The cathedral is the chief centre of all the ceremonies; and the vast edifice—Santa Maria is the largest Gothic church in the world—which is not too vast for its part in the great functions, is seen best on these days of festival. The gold and silver plate, all the splendid Church treasures—silver candelabra beyond counting, jewelled censers, chalices, and crosses, golden keys and diamond stars, Arfe’s rich and delicate monstrance—have been laid out by the side of the great altar. Crimson drapings cover the walls; the priestswear theirterno celeste, vestments of blue and gold. The great doors are wide open, and all day long the people come and go in endless procession, as the pageants of thepasosarrive and then depart. The Mass, with its elaborate ritual, is sung to the Spanish music of Eslava; the Sacrament is borne in priestly procession. Each day has its special function. On Palm Sunday is the consecration of the palms and olive branches; on Maundy Thursday the typical Spanish ceremony of the washing of feet takes place; on Good Friday there is the Passion Sermon; and on Saturday theCirio Pascual, the great candle, 25 feet high and 770–880 pounds in weight, is consecrated.
Sacristy of the Convent of the Cartuja, Granada
All the days the cathedral is filled with relays upon relays of worshippers: some kneel upon the bare stones, one by one or in groups together; some stand; others sit on the chairs they have brought with them. The black dresses andmantillasof the women mingle with the bright colours of the peasants who have come from the country districts. Thereis something social, well-nigh domestic, in the scene. In the intervals between their devotions the women chatter loudly together and use their fans; children play about as if in their own homes; even dogs and cats are there, quite unmolested. The Spaniard is wholly at home in his church, which to him is so much a part of the world and his daily life that he can talk, eat, sleep, and transact business, there.
As the week advances an indescribable emotion grows, which culminates on the Saturday, when, at ten o’clock in the morning, the Veil of the Temple is rent in twain. The great purple curtain, which has hung in front of Roldan’s beautiful Christ upon the Cross, is sharply drawn by hidden cords. The signal is given; all the bells of the city ring out joyously, the great organ peals forth jubilees of victory,Gloria in Excelsissoars out in choral chants. It is the moment of supreme emotion. The multitude falls upon its knees before the great symbol of the accomplished Passion.
This is the end of the Holy Week ceremonies. The women put off their black, and now appear in white lacemantillasand dresses predominantly white. In the afternoon the children’s festival of the lambs takes place. Then on Easter Sunday the bull-fight is celebrated.
Toledo, the Type of the Spanish City—Its Architectural Monuments—The Intermingling of Arab and Christian Art—Granada—The Alhambra—Cordova—The Great Mosque—Seville, the City of Pleasure—The Special Character of the Streets—TheCafésand Shops—The Typical Andalusian—The Parks—TheSevillanas—Spanish Courtship—The Houses of Seville—ThePatios—The Home-life of the Sevillians—Spanish Hospitality.
Toledo has kept, perhaps, more than any city in Spain its mediæval aspect, combining in its buildings of so many civilizations that here remain together; churches, convents, mosques, Gothic walls and ornaments, Moorish houses and steep passages—everywhere the Moorish design is evident—and a great Christian cathedral—much of what is most typical of the genuine Spanish civilization.I know of no city that can give a more poignant emotion than Toledo.
A great town, set on its rough and elevated rock of granite in the midst of the blue Sierra, closely ringed by the deep brown water of the Tajo, it is like no other city in the world. The national character, strong and aloof, passionate and brilliant, and the nation’s history, are here epitomized before you. And coming to the city, as the stranger does, from Madrid, blatant, noisy, and modern, you will feel transplanted back into an older world.
Your first impression is of something extraordinarily austere. You seem to have passed into silence and an almost painful absence of life.
Bridge of Alcantara and the Alcázar, Toledo
Toledo has remained as the Moors built it, a tortuous network of cobbled alleys, as was most fitting in a city built upon rock, scorched by sun in summer, and in winter swept with icy winds. The tall houses, rising in straightupward lines like an arrangement of flat walls, are almost all windowless on the side next to the street; where there is a window it is barred and closely latticed, and the high gates are studded with iron bosses and seem to forbid an entrance. No sight of the tree-shaded court is given, as at Seville and Cordova. No one appears to go in and out of these doors. Every house has the aspect of a prison; they all look as if they had histories.
There is the same absence of bustling modern life in the streets. In the Calle del Comercio there are shops, but the wares are simple, having an old-world air; only specially interesting is that of Alvarez, the best maker of damascene. Even in the Zocodover, the centre of the city’s business, all is sedate. You will see the water-carriers driving their mules up the steep streets from thevega, a peasant whose beast is laden with bright-coloured fruits and vegetables, or a group of goats that supply the milk for the city. Yet often the streets seem deserted. Only the companies of beggar children, who clamourincessantly around you with their strange cry, “Un caukie sou! Un caukie sou!” remind you of the life hidden in the sleeping city.
Romance lives in Toledo. How many scenes and how many figures famous in Spain’s history are recalled to our memory here. In no other city are there the same number of architectural monuments. It is the chief centre of the two great elements of Spanish civilization, the Christian and the Arab, which makes it the place where the native art can best be studied. Its cathedral and churches are furnished with the most perfect examples of the industrial arts that have been produced in the Peninsula. El Greco, who adopted Toledo as his home, expresses in his pictures, which are one of the great possessions of the city, the Toledan spirit, which is the spirit of Spain. The churches are the museums and picture-galleries of the city; each one has its special appeal—its precious mosaics, its ironwork, its glass windows, its cloisters, its tombs, its beautiful carvings, or its pictures.
In Toledo you understand the part that religion has taken in the history of the country. You can hardly walk for five minutes in any direction without coming upon some church; they stand at the corner of almost every square, many are embedded between the brown walls of the houses.
Its architecture shows a curious mingling of Arab, Gothic, and Renaissance work. Christian and Moor overlap in many buildings, while in others the art of each emerges isolated and independent. In the great cathedral, the perfection of Gothic in Spain, we see nothing of the Moor, while in the mosque of Bel-el-pardon, now called El Cristo de la Luz, and in the ancient mosque in the Calle de las Tornarias, which has never been converted to Christian uses, and retains its original character almost unimpaired, we can with difficulty trace the Christian. But in other buildings—the Sinagoga del Tránsito, for instance—we find the Moorish traditions persisting with the Christian. And it is this intermingling andabsorption of the Moorish civilization with the Christian that gives the real character to Toledo. Not only in the churches that once were mosques does the passage of that great people remain, but in the houses, austere without but beautiful within, in ancient palaces, in fragments of gardens that still are places of rest, in embattled bridge and arch, in exquisite harmonies of ornament that meet you everywhere, and, more than all, we find this gracious influence in the spirit of the city itself. Toledo is a living picture, a city in which each building is a voice that speaks the history of Spain.
