"'We've come from France, my lady,And Portugal afar.We've heard of your fair daughters,And very fair they are.''Be they fair or no, señores,It's none of your concern,For God has given me bread for all,And given me hands to earn.''Then we depart, proud lady,To find us brides elsewhere.The daughters of the Moorish kingOur wedding rings shall wear.''Come back, my sweet señores!Bear not so high a crest.You may take my eldest daughter,But leave me all the rest.'"
"'We've come from France, my lady,And Portugal afar.We've heard of your fair daughters,And very fair they are.'
"'We've come from France, my lady,
And Portugal afar.
We've heard of your fair daughters,
And very fair they are.'
'Be they fair or no, señores,It's none of your concern,For God has given me bread for all,And given me hands to earn.'
'Be they fair or no, señores,
It's none of your concern,
For God has given me bread for all,
And given me hands to earn.'
'Then we depart, proud lady,To find us brides elsewhere.The daughters of the Moorish kingOur wedding rings shall wear.'
'Then we depart, proud lady,
To find us brides elsewhere.
The daughters of the Moorish king
Our wedding rings shall wear.'
'Come back, my sweet señores!Bear not so high a crest.You may take my eldest daughter,But leave me all the rest.'"
'Come back, my sweet señores!
Bear not so high a crest.
You may take my eldest daughter,
But leave me all the rest.'"
The dialogue is transferred to one of the suitors and to the princess at the farther end of the line, on whose head the handkerchief now rests.
"'Will you come with me, my Onion?''Fie! that's a kitchen smell.''Will you come with me, my Rosebud?''Ay, gardens please me well.'"
"'Will you come with me, my Onion?'
'Fie! that's a kitchen smell.'
'Will you come with me, my Rosebud?'
'Ay, gardens please me well.'"
In similar fashion all the daughters are coaxed away until only the youngest remains, but she proves obdurate. They may call her Parsley or Pink; it makes no difference. So the suitors resort to bribes, the last proving irresistible.
"'We'll buy you a French missal.''I have a book in Latin.''In taffeta we'll dress you.''My clothes are all of satin.''You shall ride upon a donkey.''I ride in coaches here.''We'll give you golden ear-rings.''Farewell, my mother dear.'"
"'We'll buy you a French missal.'
'I have a book in Latin.'
'In taffeta we'll dress you.'
'My clothes are all of satin.'
'You shall ride upon a donkey.'
'I ride in coaches here.'
'We'll give you golden ear-rings.'
'Farewell, my mother dear.'"
In some of the many variants of this game, the Queen herself, adequate as she may be to earning her own living, is wooed and won at last.
I have not met with fairy-lore among these children's carols. The only fairy known to Spain appears to be a sort of spiritualistic brownie, who tips over tables and rattles chairs in empty rooms by night. The grown-up men who write of him say he frightens women and children. He can haunt a house as effectually as an old-time ghost, and aCasa del Duendemay go begging for other tenants. One poor lady, who wentto all the trouble of moving to escape from him, was leaning over the balcony of her new home,—so the story goes,—to see the last cartful of furniture drive up, when a tiny man in scarlet waved a feathered cap to her from the very top of the load and called, "Yes, señora, we are all here. We have moved."
So the childish imagination of Spain, shut out from fairyland, makes friends with the saints in such innocent, familiar way as well might please even Ribera's anchorites. The adventurous small boy about to take a high jump pauses to pray:—
"Saint Magdalene,Don't let me break my thigh!Oh, Saint Thomas,Help this birdie fly!"
"Saint Magdalene,
Don't let me break my thigh!
Oh, Saint Thomas,
Help this birdie fly!"
The little girls express decided preferences for one saint over another.
"Old San Antón,What has he done?Put us in the corner every one."San SebastiánIs a nice young man.He takes us to walk and gives us a fan."
"Old San Antón,What has he done?Put us in the corner every one.
"Old San Antón,
What has he done?
Put us in the corner every one.
"San SebastiánIs a nice young man.He takes us to walk and gives us a fan."
"San Sebastián
Is a nice young man.
He takes us to walk and gives us a fan."
Santa Rita is best at finding lost needles, and San Pantaleón is a humorist.
"San Pantaleón,Are twenty and oneChildren enough for an hour of funSlippers of ironDonkey must try on.Moors with their pagesRide in gold stages.But if you want aGirdle, Infanta,Cucurucú,'Bout-face with you!"
"San Pantaleón,
Are twenty and one
Children enough for an hour of fun
Slippers of iron
Donkey must try on.
Moors with their pages
Ride in gold stages.
But if you want a
Girdle, Infanta,
Cucurucú,
'Bout-face with you!"
At this one of the children dancing in circle whirls around, remaining in her place, but with back turned to the centre and arms crossed over her breast, although her hands still hold those of her nearest neighbors. The rhyme is sung over and over, until all the little figures have thus turned about and the circle is dancing under laughable difficulties.
But the dearest saint of all is San Serení. Two of the best-known games are under his peculiar blessing. One of these is of the genuine Kindergarten type, the children dancing in a circle through the first two lines of each stanza, but then loosing hands to imitate, in time to the music, the suggested action.
"San Serení,The holy—holy-hearted!Thus for theeThe shoemakers are cobbling.Thus, thus, thus!Thus it pleases us."
"San Serení,
The holy—holy-hearted!
Thus for thee
The shoemakers are cobbling.
Thus, thus, thus!
Thus it pleases us."
Even so it pleases seamstresses to stitch, laundresses to wash, carpenters to saw, silversmiths to tap, ironsmiths to pound, and little folks to dance, all for "San Serení de la buena, buena vida." In the second game, a gymnastic exercise, whose four movements are indicated in the four stanzas, he is apostrophized as "San Serení del Monte, San Serení cortés."
"San Serení of the Mountain,Our saint of courtesy,I, as a good Christian,Will fall upon my knee."San Serení of the Mountain,Where the strong winds pass,I, as a good Christian,Will seat me on the grass."San Serení of the Mountain,Where the white clouds fly,I, as a good Christian,Upon the ground will lie."San Serení of the Mountain,Where earth and heaven meet,I, as a good Christian,Will spring upon my feet."
