THE HONORABLE OUTSIDERS - A Coming of Age Story Set in Spain Just Before the Civil War

CHAPTER TWO
My Spanish Adventure Begins

Luis Eduardo sent me a first class ticket from London to Madrid, which I took to be a good beginning for a relationship with an employer whom I had not met. I left London in June, 1931.

The boat train from London was slowed by relentless rain, the crossing from Dover to Ostend harsh. Then to Paris in the early morning with its cheerful, bustling aspect, a promise of delicious coffee and croissants, a positive smell quite peculiar to itself. I took a taxi to the Hotel Terminus Lyon, across from the station. I had a bath, shaved, and lunched early at Fauchon, which was hot and half empty. Rising late the next day, I sat at a little cafe with my bread and coffee while reading my Baedekers Guide to Spain and Portugal. Then I walked for some time through the Marais, looking at its grand 18th century houses in the Place des Vosges. At my uncle’s insistence, I ate a dinner of seafood at Prunier. As it had started to rain, I returned to my hotel, lit a fire, and spent the evening in bed drinking whiskey and reading Schiller.

The next day was warm and dusty. I went to the Gare de Lyon to catch the train south, which was smooth and fast, the pinewoods passing the windows and a distant view of mountain peaks. There were new uniforms at the Spanish frontier at Irun, morning coffee and bread at the station buffet, and country people around me with Southern grace. From there I went on to San Sebastian, staying for the night at the luxe Hotel Maria Cristina, also paid for by my new employer.

The next day I left for Madrid, outside conifers changing to wheat fields, stands of trees, blue cabbages, and slow moving oxen carts laden with produce. As the sun mounted high, the country glowed with heat. At last, late in the afternoon, arrival in Madrid.

I knew very little about Spain. None of my Cambridge friends had been there. They went to Italy for the sun and Roman antiquities. I was vaguely aware that English investors had built railroads and factories, and had imported sherry since the 16th century made in Spain in distilleries owned by English families. I also knew that there were millions of olive and orange trees, grapes that produced bad wine, and gypsies who sang loud, emotionally overwrought music.

My Baedeker’s contained ominous descriptions of traveler’s obstacles, dire warnings about thieves and pickpockets, food that was hard to digest because it was cooked in olive oil, and warnings about the hot, dry Spanish climate in the south. Only the best hotels were included, so as to avoid bad ventilation, insect infestation, and lack of cleanliness. I was particularly interested in descriptions of highly emotional reactions to ordinary social situations and the rigid social conventions amongst the upper class. There was also lot in Baedekers about the inherent dignity of Spanish people, the handshakes and embraces, and the gentlemanly courtesies common to all Spaniards. Apparently, social and linguistic false steps by foreigners were treated with grace and generosity.

Luis Eduardo had arranged for me to stay overnight in Madrid with his father, Don Carlo. I arrived at Charmatin Station at midday, was met by a chauffeur, and taken to an apartment on the second floor of a building overlooking the Botanical Garden.

Don Carlo was waiting for me at his apartment, smiling broadly as he opened the door and welcomed me. He was tall, a little portly, with longish, disheveled dark hair, full and majestic. His suntanned and wrinkled face suggested a life spent outdoors. He wore the well-cut, well-worn linen jacket donned by the sort of man who dresses for comfort, whether his clothes are in fashion or not. His dark eyes were inquisitive, giving the impression that he was content in old age.

We shook hands. He called for a servant to take my luggage to my room, and we went into a large sitting room, which was hung with gilt-framed paintings and had a quantity of furniture in all sorts of styles and fabrics. The walls were covered in different marbles, “as in Valencia.” He showed me photographs of his three grandchildren that he said had been taken by Katherine, his daughter-in-law. French doors opened onto a long balcony overlooking an immense public garden that Don Carlo said proudly was one of the oldest botanical gardens in the world. He told me about his trips to England and his visits to its country house gardens to gather information for the plants he put into what he referred to as his “English Gardens” at Los Olivares.