In Cordova, and even in Granada, you are less sharply conscious of the Moorish influence.
A street in Cordova, looking towards the Mosque
Time, the tamer of proud cities, has shadowed Granada, and to visit it is to understand the desolation of conquest. The big hotels, placed so incongruously near to the Alhambra, the clamorous guides, the beggars—all the disagreeable conditions of a show city that trades on its past are here.The efforts of recent years, that have developed a certain amount of industrial activity, have not lessened this impression; for modern enterprise seems strangely out of place in Granada, while the attempts to improve the old city, such as the boulevard which has been driven through its centre, have been left unfinished, with a result of added desolation. In the air itself there seems something of decay, as the white mists from the snowy heights of the Sierra Nevada rest shroud-like upon thevega. Always you seem to catch an echo of thatultimo suspiro del Moro. Ruins meet you everywhere; only the gardens in Granada have kept the charm of their exquisite beauty.
But there is one possession that conquest has left to Granada. It is to see the Alhambra that everyone comes to the city, which is but a setting to this Moorish jewel. And in the wooded garden, which lies around the citadel, where nightingales sing, and flowers embroider the grass, and the sound of running water is always heard, Granada,with its memories of ruin, seems shut off as by a veil of quiet. The Alhambra is the supreme pearl of Moorish art in Spain. It is bewildering in the appeal of its strange beauty. It is like an invocation of an Eastern sorcerer, and as you wander in its courts and halls the Thousand and One Nights seem true. It is hardly conceivable that people lived here. You seem to understand the brilliant dominion of the Moors in Spain. Only people with a history like theirs could have reigned here; life lived here could but have been a romance.
The first impression you gather from the almost bewildering beauty is how any building so seemingly fragile can be so strong. More than five centuries have passed since the Alhambra was built. The repeated earthquakes which did so much damage to Granada, and laid in ruin the Renaissance palace of Charles V., have been powerless to destroy this most delicate of architectural structures. To-day the Alhambra is kept as a show-place, rejuvenated by the restorer.But even this has not been able to dim the exquisite beauty of its courts and halls. And all the jewelled weaving of ornaments, so difficult to grasp as being quite real, have kept much of their splendour. It almost seems as though the common superstition were true, and that the charm of Fate does guard the Red Palace of the Moors.
Cordova suffers from the memory of a past greatness which she cannot now support. Gautier describes the city asle squelette blanché et calciné. Cordova is a city in sleep; it rests in a quiet and beautiful dream. Here the Eastern spirit of acceptance echoes with an unsilenced voice. And this is why the sensitive stranger will find such perfect satisfaction in the white city’s sleeping peace. Cordova was the town that I most loved in Spain.
But the tourist goes to Cordova in haste to visit the mosque. “Mezquita? Mezquita?” Each Cordovese you encounter will surmise your desire and direct you without question. They know that thisimperishable building is the one interesting lion in their city; it is to visit it that the stranger comes to Cordova.
The great mosque is a “wonder of the world,” the one perfectly satisfying building left in the city of the Khalif, the Cordova that was known as “the Bride of Andalusia.” This Church of the Divine Wisdom is the most complete expression in building that the Moors have left in Spain, more even than the Alhambra. It is one of the buildings that sum up the genius of a people, the experience of a race, and the teaching of a school.
In the Outer Court of Oranges, where the water of the fountains and the leafy shade of the orange-trees give delicious coolness from the blazing heart of the sun, you will find the untiring charm and dreamy peace of Oriental repose. You will see the women of Cordova gathered around the greatalmîdafountain with their red-brown pitchers to fill. You will hear them chattering, telling the news of the day. Now and thenwill come a sound of laughter as a youth, also with a vessel to fill, joins them. The women will leave their pitchers and go into the mosque, one by one or in groups together, for prayer is a part of the day’s work. Figures move slowly up and down the cloisters; they are the Canons; each will be smoking a cigarette. Groups of beggars crouch on the low stone seats; they seem quite content in the sun. At the hour of service a band of acolytes will come from the chancery and cross the court slowly to the mosque, making a line of scarlet. And presently there will be a soft sound of music as the boys sing thecoplasin honour of the Virgin. Yes, the Court of Oranges is the most perfect spot in Cordova, to which the stranger will come again and again.
Puerta Del Perdón (Gate of Pardon) the Mosque, Cordova
And when you go into the mosque itself, you will pass out of the colonnades of orange-trees into colonnades of stone. Before you, around you, everywhere, a forest of columns; and the canopy of curves above you, formed by the double rows of crossed fantastic arches,will seem like the interlacing branches of great trees. You will remember those enchanted forests you dreamed of as a child. In truth, the architecture of the mosque is like a living thing. The light, entering from above, plays upon the arches, causing the red stones to gleam like fire; it frets the thousand columns with moving patterns; it catches the glass mosaics in jewelled brilliance, and makes a soft shining upon the marble pavement, in which, as you look up and down, you see the long arcades reflected until the distance dies away, mysterious and apparently unending.
The Queen’s Chamber, Alhambra, Granada
But words cannot describe this wonderful temple. The Moorish houses of prayer will bring you a sense of joy: there is nothing of the mystic suggestion of a Gothic cathedral—that of Seville, for instance; your spirit is freed, not awed. The mosque was to the Moor this world as well as the next. Here is the message of a race who understood the fulness of living so well that they knew how to be joyously at home with their God; and you realize more fully this lesson that theMoors gave to Spain, which finds its expression to-day in the Spaniard’s happy familiarity with his God.
The stranger will now be ready to understand the special atmosphere of Seville, for it is this frank acceptance of joy as the gold thread of life which gives the southern city its charm. It is not shadowed with memory like sleeping Cordova, nor is it overburdened with heroic monuments like Toledo; there are no ruins such as give sadness to Granada; it is still a living city whose blood is pulsing with the joy of life lived in the sunshine.
The buildings for which the city is famous all have this aspect of joy—the Moorish Tower of Gold; the Alcázar, with its flower-crowded gardens; the Giralda Tower, which is so old, and yet in its glittering whiteness looks so new. There is a joyousness in these buildings that I have never seen in the buildings of any other city.
Then, Seville is alive commercially, and from its wharves among the orange-trees which line the banks of its rivers vesselscarry away its wine, its oil, and its oranges.
Seville has no rival among the cities of Spain. The old saying is still true: “To him whom God loves He gives a home in Seville.”
In Seville you are happy without seeking to be so, and when the stranger has learnt this he has learnt the secret of theSevillanos.
