We still had money for another three weeks, although we had been four months in Spain. The weather in Murcia was very cold; damp, chilling winds blew down the valley. We decided to go westwards, to explore Lorca, which we had heard was both fine pictorially and also which was called "the City of the Sun." On suggesting the idea to some of our Murcian friends, they advised us not to go. "It is a town of bad people," they said; "they are all gipsies." We had heard before of these towns of bad people. One lay on the far side of the Murcian valley; a village which clustered round the foot of the peak of rock on the top of which was a ruined castle. These people had the reputation of chasing out intruding strangers with sticks and stones. Antonio, fishing in the vicinity of this village, had once been maltreated. The villagers were proud of this brutality.

"Yes," they would say, "we are brutes. We are uncultivated. We are the biggest brutes for fifty miles around, and we mean to remain so."

Other people had said that Lorca was charming. So we decided to find out for ourselves. We hoped to find rooms in a posada, and we reduced our luggage to moderate dimensions; most of it we put in the van, leaving ourselves only the guitar and the laud to look after.

The train left early in the morning, and stopped at the first station, where we had to change. We rushed across the line, having to clamber under a long train of waggons which blocked the way, and won corner seats. A lanky boy of eighteen, dressed in a long white travelling ulster, with a bÉret on his head, took most of the other seats in the carriage, filling them with packages. The young man seemed very familiar with railway travelling: he called all the porters by name, and exchanged smokes with the engine-driver.

But the train did not move. Presently the youth came back and said:

"The engine is a bad one. It won't start. They are sending to Murcia for another."

He went away once more. A luggage train rumbled into the station. This brought our boy back with a rush.

"Here," he cried, "spread out, spread out as much as you can. It's an agricultural train, and we shall be swamped with labourers."

He pushed his boxes and packages more widely over the seats. His prediction was justified. A horde of unshaven men, carrying sacks and implements clambered up the side of the train and peered with round eyes into the windows.

"No room here, no room here," cried the youth.

"But there is nobody in the carriage," protested one of the agriculturists.

"They are in the fonda," said the youth.

In spite of the energies of officials accommodation could not be found. Soon the agriculturists were wailing their protests, wandering forlornly up and down. At last the heart of our youth was softened.

"Here," he cried. "Room for two. Got to let some in," he added to us in an undertone, "or they'll push the lot in on us."

The two who accepted the invitation were very subservient, almost cringing, and we stowed their sacks and other luggage between our legs. They talked together in hoarse whispers. In time most of the peasants were placed, but one man who carried an enormous sack of potatoes seemed to be unplaceable, for he refused to be parted from his sack. The officials said the sack was too big for carriage traffic: it ought to go in the van. But no protestation moved the owner. He was determined that, come what might, he and his sack would never part. Eventually, as usually happens in Spain, he was allowed to do as he liked. He and his sack were crushed into another carriage.

Then ensued another dreary wait, and at last, three hours late, the train drew out of Alcantarilla.

As soon as we were well under way, the youth said: "I'm off to a second-class carriage."

He opened the carriage door, got down on to the running board and clambered off. After half an hour he returned.

"They collect tickets round about here," he said.

Sure enough within ten minutes came the ticket collector.

The train stopped at a station. The youth got out on to the platform with a carriage whip and a square parcel, which he handed to a waiting man, for which service he received money. This he did at other stations, and gradually we realized what was his occupation. In one part of Murcia we had noted shops which called themselves Agencies. They had large notices saying, "Commissions for Lorca, for Barcelona, for Zaragoza, etc., etc."

We had not understood their purport, but by some jump of intuition connected the youth with these shops. He was the only Spanish substitute for the parcels post.