We sat on the balcony. Tea and sandwiches were brought and we chatted amiably about Dublin where he said he had never been, and my impression of the hotel Maria Christina at San Sebastian, a building he admired for its modernity with telephones and private bathrooms for every room. I told him how comfortable it was, and how grateful I was that his son had arranged for me to stay there, a compliment that pleased him.

He said that lunch would be in about an hour and recommended that I rest before that. I took his advice. He rang for his housekeeper to take me to my room.

I was surprised to have been received with such fullness. I was, after all, only a tutor to Don Carlo’s grandchildren. Had such a situation come up at my father’s house in Dublin, any guest not part of the family would have been shunted to his room by the housekeeper and told when dinner would be served, without any pretense of welcome or charm.

At lunch I met Begonia, Don Carlo’s wife, a beautiful woman some years younger than he, who I came to understand was his second wife. Both spoke excellent English, having been raised, as they told me, by English or Irish nannies, as were children of educated families at that time, even though their parents spoke little English and the nannies spoke almost no Spanish.

Begonia was dressed in a way that my mother would have said was a degree of French perfection, “but sufficiently beautiful to be just visible through her wonderful clothes.”

She showed great deference to her new husband. She seemed ostentatious about proper form, correcting the man serving lunch who placed her husband’s napkin untidily under his chin, calling for the man about to serve lunch to pull her chair back from the table, rising from her chair to adjust the offending napkin herself. She waited stiffly for the servant to push in her chair so she could be seated, neither looking at him nor thanking him.

Lunch started with three kinds of Spanish ham, thinly sliced, with a few dry oval-shaped hard biscuits and olives. Then came asparagus soup rich with cream. A fish course with potatoes was next, remarkable for the simplicity of its presentation: no sauces, no vegetables, very little seasoning. Then came the cheeses accompanied by a delicious crème-caramel. We drank white wine during lunch and coffee afterwards.

Begonia insisted my plate be kept full, about which I gently protested, inadvertently insulting her by intimating that I did not like Spanish food. She was wrong about my not liking the food, which was simple, elegant, and delicious. But after traveling for three days, I wondered if scrambled eggs, toast, and tea would have suited me better.

Lunch took two hours and was followed by a siesta. I was awakened by a soft knock on my door, after which Don Carlo and I walked in the Botanical Garden, where he pointed out a collection of olive trees of all species from all parts of Spain. He commented delicately on Begonia’s overbearing style, which he said came from wanting to be helpful. I could see that, I suppose, but I did not respond because his comments about his wife made me uncomfortable.

I was not used to this sort of intimate family gossip, which would have been unthinkable in Dublin. I would be leaving the next day for Los Olivares and presumed that when I got there, my status in the household would be cleared up. Don Carlos’s wife had to be a formidable character in this family if her behavior was being commented on to an outsider barely above the status of a servant.

To my relief, dinner was a simple affair; roast chicken, and some salad followed by fruit, coffee, and reddish colored brandy called pacharan which Don Carlo said was from Navarra in the north. I was starting to think that Baedeker’s was wrong about Spanish food, which seemed refined and interesting.

I thanked Don Carlo for his kindness at having spent the afternoon with me and said that I was booked on an early train for Granada. Begonia told me that she was surprised and irritated that these arrangements were made without consulting her. She had plans for me to be driven with her to Los Olivares. She told me to give her my ticket and she would get it refunded. She would telegraph Luis Eduardo about this change. It was, of course, impossible to refuse Begonia’s offer, although I felt awkward about her changing Luis Eduardo’s arrangements and wondered what he would think of this interference.

I was tired but wanted to see a little of Madrid before retiring, so I asked Begonia and Don Carlos if they would mind my taking a walk around the city. I said there was a good map in my Baedeker so I would not get lost. It was nearly dark by this time, and Begonia said that there were sometimes unexpected political manifestations in the streets and that for her peace of mind she would send the butler along with me, to which Don Carlo said with some directness, “Mr. Fitzgerald is a grown man, Begonia, and does not need a chaperone.” At that, Begonia stiffened her back, saying archly, “As you wish, Don Carlo, but I will tell a servant to stay up to let in our guest.”

Begonia’s...