Seville has the aspect of a city given up to a holiday humour; and if I wished to describe the special quality of her happy people, I should say that they understood perfectly the difficult art of loafing. You must be happy to loaf successfully; that is why Northern people find it so difficult. But not even the Venetians loaf as well as theSevillanos. Go to the Calle de las Sierpes, that narrow, animated street, the centre of Seville’s joyous life; it is different from other streets; its gay shops, with the double row of irregular, close-drawn windows that make a sinuous line of light—certainly it is like a serpent. All day and far into the night people saunter up and down itspavements or sit in one of the manycafés, which are always filled with crowds of unoccupied persons. You will seem to be watching a stage play. It is here that you will see best themajos, or dandies of Seville; in springtime there is sure to be amatadorstrolling about in splendid costume, and women inmantillassaunter to and fro with their slow, graceful walk.
In thecafésyou will have an opportunity of studying the typical Andalusian. He wears a short coat and very tight trousers of a light colour, and a felt hat with a broad, flat brim. He is always clean-shaven, and his hair is cut very short. These men are often handsome, and have a striking expression of strength; the faces, dignified and always humorous, often resemble a comic actor. They are an affectionate and friendly company, and their conversation echoes with a deafening buzz. Notice the way in which they smoke their cigarettes, and at intervals drink theirrefrescosor sip from their small glasses ofaguardiente. Their enjoyment isso Spanish, so epicurean. And women in the street fan themselves in the same way. All these people are happy in the frank acceptance of life as it is.
Inside the shops, which have doors wide open to the street, groups of women sit to buy fans andmantillas. Making purchases is a delightful game, in which all Spanish women excel. They smile, and chatter, and use their fans, bargaining with delicious grace, while the salesman, cigarette in hand, shrugs his shoulders and gesticulates.
“But themantillais dear, señor.”
He throws out his hands in protest.
“No, señorita; I am giving it away at tenpesetas.”
“Is the quality good?” and she raises her eyebrows in bewitching incredulity.
“As good as God’s blessing.”
And with mutual smiles and salutations the purchase is made.
Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada
It is in the Paseo de las Delicias—the name will tell you of the beauty of this park, with its orange-groves, hedges of blue aloes,and all manner of tropical trees and flowers—that the ladies of Seville drive and promenade each afternoon. Themajoscast languishing glances upon them as they walk to and fro, and compliments are given: “Oh, Jesus, what an air!” “Happy is the mother that bore thee!” “Your eyes are as runaway stars that would rather shine in your face than in the heavens!”
TheSevillanassmile and chatter together; this play of love is a part of the accustomed homage which is their due.
There is a fascination about Spanish women not easy to define. Many of them are not beautiful, but they are always graceful, and they all walk beautifully. Then, most of them have the soft, expressive eyes which the East has bequeathed to Spain. There is a quality and certain finish about them which is unique; each one looks as if she understood that she was a woman, and was very glad that this was so. Perhaps this is why they are so attractive; this is the reason, too, why the old women are sogood-humoured, smiling, and gay. The indefinite unquietness that so often characterizes English and American women is entirely absent. These Spanish señoras, for their happiness, have kept the pagan content.
A group of workers in a “patio” at Seville
Much of what is characteristic of the home life of the Sevillians may be gathered from the arrangement of their houses. They are all—the houses of the poor as well as those of the rich citizens—built around thepatio, or shaded court, where palms, myrtles, pomegranates, and jasmines grow, and the singing of caged birds mingles with the sound of the playing fountains. Into thispatioall the windows of the house open and the rooms lead. The doors are of open ironwork—no two doors are alike—and often, even in the small houses, the grating is of exquisite workmanship. One door, which also has an openreja, or grating, leads into the street. It is in thesepatiosthat the Sevillians spend their lives, and this throwing open of their homes to the gaze of all who pass in the streets is exactly characteristic of this simple,happy people. Every afternoon and evening the youth of the family laugh and sing and dance to the rattle of the castanets. It is against therejasthat the lovers stand at night and sing their serenades, and so persistent is their patience that they have gained the title of “iron-eaters.” All Andalusians are musical; even the beggar thrums his guitar, which he will not part with for bread; to him music is a necessity, and bread a luxury with which he can dispense.
The Andalusian’s leisure is a perpetual source of delight. What impresses the serious foreigner, who is so fortunate as to become an inmate of a Sevillian home, is the mirth and courtesy of the family, who all seem to enjoy endless leisure. Spanish households have a pleasantness quite their own. The men are never preoccupied with business; smoking cigarettes, they will pass hours chattering to the women of the family, who spend the greater part of the day working their beautiful embroideries. Few books are read, and talking is the chief occupation.No people can talk like the Spaniards, and the excitement is so spontaneous that often the conversation is carried on far into the night. The slightest incident gains a poetic vividness from their dramatic telling. Cigarette-smoking and talking are the only indulgences which the Sevillians carry to excess.
In their home life there is a love of visiting and a love of receiving visitors.Tertulias, or parties, are frequent. But a Spanish party differs materially from an English, in so far as there are no refreshments—if we except the glasses of pure water and plate ofazucarillosto sweeten the water, which are placed upon a side-table. This is an instance of the sobriety of the Sevillians. The guests dance and sing and talk incessantly, and are perfectly satisfied to enjoy themselves without eating.
The Spaniards are good hosts; the exquisite politeness which is natural to them, even to those of the very lowest classes, causes them to lay themselves out toentertain; boredom would seem to be unknown to the native host and hostess. They make a pleasure of the slightest social intercourse. I recall one occasion in Seville, when I asked permission to enter the house of a poor woman in the Macarena quarter, in order that my artist friend might make a drawing from her balcony of a building of which a satisfactory view could not be obtained in the street.
“My house is yours, señoras; make whatsoever use of it you will,” was her answer to my request. And during the hours that my friend was at work she put aside her occupations—she was aplanchadora, and was ironing with her assistants on our entrance—and gave herself up solely to help and entertain us. Arefrescowas brought to us;calientes, the twisted doughnuts which are made in every Andalusian house, were fried for us. Nor would she consent to receive the payment which we, with our foreign stupidity, offered to her on our departure. No, the kindly, cheerywoman did not understand payment for hospitality.
