "but would you mind my glancing at your map? I want to find--"
"Ah--why, certainly," gasped one of the startled nobles.
But even with the chart before me I was no nearer a decision, for the two roads appeared of almost equal length. As I turned away, however, a poster on a nearby wall quickly settled my plans. It announced a great bullfight in Bayonne the next afternoon, with Quinito, Mazzatinito, and Regaterm, among the most famous of Spain's matadores--far more so than any it had been my fortune to see in that country.
I sped away at once along a macadamed highway at the base of the Pyrenees beside a clear river--a mere "rivière" to the French, but one that would have been a mighty stream in Spain. Its banks were thickly grown with willows. On the other hand the mountain wall, no less green, rose sheer above me, bringing an unusually early sunset. Along the way I met several old men, all Basques, who noting that I also wore the boína greeted me in their native "Eúscarra." Not a word of any other tongue could they speak; and when I shook my head hopelessly at their hermetical language, they halted to gaze after me with expressions of deep perplexity. So, too, in the mountain-top village of Bidarry to which I climbed long after dark after a dip in the river, all speech was Basque; though some of the younger inhabitants, finding I was of their race only from the cap upward, fell to talking to me in fluent French or Spanish.
The first hours of the following clay were in the highest degree pleasant. Thereafter the country grew hilly, the sun torrid, and as I was forced to set the sharpest pace to reach the bullring by four. I put in as dripping a half-day as at any time during the summer; and I have yet to be more nearly incinerated in this life than in the sol of the great "Place des Taureaux" of Bayonne, crushed between a workman in corduroys and a Zouave in the thickest woolen uniform the loom weaves.
The fight, like the ring, was Spanish in every particular, though the programmes were printed in French. It was by all odds the greatest córrida I was privileged to attend during the summer, for the three matadores stand in the front rank of their profession. Yet it was somehow far less exhilarating than those I had seen in Spain. One had a feeling that these past masters were running far less risk than their younger colleagues; one enjoyed their dexterity as one enjoys a seasoned public speaker, yet the performance lacked just the thrill of amateurishness.
Here, too, I saw Spain's greatest picador, the only one indeed I ever saw accomplish what the picador is supposed to do,--to hold off the bull with hisgarrocha. This he did repeatedly, placing his lance so unerringly that he stopped the animal's most furious charges and forced him to retire bellowing with rage and with blood trickling down over his shoulders. In all the afternoon this king of the pike-pole had but one horse killed under him. It was in connection with this one fall that Quinito, the boldest of the matadores, won by his daring such applause as seemed to shake the Pyrenees behind us. Moreno lay half buried under his dead horse, in more than imminent danger of being gored to death by the bull raging above him. In vain the anxious caudrilla flaunted their cloaks. All at once Quinito stepped empty handed into the ring and caught the animal by the tail. Away the brute dashed across the plaza, twisting this way and that, but unable to bring his horns nearer than an inch or two of his tormentor who, biding his time, let go and vaulted lightly over the barrier.
I quitted Bayonne with the dawn and for four days following marched steadily on across the great Landes of France. Miles upon miles the broad highway stretched unswerving before me through an ultra-flat country between endless forests of pine. On the trunk of every tree hung a sort of flowerpot to catch the dripping pitch. There was almost no agriculture, nothing but pine-trees stretching away in regular rows in every direction, a solitude broken only by the sighing of the wind sweeping across the flatlands, where one could shout to the full capacity of one's lungs without awakening other response than long rolling echoes. Once in a while a pitch-gatherer flitted among the trees; less often the highway crossed a rusty and apparently trainless railroad at the solitary stations of which were tumbled hundreds of barrels of pitch.
My shoes wore out, those very oxfords "custom-made" in America and honestly tapped in Toledo, and I was forced to continue the tramp in alpargatas, or what had here changed their name tosandales. As my twenty-franc piece melted away a wondering began to grow upon me whether I was really homeward bound after all; so myriad are the mishaps that may befall a mere letter.
