CORRESPONDENCE.
AN ENGLISHMAN IN SPAIN.—I.
[To TEL EDITOR Or TEL "SPECTATOR."]
Americanos ! Amerieanos ! " It was with this un- Pleasant and suggestive cry, coupled with an odd kind of
guttural salutation which we often heard but were never able to translate, that my friend and I were greeted the other day by a picturesque little gipsy maid, pointing at us with her finger from an upper window in a byway in Burgos. Other children in the street, and a few uncomfortable-looking grown-ups, took up the burden at intervals. And the usual escort of beggars of all kinds became a strange phalanx of hangers-on before we were installed in our hotel again, after a walk which we followed out as resolutely as we might, but were not sorry to get through. Some very decided stones accentuated the uncomplimentary remarks of which we were made the object; and we soon concluded that the line which divides the English from " los Yankees," as the Spaniards rather stupidly persist in calling their enemies in their newspapers and telegrams, has grown decidedly thin in Spanish estimation. Not that there is much discrimination in these matters. Americanos has become much the equivalent of our old friend " Mossoo," and some harmless Frenchwomen at San Sebastian told us that they had just had a similar experience. A few weeks before a party of English ladies on their bicycles were the object of a, decided attack at Malaga, though it must be remembered that the wheel is itself rather an offence in the eyes of the Don. It is unnecessary exertion, and unprofitable, like lawn- tennis. Riding alone is legitimate, and the Spaniards ride well.
Poor people! it has been a strange experience, the last few months amongst them. Setting aside all other feelings and prejudices, it always seemed to me impossible to suppose that the country which is the borne and model of reaction and standstillness should hold its own in these days, for any appreciable time, against the very incarnation of activity
and progress. "How long would it take you to master Cuba if the thing became really serious ? " asked a visitor of an American resident in Spain.—" Oh, I don't know. About fifteen minutes." The answer was, of course, jocular, and characteristic, though the proportion of people able to see it in that light was small, and it was gravely argued that it must cost more time than that. But, in truth, only a stay of some months in Spain can give any idea of the determined laziness of front which opposes everything. Speculators from England, from Germany, from France, are all keen and alive to throw Malaga open to the world, with its unequalled advantages of climate and situation. Last winter was bad for Malaga ; but wet never lasts, and it is never really cold, not for an hour, except in the extraordinary draughts with which the hotel provides you in partial return for your very modest stipend,—incredibly modest in the present state of exchange. But the Malaganians do not want to be bothered or improved. They want to be let alone. They neither welcome you when you come, nor speed you when you go. They are indifferent which you do. You may pay your bill to the day if you like, or leave it if you had rather wait. Nobody will touch a coin or a valuable if you leave it on your table, but if you lose a pencil or an eyeglass no one will ever find it,—it is too much trouble. Never hope to have letters forwarded, for you will see them no more; and few registered parcels escape the post entire. A year ago—for we wintered twice—I wanted to send a telegram, and went to the principal office. Malaga is fourth or fifth in importance among Spanish towns. The office was only open twice a day for an hour or two at a time. Not a clerk could speak anything but Spanish, so I had to go back to the hotel for the interpreter to translate my message. When I returned with it I wanted a note for twenty-five pesetas (francs) changed. All the clerks at all the pigeon-holes were very kind and civil, and smoked cigarettes while they looked for change. But the whole office could not muster it, so I was left to pay next time. It is as a life apart altogether. When a crowd of Cook's tourists landed to rash their Spain, they were always the object of a mild curiosity. In one instance an American party arrived in their steamer at 5 in the morning, were conveyed straight to the station, taken to Granada by special train—six hours by rail—carried through the Alhambra and the town—which lies far below it—fed and brought back again, to embark once more at 12 the same night. And the Spaniards looked on and let it be, though this was perhaps the first time in my ex- perience when danger-signals for foreigners began to show themselves.