But it is during the days of festival at Easter and theFeriathat the fine hospitality of the Sevillians is seen at its best. The houses are filled to overflowing, and hospitality is taxed to a degree that only the most perfect courtesy and good-nature could endure. Every corner is received with a chorus of welcome, and embraced like a brother. Beds are surrendered, even sofas are given up, and as fresh strangers arrive, unable to gain accommodation in the crowded inns, mattresses, pillows, and rugs are brought out of cupboards, and beds are made upon the floor. All the members of the family, and even the tired servants, who are always joyously ready to help, sit up, because there is literallynowherefor them to sleep. The difficulty of obtaining provisions in these seasons of festivity is very great: the butcher cannot provide meat; even bread is hard to buy. But the señora of the house is never troubled; she tells you her woes, and thengoes smiling to frycalientesand prepare other delicacies for the refreshment of her guests. The constant Spanish courtesy never fails, and the foreigner who happily chances among this crowded joyous party can but wonder.
“Las Planchadoras” (laundresses) at work, Seville
Madrid: its Situation—The Old Town—The Rastro—The New Town—The Puerta del Sol—Cafés—TheAguadores—The Prado Park—The Theatre—Spanish Children—The Museums—The Picture-galleries.
The contrast is great from Seville to Madrid, which is less distinctly Spanish than any city in the Peninsula. The royal capital, established by the decree of Philip II., has the appearance of an accidental growth on the harsh Castilian slopes. The climate is the worst of any town in Spain. Madrid suffers all the oppressions of the sky—baked by fierce summer suns, and chilled by the ice of treacherous winds. In point of distance it is only some twenty leagues, in one direction, from Toledo, and in the other from beautifulAvila; but in its life it is separated by centuries from the old Spanish cities. It is the strangest transformation to come from them into the eager, bustling life of the modern capital. There are no antiquities here, no great memories, no romance, nothing but what the people and the natural brightness in the air give to it.
The Throne-Room, Royal Palace, Madrid
To stay in Madrid is to undergo the most absorbing fatigue. The Madrileño lives with a speed that in Spain startles. The city never sleeps, never stays its chatter; its inhabitants are apparently so full of business that they turn day into night, yet no one seems to work. It thus comes about that the lover of Spain, who has become used to the untroubled content of happy Seville or the sleeping peace of Cordova and Toledo, can with difficulty find himself at home in Madrid.
Madrid is a city of contrasts. Treasures of art abound in its museum, yet of all cities it is surely the least influenced by the spirit of beauty and design. Its splendid bridge whichgives entrance to the city has been ridiculed with the question, “Where is the river?” It misses all charm of environment; the city has no suburbs, and the country around is barren and without trees and verdure. Yet the Madrileños cannot be persuaded that any other city is its equal. It is a capital in transition of a country in transition, and as such it must be regarded.
The Rastro Market, Madrid
The old part of the town, such as the Rastro and surrounding narrow streets, where on each Sunday is held the market, the largest rag-fair in the world, still bring one a sensation of living in the Middle Ages. The wares are laid out in most primitive fashion in the narrow streets in great piles; all kinds of antiquities are sold, as well as clothes and wonderful peasant jewellery. The low stalls are piled up with flowers, fruits, and vegetables, of all colours, in confused abundance. Women and girls stand in groups of twos or threes, or sit beside their wares, bundled in bright-coloured shawls, and all with kerchiefed heads. They talk incessantly; they do notseem to care whether their goods are sold or not, but they chaffer noisily over every sale. Some of the women have perfectly-shaped faces with magnetic eyes that recall the East. It was here once that I saw amanola, beautifully attired with a whitemantilla, silk shoes, gaily coloured dress and jewellery. She reminded me of Goya’s pictures.
Fine savage old men in tattered cloaks wander on the outskirts of the market asking alms, and beautiful, bewitching children play their games unchecked.
But the Rastro is not the real Madrid. The modern town, with its aspect of a city still in the making, so that one thinks not so much of what it is as of what it may become, has grown up in the image of Paris, with boulevards, wide streets, tall characterless houses and modish shops. It is to be feared that this new Madrid will overgrow all that is left of the old city.
The Madrileños spend their lives in the streets and squares, almost all of which are wide, clean, and well paved. The houses areornamented with balconies, the first of which, supported by pillars, forms in many parts of the city a piazza where the inhabitants may walk under cover. The Puerta del Sol, the largest and most animatedplaza, and the centre of Madrid, is the rendezvous of the idlers of the city. From eight o’clock in the morning, and far into the night, it is thronged with groups of men wrapped in their cloaks, which they wear to protect them from the treacherous winds that sweep the city even in summer. Furnished with several dozen cigarettes and coppers forazúcarand water, they pass the hours in endless talking. Politics form the chief subject of conversation, and the progressive element in Spanish society discusses here.
Most of thecafésare in this quarter, and they are always filled. They are less attractive in their outside appearance than thecafésof Seville, but the refreshments served are excellent. The Madrileños, like all Spaniards, drink more water than wine. In every street andpaseoyou see thepicturesqueaguadore, with hiscántaroof white or brown clay and reed basket, containing glasses, sticks ofazucarillos, and oranges or limes. He has not changed from the day when Velazquez painted him; he still wears a loose jacket of snuff-coloured cloth, breeches, leather gaiters, and a peaked hat.
Perhaps it is the climate which causes the Madrileños always to suffer thirst. Thebebidas heladas, or iced drinks, flavoured with orange, lemon, strawberry, cherries, or almond, which are sold in everycafé, are far superior to any English or American beverages. Spanish preserves also deserve to be mentioned, and there is one variety, known by the name “angel’s hair,”cabello de angel, which is delicious.
Madrid is so much a modern city that at first the stranger hardly realizes how pleasantly its inhabitants live. It is most fortunately rich in well-shaded parks and beautiful green promenades.
The Prado is the evening gathering-place of the fashionable Madrileños, and thetree-shaded promenade, from seven o’clock onwards, affords the most animated sight. An astonishing number of people collect here. In the crossways which intersect the carriage-drive, all the families of the city walk to enjoy the cool of the evening. The Madrileños are seen at their finest here. Themajos, resembling plates of fashion in their tight, faultless clothes, stand about in groups admiring the ladies who roll past in landaus, for carriages are essential to fashionable Madrid. Some of the men ride the splendid Andalusian horses; with manes, long sweeping tails, and gay trappings, like the horses that Velazquez painted. The Madrileñas have adopted the costumes of Paris, and in fashionable attire Spanish women always look badly dressed. Themantillais, however, worn by most women, and even a plain face looks beautiful in this fascinating head-dress. Like all Spanish women, each Madrileña carries a fan, which is held open as a parasol to give shade from the sun. A woman without a fan is unknown, and there is something trulySpanish in the use these vivid, bewitching women make of them. The Madrileña collects fans as an English lady collects jewels; she will often own more than a hundred of various colours and patterns.