At Totana two gipsy women came into the carriage, very friendly and talkative. At the next station the two workmen left us. In the carriage they had appeared good-humoured, inadequate morsels of humanity. But they descended into the bosoms of their family. Wives and daughters crowded round them and seized and shouldered their bags, packs, sacks and implements. The men seemed to swell out like a dry thing cast into water, blooming like a dead sea lily as they stood receiving the caresses of their womenfolk. The last we saw of the more insignificant of the two was a picture of him striding like a king along the dusty road to the village with his family in humble though happy procession behind. Well does the Spanish proverb say, "It is better to be the head of a mouse than the tail of a lion."

Two gendarmes—greenish khaki in uniform, with the schoolgirlish helmets—armed with rifles took the place of the peasants. The younger gipsy woman addressed them. One of the gendarmes grunted, the other glared his eye round and said nothing. Again she made a remark, and again there was no reply. Then she said:

"But it was you who arrested JosÉ."

"Well," answered the gendarme with a beard, "what of it?

"But why did you arrest him?" said the gipsy. "He was innocent. He did not murder Ramon."

"So you say."

"But it is true. He is a cousin of Conchita here. He was at her house that evening. There is no evidence."

"There was enough to get him arrested."

"But that was all made up. You see, Esteban hates him, and Esteban got up that false evidence. You look up what Esteban was doing. I don't say that he was the murderer, but he knows something about it."

"Yes, he knew that JosÉ did it."

"But I tell you JosÉ was with Conchita here."

"Well, tell that to the Judge. It is nothing to do with me. I was told to arrest JosÉ and I arrested him. Hum"—he looked at Conchita—"I suppose she is going to see him now?"

"Yes, we are going to see JosÉ. Poor fellow, and him innocent."

"Well, if his defence is all right, he'll get off. If it isn't, he won't—that's all."

We did not think that JosÉ's neck was in any danger. We had gained an impression that the average sentence for casual murder in Spain is about two or three years' imprisonment. This conversation went on for some time. The gipsies talked round the subject, over it, under it, twisted it inside out and outside in. With all these variations it lasted till we arrived at Lorca, when we all, gipsies, gendarmes, agency boy and ourselves, got down from the train.

We put our luggage into the luggage-room and set out to look for the town, which we had learned by experience would be found at some distance from the station. A boy who carried a rope over his shoulder accosted us, but we declined his services. We strode out into a dusty road, and there stood undecided, for there were two paths to choose from. The boy with the rope, who now had a huge box on his shoulders, came up, and saying, "Follow me, SeÑores," walked on. We looked at him and realized that here again we had touched the East. Here was a cord porter straight out of The Arabian Nights. The rope was round the box and he held it to his shoulders. With his rope he earned his living. We followed him, asking him for some place where we could eat. He named the dearest hotel at once. We declined, explaining that we wanted the cheapest possible, that is, as long as the cooking was fit to eat.

"I understand," he said. "Follow me."

The long avenue of lime trees came to an end—and our first view of Lorca was opened out. The town was almost like a mathematical line, length without breadth. It skirted the foot of a hill for three miles, almost one long street, which we were looking at end on. Spires towered into the air, and on the top of the cliff the walls of a great Saracen ruin overlooked the town. The whole hill-side, between town and castle, was covered with the grotesque foliage of the prickly pear. The cord porter took us down to the river, which was crossed by a plank, then up into the town. He led us through small streets which fringed the great main street, put down his box at a corner, led us up another street and stopped at a high barricaded gate. Two filthy children were playing on the step. The cord porter rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer. He rapped again loudly. A hoarse voice cried out in questioning reply.

"It's Paco," shouted the porter. "I've got two customers here."

A quarrel ensued through the keyhole.

There was a sound of a rusty lock and the door swung open. A woman heated with cooking and with annoyance began to curse the cord porter.

"Why couldn't you bring them to the proper entrance?" she cried.

But she let us in, took us through a yard in which huge stew-pots and frying-pans were cooking over a wood fire, and ushered us upstairs, past rooms filled with workmen diners, into a long chamber lit by a window at one end, with bullfight posters on the walls. She brought us a plate of stew and wine. We asked for bread.

"Why didn't you bring your own?" she said.

