The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

world in flames would wake them out of their superstition and ignorance.” Then he added confidentially: “By the way, could you give me the exact details of that trick with the chickens? Would aniseed brandy have the same effect? I’d like to try it some day. It might get me business.”

ST JOHN OF THE NETTLES AND THE WHITE BEES

    I set off at sunrise in the direction of Burgos. The weather was fine and after a brisk walk of about five miles I reached the village of Grañón, the birthplace of St. Dominic of the Causeway. While I was resting in a bar I made the acquaintance of a group of strolling players who were travelling in their own Thespian chariot, a bone-shaking van piled up with their stage properties, to barn-storm in the small towns in the Burgos-León region. The leading player was a swarthy individual with tousled hair and eight days’ beard on his chin, but jaunty, loud in manner and gesture and puffing a big cigar. His party consisted of two highly-painted stars: a Byronic-looking male lead with side-whiskers, curly black polished hair, evidently the Don Juan Tenorio of the company; and a bird-faced little man with wrinkled face and pince-nez who evidently played character parts. There were, in addition, a few nondescript supers and stage hands, and a stolid youth who drove the bone-shaker, did the odd jobs and acted as shock-absorber to the choleric director of the company. The director was evidently well known to the barman, for when he shouted for ‘the usual’ the latter handed him three chiquitos of aniseed brandy, which he tossed off one after the other in rapid succession, rapping the empty glasses on the counter.
    “You are killing the worms early this morning,” said the barman. “If I don’t take my aguardiente on an empty stomach,” said the bearded man, “I have the devil in me for the rest of the day. I must have my medicine.”
    “Give me an aguardiente, too,” I said to the barman, but looking at the actor. “ Yo también mato el gusanillo: I learnt the habit years ago in Andalusia among the shepherds of Loja. It invigorates and gives appetite for the morning meal, which should not be eaten until five or six miles at least have been accomplished.”
    The leading actor looked me up and down haughtily, then thawed at the sight of a confederate, and finally shook me by the hand, saying: “Don Eusebio Cántelo at your service, sir. Let me have the honour of toasting you, señor, and of introducing you to our party: my wife Doña Virginia, first lady in the company, my partner Don Miguel, and his wife Doña Casilda, our primer galán, as you say in classical theatre parlance, Don Ricardo, and some of our collaborators.”
    After bowing to Don Eusebio, I called for another round of drinks and we soon became fast friends. We all then packed into the van and
    I found myself wedged in between the piled-up stage sets and Don Eusebio. Though his overcoat with fur collar was shabby and patched in several places, Don Eusebio had all the dignity of the old-fashioned ham actor who goes through life performing even off-stage the parts he has seen in his youth played by celebrated stars.
    As our rickety van bumped along the road, its solid tyres making our teeth chatter, Don Eusebio gave me a grim picture of the life of modern actors and actresses who hit the high road and go from village to village. “The cinemas have driven us out of business,” he said, “even in the small villages. The people want novelty all the time, and the only chance for me is to copy cinema technique in stage production, change the scene often and give potted versions of well-known plays of which even out-of-the-way villages have heard, such as Dracula, La Dame aux Camélias or Magda, or else blood-and-thunder plays of Echegaray or the Juan José of Dicenta.”
    While Don Eusebio rambled on about plays, the rest of the party kept up a bantering conversation among themselves. Doña Virginia, when she was not making up her face in front of her pocket mirror, spent her time in twitting the other actress, who was older and more ill-favoured in countenance. The little character actor in the pince-nez tried to make peace between the two women, but was crushed by them in turn. As for the Tenorio gallant, he sat aloof and did not condescend to talk. When we reached Belorado we parted company and they went off to erect their marquee and stage for the evening show.
    As my next halting-place was the shrine of San Juan