Marching Spain by V.S. Pritchett

Author:V.S. Pritchett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2012-04-08T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII.

The German Walking Round the World

I left Caceres on Sunday morning in a fury because the hall porter of the hotel—but that is too good a name for him: he was a weedy, spidery, hairy individual, who sat on the doorstep with a cigarette stuck to his lip, a man who had not seen soap, water, or razor for weeks—because this fellow accused me of running away without paying my bill. My flood of anger brought down a mass of eloquence with it: I do not recollect ever having had such a mastery of the Spanish tongue as I had at that moment. Subtle idioms and distinguished oaths poured from me. Skilfully, like a canoe, my tongue passed over the deeps and rapids of the majestic Castilian language. That moment of complete mastery was elating and magnificent. I marched into the streets triumphantly.

The stares of the populace did not worry me; if I had left in a pretty equable temper, I should have cringed before their gazes. The sight of a man in old tweeds and carrying a pack is enough to set a Spanish town agog for a week. On one occasion in the Asturias some friends and I were escorted into the town of Lianes by a mob of fifty yelling children and grown-ups who did not hesitate to throw stones at us and batter at the hotel door with sticks. In Spain one cultivates insensibility. One stares. One stares at men and women. Above all one disregards the feelings of women for they are there to be stared at, and they enjoy it. As I marched out of Caceres in my anger, I gave back stare for stare, with all the contempt of the midlands and the south, East Anglia, and the Welsh mountains, Cornwall and the two bitter parts of Ireland in my eyes. At the end of the town I was stopped by two Guardias Civiles, handsome men in green, yellow, and red uniforms, the finest corps of gendarmerie in Europe.

I expected to be asked for my papers and to undergo a cross-examination. But the truth is the life of a Guardia Civil is a lonely one, and the poor men who police those deserted roads want some one to talk to; the Guardias wanted to know:

Was I the German who, according to the papers, was staying in Caceres and was walking round the world for a prize? They insisted that I must be that German. That I must be walking for a prize. For what other reasons could a man walk? Innocent smiles passed over the Guardias faces like wind over golden corn. I said, to convince them, I would show them my passport, but they restrained me with the greatest courtesy.

‘No!’ they said, ‘why should we wish to see your passport, for you are obviously a man of means and leisure who goes as he pleases, and not one of these begging malefactors.’

Ah, ha! thought I. Tell that to your pernicious, hairy, dirty, old spidery porter in the town.

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