With a climate that gives them anything they ask for, con- tent with little and indifferent food—and thriving on a diet of wooden toothpicks and cigarettes, the two inseparable companions of their lives—the comfortable classes among the Spaniards, with their well-bred and indifferent courtesy, command something of our sympathy, whether we wish it or not. There is something pathetic in this longing for a restful life in all the modern whirl ; and one feels at times with the Englishman who had settled there, and after a visit to London upon business, threw his watch upon the table when he got back. "Thank goodness !" said he, "I don't want that any more." In appearance, at all events, they interfere little with the business of the place. Germans and Americans look after the shipping and the exports. A Belgian company runs the trams, and an English company, much taxed and resented, provides the electric light, which is every- where, but always going out, never shaded, and slowly blinding a good percentage of visitors. Only the lifts, or "elevators," would seem to be home-made. They mount with an infinite sedateness which the lamest foot-passenger can easily out- strip; and if more than two persons get in together, they stop between the floors. And they are not constructed to carry anybody down. Half clean and all unfinished, the streets and ports, with all their capacities for beauty, seem asking for the outside aid which the nation most resents, and the spectre of an impossible poverty stalks abroad everywhere. There lay the real danger, as it seemed to us,—through all the seething unrest and savage expectation which for a long time pre- ceded the declaration of the threatened war. At first inclined to treat the army of beggars, who leave Naples far behind, as a kind of organised imposture, one soon found that the direst necessity lay at the root of the disorder. I have seen children, and grown-up people too, look so savagely at some half- starved dog to whom we have given a bone, that we have turned and bought them bread, to see it greedily swallowed. I have seen them snatch at bones which have been left by the dog, and the muttered curses from the disappointed suppliants were more than half suggestive of a knife behind. There is no attempt to preserve order. The beggars stand by your side over the shop counter, or make their way into the patio of your hotel. And all the time—day by day—wretched- looking lads were being brought in from the country, half- fed to start with, to be sent off to Cuba, amongst [inch cries and screams and prayers of sisters and mothers at the station, when the train carried these recruits away, as once seen leave an indelible impression. It was all very well to explain it away as Southern exuberance, but it went far deeper than that, when we thought of the small percentage who could be expected to return alive. Surely—surely any war that puts an end to such a state of things as this is a necessary and a righteous war, and gives to Spain, at all events, the promise of something better.
After poverty—cruelty: how closely to be connected with it I do not profess to know. But in connection with animals especially it is the salient feature of the life of the place. It must be nearly forty years since as a boy I saw my first bull- fight, and, boy-like, must plead guilty to having found it, at all events, exciting. This year I wanted to form a calm judg- ment of the thing, and once I went again. It is indefensible- unredeemable—more, it is dull. It has been said that the charm of it lies in the risk to human life and limb, but I doubt if that is the case at all. There is less of that to be found than in an ordinary acrobatic performance, and the suspense attached to that, if unwholesome, is scarcely cruel. It is literally the sight of blood, the blood of the wretched horses and bulls, which draws the Spanish crowd, and calls out the cheers and approval of the well-dressed youths and maidens who graduate in this curious school. We have all heard of the measure dealt to the horses, often. But I think that I was as much struck and pained by the manner in which the bulls were baited and goaded and tortured into their helpless displays of fight. The famous matador (Spanish for slaughter-house, by the by) seemed to me to have a light task enough of it. When he appease with his redoubtable sword and cape, the bull is already half dead and all dazed, till I have seen him stagger forward on his knees to meet the blade. I confess to a momentary feeling that I could not help, that if the animal were allowed to confront his enemy at the first rush, without being thoroughly dis- abled by the skirmishers beforehand, the issue of the meeting might wear a very different colour. These Spanish circenses are awful, and it is idle to blink it or to defend them. In
themselves and by themselves they leave the Spaniard far behind the rest of the world. The principal matador was a guest at our hotel in Seville—the observed of all observers and the idol of the mobs at the door—a very Bob Abel or Arthur Shrewsbury, with a difference that our batsmen have small cause to envy. Moreover, he lived on the best, and was reputed to be immensely rich, as he was well-knit and hand- some. And unlike most of his craft, he was an educated man, speaking and writing three languages, and well-mannered. He possessed an interest for me which I could not help, until I had seen him discharge the duties of his office. After that I had small desire to look on him. The crowd in a Spanish bull-ring is a strange sight, especially in these par- lous times. But I like the Oval better.—I am, Sir, &c.,
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