THE LAND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN

SKETCHES AND IMPRESSIONS IN ANDALUSIA

BY

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

(WITH FRONTISPIECE)

LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN

MCMV

_All rights reserved_

[Illustration]

TO

VIOLET HUNT

Contents

I. The Spirit of Andalusia

II. The Churches of Ronda

III. Ronda

IV. The Swineherd

V. Medinat Az-Zahra

VI. The Mosque

VII. The Court of Oranges

VIII. Cordova

IX. The Bridge of Calahorra

X. Puerta del Puente

XI. Seville

XII. The Alcazar

XIII. Calle de las Sierpes

XIV. Characteristics

XV. Don Juan Tenorio

XVI. Women of Andalusia

XVII. The Dance

XVIII. A Feast Day

XIX. The Giralda

XX. The Cathedral of Seville

XXI. The Hospital of Charity

XXII. Gaol

XXIII. Before the Bull-Fight

XXIV. Corrida de Toros--I. 

XXV. Corrida de Toros--II

XXVI. On Horseback

XXVII. By the Road--I. 

XXVIII. By the Road--II. 

XXIX. Ecija

XXX. Wind and Storm

XXXI. Two Villages

XXXII. Granada

XXXIII. The Alhambra

XXXIV. Boabdil the Unlucky

XXXV. Los Pobres

XXXVI. The Song

XXXVII. Jerez

XXXVIII. Cadiz

XXXIX. El Genero Chico

XL. Adios

I

[Sidenote: The Spirit of Andalusia]

After one has left a country it is interesting to collect together theemotions it has given in an effort to define its particular character. And with Andalusia the attempt is especially fascinating, for it is aland of contrasts in which work upon one another, diversely, a hundredinfluences. 

In London now, as I write, the rain of an English April pours down; thesky is leaden and cold, the houses in front of me are almost terrible intheir monotonous greyness, the slate roofs are shining with the wet. Nowand again people pass: a woman of the slums in a dirty apron, her headwrapped in a grey shawl; two girls in waterproofs, trim and alertnotwithstanding the inclement weather, one with a music-case under herarm. A train arrives at an underground station and a score of city folkcross my window, sheltered behind their umbrellas; and two or threegroups of workmen, silently, smoking short pipes: they walk with a dull, heavy tramp, with the gait of strong men who are very tired. Still therain pours down unceasing. 

And I think of Andalusia. My mind is suddenly ablaze with its sunshine, with its opulent colour, luminous and soft; I think of the cities, thewhite cities bathed in light; of the desolate wastes of sand, with theirdwarf palms, the broom in flower. And in my ears I hear the twang of theguitar, the rhythmical clapping of hands and the castanets, as two girlsdance in the sunlight on a holiday. I see the crowds going to thebull-fight, intensely living, many-coloured. And a thousand scents arewafted across my memory; I remember the cloudless nights, the silence ofsleeping towns, and the silence of desert country; I remember oldwhitewashed taverns, and the perfumed wines of Malaga, of Jerez, and ofManzanilla. (The rain pours down without stay in oblique long lines, thelight is quickly failing, the street is sad and very cheerless. ) I feelon my shoulder the touch of dainty hands, of little hands with taperingfingers, and on my mouth the kisses of red lips, and I hear a joyouslaugh. I remember the voice that bade me farewell that last night inSeville, and the gleam of dark eyes and dark hair at the foot of thestairs, as I looked back from the gate. '_Feliz viage, mi Inglesito. _'

It was not love I felt for you, Rosarito; I wish it had been; but nowfar away, in the rain, I fancy, (oh no, not that I am at last in love, )but perhaps that I am just faintly enamoured--of your recollection. 