"We did not know," we answered.

"Oh, all right. I'll give you bread this time. But, next time, bring your own bread with you."

We thought, "Lorca is a rough place." There was a sound of loud chaffing, and in walked our agency boy of the train.

"Hullo," he exclaimed to us. "Are you here?"

"Yes," we answered. "And, now we see you here, we are sure this is the best place."

He grinned, chucked the waitress under the chin, and ordered a complex meal. As soon as the staff perceived our acquaintance with the agency boy, their manners changed. They became charming, inquiring after our need with a lively solicitude. We asked the diners about a posada. A bluff man, with a walrus moustache, seated at the same table, said the posada at which he was staying was comfortable.

"When you have finished your meal," he said, "I will lead you there and introduce you to the proprietor, an excellent fellow. But you come unluckily. To-day is market day. There are many farmers in from the country, and it is possible that you will find difficulties."

As we went out the waitress came running after us. "You have left your bread behind," she cried.

With our new friend we went off. But the posada was full for the night.

"There is another one, we will look at that," said our guide. "If the other is full also, you shall have my room, and I will find a bed somewhere until a room is free. Tomorrow the place will be emptier."

On the way to the second posada, we fell in once more with the cord porter.

"You are looking for rooms," he cried. "Why didn't you tell me before? I know of a splendid place. I will lead you there."

"Perhaps that will be better," said the man. "I do not think the other posada would really suit you. They say it is the meeting-place of loose women. You understand?"

The cord porter took us to a house outside of which were about ten hen-coops. In the midst of the coops an old woman was sitting on a low chair. She was an extraordinary shape; like a Chinese lucky image, Hotei. Her knees were perched on the rung of the chair, and so large was her stomach that it rose in front of her like a balloon, coming in its highest part well to the level of her chin. She looked dingy and unwashed, but we could not well draw back, for the cord porter had told her our needs. The obese woman stood up, balancing her fantastic stomach by a backward bend of the spine.

She had two rooms, one with a single bed, one with a couple. The single bed was small, the ceiling looked as if it were not innocent of vermin. We chose the double-bedded room after the conventional bargaining.

"You will indeed be better there," said our friend. "Two beds are better than one."

The cord porter was commissioned to fetch our luggage and we went off with the other man. We had invited him to take coffee with us. He preceded us to a small buvette, and the waiter showed us into a room partitioned into private boxes by means of canvas screens.

"Here one is at one's ease," said our acquaintance. We told him that we were painters.

"I am a zapatero,"[30] he said. "I have been here some weeks looking for work. My proper town is Aguilas, though I was born here. But Aguilas is not large. There was another zapatero in the town. The people all took their work to him. They said, 'He is a fool, but you are clever. Therefore he can make a living only where he is known, and where folks sympathize with him; while you can easily make good elsewhere.' So I had to come away. But times are bad. They say that there are too many zapateros in Lorca already.

"Times are so bad in Lorca," he went on, "that I don't expect you will do the business here that you hope. Now, if you are the painters you ought to be, I have a proposal to make. You come with me to some towns I know of down the coast. You will put up your easel in the main street, and will paint, and I will sell lottery tickets at three goes for the real. We will do a splendid business. I can assure you that."

Had the offer come at another moment we would have jumped at the chance of the fun. But we had a London Exhibition hanging over our heads. We dared not waste the time. This we explained to the zapatero, adding also our regrets and how well the idea would have gone in the book we were projecting. His expression altered at once.

"Books?" said he. "You are book people?"

"Yes."

"But," he persisted, "you don't mean to say that you are that kind of persons? Not with those books that Englishmen come selling. You are book people"—his voice rose with indignation—"you have to do with those Bibles!"

Shades of Borrow! we roared with laughter. Somewhat reassured the zapatero resumed his seat. We explained.