"San Serení of the Mountain,Our saint of courtesy,I, as a good Christian,Will fall upon my knee.
"San Serení of the Mountain,
Our saint of courtesy,
I, as a good Christian,
Will fall upon my knee.
"San Serení of the Mountain,Where the strong winds pass,I, as a good Christian,Will seat me on the grass.
"San Serení of the Mountain,
Where the strong winds pass,
I, as a good Christian,
Will seat me on the grass.
"San Serení of the Mountain,Where the white clouds fly,I, as a good Christian,Upon the ground will lie.
"San Serení of the Mountain,
Where the white clouds fly,
I, as a good Christian,
Upon the ground will lie.
"San Serení of the Mountain,Where earth and heaven meet,I, as a good Christian,Will spring upon my feet."
"San Serení of the Mountain,
Where earth and heaven meet,
I, as a good Christian,
Will spring upon my feet."
With the legend of St. Katharine and her martyrdom childish fancy has played queer caprices.
"In Cadiz was a wean—ah!The gentlest ever seen—ah!Her name was Catalina.Ay, so!Her name was Catalina."Her father, Moslem cruel,He made her bring in fuel.Her mother fed her gruel.Ay, so!Her mother fed her gruel."They beat her Tuesday, Wednesday,They beat her Thursday, Friday,They beat her Saturday, Monday.Ay, so!They beat her hardest Sunday."Once bade her wicked sireShe make a wheel most dire,Of scissors, knives, and fire.Ay, so!Of scissors, knives, and fire."The noble Christian neighbors,In pity of her labors,Brought silver swords and sabres.Ay, so!Brought silver swords and sabres."By noon her task was ended,And on that wheel all splendidHer little knee she bended.Ay, so!Her little knee she bended."Then down a stair of amberShe saw the cherubs clamber:'Come rest in our blue chamber.'Ay, so!She rests in their blue chamber."
"In Cadiz was a wean—ah!The gentlest ever seen—ah!Her name was Catalina.Ay, so!Her name was Catalina.
"In Cadiz was a wean—ah!
The gentlest ever seen—ah!
Her name was Catalina.
Ay, so!
Her name was Catalina.
"Her father, Moslem cruel,He made her bring in fuel.Her mother fed her gruel.Ay, so!Her mother fed her gruel.
"Her father, Moslem cruel,
He made her bring in fuel.
Her mother fed her gruel.
Ay, so!
Her mother fed her gruel.
"They beat her Tuesday, Wednesday,They beat her Thursday, Friday,They beat her Saturday, Monday.Ay, so!They beat her hardest Sunday.
"They beat her Tuesday, Wednesday,
They beat her Thursday, Friday,
They beat her Saturday, Monday.
Ay, so!
They beat her hardest Sunday.
"Once bade her wicked sireShe make a wheel most dire,Of scissors, knives, and fire.Ay, so!Of scissors, knives, and fire.
"Once bade her wicked sire
She make a wheel most dire,
Of scissors, knives, and fire.
Ay, so!
Of scissors, knives, and fire.
"The noble Christian neighbors,In pity of her labors,Brought silver swords and sabres.Ay, so!Brought silver swords and sabres.
"The noble Christian neighbors,
In pity of her labors,
Brought silver swords and sabres.
Ay, so!
Brought silver swords and sabres.
"By noon her task was ended,And on that wheel all splendidHer little knee she bended.Ay, so!Her little knee she bended.
"By noon her task was ended,
And on that wheel all splendid
Her little knee she bended.
Ay, so!
Her little knee she bended.
"Then down a stair of amberShe saw the cherubs clamber:'Come rest in our blue chamber.'Ay, so!She rests in their blue chamber."
"Then down a stair of amber
She saw the cherubs clamber:
'Come rest in our blue chamber.'
Ay, so!
She rests in their blue chamber."
Little Spaniards are not too intolerant to make a play-fellow of the Devil. In one of their pet games, the childrenform in line, with the invaluable Mother in charge. To each child she secretly gives the name of a color. Then an Angel comes in with a flying motion and calls, for instance, "Purple!" But there is no Purple in the company. It is then the Devil's turn, who rushes in, usually armed with a table-fork, and roars for "Green." There is a Green in the line, and she has to follow the Demon, while the Angel tries again. All right-minded spectators hope that the Angel will have the longer array at the last.
The Virgin's well-beloved name comes often into the children's songs.
"For studying my lessons,So as not to be a dunce,Papa gave me eight dollars,That I mean to spend at once.Four for my dolly's necklace,Two for a collar fine,And one to buy a candleFor Our Lady's shrine."
"For studying my lessons,
So as not to be a dunce,
Papa gave me eight dollars,
That I mean to spend at once.
Four for my dolly's necklace,
Two for a collar fine,
And one to buy a candle
For Our Lady's shrine."
Even the supreme solemnity of the Wafer borne through the kneeling streets cannot abash the trustful gaze of childhood.
"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I am going to a dying manTo wash his sins away.And if I find him sorryFor the evil he has done,Though his sins are more than the sands of the sea,I'll pardon every one.'"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I'm coming back from a dying manWhose sins are washed away.Because I found him sorryFor the evil he had done,Though his sins were more than the sands of the sea,I've pardoned every one.'"
"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I am going to a dying manTo wash his sins away.And if I find him sorryFor the evil he has done,Though his sins are more than the sands of the sea,I'll pardon every one.'
"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,
So gallant and so gay?'
'I am going to a dying man
To wash his sins away.
And if I find him sorry
For the evil he has done,
Though his sins are more than the sands of the sea,
I'll pardon every one.'
"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I'm coming back from a dying manWhose sins are washed away.Because I found him sorryFor the evil he had done,Though his sins were more than the sands of the sea,I've pardoned every one.'"
"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,
So gallant and so gay?'
'I'm coming back from a dying man
Whose sins are washed away.
Because I found him sorry
For the evil he had done,
Though his sins were more than the sands of the sea,
I've pardoned every one.'"
The affairs of State as well as of Church have left their traces on the children's play. As the little ones dance in circle, their piping music tells a confused tale of Spanish history within these latter days.