* * *

But these are all Spanish things, and more than half one's impressionsof Andalusia are connected with the Moors. Not only did they makeexquisite buildings, they moulded a whole people to their likeness; theAndalusian character is rich with Oriental traits; the houses, the modeof life, the very atmosphere is Moorish rather than Christian; to thisday the peasant at his plough sings the same quavering lament that sangthe Moor. And it is to the invaders that Spain as a country owes themagnificence of its golden age: it was contact with them that gave theSpaniards cultivation; it was the conflict of seven hundred years thatmade them the best soldiers in Europe, and masters of half the world. The long struggle caused that tension of spirit which led to theadventurous descent upon America, teaching recklessness of life and thefascination of unknown dangers; and it caused their downfall as it hadcaused their rise, for the religious element in the racial waroccasioned the most cruel bigotry that has existed on the face of theearth, so that the victors suffered as terribly as the vanquished. TheMoors, hounded out of Spain, took with them their arts andhandicrafts--as the Huguenots from France after the revocation of theEdict of Nantes--and though for a while the light of Spain burnt verybrightly, the light borrowed from Moordom, the oil jar was broken andthe lamp flickered out. 

* * *

In most countries there is one person in particular who seems to typifythe race, whose works are the synthesis, as it were, of an entirepeople. Bernini expressed in this manner a whole age of Italian society;and even now his spirit haunts you as you read the gorgeous sins ofRoman noblemen in the pages of Gabriele d'Annunzio. And Murillo, thoughthe expert not unjustly from their special point of view, see in him buta mediocre artist, in the same way is the very quintessence of SouthernSpain. Wielders of the brush, occupied chiefly with technique, are aptto discern little in an old master, save the craftsman; yet art is nomore than a link in the chain of life and cannot be sharply sunderedfrom the civilisation of which it is an outcome: even Velasquez, sanspeer, sans parallel, throws a curious light on the world of his day, andthe cleverest painters would find their knowledge and understanding ofthat great genius the fuller if they were acquainted with the plays ofLope de la Vega and the satires of Quevedo. Notwithstanding Murillo'sobvious faults, as you walk through the museum at Seville all Andalusiaappears before you. Nothing could be more characteristic than thereligious feeling of the many pictures, than the exuberant fancy andutter lack of idealisation: in the contrast between a Holy Family byMurillo and one by Perugino is all the difference between Spain andItaly. Murillo's Virgin is a peasant girl such as you may see in anyvillage round Seville on a feast-day; her emotions are purely human, andin her face is nothing more than the intense love of a mother for herchild. But the Italian shows a creature not of earth, an angelic maidwith almond eyes, oval of face: she has a strange air of unrealness, forher body is not of human flesh and blood, and she is linked with mankindonly by an infinite sadness; she seems to see already the Dolorous Way, and her eyes are heavy with countless unwept tears. 

One picture especially, that which the painter himself thought his bestwork, _Saint Thomas of Villanueva distributing Alms_, to my mind offersthe entire impression of that full life of Andalusia. In the splendourof mitre and of pastoral staff, in the sober magnificence ofarchitecture, is all the opulence of the Catholic Church; in the worn, patient, ascetic face of the saint is the mystic, fervid piety whichdistinguished so wonderfully the warlike and barbarous Spain of thesixteenth century; and lastly, in the beggars covered with sores, pale, starving, with their malodorous rags, you feel strangely the swarmingpoverty of the vast population, downtrodden and vivacious, which youread of in the picaresque novels of a later day. And these samecharacteristics, the deep religious feeling, the splendour, the poverty, the extreme sense of vigorous life, the discerning may find even nowamong the Andalusians for all the modern modes with which, as with coatsof London and bonnets of Paris, they have sought to liken themselves tothe rest of Europe. 

And the colours of Murillo's palette are the typical colours ofAndalusia, rich, hot, and deep--again contrasting with the enamelledbrilliance of the Umbrians. He seems to have charged his brush with thevery light and atmosphere of Seville; the country bathed in thesplendour of an August sun has just the luminous character, the hazinessof contour, which characterise the paintings of Murillo's latest manner. They say he adopted the style termed _vaporoso_ for greater rapidity ofexecution, but he cannot have lived all his life in that radiantatmosphere without being impregnated with it. In Andalusia there is aquality of the air which gives all things a limpid, brilliant softness, the sea of gold poured out upon them voluptuously rounds away theiroutlines; and one can well imagine that the master deemed it theculmination of his art when he painted with the same aureate effulgence, when he put on canvas those gorgeous tints and that exquisitemellowness. 