"Ah," he said, "I did not think that you could be that sort of persons and yet ... You are English. I," he added proudly, "am an Atheist! Of course I let my little boy read that book, one has to learn to read somehow. But I say to him, 'Don't believe it. Use it if you like, but don't be taken in by it.'"

We went back to the house to find that our luggage had arrived. A button was coming loose from my boot, so the zapatero borrowed needle and cotton and sewed it on professionally. Then, as he said he liked the guitar, we took out our instruments and began to play. The female Hotei ran into the entrada waving her hands.

"Oh, oh," she cried, "you mustn't play here! You mustn't play here! The owner of this house died three days ago, so we cannot allow any music here. It would show the greatest disrespect."

We said au revoir to the zapatero, and went out to examine Lorca. The houses on one side of the long street had swelled up the hill towards the Saracen castle. Through this we went clambering upwards. In appearance it was the oldest town we had seen. The houses were of all shapes, but of a uniform colour, like yellow rust, and the earth was of the same tint. The houses piled themselves up in fine shapes, but Lorca suffered from the same drawback as Murcia, a drawback we had feared: it was too big. Had we attempted to sketch in the streets we should have been swamped by people as I had been in the market-place. The streets were full of men sitting in groups making alpagatas. They called out after us as we passed. The songs were different from those of Murcia or Jijona. Here is one, a guajiras which a woman was singing:

We scrambled up to the castle and from thence found a view of the surrounding country. On the south there was a passage not unlike that of Murcia, a flat cultivated valley; but to the north it looked as though giants had been at mining operations. The hills looked not like the result of nature but of artifice, they appeared to be huge mine dumps and slag heaps. It was fantastic and unpaintable. The town itself was too much like the conventionally picturesque mud coloured compositions of Southern Europe that every painter brings back from his travels, and we decided that Lorca was not a painting ground for us; and that we would go back to Murcia on the following day, looking for some suitable spot at which to paint on the homeward route to Barcelona.

We came down by a different path, passing a cluster of seven white hermitages built on a square plateau. They were small box-like structures, and once, we believe, hermits did live in them, but now they are deserted. We reached Mrs. Hotei's house both tired and hungry. A crowd of women in black had just returned from the landlord's funeral. They consented to boil us some eggs for supper, which we ate under Mrs. Hotei's piercing eyes. From the ceiling of the supper-room hung clusters of quinces, and on the mantelpieces were some interesting specimens of antique Spanish pottery.

We went to bed early, and to our dismay found that one of the beds had been taken away. There was no washing apparatus in the room, and the window looking on to the road was curtained by an old dirty sack.

"Well," said we, "we are in for it. Pray Heaven that there are no bugs."

As we were about to undress we heard scuffling and giggling which drew our attention to another drawback, one to which we would not submit. There was a second door to our room, half glazed, and the glass was covered by a hanging drapery. But this drapery, which was outside the glass, had been pulled aside, and a row of faces of curious children were staring in on us. We rang the bell. The daughter of Mrs. Hotei was half surprised at our objection to publicity and that we were so squeamish about undressing as a popular spectacle. But we persuaded her to pin up a pink shawl on our side of the door, and we then went to bed.

To bed, but not to sleep.

The bed was distressingly narrow. We could remain in it by clinging together, but if we loosened our grip, one or the other began to roll out. After some while Jan had ideas of getting out and of sleeping on the floor, but the floor was of stone and the only mat in the room was small and circular. Our determination to leave Lorca strengthened as the night wore on. At last we found a partial solution, we lashed ourselves together with the blankets. When sheer weariness was making us doze off, a man upstairs began to take off his boots. The floors were thin, and he seemed to be a centipede. Boot after boot he hurled into a corner, but even his feet were not inexhaustible, and at last we slept fitfully.

We awoke very early, grateful at least that no bugs had disturbed us. In spite of the many warnings we had had of the verminous condition of Spain, it has not been our experience to encounter in the provinces of Murcia and Alicante even as much insect life as one might easily find in Chelsea. Fleas, of course, there are, but in a hot dusty country fleas are to be expected.