"In Madrid there is a palace,As bright as polished shell,And in it lives a ladyThey call Queen Isabel.Not for count nor duke nor marquisHer father would she sell,For not all the gold in Spain could buyThe crown of Isabel."One day when she was feastingWithin this palace grand,A lad of Aragon walked inAnd seized her by the hand.Through street and square he dragged herTo a dreary prison cell,And all that weary way she wept,The lady Isabel."'For whom art weeping, lady?What gives thy spirit pain?If thou weepest for thy brothers,They will not come again.If thou weepest for thy father,He lies 'neath sheet of stone.''For these I am not weeping,But for sorrows of mine own."'I want a golden dagger.''A golden dagger! Why?''To cut this juicy pear in two.Of thirst I almost die.'We gave the golden dagger.She did not use it well.Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,My lady Isabel."
"In Madrid there is a palace,As bright as polished shell,And in it lives a ladyThey call Queen Isabel.Not for count nor duke nor marquisHer father would she sell,For not all the gold in Spain could buyThe crown of Isabel.
"In Madrid there is a palace,
As bright as polished shell,
And in it lives a lady
They call Queen Isabel.
Not for count nor duke nor marquis
Her father would she sell,
For not all the gold in Spain could buy
The crown of Isabel.
"One day when she was feastingWithin this palace grand,A lad of Aragon walked inAnd seized her by the hand.Through street and square he dragged herTo a dreary prison cell,And all that weary way she wept,The lady Isabel.
"One day when she was feasting
Within this palace grand,
A lad of Aragon walked in
And seized her by the hand.
Through street and square he dragged her
To a dreary prison cell,
And all that weary way she wept,
The lady Isabel.
"'For whom art weeping, lady?What gives thy spirit pain?If thou weepest for thy brothers,They will not come again.If thou weepest for thy father,He lies 'neath sheet of stone.''For these I am not weeping,But for sorrows of mine own.
"'For whom art weeping, lady?
What gives thy spirit pain?
If thou weepest for thy brothers,
They will not come again.
If thou weepest for thy father,
He lies 'neath sheet of stone.'
'For these I am not weeping,
But for sorrows of mine own.
"'I want a golden dagger.''A golden dagger! Why?''To cut this juicy pear in two.Of thirst I almost die.'We gave the golden dagger.She did not use it well.Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,My lady Isabel."
"'I want a golden dagger.'
'A golden dagger! Why?'
'To cut this juicy pear in two.
Of thirst I almost die.'
We gave the golden dagger.
She did not use it well.
Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,
My lady Isabel."
These dancing circles keep in memory the assassination of Marshal Prim.
"As he came from the Cortes,Men whispered to Prim,'Be wary, be wary,For life and for limb.'Then answered the General,'Come blessing, come bane,I live or I dieIn the service of Spain.'"In theCalle del Turco,Where the starlight was dim,Nine cowardly bulletsGave greeting to Prim.The best of the SpaniardsLay smitten and slain,And the new King he died forCame weeping to Spain."
"As he came from the Cortes,Men whispered to Prim,'Be wary, be wary,For life and for limb.'Then answered the General,'Come blessing, come bane,I live or I dieIn the service of Spain.'
"As he came from the Cortes,
Men whispered to Prim,
'Be wary, be wary,
For life and for limb.'
Then answered the General,
'Come blessing, come bane,
I live or I die
In the service of Spain.'
"In theCalle del Turco,Where the starlight was dim,Nine cowardly bulletsGave greeting to Prim.The best of the SpaniardsLay smitten and slain,And the new King he died forCame weeping to Spain."
"In theCalle del Turco,
Where the starlight was dim,
Nine cowardly bullets
Gave greeting to Prim.
The best of the Spaniards
Lay smitten and slain,
And the new King he died for
Came weeping to Spain."
This new king, Amadeo, is funnily commemorated in another dancing ditty, "Four Sweethearts."
"Maiden, if they ask thee,Maiden, if they ask thee,If thou hast a sweetheart—ha,ha!If thou hast a sweetheart,Answer without blushing,Answer without blushing,'Four sweethearts are mine—ha,ha!Four sweethearts are mine."'The first he is the son of—The first he is the son ofA confectioner—ha,ha!A confectioner.Sugar-plums he gives me,Sugar-plums he gives me,Caramels and creams—ha,ha!Caramels and creams."'The second is the son of—The second is the son ofAn apothecary—ha,ha!An apothecary.Syrups sweet he gives me,Syrups sweet he gives me,For my little cough—hack,hack!For my little cough."'The third he is the son of—The third he is the son ofThe barber to the court—ha,ha!The barber to the court.Powders rare he gives me,Powders rare he gives me,And a yellow wig—ha,ha!And a yellow wig."'The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret,The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret.Our new Italian king—ha,ha!Our new Italian king.He gives me silk and satin,He gives me silk and satin,Velvet, gold, and gems—ha,ha!Velvet, gold, and gems.'"
"Maiden, if they ask thee,Maiden, if they ask thee,If thou hast a sweetheart—ha,ha!If thou hast a sweetheart,Answer without blushing,Answer without blushing,'Four sweethearts are mine—ha,ha!Four sweethearts are mine.
"Maiden, if they ask thee,
Maiden, if they ask thee,
If thou hast a sweetheart—ha,ha!
If thou hast a sweetheart,
Answer without blushing,
Answer without blushing,
'Four sweethearts are mine—ha,ha!
Four sweethearts are mine.
"'The first he is the son of—The first he is the son ofA confectioner—ha,ha!A confectioner.Sugar-plums he gives me,Sugar-plums he gives me,Caramels and creams—ha,ha!Caramels and creams.
"'The first he is the son of—
The first he is the son of
A confectioner—ha,ha!
A confectioner.
Sugar-plums he gives me,
Sugar-plums he gives me,
Caramels and creams—ha,ha!
Caramels and creams.
"'The second is the son of—The second is the son ofAn apothecary—ha,ha!An apothecary.Syrups sweet he gives me,Syrups sweet he gives me,For my little cough—hack,hack!For my little cough.
"'The second is the son of—
The second is the son of
An apothecary—ha,ha!
An apothecary.
Syrups sweet he gives me,
Syrups sweet he gives me,
For my little cough—hack,hack!
For my little cough.