II

[Sidenote: The Churches of Ronda]

That necessity of realism which is, perhaps, the most conspicuous ofSpanish traits, shows itself nowhere more obviously than in mattersreligious. It is a very listless emotion that is satisfied with theshadow of the ideal; and the belief of the Andaluz is an intenselyliving thing, into which he throws himself with a vehemence thatrequires the nude and brutal fact. His saints must be fashioned afterhis own likeness, for he has small power of make-believe, and needs allmanner of substantial accessories to establish his faith. But then hetreats the images as living persons, and it never occurs to him to prayto the Saint in Paradise while kneeling before his presentment uponearth. The Spanish girl at the altar of _Mater Dolorosa_ prays to averitable woman, able to speak if so she wills, able to descend from thegolden shrine to comfort the devout worshipper. To her nothing is morereal than these Madonnas, with their dark eyes and their abundant hair:_Maria del Pilar_, who is Mary of the Fountain, _Maria del Rosario_, whois Mary of the Rosary, _Maria de los Dolores_, _Maria del Carmen_, _Maria de los Angeles_. And they wear magnificent gowns of brocade andof cloth-of-gold, mantles heavily embroidered, shoes, rings on theirfingers, rich jewels about their necks. 

In a little town like Ronda, so entirely apart from the world, poverty-stricken, this desire for realism makes a curiously strongimpression. The churches, coated with whitewash, are squalid, cold anddepressing; and at first sight the row of images looks nothing more thana somewhat vulgar exhibition of wax-work. But presently, as I lingered, the very poverty of it all touched me; and forgetting the grotesqueness, I perceived that some of the saints in their elaborate dresses werequite charming and graceful. In the church of _Santa Maria la Mayor_ wasa Saint Catherine in rich habiliments of red brocade, with a white_mantilla_ arranged as only a Spanish woman could arrange it. She mighthave been a young gentlewoman of fifty years back when costume was gayerthan nowadays, arrayed for a fashionable wedding or for a bull-fight. And in another church I saw a youthful Saint in priest's robes, acassock of black silk and a short surplice of exquisite lace; he held abunch of lilies in his hand and looked very gently, his lips almosttrembling to a smile. One can imagine that not to them would come thesuppliant with a heavy despair, they would be merely pained at theirhelplessness before the tears of the grief that kills and the woe ofmothers sorrowing for their sons. But when the black-eyed maiden kneltbefore the priest, courtly and debonair, begging him to send a husbandquickly, his lips surely would control themselves no longer, and hissmile would set the damsel's cheek a-blushing. And if a youth kneltbefore Saint Catherine in her dainty _mantilla_, and vowed his heart wasbreaking because his love gave him stony glances, she would look verygraciously upon him, so that his courage was restored, and he promisedher a silver heart as lovers in Greece made votive offerings toAphrodite. 

At the Church of the _Espirito Santo_, in a little chapel behind one ofthe transept altars, I saw, through a huge rococo frame of gilded wood, a _Maria de los Dolores_ that was almost terrifying in poignant realism. She wore a robe of black damask, which stood as if it were cast ofbronze in heavy, austere folds, a velvet cloak decorated with the oldlace known as _rose point d'Espagne_; and on her head a massive imperialdiadem, and a golden aureole. Seven candles burned before her; and atvespers, when the church was nearly dark, they threw a cold, sharp lightupon her countenance. Her eyes were in deep shadow, strangelymysterious, and they made the face, so small beneath the pompous crown, horribly life-like: you could not see the tears, but you felt they wereeyes which would never cease from weeping. 

I suppose it was all tawdry and vulgar and common, but a woman knelt infront of the Mother of Sorrows, praying, a poor woman in a ragged shawl;I heard a sob, and saw that she was weeping; she sought to restrainherself and in the effort a tremor passed through her body, and she drewthe shawl more closely round her. 