Mounting guard in the Plaza De Armas, Royal Palace, Madrid
During summer this outdoor parade in the Prado is in gay career until midnight; and as the night advances the promenades are full of gay noise. There are open-air concerts, and dancing takes place upon the open spaces of grass. Around the stalls of therefrescosellers, families are seated talking gaily together. The greatest animation prevails. The Madrileños never seem to be tired. The abandonment to happiness is contagious, and the stranger will gain a sense of the joy of life as he sees the ardent faces of men, women, and children, in whom mirth is never vulgar, but as natural as speech.
In the winter season the Madrileños visit the theatre, which every Spaniard adores. Gautier writes that “long before Shakespeare the Spaniards invented the drama.” Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuriesproduced an almost countless number of dramatic works, and a passion for the drama still animates the people. Spanish women, as we should expect, are first-rate actresses; they mark all shades of character with appreciation and fine delicacy. It is interesting to note that it was in Spain that women first played women’s parts, which in England at the same period were entrusted to boys.
The Teatro Real at Madrid is devoted to Italian opera, but at the more popular Teatro Español, where La Guerrero, the Bernhardt of Spain holds sway, there is an opportunity of witnessing the native dramas of Zorilla, Hartzenbusch, and Tirso de Molina, or the modern society plays of Echegaray and Galdos. Thesainete, which takes the place of our “curtain-raiser,” is usually comic, and those that are most popular are adapted from the farces of Cervantes and Lope de Rueda.
Even in the heat of summer the Madrileños visit the theatres, but at this season theperformances are limited to the popularzarzuelas, operettas, four of which are given in each evening.
Spanish children share the love of the theatre which belongs to their elders. At the afternoon performances, which are given on every Sunday andfiestas, half the house is occupied by child ticket-holders, whose interest in the action of the piece is astonishing. They applaud with cries of “bonito”; they ask questions, and the house is never still for a single instant.
Spanish children are already grown up when quite young, but they are the most fascinating little people, at the same time natural and self-conscious, with a sort of precocious winsomeness. Their bodies are so full of energy that they give an impression of more vivid life than the children of Northern countries.
Nowhere are children happier and more loved than in Spain; theniñosare the idols of their parents, and are universally treated with indulgence. Yet the Spanish child isnot spoilt, and the obedient spirit is never lacking. Even the poorest child is taught to practise those courtesies of life which in Spain are never forgotten. Ask a child his name, and after the answer he will always add, “at the service of God and yourself.” No child forgets the “mil gracias” with which a benefit is accepted. I recall a small boy of peasant parentage who acted as my guide upon one occasion, and who, when asked what gift he would like for his service, answered: “I shall like best, señora, what pleases you most to give me.” Even in the prayer which Spanish children offer at night you find an expression of this quaint, delicious politeness:
“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,Your little servant keep,While,with your kind permission,I lay me down to sleep.”
“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,Your little servant keep,While,with your kind permission,I lay me down to sleep.”
Those who have taught Spanish children all praise their intelligence. During the first twelve years of life both girls and boys develop more rapidly than other European children.
Children at play in the park of the Buen Retiro, Madrid
This precocious understanding is manifest in their games. Go to the great park of the Buen Retiro, where during each afternoon the young Madrileños are busy with their plays of bull-fighting, politics, and flirtations. The children are attended by their nurses, who most frequently are thepasiegasfrom Santander, who wear the charming national costumes of a pleated red petticoat with silver-lace border, velvet bodice, and brightly coloured handkerchief as head-dress.
Al torois the favourite game. Theniños, using a mask for the bull and the capes of red and yellow which are sold on the stalls, go through the whole pantomime of the bull-ring with a vivid and quite grown-up delight in the sharp appeal made to their sensations. Another group play at soldiers, armed with sticks for swords and holding a great flag. Other children, a little older, pass the time in flirtations. The boys pay the extravagant Spanish compliments to little girls, or in the wooded groves they sing the native melodies to the answering songs of the nightingales.
I talked with one young singer, who told me he had reached his fifteenth year, and already was betrothed. I asked him if he were not too young. “No, señora,” was his answer; “God is good, and my parents have money to maintain us.” Afterwards he took up his song, that had something wild and Oriental in its passionate notes.
Among the excellences of Madrid must be counted her Museums. The Armeria with its fine collection of arms and weapons, the Museo Naval, and the Museo Arqueologico, furnish effective mementoes of the entire tragedy of Spain’s history. Of her art galleries who can say praise enough? It is only in Madrid that it is possible to realize, to the full extent of their gifts and limitations, the artists of Spain. The Academia de Bellas Artes and the Museo de Arte Moderno are rich in pictures. And it is to see the Museo del Prado that the stranger visits Madrid; no picture-gallery in the world contains a more wonderful collection of masterpieces.
It is a splendid art inheritance that isenshrined in the Prado. Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was closely connected with the countries that were then the centres of art. The Catholic Sovereigns had a fine taste for pictures, and to them we owe largely the collection of the great works which, after the pictures of Velazquez, are the glory of the Prado.
The building, of pale brick and white stone, placed in a tree-shaded park, is well designed, and on the whole well lighted. Externally it is a model of what a picture-gallery should be. A bronze statue of Velazquez stands before the entrance. This is fitting. The Prado is in a very special way the home of Velazquez. No other nation has been so supremely fortunate in preserving almost intact the work of her greatest painter. No picture is wanting to the complete understanding of his exquisite art.
In the Prado there are masterpieces by the world’s great painters—by Titian, by Rubens, by Raphael, by Albrecht Dürer, by Holbein, and how many others? Buteven in the presence of these masters we seek Velazquez. Here, too, Goya astonishes us with his vigorous and wonderful art; there are admirable paintings by El Greco, by Ribera, by Murillo; but we can see nothing but Velazquez. And the emotion of first seeing these pictures is one of awe. We are not in the presence of an Old Master, but of a painter who in his perfect art forestalled every modern movement in painting. This is why Velazquez stands alone among artists. And the lover of art journeys to the Prado that he may study his pictures, as the pilgrim journeys to the shrine of his saint.
Life in a SpanishPosada—Spanish Peasants—The Toilers of the Field and other Workers—TheCigarrerasof Seville—TheKermessein the Esclava Gardens—The Love of Festivals—Easter Day in a Spanish Village—Third-class Travelling—Wild Life in Spain—Fishing in the Country Districts.
To know Spain it is not enough to visit the towns. It is when the stranger leaves the beaten tracks of travel, and goes to the country districts, where the outcome of modern progress is still unknown, that he sees the life of ancient Spain almost unchanged. I know of no experience more necessary to the understanding of the country and its people than a lengthened stay in a villageposada. The life, indeed, will be hard in many ways, and it will be wise forthe stranger to cultivate the stoicism and indifference to personal comfort that characterize the Spaniards themselves; but the experience is excellent, and the people you meet are charming in their kindness and perfect courtesy.