"'The third he is the son of—The third he is the son ofThe barber to the court—ha,ha!The barber to the court.Powders rare he gives me,Powders rare he gives me,And a yellow wig—ha,ha!And a yellow wig.
"'The third he is the son of—
The third he is the son of
The barber to the court—ha,ha!
The barber to the court.
Powders rare he gives me,
Powders rare he gives me,
And a yellow wig—ha,ha!
And a yellow wig.
"'The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret,The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret.Our new Italian king—ha,ha!Our new Italian king.He gives me silk and satin,He gives me silk and satin,Velvet, gold, and gems—ha,ha!Velvet, gold, and gems.'"
"'The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret,
The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret.
Our new Italian king—ha,ha!
Our new Italian king.
He gives me silk and satin,
He gives me silk and satin,
Velvet, gold, and gems—ha,ha!
Velvet, gold, and gems.'"
Strangest of all is the dramatic little dialogue, which one with an ear for children's voices may hear any day in Madrid, telling of the death of Queen Mercedes.
"'Whither away, young King Alfonso?(Oh, for pity!) Whither away?''I go seeking my queen Mercedes,For I have not seen her since yesterday.'"'But we have seen your queen Mercedes,Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid,While four dukes all gently bore herThrough the streets of sad Madrid."'Oh, how her face was calm as heaven!Oh, how her hands were ivory white!Oh, how she wore the satin slippersThat you kissed on the bridal night!"'Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace.Black are the suits the nobles don.In letters of gold on the wall 'tis written:Her Majesty is dead and gone.'"He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso,Drooped like an eagle with broken wing,But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"
"'Whither away, young King Alfonso?(Oh, for pity!) Whither away?''I go seeking my queen Mercedes,For I have not seen her since yesterday.'
"'Whither away, young King Alfonso?
(Oh, for pity!) Whither away?'
'I go seeking my queen Mercedes,
For I have not seen her since yesterday.'
"'But we have seen your queen Mercedes,Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid,While four dukes all gently bore herThrough the streets of sad Madrid.
"'But we have seen your queen Mercedes,
Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid,
While four dukes all gently bore her
Through the streets of sad Madrid.
"'Oh, how her face was calm as heaven!Oh, how her hands were ivory white!Oh, how she wore the satin slippersThat you kissed on the bridal night!
"'Oh, how her face was calm as heaven!
Oh, how her hands were ivory white!
Oh, how she wore the satin slippers
That you kissed on the bridal night!
"'Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace.Black are the suits the nobles don.In letters of gold on the wall 'tis written:Her Majesty is dead and gone.'
"'Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace.
Black are the suits the nobles don.
In letters of gold on the wall 'tis written:
Her Majesty is dead and gone.'
"He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso,Drooped like an eagle with broken wing,But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"
"He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso,
Drooped like an eagle with broken wing,
But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'
And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"
Spanish wiseheads say that the children's choral games are already perishing, that the blight of schools and books is passing upon the child-life of the Peninsula, and soon there will be no more time for play. The complaint of theniñasis much to the same effect, yet they wear their rue with a difference:—
"Not even in thePradoCan little maidens play,Because those staring, teasing boysAre always in the way."They might be romping with us,For they're only children yet,But they won't play at anythingExcept a cigarette."Now let me tell you truly:If things go on like this,And midgets care for nothingBut to walk and talk and kiss,"No plays will cheer thePradoIn future times, for thenThe little boys of sevenWill all be married men."
"Not even in thePradoCan little maidens play,Because those staring, teasing boysAre always in the way.
"Not even in thePrado
Can little maidens play,
Because those staring, teasing boys
Are always in the way.
"They might be romping with us,For they're only children yet,But they won't play at anythingExcept a cigarette.
"They might be romping with us,
For they're only children yet,
But they won't play at anything
Except a cigarette.
"Now let me tell you truly:If things go on like this,And midgets care for nothingBut to walk and talk and kiss,
"Now let me tell you truly:
If things go on like this,
And midgets care for nothing
But to walk and talk and kiss,
"No plays will cheer thePradoIn future times, for thenThe little boys of sevenWill all be married men."
"No plays will cheer thePrado
In future times, for then
The little boys of seven
Will all be married men."
XXI
"O LA SEÑORITA!"
"Since the English education came into fashion, there is not a maiden left who can feel true love."—Alarcón.
During my stifling night journey from Madrid to the north I had much chat with Castilian and German ladies in the carriage about Spanish girls. Our talk turned especially on their reading, so reminding me of an incident of the past spring. On an Andalusian balcony I once found a little girl curled up in the coolest corner and poring over a shabby, paper-bound book. On my expressing interest in the volume, she presented it at once, according to the code of Spanish manners. "The book is at the disposal of your worship." But as the bundle of tattered leaves was not only so precious to her own small worship, but also greatly in demand among her worshipful young mates, whose constant borrowing seemed a strain even on Andalusian courtesy, I retained it merely long enough to note the title and general character. The next time I entered a book-shop I expended ten cents for this specimen of juvenile literature—"the best-selling book in Seville," if the clerk's word may be taken—and have it before me as I write. On the cover is stamped a picture of two graceful señoritas, perusing,apparently, this very work, "The Book of the Enamored and the Secretary of Lovers," and throughout the two hundred pages are scattered cheap cuts, never indecent, but suggesting violent ardors of passion—embracings, kissings, gazings, pleadings, with hearts, arrows, torches, and other ancient and honorable heraldry of Cupid. The title-page announces that this is a fifth edition of ten thousand copies.
The Divine ShepherdThe Divine Shepherd
The Divine Shepherd
The opening section is on "Love and Beauty," enumerating, by the way, the "thirty points" essential to a perfect woman. "Three things white—skin, teeth, and hands. Three black—eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Three rosy—lips, cheeks, and nails." But warning is duly given that even the thirty points of beauty do not make up a sum total of perfection without the mystic, all-harmonizing quality of charm.
Next in order are the several sets of directions for winning the affections of maid, wife, and widow, with a collection of edifying sentiments from various saints and wits concerning widows. Descriptions of wedding festivities follow, with a glowing dissertation on kisses, "the banquet-cups of love." After this stands a Castilian translation of an impassioned Arab love-song with the burden,Todo es amor. Maxims on love, culled chiefly from French authorities, are succeeded by an eighteenth-century love-catechism:—
"Question.Art thou a lover?Answer.Yes, by the grace of Cupid.Question.What is a lover?Answer.A lover is one who, having made true and faithful declaration of his passion, seeks the means of gaining the love of her whom he adores."