I walked away, and came presently to the most cruel of all these images. It was a _Pietà_. The Mother held on her knees the dead Son, looking inHis face, and it was a ghastly contrast between her royal array and Hisnaked body. She, too, wore the imperial crown, with its golden aureole, and her cloak was of damask embroidered with heavy gold. Her hair fellin curling abundance about her breast, and the sacristan told me it wasthe hair of a lady who had lost her husband and her only son. But thedead Christ was terrible, His face half hidden by the long straighthair, long as a woman's, and His body thin and all discoloured: from thewounds thick blood poured out, and their edges were swollen and red; thebroken knees, the feet and hands, were purple and green with thebeginning of putrefaction. 

III

[Sidenote: Ronda]

Ronda is set deep among the mountains between Algeciras and Seville;they hem it in on all sides, and it straggles up and down little hills, timidly, as though its presence were an affront to the wild rocks aroundit. The houses are huddled against the churches, which look like portlyhens squatting with ruffled feathers, while their chicks, for warmth, press up against them. It is very cold in Ronda. I saw it first quiteearly: over the town hung a grey mist shining in the sunlight, and themountains, opalescent in the morning glow, were so luminous that theyseemed hardly solid; they looked as if one could walk through them. Thepeople, covering their mouths in dread of a _pulmonia_, hastened by, closely muffled in long cloaks. As I passed the open doors I saw themstanding round the _brasero_, warming themselves; for fireplaces areunknown to Andalusia, the only means of heat being the _copa_, a roundbrass dish in which is placed burning charcoal. 

The height and the cold give Ronda a character which reminds one ofNorthern Spain; the roofs are quite steep, the houses low and small, built for warmth rather than, as in the rest of Andalusia, forcoolness. 

But the whitewash and the barred windows with their wooden lattice-work, remind you that you are in Moorish country, in the very heart of it; andRonda, indeed, figures in chronicles and in old ballads as a strongholdof the invaders. The temperature affects the habits of the people, eventheir appearance: there is no lounging about the squares or at the doorsof wine-shops, the streets are deserted and their great breadth makesthe emptiness more apparent. The first setters out of the town had noneed to make the ways narrow for the sake of shade, and they are, infact, so broad that the houses on either side might be laid on theirfaces, and there would still be room for the rapid stream which hurriesdown the middle. 

The conformation of a Spanish town, even though it lack museums and finebuildings, gives it an interest beyond that of most European places. TheMoorish design is always evident. That wise people laid out the streetsas was most convenient, tortuous and narrow at Cordova or broad as aking's highway in Ronda. The Moors stayed their time, and their hourstruck, and they went; the houses had fallen to decay and been more thanonce rebuilt. The Christians returned and Mahomet fled before theSaints; (it was no shame since they grossly out-numbered him;) themosque was made a church, and the houses as they fell were built again, but on the same foundations and in the same way. The streets haveremained as the Moors left them, the houses still are built round littlecourtyards--the _patio_--as the Moors built them; and the windows arebarred and latticed as of old, the better to protect beauty whose darkeyes flash too meaningly at wandering strangers, whose red lips are overready to break into a smile for the peace of an absent husband. 

* * *

After the busy clamour of Gibraltar, that ant-nest of a hundrednationalities, Ronda impresses you by its peculiar silence. The lack ofsound is the more noticeable in the frosty clearness of the atmosphere, and is only emphasised by an occasional cry that floats, from some vastdistance, along the air. The coldness, too, has pinched the features ofthe people, and they seem to grow old even earlier than in the rest ofAndalusia. Strapping fellows of thirty with slim figures and a youthfulair have the faces of elderly men, and their skin is hard, stained andfurrowed. The women, ageing as rapidly, have no gaiety. If Spanish girlshave frequently a beautiful youth, their age too often is atrocious: itis inconceivable that a handsome woman should become so fearful a hag;the luxuriant hair is lost, and she takes no pains to conceal her greybaldness, the eye loses its light, the enchanting down of the upper lipturns to a bristly moustache; the features harden, grow coarse andvulgar; and the countenance assumes a rapacious expression, so that sheappears a bird of prey; and her strident voice is like the shriek ofvultures. It is easily comprehensible that the Spanish stage should havetaken the old woman as one of its most constant, characteristic types. But in Ronda even the girls have a weary look, as though life were notso easy a matter as in warmer places, or as the good God intended; andthey seem to suffer from the brevity of youth, which is no sooner comethan gone. They walk inertly, clothed in sombre colours, their hair notelaborately arranged as would have it the poorest cigarette-girl, butmerely knotted, without the flower which the Sevillan is popularly saidto insist upon even at the cost of a dinner. And when they go out thegrey shawls they wrap about their heads add to their unattractiveness. 