Still the unswerving road continued, the endless forests stretched ahead. Such few persons as I met scowled at me in the approved French fashion, never once imitating the cheery greeting of the Spaniard. Now and again a man-slaughtering automobile tore by like some messenger to or from, the infernal regions, recalling by contrast one of the chief charms of the land I had left behind. Hardly one of those destroyers of peace and tranquillity had I seen or heard in all Spain.
Four months afoot had not improved my outward appearance. It was not strange that the post-office officials of Bordeaux stared at me long and suspiciously when I arrived at length one afternoon with a single franc in my pocket. The letter was there. When I had, after the unwinding of endless red tape, collected the amount of the order, my journey seemed over indeed.
The "Agents Maritimes" to whom I applied accepted me readily enough as an emigrant to America, agreeing to pick me up in Bordeaux and set me down unstarved in New York for the net sum of two hundred and three francs. But there came a hitch in the proceedings. The agent was firing at me with Gaelic speed the questions prescribed by our exacting government--"Name?" "Age?" "Profession?"--and setting down the answers almost before I gave them, when:
"Have you contracted to work in the United States?"
"Oui, monsieur."
He stopped like a canvas canoe that has struck a snag.
"C'est impossible," he announced, closing his book of blanks with a thump. "We cannot of course sell you a ticket."
I plunged at once into an explanation. I advanced the information that the contract labor law was not framed to shut out American citizens. I protested that I had already toiled a year under the contract in question, and for my sins must return to toil another. I made no headway whatever.
"It is the law of the United States," he snapped. "Voilà! C'est assez."
Luckily I had a day to spare. By dint of appealing to every maritime authority in the city I convinced the agent at last of his error. But it was none too soon. With my bundle and ticket in one hand and a sort of meal-sack tag to tie in my lapel--if I so chose--in the other, I tumbled into the night train for Paris just as its wheels began to turn. Emigrant tickets are not good in France by day. There was one other tagged passenger in the compartment, a heavy-mannered young peasant likewise wearing a boína. Being thus drawn together we fell gradually; into conversation. He was at first exceeding chary, with the two-fold canniness of the Basque and of the untraveled rustic whose native village has warned him for weeks to beware wily strangers. When I displayed my ticket, however, he lost at once his suspicion and, drawing out his own, proposed that we make the journey as partners. He was bound for Idaho. We did not, however, exchange ideas with partner-like ease, for though he had passed his twenty-five years in the province of Guipuzcoa he spoke little Spanish.
Near midnight a few passengers alighted and I fell into a cramped and restless sort of dog-sleep from which I awoke as we screamed into Versailles. When we descended at the Montparnasse station we were joined by three more Basques from another compartment. They, too, wore boínas and, like my companion, in lieu of coats, smocks reaching almost to the knees. They were from near Pamplona and had tickets from Bordeaux to Fresno, California, having taken this route to avoid the difficulties of leaving Spain by sea.
The Paris agent of the "American Line" did not meet us in silk hat and with open arms; but when we had shivered about the station something over an hour an unshaven Italian of forty, with lettered cap and a remarkable assortment of unlearned tongues picked us up and bore us away by omnibus to his "Cucina Italiana" in the Passage Moulin. Breakfast over, I invited my fellow-emigrants to view Paris under my leadership. They accepted, after long consultation, and we marched away along the Rue de Lyon to the site of the Bastille, then on into the roar of the city, the Spaniards so helplessly overwhelmed by the surrounding sights and sounds that I was called upon times without number to save them being run down. At length we crossed to the island and, the morgue being closed, entered Notre Dame. I had hitherto credited Catholic churches with being the most democratic of institutions. Hardly were we inside, however, when a priest steamed down upon my companions.
"Sortez de suite!" he commanded. "Get out! How dare you enter the sacred cathedral in blouses!"
The Basques stared at him open-mouthed, now and then nervously wiping their hands on the offending smocks. I passed on and they followed, pausing where I paused, to gape at whatever I looked upon. The priest danced shouting about them. They smiled at him gratefully, as if they fancied he were explaining to them the wonders of the edifice. His commands grew vociferous.