"Question.Art thou a lover?
Answer.Yes, by the grace of Cupid.
Question.What is a lover?
Answer.A lover is one who, having made true and faithful declaration of his passion, seeks the means of gaining the love of her whom he adores."
This is the first lesson. The second treats of the five signs of love, the third of love's duties, the fourth gives the orison of lovers—a startling adaptation of the Lord's Prayer—and their creed: "I believe in Cupid, absolute Lord of Love, who gives to lovers all their joys, and in her whom I love most, for most lovable is she, on whom I think without ceasing, and for whom I would sacrifice gladly my honor and my life."
There is nothing here, it will be noticed, of the Englishman's proud exception:—
"I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not honor more."
"I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more."
Love has its own beatitudes, too. "Blessed are they who love sincerely. Blessed are they of merry mood. Blessed are lovers who have patience. Blessed are the rich, for love delights to spend."
A "Divination of Dreams," "copied from an ancient manuscript found in the ruins of the convent of San Prudencio, in Clavijo," that famous battle-ground where St. James first trampled the Moors, next engages attention. To dream of a fan is sign of a coming flirtation; of a banner, success in war; of a woman's singing, sorrow and loss; of stars, fair fortune in love; of fire, good luck at cards; of a black cat, trouble from the mother-in-law; of closed eyes, your child in mortal peril; of birds, joy and sweet content; of a ghost, ill health; of scissors, a lover's quarrel; of wine, a cheating Frenchman; of shoes, long journeys; of angels, good tidings from far away. Some of these omens are a surprise to the uninitiated reader. It is bad luck to beholdin a dream images of Christ and the Virgin. A church, seen from within, denotes alms; from without, death. To dream of the altar arrayed for high mass betokens grave misfortune. Other omens are significant of Spanish discontents. To dream of a Jesuit brings miseries and betrayals; of a military officer, tyranny and brutality; of a king, danger; of a republic, "abundance, happiness, honors, and work well recompensed." Often these divinations run into rhyme, as:—
"Dream of God at midnight dim,And by day you'll follow Him."
"Dream of God at midnight dim,
And by day you'll follow Him."
The next section of this Complete Guide is given over to snatches of love-song, which Andalusian children know by heart. These five are fairly representative:—
"Mine is a lover well worth the loving.Under my balcony he cries:'You have maddened me with your grace of moving,And the beaming of your soft black eyes.'""Though thou go to the highest heaven,And God's hand draw thee near,The saints will not love thee half so wellAs I have loved thee here.""If I had a blossom rare,I would twine it in thy hair,Though God should stoop and ask for itTo make His heaven more exquisite.""Such love for thee, sent forth from me,Bears on such iron gateThat I, used so, no longer knowWhether I love or hate.""The learnéd are not wise,The saints are not in bliss;They have not looked into your eyes,Nor felt your burning kiss."
"Mine is a lover well worth the loving.Under my balcony he cries:'You have maddened me with your grace of moving,And the beaming of your soft black eyes.'"
"Mine is a lover well worth the loving.
Under my balcony he cries:
'You have maddened me with your grace of moving,
And the beaming of your soft black eyes.'"
"Though thou go to the highest heaven,And God's hand draw thee near,The saints will not love thee half so wellAs I have loved thee here."
"Though thou go to the highest heaven,
And God's hand draw thee near,
The saints will not love thee half so well
As I have loved thee here."
"If I had a blossom rare,I would twine it in thy hair,Though God should stoop and ask for itTo make His heaven more exquisite."
"If I had a blossom rare,
I would twine it in thy hair,
Though God should stoop and ask for it
To make His heaven more exquisite."
"Such love for thee, sent forth from me,Bears on such iron gateThat I, used so, no longer knowWhether I love or hate."
"Such love for thee, sent forth from me,
Bears on such iron gate
That I, used so, no longer know
Whether I love or hate."
"The learnéd are not wise,The saints are not in bliss;They have not looked into your eyes,Nor felt your burning kiss."
"The learnéd are not wise,
The saints are not in bliss;
They have not looked into your eyes,
Nor felt your burning kiss."
Then comes a "New Dictionary of Love," defining some two hundred doubtful terms in Cupid's lexicon, asforever,no,unselfish. After this we are treated to the language of fan flirtation, of handkerchief flirtation, of flower flirtation, and "the clock of Flora," by which lovers easily make appointments,—one, two, three, being numbered in rose, pink, tulip, and so on. A cut of a youth toiling at a manuscript-laden desk introduces some fifty pages of model love-letters, which seem, to the casual eye, to cover all contingencies. A selection of verses used for adding a grace to birthday and saint-day gifts comes after, and this all-sufficient compendium concludes with a "Lovers' Horoscope."
A single illustration of the sort of reading that Spanish girls find in their way should not, of course, be pressed too far, and yet any one who had seen the pretty group of heads clustered for hours over these very pages on that shaded balcony would not deny the book significance. A taste for the best reading is not cultivated in Spanish girls, even where the treasures of that great Castilian literature are accessible to them. Convent education knows nothing of Calderon. As for books especially adapted to girlhood, we have just examined a sample.
Love and religion are the only subjects with which a señorita is expected to concern herself, and the life of the convent is often a second choice. Even when a Spanish girlwins her crown of wifehood and motherhood, her ignorance and poverty of thought tell heavily against the most essential interests of family life. The Spanish bride is often a child in years. Pacheco's direction for painting the Immaculate Conception ran, "Our Lady is to be pictured in the flower of her age, from twelve to thirteen." This was three centuries ago, but Spain changes slowly. The girl of to-day, nevertheless, marries later than her mother married. I remember one weary woman of forty with eighteen children in their graves and the three who were living physical and mental weaklings. She told us of a friend who married at fourteen and used to leave her household affairs in confusion while she stole away to a corner to play with her dolls. Her husband, a grave lawyer in middle life, would come home to dinner and find his helpmeet romping with the other children in theplaza.