Theposadais thecasa huéspedes, or house of hospitality for the neighbourhood. The title is no misnomer, but stands for what the villageposadatruly is. To stay there is to find a new meaning in the word “hospitality”; it is to know willing service, restrained by the fine Spanish courtesy from offensive attention.
A bridge and country homes in the mountains of Northern Spain
It is more than probable that the first sight of theposadamay disturb the stranger. It is built with a spacious vestibule. On one side of the stone staircase, which gives entrance to the upstairs living-rooms, is a dark wineshop, where the men of the village foregather to talk and drink the black native wine; while the other side serves as the stable, in which the mules, donkeys, oxen, and other animals belonging to thehouse, have their home. Many odours cling about the dark staircase; the scent of closely packed animals mingles with that of garlic, while the air reeks with the fumes of rancidaceite, or oil—the never-to-be-forgotten smell that belongs to everyposada. The noise in the vestibule is deafening and incessant; the men talk in loud voices which are piercingly vibrant and metallic. Cackling hens, with maybe a fat black pig or little woolly lamb, block the way as one climbs the staircase to the living-room.
This room is bare, but never dirty; the filth which I had been led to expect from my experience of some of the smaller inns in the towns does not exist in the villageposadas. The large windows open on to wooden balconies which look out on to the tree-shadedplaza. The walls are freshly whitewashed, and the bare boards of the floor are scrubbed to snowy whiteness by their daily scouring with sand; the curtains, too, when there are any, are always white. Sometimes a few highly coloured and amazing religiousprints in black frames hang upon the walls, but, fortunately, more often they are bare. The furniture is of the simplest description—a large table, bare of any cloth, that fills most of the room, wooden chairs and a Spanish press, a great cupboard which holds the linen of the family. The beds are placed in small alcoves which lead out of the living-rooms; and these beds are always comfortable, with spotless linen, embroidered, lace-trimmed, and brought from the lavender-scented chest. There is no fireplace in the living-room, and if, as often chances in winter and early spring, the weather is cold, the only heat is gained from thebrasero, whose charcoal ashes give the very faintest glow of warmth. The Spaniards accept cold without murmur; they wrap themselves in their cloaks, and wait till God sends out the sun.
The Village Posada at Matarosa
Theposadais ruled by the señora. She sways a rod of iron over her husband, relatives, servants, guests, and the arrangements of the house, being full of energy and the vigour of character that is common toSpanish women even in old age. She is the characteristic type of the Spanish woman of the people, her face a formidable mass of wrinkles;jamona, or stout in body, but of surprising agility; she is witty, smiling, and contented. From break of day until late evening she bustles about, shouting orders as she goes from one task to another, yet she seems never hurried, never overburdened. How happy she is if her efforts are appreciated and her guests enjoy the fare she has provided! how her face saddens and clouds if any dish is sent from the table uneaten. “Mas, mas!” (More, more!), is her constant cry as she enters the room at the beginning of every course to urge her guests to eat.
To have English visitors staying at her posada filled the good señora with pride. Her satisfaction reached its zenith when letters arrived from England. She was loath to yield them up. “The great English people will know of myposadanow,” she said on one occasion, pointing to the address in triumph. With comical humility sheasked that, in my goodness, I would give her the envelope. How well do I remember the joy with which she carried away the torn trophy!
Nothing was too good for these strangers who had come from a foreign land to stay at herposada. The best of everything the house contained was given up for our use, special food was cooked, and the village was ransacked to provide things fitting forlos Ingléses. On one occasion, when I had asked for a certain food not to be obtained in the neighbourhood, a messenger was sent on horseback twenty miles over the mountains to the nearest town to procure it. Nor was any payment allowed for the service. No, the English señora was her guest; she had asked for something, it was her duty to provide it. The trouble! the expense! she did not understand. In the old Spain service is not rendered for payment.
It is in the villages that one is best able to study the peasants and the gipsies. Sunday is thedia festivo, when the youths and maidens, dressed in the picturesque nativecostumes, dance and sing to the music of the village piper, who plays thedulzaina, a kind of clarionet. He marks the time by beating on a drum which is slung around his waist. The singing is the tuneless chanting heard so often in Spain, a kind of interminable dwelling on one piercing note, not beautiful to unaccustomed ears, but disturbing in its strange appeal, which so persistently recalls the East. The dances are danced by boys and girls and men and women grouped in couples of four or six. There is a great deal of movement; the hands keep time with the feet, playing castanets hung with bright-coloured ribbons.
In all parts of Spain there are gipsies, but it is in the districts of the south that the stranger will see them best, for there would seem to be a special affinity between the Andalusian and the gipsy character. The Gitanas and Gitanos live in communities, often in houses carved out of the mountain sides. It is among them that we find the most typical of the Spanish dancers. Dancingis a universal accomplishment, a part of life, in which every girl and boy takes his or her share.
A mediæval ox-cart, Province of Guipúzcoa
On one day in the week the market is held in every small town, on the open ground of theplaza, under the overspreading trees. Let us look at the market-place at Ampuero, a large village in the Basque province of Guipúzcoa. The whole ground space is filled with booths that are piled up with fruit and vegetables, with dress-stuffs, pots, water-jugs, furniture, and a medley of wares that give bright colour to the scene. Peasants from the surrounding hamlets have all come to buy and sell. They are dressed in the native costume—the men with theboina, or cap of dark blue wool, shaped like a Scotch tam-o’-shanter, short smock jackets, trousers of bright blue linen, and red or black body sashes; and the women with their many-coloured handkerchiefs of silk, bright skirts that are short and very wide, and still brighter blouses. The Spanish peasants have the delight in vivid colour that belongs to allprimitive and happy people.
The sellers and buyers stand about in groups talking in the ancient and mysterious Basque language, which once, as place-names prove, was spoken over the greater part of the Peninsula. All business is carried out in the vivid, primitive Spanish manner. And what impresses the stranger most is the courtesy and happy good-nature, which makes the universal bargaining a game enjoyed alike by buyer and seller.
In one corner of theplaza, under an archway, is a stone image, beneath which burns a sacred lamp, and always, as they pass, the men and women pause, cross themselves, and make a genuflection; religion is part of business. The mules and ox-carts stand at the outskirts of the plaza. The mules are shaved on the upper part of their bodies and their tails and ears, and have a curious appearance; they are thin and badly cared for, but this is hidden by their gay trappings. The ox-waggons are exceedingly primitive, and as each one arrives a hoarse and deafening noise pierces the air. The peasants leavethe wheels of the cart unoiled, and delight in the frightful music, which can be heard half a league away; they believe that the sound drives off demons. A peasant would not own a cart that did not “play.”