"Ces messieurs, sir," I remarked at last, "are Spaniards and do not understand a word of French."
"You then, tell them to get out at once!" he cried angrily.
"You must pardon me, monsieur," I protested, "if I do not presume to appoint myself interpreter to your cathedral."
We continued our way, strolling down one nave to the altar, sauntering back along the other toward the entrance, the priest still prancing about us. In the doorway the Basques turned to thank him by signs for his kindness and backed away devoutedly crossing themselves.
At the Louvre, however, the smock-wearers were halted at the door by two stocky officials, and we wandered on into the Tuileries Gardens. There the quartet balked. These hardy mountaineers, accustomed to trudge all day on steep hillsides behind their burros, were worn out by a few miles of strolling on city pavements. For an hour they sat doggedly in a bench before I could cajole them a few yards further to the Place de la Concorde to board a Seine steamer and return to the Cucina. I left them there and returned alone to while away the afternoon among my old haunts in the Latin Quarter.
Soon after dark the razorless son of Italy took us once more in tow and, climbing to the imperial of an omnibus, we rolled away through the brilliant boulevards to the gare St. Lazare. Here was assembled an army of emigrants male and female, of all ages and various distances from their last soaping. In due time we were admitted to the platform. A third-class coach marked "Cherbourg" stood near at hand. I stepped upon the running-board to open a door. A station official caught me by the coat-tail with an oath and a violence that would have landed me on the back of my head but for my grip on the door handle. Being untrained to such treatment, I thrust out an alpargata-shod foot mule-fashion behind me. The official went to sit down dejectedly on the further edge of the platform. By and by he came back to shake his fist in my face. I spoke to him in his own tongue and he at once subsided, crying:
"Tiens! I thought you were one of those animals there."
We were finally stuffed into four cars, so close we were obliged to lie all night with our legs in one another's laps. The weather was arctic, and we slept not a wink. Early in the morning we disentangled moody and silent in Cherbourg. Another unshaven agent took charge of my companions' baggage with the rest, promising it should be returned the moment they were aboard ship. I clung skeptically to my bundle. We were herded together in a tavern and served coffee and bread, during the administration of which the agent collected our tickets and any proof that we had ever possessed them, and disappeared. The day was wintry cold. All the morning we marched shivering back and forth between the statue of Napoleon and the edge of the beach, the teeth of the south-born Basques chattering audibly. At noon we jammed our way into the tavern again for soup, beef and poor cider, and were given rendezvous at two at one of the wharves.
By that hour all were gathered. It was after four, however, when a tender tied up alongside. A man stepped forth with an armful of tickets and began croaking strange imitations of the names thereon. I heard at last a noise that sounded not altogether unlike my own name and, no one else chancing to forestall me, marched on board to reclaim my credentials. A muscular arm thrust me on through a passageway in which a Frenchman in uniform caught me suddenly by the head and turned up my eyelids with a sort of stiletto. Before I could double a fist in protest another arm pushed me on. At six a signal ran up, we steamed out through the breakwater, and were soon tumbling up the gangway of the steamerNew York. At the top another doctor lay in wait, but forewarned, I flung open my passport, and flaunting it in his face, stepped unmolested on deck.
Some four hundred third-class passengers had boarded the steamer in England, and no small percentage of the berths were already occupied. Unlike the nests of thePrinzessin, however, they might reasonably be called berths, for though they offered no luxury, or indeed privacy, being two hundred in a section, the quarters were ventilated, well-lighted, and to a certain extent clean. I stepped to the nearest unoccupied bunk and was about to toss my bundle into it when a young steward in shirt-sleeves and apron sprang at me.
"No good, John," he shouted, in Cockney accents and striving to add force to his remarks by a clumsy pantomime. "Berth take. No more. No good, John. All gone. But--" jerking his head sidewise--"Pst! John! I know one good berth. One dollar--" holding up a hand with forefinger and thumb in the form of that over-popular object--"All take, Joh--"
"Say, what t'ell's the game, anyhow, mate?" I interrupted.