The Spanish girl is every whit as fascinating as her musical, cloaked gallant confides to her iron-grated lattice. Indeed, these amorous serenades hardly do her justice, blending as she does French animation with Italian fervor. In Andalusia she dances with a grace that makes every other use of life seem vain. And when she bargains, there is nothing sordid about it. Her haggling is a social condescension that at once puts the black-eyed young salesman at her mercy.
"But the fan seems to me the least bit dear, señor."
He shrugs his shoulders and flings out his arm in protest.
"Ah, señorita! You see not how beautiful the work is. I am giving it away at sixpesetas."
She lifts her eyebrows half incredulously, all bewitchingly.
"At fivepesetas, señor."
He runs his hand through his black hair in chivalrous distress.
"But the peerless work, señorita! And this other, too! I sacrifice it at fourpesetas."
She touches both fans lightly.
"You will let us have the two at sevenpesetas, señor?"
Her eyes dance over his confusion. He catches the gleam, laughs back, throws up his hands.
"Bueno, señorita. At what you please."
It takes a Spaniard to depict a throng of Spanish ladies,—"fiery carnations or starry jasmine in their hair, cheeks like blush roses, eyes black or blue, with lashes quivering like butterflies; cherry lips, a glance as fickle as the light nod of a flower in the wind, and smiles that reveal teeth like pearls; the all-pervading fan with its wordless telegraphy in a thousand colors." In such a throng one sees not only the typical "eyes of midnight," but those "emerald eyes" which Cervantes knew, and veritable pansy-colored eyes dancing with more than pansy mischief. But the voices! In curious contrast to the tones of Spanish men, soft, coaxing, caressing, the voices of the women are too often high and harsh, suggesting, in moments of excitement, the scream of the Andalusian parrot. "O Jesus, what a fetching hat! The feather, the feather, see, see, see,seethe feather! Mary Most Pure, but it must have cost four or fivepesetas! Ah, my God, don't I wish it were mine!" The speaker who gets the lead in a chattering knot of Spanish women is a prodigy not only of volubility, but of general muscular action. She keeps time to her shrill music with hands, fan, elbows, shoulders, eyebrows,knees. She dashes her sentences with inarticulate whirs and whistles, and countless pious interjections:Gracias á Dios! Santa Maria! O Dios mio!The others, out-screamed and out-gesticulated, clutch at her, shriek at her, fly at her, and still, by some mysterious genius, maintain courtesy, grace, and dignity through it all. Yet it is true that the vulgar-rich variety is especially obnoxious among Spaniards. An overdressed Spanish woman is frightfully overdressed, her voice is maddening, her gusts of mirth and anger are painfully uncontrolled. This, however, is the exception, and refinement the rule.
The legendary Spanish lady is forever sitting at a barred window, or leaning from a balcony, coquetting with a fan and dropping arch responses to the "caramel phrases" of her guitar-tinkling cavalier.
"You're always saying you'd die for me.I doubt it nevertheless;But prove it true by dying,And then I'll answer yes."
"You're always saying you'd die for me.
I doubt it nevertheless;
But prove it true by dying,
And then I'll answer yes."
For, loving as they are, Spanish sweethearts take naturally to teasing. "When he calls me his Butterfly, I call him my Elephant. Then his eyes are like black fire, for he is ashamed to be so big, but in a twinkling I can make him smile again." The scorn of these dainty creatures for the graces of the ruling sex is not altogether affected. I shall not forget the expression with which a Sevillian belle, an exquisite dancer, watched hernovioas, red and perspiring, he flung his stout legs valiantly through the mazes of thejota. "Men are uglier than ever when they are dancing, aren't they?" she remarkedto me with all the serenity in the world. And a bewitching maiden in Madrid, as I passed some favorable comment upon the photographs of her two brothers, gave a deprecatory shrug. "Handsome?Ca!" (Which isnomany times intensified.) "But they are not so ugly, either,—for men."
The style of compliment addressed bycaballerosto señoritas is not like "the quality of mercy," but very much strained indeed. "Your eyes are two runaway stars, that would rather shine in your face than in heaven, but your heart is harder than the columns of Solomon's temple. Your father was a confectioner and rubbed your lips with honey-cakes." Little Consuelo, or Lagrimas, or Milagros, or Dolores, or Peligros laughs it off, "Ah, now you are throwing flowers."
Thecoplasof the wooer below the balcony are usually sentimental.
"By night I go to the patio,And my tears in the fountain fall,To think that I love you so much,And you love me not at all.""Sweetheart, little Sweetheart!Love, my Love!I can't see thy eyesFor the lashes above.Eyes black as midnight,Lashes black as grief!O, my heart is thirstyAs a summer leaf.""If I could but be buriedIn the dimple of your chin,I would wish, Dear, that dyingMight at once begin.""If thou wilt be a white dove,I will be a blue.We'll put our bills togetherAnd coo, coo, coo."
"By night I go to the patio,And my tears in the fountain fall,To think that I love you so much,And you love me not at all."
"By night I go to the patio,
And my tears in the fountain fall,
To think that I love you so much,
And you love me not at all."
"Sweetheart, little Sweetheart!Love, my Love!I can't see thy eyesFor the lashes above.Eyes black as midnight,Lashes black as grief!O, my heart is thirstyAs a summer leaf."
"Sweetheart, little Sweetheart!
Love, my Love!
I can't see thy eyes
For the lashes above.
Eyes black as midnight,
Lashes black as grief!
O, my heart is thirsty
As a summer leaf."
"If I could but be buriedIn the dimple of your chin,I would wish, Dear, that dyingMight at once begin."
"If I could but be buried
In the dimple of your chin,
I would wish, Dear, that dying
Might at once begin."
"If thou wilt be a white dove,I will be a blue.We'll put our bills togetherAnd coo, coo, coo."
"If thou wilt be a white dove,
I will be a blue.
We'll put our bills together
And coo, coo, coo."
Sometimes the sentiment is relieved by a realistic touch.
"Very anxious is the flea,Caught between finger and thumb.More anxious I, on watch for thee,Lest thou shouldst not come."
"Very anxious is the flea,
Caught between finger and thumb.
More anxious I, on watch for thee,
Lest thou shouldst not come."
And occasionally the lover, flouted overmuch, retorts in kind.