The Basques claim to be the oldest race in Europe; and it is now generally acknowledged that they represent the primitive Iberians of Berber stock, who form the fundamental population of all Spain. Many primitive customs survive among them, and one of the most interesting is that by which the eldest daughter in some districts takes precedence over the sons in inheritance. They are a people of the mountains, and to know the Basques you must live in their villages; even their one town, Bilbao, in spite of its industrial and commercial prosperity, is really an overgrown village more than a city. It offers a striking contrast to Barcelona, the other great Spanish seaport, and the most perfect example of a commercial city.
Harvesting wheat in the Basque Province of Guipúzcoa
To see the Basques at their finest youmust watch them in the fields, where the women work side by side with the men, and appear to have equal strength with them. They use a large and primitively-shaped fork on which both feet are placed to force the implement into the ground, and the work is carried out with surprising rapidity.
Great flocks of sheep are reared in Spain, especially in Estremadura; each flock belonging to one proprietor is called acabaña, and many contain 50,000 sheep. The shepherd who guards thecabañais one of the most constant figures in the country districts. A million arrobes of wool—an arrobe is about 25 pounds—are said to be obtained in each year, and the wool is famed throughout Europe. Although manufactures are not extensively developed, I have seen cloth made at Guadalajara that for beauty of colour and quality would compare favourably with the manufactures of England or France. It is worth noting that in some manufactories it is the custom to set aside a portion of the wool to be sold for the benefit of souls inpurgatory—an instance of how in Spain religion is connected with everything.
The most important industries of Spain are wine-making and fruit-growing. The country makes all the common wines for her own consumption, and the brandies, rich wines, and fruits exported form a considerable source of wealth. Many thousands of men, women, and children, are employed in these industries. At Seville and other towns in the south, the women pick the oranges ready to be taken to the ships. Great heaps of golden fruit line the groves, which are afterwards sorted, the better fruit being wrapped in paper before it is packed.
One of the oldest industries is pottery. Thejarro, or earthen pots used for water, are made of white or red clay, unglazed, and very beautiful in shape. Thejarroare sold by women in the markets of the towns for a few reales—that is to say, about five or six English pence.
An orange-picker, Seville
Spanish workers are universally poor, receiving wages so low that it is surprisinghow they live. But they are thrifty and sober, while their needs are simple, and their hardships are mitigated in some measure by the fact that almost all industries are carried on out of doors. In the streets of the towns you see men and women at work at the edge of pavements, making and mending boots, working sewing-machines, preparing leather goods, ironware, and other commodities. The shops and small manufactories are open to the street; you can see the occupants within making ropes and baskets, saddlebags, brushes, and a variety of wares. What impressed me was that these workers always looked happy.
Women play an important part in the life of workaday Spain, and the splendid types of these women workers make the foreigner think deeply. They are full of energy and vigour even in old age. They work as well as the men in the fields, turning the soil with forks, training the vines, and garnering the grapes and chestnuts. I have seen women carrying immense burdens,unloading boats, acting as porters, removing household furniture. I saw one woman with a chest of drawers easily poised upon her head; another, who was quite old, carried a bedstead. A beautiful woman porter in one village carried our heavy luggage, running with it on bare feet, without sign of effort. For what surprised me most was that, in spite of hard physical labour, these women are beautiful. They are always happy and contented; in their faces, and especially in their eyes, is that indescribable expression, the wonderful smile of Spanish women.
A visit to thefábrica de tabacosat Seville will show the stranger a charming scene of labour. The rooms of the factory are large, and, although low, are airy. They open into outer courts, and the great chambers, supported by pillars, resemble a church. Each room has its altar, which is decorated with flowers and offerings. As the workers pass they cross themselves, and never fail to make the customarygenuflection. Yet, with the easy familiarity which is the special feature of the Spaniard’s religion, they will often place their outer garments upon the altar. Thecigarrerasare deeply religious, and at a recent Easter festival one of thepasosof the Virgin was presented with a splendid new mantle at a cost of 9,000 dollars, for the purchase of which the 7,000 workers had each contributed twocentimosa week during the preceding year.
Thecigarreras, in brightly coloured costumes, sit at work makingpolvo de Sevillaandtabaco de fraile. A skilful worker can easily accomplish tenatados, or bundles of fifty cigars, daily. The murmur of conversation never ceases; talking seems to aid the Spaniards in work. Many of the women have their babies with them, whom they tend in the intervals of work; children a little older play happily together in groups. It is enough to have seen these smiling, contented, industrious women to know that life is happy to most women in Spain.
TheKermesse, which is held each year in the Esclava Gardens, is the festival of thecigarreras; it is a kind of fair. The stalls and booths, where every variety of wares are sold, are presided over by thecigarreras, dressed in the beautiful Andalusian attire. They chaffer over every sale, but they do not seek customers, and appear to be more occupied in talking than in selling their goods. All day long the gardens are full of gay noise. The women pass to and fro; some sit on seats, some rest upon the grass under the trees. In the centre of the gardens a platform is erected, where in turn the women dance thesevillanasand other dances with charming spontaneous enjoyment. The sound of castanets and clapping of hands never ceases; the talking is deafening. Sometimes there is a quarrel, but this is rare. There is a natural refinement in these women, and because they are really happy they have no need of riot to convince themselves that life is pleasant.
Pottery vendors in a Spanish Market
Their love of festivals is shared by allSpaniards, and everywhere holiday-making is a part of life. In the country districts, as in the towns, thePascua de Resurrecciónof Easter is the most popular festival, when the days are spent in a curious combination of religious ceremonial and holiday-making.
It was my good fortune to spend one Easter in a mountain village, where I had an opportunity of seeing the customs of the people of old Spain. On Palm Sunday the village was filled to overflowing with peasants, many of whom had travelled long distances, riding on mules or driving in the wooden ox-carts, from the hamlets among the mountains. They were dressed in the native costumes. The men wore velvet breeches adorned with silver buttons, and leather gaiters, open to show the calves; bright sashes of red or yellow silk; jackets of brown cloth, with embroidered cuffs and collars; blue or maroon cloaks, brightly lined; and pointed hats, adorned with silver tassels. The fantastic dress gave the scene an aspect more African than European.The women were not so gay, and were almost universally attired in black; but themantillawith the white flower, which all wore, gave them an incomparable grace. All day the streets were filled with bustle and life. Vendors of palms were stationed in every corner selling their wares, while boys ran to and fro among the crowds with arms full of olive branches.