His legs all but wilted under him.
"Sye, ol' man," he cried, patting me on the shoulder. "S'elp me, I took you for one o' these waps, as why shouldn't I, in that there sky-piece an' make-up? Of course you can 'ave the berth. Or sye, over 'ere by the port'ole's a far 'an'somer one. There y' are. Now, mite, if ever I can 'elp you out--" and he was still chattering when I climbed again on deck.
Unfortunately, in the rough and tumble of embarking I had lost sight of the Spaniards. When I found them again every berth was really taken, for there was a shortage--or rather considerably more than the legal number of tickets had been sold; and the quartet, having withstood the blackmail, were among those unprovided. That night they slept, if at all, on the bare deck. Next day I protested to the third-class steward and he spread for them two sacks of straw on a lower hatch. There, too, the icy sea air circulated freely. Worst of all, in spite of the solemn promises of the agent, their bags, in which they had packed not only blankets and heavier garments, but meat, bread, fruit, cheese, and botas of wine sufficient to supply them royally during all the journey, had been stowed away in the hold. For two days they showed, after the fashion of emigrants, no interest in gastronomic matters. When appetite returned they could not eat American--or rather English food. "No hay ajos!--It has no garlic!" they complained. Once or twice I acted as agent between them and an under cook who sneaked out of the galley with a roast chicken under his jacket, but they grew visibly leaner day by day.
On the whole steerage life on the New York was endurable. The third-class fare was on a par with most English cooking,--well-meant but otherwise uncommendable. The tables and dishes were moderately clean, the waiters, expecting a sixpence tip at the end of the passage, were almost obliging. In the steerage dining-room, large and airy, was a piano around which we gathered of an evening to chat, or to croak old-fashioned songs. Here it was that I felt the full force of my long total abstinence from English. It was days before I could talk fluently; many a time my tongue clattered about a full half-minute in quest of some quite everyday word.
On the fourth day out the oldest of the Spaniards appealed to me for the twentieth time to intercede for them with the third-class steward.
"Hombre," I answered, "it is useless; I have talked myself hoarse. Go to him yourself and it may have some effect."
"But he understands neither Castilian nor Eúscarra!" cried the Basque.
"No matter," I replied. "He is a man in such and such a uniform. When you run across him touch him on the sleeve and lay your head sidewise on your hand--the pantomime for sleep the world over--and he will remember your case."
An hour or more afterward I was aroused from reading a book in an alleyway aft by the third-class steward.
"I say," he cried, "will you come and see what the bloomin' saints is biting these Spanish chaps? They ayn't no one else can chin their lingo."
I followed him forward. Before the dispensary stood a wondering and sympathetic group, in the center of which was the Basque making wry faces and groaning, and the ship's surgeon looking almost frightened.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Blow me if I know!" cried the medicine-man. "This chap comes and touches me on the arm and holds his hand against his cheek. I gave him a dose for toothache, and the beggar 's been howling ever since. Funny sort of creatures."
The Spaniards got no berth during the voyage, though I carried their appeal in person to the captain. They were still encamped on the lower hatch on the morning when the land-fever drew us on deck at dawn. Soon appeared a light-ship, then land, a view of the charred ruins of Coney Island, then a gasp of wonder from the emigrants as the sky-scrapers burst on their sight. We steamed slowly up the harbor, checked by mail, custom, and doctor's boats, and tied up at a wharf early in the afternoon. Rain was pouring. I appeared before a commissioner in the second cabin to establish my nationality, bade the Basques farewell as they were leaving for Ellis Island, and scudded away through the deluge. In my pocket was exactly six cents. I caught up an evening paper and with the last coin in hand dived down into the Subway.
The Summer's Expense Account:Transportation ................... $90.Food and Lodging ................. 55.Bullfights, sights, souvenirs .... 10.Miscellaneous .................... 17.-----$172
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKFOUR MONTHS AFOOT IN SPAIN***