"Don't blame me that eyes are wet,For I only pay my debt.I've taught you to cry and fret,But first you taught me to forget.""I'll not have you, Little Torment,I don't want you, Little Witch.Let your mother light four candlesAnd stand you in a niche."
"Don't blame me that eyes are wet,For I only pay my debt.I've taught you to cry and fret,But first you taught me to forget."
"Don't blame me that eyes are wet,
For I only pay my debt.
I've taught you to cry and fret,
But first you taught me to forget."
"I'll not have you, Little Torment,I don't want you, Little Witch.Let your mother light four candlesAnd stand you in a niche."
"I'll not have you, Little Torment,
I don't want you, Little Witch.
Let your mother light four candles
And stand you in a niche."
The average Spaniard is well satisfied with his señora as she is. He did her extravagant homage as a suitor, he treats her with kindly indulgence as a husband, but he expects of her a life utterly bounded by thecasa. "What is a woman?" we heard one say. "A bottle of wine." And those few words tell the story why, with all their charm, home-love, and piety, the Spanish women have not availed to keep the social life of the Peninsula sound and sweet.
"But to admire them as our gallants do,'Oh, what an eye she hath! Oh, dainty hand!Rare foot and leg!' and leave the mind respectless,This is a plague that in both men and womenMakes such pollution of our earthly being."
"But to admire them as our gallants do,
'Oh, what an eye she hath! Oh, dainty hand!
Rare foot and leg!' and leave the mind respectless,
This is a plague that in both men and women
Makes such pollution of our earthly being."
The life of the convent is attractive to girls of mystic temperament, like theMariaof Valdés, but many of these lively daughters of the sun regard it with frank disfavor. One of the songs found in the mouths of little girls all over the Peninsula is amusingly expressive of the childish aversion to so dull a destiny.
"I wanted to be marriedTo a sprightly barber-lad,But my parents wished to put meIn the convent dim and sad."One afternoon of summerThey walked me out in state,And as we turned a corner,I saw the convent gate."Out poured all the solemn nunsIn black from toe to chin,Each with a lighted candle,And made me enter in."The file was like a funeral;The door shut out the day;They sat me on a marble stoolAnd cut my hair away."The pendants from my ears they took,And the ring I loved to wear,But the hardest loss of all to brookWas my mat of raven hair."If I run out to the gardenAnd pluck the roses red,I have to kneel in church untilTwice twenty prayers are said."If I steal up to the towerAnd clang the convent bell,The holy Abbess utters wordsI do not choose to tell."My parents, O my parents,Unkindly have you done,For I was never meant to beA dismal little nun."
"I wanted to be marriedTo a sprightly barber-lad,But my parents wished to put meIn the convent dim and sad.
"I wanted to be married
To a sprightly barber-lad,
But my parents wished to put me
In the convent dim and sad.
"One afternoon of summerThey walked me out in state,And as we turned a corner,I saw the convent gate.
"One afternoon of summer
They walked me out in state,
And as we turned a corner,
I saw the convent gate.
"Out poured all the solemn nunsIn black from toe to chin,Each with a lighted candle,And made me enter in.
"Out poured all the solemn nuns
In black from toe to chin,
Each with a lighted candle,
And made me enter in.
"The file was like a funeral;The door shut out the day;They sat me on a marble stoolAnd cut my hair away.
"The file was like a funeral;
The door shut out the day;
They sat me on a marble stool
And cut my hair away.
"The pendants from my ears they took,And the ring I loved to wear,But the hardest loss of all to brookWas my mat of raven hair.
"The pendants from my ears they took,
And the ring I loved to wear,
But the hardest loss of all to brook
Was my mat of raven hair.
"If I run out to the gardenAnd pluck the roses red,I have to kneel in church untilTwice twenty prayers are said.
"If I run out to the garden
And pluck the roses red,
I have to kneel in church until
Twice twenty prayers are said.
"If I steal up to the towerAnd clang the convent bell,The holy Abbess utters wordsI do not choose to tell.
"If I steal up to the tower
And clang the convent bell,
The holy Abbess utters words
I do not choose to tell.
"My parents, O my parents,Unkindly have you done,For I was never meant to beA dismal little nun."
"My parents, O my parents,
Unkindly have you done,
For I was never meant to be
A dismal little nun."
I came but slightly in contact with Spanish nuns. Among the figures that stand out clear in memory are a kindly old sister, at Seville, in theHospital de la Caridad, who paused midway in her exhibition of the famous Murillos there to wipe her eyes and grieve that we were Protestants, and an austere, beautiful woman inLa Cuna, or Foundling Asylum of Seville, who caressed a crying baby with the passionate tenderness of motherhood denied. The merriest Spanishhermanaof our acquaintance we encountered on the French side of the Pyrenees. At Anglet, halfway between Biarritz and Bayonne, is the Convent of the Bernardines, Silent Sisters. The visitor sees them only from a distance, robed in white flannel, with large white crosses gleaming on the back of their hooded capes. These, too, were originally white, and the hoods so deep that not even the profile of the features could be seen;but the French Government, disturbed by the excessive death-rate in this order, recently had the audacity to interfere and give summary orders that the hoods be cut away, so that the healthful sunshine might visit those pale faces. The mandate was obeyed, but, perhaps in sign of mournful protest, the new hoods and capes are black as night. These women Trappists may recite their prayers aloud, as they work in field or garden, or over their embroidery frames, but they speak for human hearing only once a year, when their closest family friends may visit them and listen through a grating to what their disused voices may yet be able to utter. From all other contact with the world they are shielded by an outpost guard of a few of the Servants of Mary, an industrious, self-supporting sisterhood, whose own convent, half a mile away, is a refuge for unwedded mothers and a home for unfathered children. Hither the pitying sisters brought, a few days before our visit, a wild-eyed girl whom they had found lying on one of the sea rocks, waiting for the rising tide to cover her and her shame together. The chief treasure of this nunnery, one regrets to add, is the polished skull of Mary Magdalene.