The great function was the procession, when thepasoswere carried through the streets after the celebration of Mass. In theplazaa stand had been erected, and every seat was filled; people crowded the pavements, and in the balconies of every house men and women were closely packed. The gendarmes of the little town walked first, marching gravely, the representatives of law and order; then followed the children, clad in white, and bearing the consecrated palms and olive branches; while after them came the priests, dressed in robes richly embroidered and trimmed with lace. Upon the shoulders of hidden bearers was carried the litter,illuminated with hundreds of candles, upon which rested the figure of the Virgin, the patron saint of the village. The image was hideous, quite without beauty, and decked out in cheap tawdry finery, strangely incongruous. But to the peasants she was the Mother of God. I saw no sign of levity; the attitude of the men as well as of the women was perfectly dignified, perfectly religious. All eyes were riveted upon the sacred figure, heads were bared, and each man and woman bowed and made the sign of the cross as the lighted litter passed. Prayers were murmured and blessings invoked. “Holy Mother, cause the crops to ripen,” “the sick child to be healed,” “the lover’s heart to soften”—such were the cries of the women. Children pressed forward, dodging unchecked among the gendarmes and priests, clamouring for a blessing. One smallniñaknelt upon the pavement in front of thepasos, holding up a white carnation in offering. A priest stepped forward, took the flower, and placed it upon the litter.
To the children of the village the Easter days brought special enjoyment. The part they played in the festival was a strange one, giving an example of the old-world customs that live so persistently in Spain. On theViernes Santo, or Good Friday, each boy and girl went to church armed with a horn and large wooden clapper, upon which strange instruments they played to frighten the spirit of the traitor Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Señor Dios, the name by which they quaintly designate the Saviour. They blew and rattled with a will, and the hideous, deafening noise mingled strangely with the music of the Mass, for the evil spirit must not escape. Incomprehensible survival of an old superstition, blending the grotesque with the most sacred service of the Church—how often the stranger is surprised in Spain!
A Basque peasant-girl driving an ox-cart
The Spaniards are more friendly with one another than any people that I know. The stranger will realize this travelling in the third-class trains, as he must in the country districts, where the expresses do not stop.These trains are known asmixto, and convey luggage as well as passengers. The carriages are uncomfortable, and not always clean, and the speed is very slow. Patience is a quality that the visitor to Spain must cultivate. The train may start before the advertised time; it may be an hour late. No Spaniard is disturbed by such trifles. At the stations there is always a crowd of people waiting. There is a kind of fatalistic patience in their appearance; they seem not so much to be waiting for a particular train, as hoping that presently a train will come that will take them to their destination. Even when the train arrives there is no hurrying; a start will not be made until everyone is ready, for punctuality is a small virtue compared with politeness. The long-drawn cry ofA-a-gua fresco! is always heard. Much time is occupied, as everyone in the train seems to want to drink.
In the carriages the company talk together with excessive volubility, and have the appearance of being members of one family.As soon as you enter questions will be asked. “Where are you going to?” “Are you Francéses or Ingléses?” “Why have you come to visit their country?” “Are you married, and is the señor who is with you your husband?” “How many children have you?” “How old are you?” “Why do you wear a hat, and not amantilla?” “And how is it you have no earrings and no fan?” You will soon become accustomed to this interrogation, which is made with no hint of familiarity, and is the outcome of a friendliness that wishes to make the stranger at home.
The natives seem to be without a thought of themselves, and incapable of considering personal comfort. They will crowd upon one seat of the carriage to give the English strangers more room. If the weather is cold, they will insist upon giving you their cloaks. They talk to you incessantly, explaining to you the scenery and various places through which the train passes, with delightful childish enthusiasm. They will offer you everything intheir possession that you chance to admire.
Sherry a half-century old, Jerez
I remember saying to a little Spanish maid, “What a beautiful carnation in your hair!” Off came the flower. “It is at your disposal, señora.” I protested with the fitting answer: “A thousand thanks, but, no, I could not accept.” But the offer was quite sincere, and, in spite of protest, the flower was fastened into my hair, amidst the compliments and congratulations of every occupant of the carriage. On another journey a fan and a beautiful peasant brooch, which I rashly admired, were pressed upon me with the same delightful politeness.
When meal-time arrives, each peasant brings out thealforja, or embroidered wallet, which Sancho Panza kept so well filled. A huge Spanish loaf is produced, and some of the long thin garlic sausages. Slices of the bread are cut to serve as plates. But before the meal is begun a heartygustainvites all the other occupants to share in the feast. It is customary at this stage to refuse, and “Muchas gracias” ispolitely murmured. Soon the black-leather wine-bottle is brought out of the wallet and a packet of some kind of sweetmeat. Now is the time for acceptance; the bottle is handed round for everyone to drink, and small pieces of the sweetmeat are divided. It is a charming experience, provided that you have acquired the skill to drink from that curious long-spouted bottle of leather. And if you fail, the Spaniards will enjoy the task of teaching you the art.
But, indeed, there is no limit to the helpful friendliness of these simple happy people. On one occasion a workman abandoned his own journey, and, in spite of our protests, came with us. When we arrived at our destination, he spent several hours in assisting us to find suitable lodgings in the village in which we had planned to stay, where there was no regular house of hospitality. He introduced us to the inhabitants of the place as his friends, and expended much energy to insure our comfort. It is only when work is profitable that the Spaniard is ever lazy.He delights to expend an immense amount of effort, which may not be considered useful, so long as the work makes appeal to his Spanish love of romantic effects. It is because this trait is so often overlooked by the stranger, who too quickly condemns “the lazy Spaniards,” that I recount this characteristic incident. Our friend was genuinely surprised when we offered payment for his services; there was a note of dignified sorrow in the “Muchas gracias” of his refusal. It had been a privilege to assistlos Ingléses, whom he admired. Had he not once visited our country? We were a great people. He desired that we should think well of his country. All he would accept was to share our meal, after which he left us—I suppose, to continue his own journey.
Among the mountains and in many country districts there are still no railways. The stranger who travels here has to use the diligences, which on certain days in the week run from the nearest town to the outlying hamlets. The diligence is a kind ofcoach without springs. I know of no other conveyance so uncomfortable, except the long car of Ireland. It is drawn by a team of gaunt mules, usually six in number, with gay harness, and each animal has jangling bells around its neck. The driver wears a picturesque dress: a brown jacket with coloured collar, a red sash and knee-breeches, and a peaked hat adorned with tassels. He drives with a tremendous amount of noise, stamping his feet, shouting, and brandishing his whip. He beats incessantly the wretched mules. The coach is kept at full gallop, and ascends and descends the steep hills with a rapidity which is often alarming; but accidents are rare, owing to the sure-footedness of the mules.