Washing things were brought on demand, though I think they had expected us to wash at the public sink in the outhouse. Then we breakfasted on bread, coffee and grapes, while Mrs. Hotei sat by resting her stomach on the edge of the table and chanting in a hollow voice a pÆan of her own virtues. It ran somewhat thus:

In this plain song she explained both the disappearance of our second bed and the centipedal man upstairs. When she had finished we broke to her the news of our imminent departure. We lunched once again at the eating-house, which this day was full of peasants. Three women in black who might have stepped out of the pages of the Bible faced us. They were not friendly in manner. A small soldier, half tipsy, came in and, soon after him, the agency youth. The latter began to tease the tipsy soldier, and in a short while both had pulled out knives and were threatening each other in mock earnestness. But one could see that it needed little—an accidental word, a sentence misunderstood—to swing the drunken soldier over from joking to earnest. We took coffee at a cafÉ in the central street. La gorda rolled up the street, came to our table, and accepted a glass of anis dulce for the illness of her stomach.

We set off to the station followed by a small boy wheeling our luggage on a barrow. As I went people shouted after me: "Sombrero, Sombrero." The train was, of necessity, late. We sat down in the station hall, and the gipsy woman who had come from Totana joined us. A blind woman led by a child took up her position at the booking-office exit, cunningly begging from the folk as they were handling their small change. The small child had one bad eye and was wiping both eyes with the same handkerchief. One could see that she, too, was threatened with blindness. The zapatero came, having dined at a friend's house.

A good deal of farm produce was being prepared for the train. There were crates of chickens, which were thrown about from hand to hand; but some unfortunate turkeys were not even as lucky as the hens. About twenty of them were packed loosely into a large net bag. The porter picked up each bag and, the turkeys squeaking loudly, pitched it up to a man who was standing in the truck. The bags were packed one on the top of another with a total lack of consideration for the turkeys' feelings. There is no S.P.C.A. in Spain.

Jan told the zapatero that if he were coming to Murcia he could give him an address which might be useful. He then wrote Antonio's name and direction, which the zapatero accepted almost with reverence. Jan went off to the ticket-office, while I, aided by the zapatero, found a carriage in the train, which had just arrived. The gipsy woman came with us; and an old man also got into the carriage. Up and down the platform a hawker was walking with a broad basket over his arm. He was selling thin circular cakes. I bought five, one for each person in the carriage. The old man accepted the cake which I offered him, took a large bite, ruminated for a moment over it and remarked:

"These cakes value nothing."

The zapatero and the gipsy woman each took a bite. Opinion seemed unanimous. I then bit in my turn. The cake had a queer taste: it was something like a thin cold muffin flavoured with cayenne pepper. The gipsy woman collected the cakes, each with a bite out of it (like the mad hatter's saucer), and put them into her basket, saying, "Oh, the children won't grumble at them." But I was determined that Jan should have the experience.

As he came out of the ticket-office he was intercepted by the cake-sellers, who said to him:

"SeÑor, you have a wife, who is a remarkable woman." The old man turned to the zapatero.

"Who are these people?" he demanded.

The zapatero began to give an account of us.

"They are painters," he said; "they travel about the country making pictures with paint and brushes, not with a machine. Not content with that they are amateur musicians, and can play. There are their instruments. But better than all this they can read and write; and what is more I can prove it."

With an air of pride he drew from his bosom the card on which Jan had written Antonio's address.

The old man took it. He perched a pair of horn spectacles on his nose and read the address through from end to end.

Then he handed the treasure back solemnly to the zapatero.

"And very well done too," he said.

We said good-bye to the zapatero, and the train drew out of the station some two hours late. Gradually the night darkened. There was a long wait at Alcantarilla, and we arrived at Murcia within the four hours' limit which one must place on the Spanish time-table. We left our van luggage to be collected in the morning, and carrying our instruments in our hands walked back to the Paseo de Corveras