That one of the Servants of Mary who showed us over the Trappist convent was a bright-eyed Spanish dame of many winters, as natural a chatterbox as ever gossiped with the neighbors in the sun. Her glee in this little opportunity for conversation was enough to wring the heart of any lover of old ladies. She walked as slowly as possible and detained us on every conceivable pretext, reaching up on her rheumatic tiptoes to pluck us red and white camellias, and pointing out, with a lingering garrulity, the hardness of the cots in the bare, cold little cells, the narrowness of the benches in the austerechapel, and, in the cheerless dining room, the floor of deep sand, in which the Bernardines kneel throughout their Friday dinner of bread and water. Longest of all, she kept us in the cemetery, all spick and span, with close-set rows of nameless graves, each with a cross shaped upon it in white seashells. The dear old soul, in her coarse blue gown, with tidy white kerchief and neatly darned black hood and veil, showed us the grave of her own sister, adding, proudly, that her four remaining sisters were all cloistered in various convents of Spain.
"All six of us nuns," she said, "but my brother—no! He has the dowries of us all and lives the life of the world. Just think! I have two nephews in Toledo. I have never seen them. My sister's grave is pretty, is it not? They let me put flowers there. Oh, there are many families in Spain like ours, where all the daughters are put into convents. Spain is a very religious country. The sons? Not so often. Sometimes, when there is a conscription, many young men become priests to escape military service but it is the women who are most devout in Spain."
And after the rustic gate was shut on the sleeping-place of the Bernardines, scarcely more silent and more dead beneath the sod than above it, she still detained us with whispered hints of distinguished Spanish ladies among those ghostly, far-off figures that, pitchfork or pruning knife in hand, would fall instantly upon their knees at the ringing of the frequent bell for prayers. Spanish ladies, too, had given this French convent many of its most costly treasures. We said good-by to our guide near an elaborate shrine of the Madonna, which a bereaved Spanish mother had erected with the graven request that the nuns pray for the soul of her beloved dead.
"Even we Servants of Mary are not allowed to talk much here," said in parting this most sociable of saints, clinging to us with a toil-roughened, brown old hand. "It is a holy life, but quiet—very quiet. I have been here forty-four years this winter. My name is Sister Solitude."
The nun whom I knew best was an exquisite little sister just back from Manila. During several months I went to her, in a Paris convent, twice or three times a week, for Spanish lessons. The reception room in which I used to await her coming shone not as with soap and water, but as with the very essence of purity. The whiteness of the long, fine curtains had something celestial about it. The only book in sight, a bundle of well-worn leaves bound in crimson plush and placed with precision in the centre of the gleaming mahogany table, was a volume of classic French sermons,—the first two being on Demons, and the next on Penance. Further than this I never read; for very punctually the slight figure, in violet skirt and bodice, with a white cross embroidered upon the breast, swept softly down the hall. A heavy purple cord and a large-beaded rosary depended from the waist. In conversation she often raised her hand to press her ring, sign of her sacred espousals, to her lips. Her type of face I often afterward saw in Spain, but never again so perfect. Her complexion was the richest southern brown, the eyes brightening in excitement to vivid, flashing black. The eyebrows, luxuriant even to heaviness, were nevertheless delicately outlined, and the straight line of the white band emphasized their graceful arch. The nose was massive for a woman's face, and there was a slight shading of hair upon the upper lip. The mouth and chin, though so daintily moulded, were strong.Not the meek, religious droop of the eyelids could mask the fire, vigor, vitality, intensity, that lay stored like so much electricity behind the tranquil convent look.
We would go for the lesson to a severe little chamber, whose only ornament was a crucifix of olive wood fastened against the wall. Then how those velvet eyes would glow and sparkle in the eagerness of rushing speech! The little sister loved to tell of her Manila experience, almost a welcome break, I fancied, in the monotonous peace of cloister life. All that Sunday morning, when the battle was on, the nuns maintained their customary services, hearing above their prayers and chants and the solemn diapason of the organ, the boom, boom, boom of our wicked American cannon. For, according to this naive historian, Catholic Spain, best beloved of Our Lady among the nations of the earth, had labored long in the Philippines to Christianize the heathen, when suddenly, in the midst of those pious labors with which she was too preoccupied to think of fitting out men-of-war and drilling gunners, a pirate fleet bore down upon her and overthrew at once the Spanish banner and the Holy Cross. Tears sparkled through flame as thehermanitatold of her beautiful convent home, now half demolished. The sisters did not abandon it until six weeks after the battle, but as the nunnery stood outside the city walls, their superior judged it no safe abode for Spanish ladies, and ordered them away. The French consul arranged for their transport to Hongkong on a dirty little vessel, where they had to stay on deck, the twenty-seven of them, during their week's voyage, suffering from lack of proper shelter and especially from thirst, the water supply running short the second day out. But all this was joy of martyrdom.
"Is not Hongkong a very strange city?" I asked. "Did it seem to you more like Manila than like Paris and Madrid?"
The little sister's voice was touched with prompt rebuke.
"You speak after the fashion of the world. All cities look alike to us. Ours is the life of the convent. It matters nothing where the convent stands."
Stimulated by reproof, I waxed impertinent. "Not even if it stands within range of the guns? Now, truly, truly, were you not the least bit frightened that morning of the battle?"
The sunny southern smile was a fleeting one, and left a reminiscent shadow in the eyes.
"Frightened? Oh, no! There were no guns between us and Paradise. From early dawn we heard the firing, and hour after hour we knelt before the altar and prayed to the Mother of God to comfort the souls of the brave men who were dying forla patria; but we were not frightened."
There were strange jostlings of ideas in that cloistered cell, especially when the dusk had stolen in between our bending faces and the Spanish page.
Once we talked of suicide. That morning it had been a wealthy young Parisian who had paid its daily tribute to the Seine.
"What a horror!" gasped the little sister, clasping her slender hands against her breast. "It is a mortal sin. And how foolish! For if life is hard to bear, surely perdition is harder."
"It does not seem to me so strange in case of the poor," I responded, waiving theology. "But a rich man, though hisown happiness fails, has still the power of making others happy."
"Ah, but I understand!" cried Little Manila, her eyes like stars in the dimness. "The devil does not see truth as the blessed spirits do, but sees falsehoods even as the world. And so in his blindness he believes the soul of a rich man more precious than the souls of the poor, and tempts the rich man more than others. Yet when the devil has that soul, will he find it made of gold?"