This was when an old lady, being called hastily from the lavatory for one reason or other, succeeded in losing her drawers. We were coming to the station where she would have to get out and the impropriety of climbing down the steep steps in her condition filled her with panic. Her frenzied individual appeals to the other occupants of the carriage set everybody in fits of mirth. Only when we had come to the station and the performance was over did someone produce the missing garment and return it to her out of the window.
CHAPTER 11
W E INTERRUPTED OUR INTENDED journey down through the length of Portugal and then to Seville on account of a highly sensational witchcraft murder in a village near Porto.
This had taken place in Marco do Canavezes, where a woman had been burned to death in the presence of a considerable crowd in accordance with the rites of the Book of St Cyprian, a species of manual dealing with the black arts, still on sale, we were told, in most village post offices.
Her neighbours believed that this young woman was occupied by an evil spirit, for which the only remedy was death by fire. According to the book, however, all was not lost, for in the scriptures according to St Cyprian exposure to fire was in reality no more than a curative exercise, after which the victim would be born again, arising from the ashes, as the book put it, ‘as pure as a white lily, or dove’.
It was this triumphant conclusion that the villagers were said to have waited for, possibly with fading hopes, as they stared down at the remnants of the holocaust at the dead end of a village street, and quoting, as they did, the book’s instructions when brought before the judge, it was impossible to convince them that they had been involved in what the law insisted was murder.
A few days later the police arrested the ‘Witch of Caudal’, a local celebrity under whose guidance the precepts of the Book of St Cyprian were administered. Innumerable illiterate peasants had contributed their tiny sums to her revenue, but the names of magistrates, bankers and generals were also to be found on her books. The newspapers published a photograph of her taken at a reception in one of the embassies in Lisbon at the moment of raising a glass in acknowledgment of good wishes. She had at first been punished by an official rebuke.
A doctor who spoke good English happened to be staying at the hotel and we talked about the burning over a drink.
‘Does the poverty you see everywhere here have any bearing on happenings like this?’ Eugene wanted to know.
‘In a way undoubtedly,’ our friend said. ‘All these villages are poor—and in a way deprived—although not desperately so. The suicide rate is high, but lower I would say, for example, than in a Balkan country. I mention this because in a curious sort of way this is beginning to look more like suicide than murder.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ I asked him.
‘Well, in the first place our peasants don’t kill each other, but there are almost epidemics of suicide.’
‘It’s something I would never have suspected.’
‘It puzzles us, too. It may be a matter of loss of self-esteem. They see themselves as failures. The victim in this case, for example, had lost her lover and her confidence collapsed. She began to talk about being persecuted by an evil spirit to which she ascribed her troubles. The next thing she’s heard to say is that she’s tired of life. “I’m going,” she said, “I’ve had enough of it. Make sure that you’re at least here to help me when I go.”’
‘To a dreadful end,’ I said. ‘But why did she choose such a fearful way of doing the thing?’
‘Because for her it was a triumph of a kind. She was going to be the star performer in a tragedy that the whole country would hear about. Tourists would come in buses to see the place where she’d chosen to die. By this time she probably saw herself as a heroine.’
‘I’m sure you’re
CHAPTER 11
W E INTERRUPTED OUR INTENDED journey down through the length of Portugal and then to Seville on account of a highly sensational witchcraft murder in a village near Porto.
This had taken place in Marco do Canavezes, where a woman had been burned to death in the presence of a considerable crowd in accordance with the rites of the Book of St Cyprian, a species of manual dealing with the black arts, still on sale, we were told, in most village post offices.
Her neighbours believed that this young woman was occupied by an evil spirit, for which the only remedy was death by fire. According to the book, however, all was not lost, for in the scriptures according to St Cyprian exposure to fire was in reality no more than a curative exercise, after which the victim would be born again, arising from the ashes, as the book put it, ‘as pure as a white lily, or dove’.
It was this triumphant conclusion that the villagers were said to have waited for, possibly with fading hopes, as they stared down at the remnants of the holocaust at the dead end of a village street, and quoting, as they did, the book’s instructions when brought before the judge, it was impossible to convince them that they had been involved in what the law insisted was murder.
A few days later the police arrested the ‘Witch of Caudal’, a local celebrity under whose guidance the precepts of the Book of St Cyprian were administered. Innumerable illiterate peasants had contributed their tiny sums to her revenue, but the names of magistrates, bankers and generals were also to be found on her books. The newspapers published a photograph of her taken at a reception in one of the embassies in Lisbon at the moment of raising a glass in acknowledgment of good wishes. She had at first been punished by an official rebuke.
A doctor who spoke good English happened to be staying at the hotel and we talked about the burning over a drink.
‘Does the poverty you see everywhere here have any bearing on happenings like this?’ Eugene wanted to know.
‘In a way undoubtedly,’ our friend said. ‘All these villages are poor—and in a way deprived—although not desperately so. The suicide rate is high, but lower I would say, for example, than in a Balkan country. I mention this because in a curious sort of way this is beginning to look more like suicide than murder.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ I asked him.
‘Well, in the first place our peasants don’t kill each other, but there are almost epidemics of suicide.’
‘It’s something I would never have suspected.’
‘It puzzles us, too. It may be a matter of loss of self-esteem. They see themselves as failures. The victim in this case, for example, had lost her lover and her confidence collapsed. She began to talk about being persecuted by an evil spirit to which she ascribed her troubles. The next thing she’s heard to say is that she’s tired of life. “I’m going,” she said, “I’ve had enough of it. Make sure that you’re at least here to help me when I go.”’
‘To a dreadful end,’ I said. ‘But why did she choose such a fearful way of doing the thing?’
‘Because for her it was a triumph of a kind. She was going to be the star performer in a tragedy that the whole country would hear about. Tourists would come in buses to see the place where she’d chosen to die. By this time she probably saw herself as a heroine.’
‘I’m sure you’re
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