A Spanish Notebook
A snicker of amusement went through Spanish political society last week and the week before at what was judged to be a typically hysterical British reaction to the Times report about supposed Portuguese massacres in Mozambique. There was a goad deal of natural irritation at the airs the British gave themselves in setting themselves up as judges, and worthwhile judges at that, in a case of which they knew nothing; and a malicious willingness to point out that, if even some of the best things that may happen as a result of the Cabora Bassa dam project actually do come to pass, then the Portuguese colonies will advance to the future very much better equipped than did Britain's African colonies at the moment of their independence. Another point of interest in the reaction of a still deeply Catholic, even if increasingly nonpractising, country to British editorialising was Spanish amazement at the uncritical reception by the ingleses of the reports of one of the most notoriously political orders in even the highly politicised history of the Catholic Church: Spain has suffered far too much from priestly Machiavellism to be other than astonished when other people show themselves to be so gullible.
British vice
But what did make the Spaniards especially angry was the whiter-than-white tone of British liberal comment. Holier-than-thouness is a worse British vice than flagellation or homosexuality; and I certainly felt that the Spaniards, above all others, had a right to anger. After all, perhaps the most despicable and infamous text of modern British liberalism was made on a Spanish subject when, during their civil war, Cyril ConnoffY justified his support for the Republican regime by saying that " Intellectuals come first, almost before women and children." The comment was despicable in the suggestion that women and children ought perhaps not to come first; and contemptible in the lack of courage of its incipient Nazism, implied by the qualificatory "almost," That revolting sentiment of Connolly's is still well remembered in Spain, especially in a Spain living under a government which, whatever its faults, has saved the Spanish people any replaying of the dreadful scenario of 1936.
Francophobia
Immediately on my return, however, I realised how vivid the memories of that war are, not just in Spain, but in this country as well. I was chatting to Eric Heffer — a man I like and admire enormously — and he told me he was about to set off on an Italian holiday. I enthused about Spain, but Eric said he could never bring himself to visit a country run by Franco. I made some unkind remark about the blinkered attitudes of even the nicest lefties but, afterwards, when I thought about that exchange, I realised how justified was the bitterness of many Spaniards at the emotional involvement of other people in their affairs, which stems from the engagement of those others in the civil war. Spain has peace, an increasing measure of prosperity, and most if not all of her old and civilised virtues. The time when she was, not merely the cockpit, but the rehearsal stage, of all Europe's conflicts is over; but her precarious peace may hang on the slender thread of Franco's life. No wonder the Spaniards are resentful of
the easy way the British in particular pass moral judgments on the way Spanish national life is organised; and of the arrogance of the EEC in refusing entry to Spain as long as her political system continues as at present — would you risk another internecine massacre for the doubtful merits of a butter mountain?
Fourteen years on However, my first couple of days in Spain were spent, not in meditation of such imponderables as these, but in wonderment at my own folly, manifested by my leaving fourteen years between my last visit and this, In 1959 I spent nearly four months in what is clearly still the most civilised and courtly of European countries. In a short space I could revisit only one or two of my old haunts — though I found some new ones — and I spent nostalgic hours recalling the marvellous hospitality of the various Spanish friends who shunted me, a gauche and eager schoolboy, from one end of their marvellous peninsula to the other. At that time I spoke fluent Spanish. Words, sentences and constructions began to return to my mind and tongue on this trip, but I discovered a serious disadvantage in this recovery of partial knowledge. I could run over a couple of sentences or paragraphs in my head and deliver them with perfect fluency — especially my daily order for uno desayuno especial, a special, that is, a bacon and egg, breakfast — but if any question was then asked by my interlocutor, I immediately floundered. I suspect a number of Spaniards are still puzzled by my initial easy fluency, followed as it was by complete linguistic incompetence, Anyway, I fully intend to return soon, and to recapture my old command of the language.
In the mountains Frigliano is a place where time and history do really seem to stand still; and not simply because of the shimmering heat. This is a poor village, but the care and pride with which the people preserve their whitewashed walls — old ladies in black were out in mid-morning repairing the ravages of goats, dogs and the weather with buckets of whitewash — and the intricate and laced patterns of the paving stones bore testimony to a civilisation grand at once in its complexity and its simplicity. After listening to a long political discussion in one of the local bodegas — hinging mainly on the virtues and vices of the Galicians, in full awareness of the fact that Franco is a Galician — and eating lunch, we found that there was no means of transport back, and so walked eight kilometres down the mountain, in the middle of the siesta period. The road was narrow, and my companion quite cross at the fact that she felt relegated to the position of a beggar or Hindu wife, in being required to keep ten paces behind me. In spite of her .disgruntlement — easily removed later by dinner at Los Mariscos — I valued the walk, because it enabled me to look at the complicated terraced farming of these mountain valleys. Halfway down the mountain is a Roman aqueduct, spectacular in its now impractical grandeur; and through the channels where its waters once flowed, Spanish farmers have forced the barren earth into fruitfulness, on level after brown level, like permanent houses of cards. Irrigation has always been the main problem of Spanish agriculture; and, while it would be wrong to pretend that the Government have persuaded, bullied or cajoled the people into as much activity in this respect as is necessary, there have been dramatic advances.
The Moor the better
Most of the architecture visible on the way down that mountain was Moorish or Moorish derivative. At its best, Moorish architecture is devastatingly simple. The white columns, colonnades and porches seem by a deliberate and sensuous act of will to emphasise and describe at the same time all the salient characteristics of the nature that surrounds them. I am no architectural expert — indeed, I an't usually thought Philistine in such matters — but I would hazard the opinion that, whereas all the other architectures that J know are designed either to dominate an environment or express a human idea or aspiration, the Moorish seems to marry the necessity for man to live tolerably in hot climates, while bending to the superiority of the atmosphere, and learning from it: while other architectures are environmental, the Moorish is atmospheric; and I was pleased to see that much new building on the Costa del Sol tries to learn from it. My feelings on this subject were reinforced by the one truly depressing moment of this visit, a trot round the Cathedral de los Tres Reyes in Seville. This is a Gothic structure, with all the richness of that mode. But it is practically deserted now: the precious vessels rust in inadequate glass cases, and the Murillos and Goyas are cracked and ill-kempt, while the altars and side chapels are heavy with neglect and dirt. Tired, dusty priests, sour with a dying mission, potter about the echoing vaults of this great place, and brash tourists express hollering wonder as they stand uncomprehending before those golden cages which once separated the missal celebrant from a reverent congregation, and which now conceal him from indifference. I cannot enter into the spirit of this unliving elaboration of a rely gious tradition; but I feel pity for its remains.
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