IV

[Sidenote: The Swineherd]

But if Ronda itself is a somewhat dull and unsympathetic place withnothing more for the edification of the visitor than a melodramaticchasm, the surrounding country is worthy the most extravagant epithets. The mountains have the gloomy barrenness, the slate-grey colour ofvolcanic ranges; they encircle the town in a gigantic amphitheatre, rugged and overbearing like Titans turned to stone. They seem, indeed, to wear a sombre insolence of demeanour as though the aspect of humankind moved them to lofty contempt. And in their magnificent desolationthey offer a fit environment for the exploits of Byronic heroes. Thehandsome villain of romance, seductive by the complexity of hisemotions, by the persistence of his mysterious grief, would find himselfin that theatrical scene most thoroughly at home; nor did ProsperMérimée fail to seize the opportunity, for the mountains of Ronda werethe very hunting-ground of Don Josè, who lost his soul for Carmen. Butas a matter of history they were likewise the haunts of brigands inflesh and blood--malefactors in the past had that sense of thepicturesque which now is vested in the amateur photographer--and thisparticular district was as dangerous to the travelling merchant as anyin Spain. 

The environs of Ronda are barren and unfertile, the olive groves bearlittle fruit. I wandered through the lonely country, towards themountains; the day was overcast and the clouds hung sluggishly overhead. As I walked, suddenly I heard a melancholy voice singing a peasant song, a _malagueña_. I paused to listen, but the sadness was almostunendurable; and it went on interminably, wailing through the air withthe insistent monotony of its Moorish origin. I struck into the olivesto find the singer and met a swineherd, guarding a dozen brown pigs, ayouth thin of face, with dark eyes, clothed in undressed sheep-skins;and the brown wool gave him a singular appearance of community with theearth about him. He stood among the trees like a wild creature, morebeast than man, and the lank, busy pigs burrowed around him, running toand fro, with little squeals. He ceased his song when I approached andlooked up timidly. I spoke to him but he made no answer, I offered acigarette but he shook his head. 

I went my way, and at first the road was not quite solitary. Two menpassed me on donkeys. '_Vaya Usted con Dios!_' they cried--'Go you withGod': it is the commonest greeting in Spain, and the most charming; theroughest peasant calls it as you meet him. A dozen grey asses wenttowards Ronda, one after the other, their panniers filled with stones;they walked with hanging heads, resigned to all their pain. But when atlast I came into the mountains the loneliness was terrible. Not eventhe olive grew on those dark masses of rock, windswept and sterile;there was not a hut nor a cottage to testify of man's existence, noteven a path such as the wild things of the heights might use. All life, indeed, appeared incongruous with that overwhelming solitude. 

Daylight was waning as I returned, but when I passed the olive-grove, where many hours before I had heard the _malagueña_, the same monotonoussong still moaned along the air, carrying back my thoughts to theswineherd. I wondered what he thought of while he sang, whether the sadwords brought him some dim emotion. How curious was the life he led! Isuppose he had never travelled further than his native town; he couldneither write nor read. Madrid to him was a city where the streets werepaved with silver and the King's palace was of fine gold. He was bornand grew to manhood and tended his swine, and some day he would marryand beget children, and at length die and return to the Mother of allthings. It seemed to me that nowadays, when civilisation has become themainstay of our lives, it is only with such beings as these that it ispossible to realise the closeness of the tie between mankind and nature. To the poor herdsman still clung the soil; he was no foreign element inthe scene, but as much part of it as the stunted olives, belonging tothe earth intimately as the trees among which he stood, as the beasts hetended. 

* * *

When I came near the town the sun was setting. In the west, tempestuousclouds were massed upon one another, and the sun shone blood-red abovethem; but as it sank they were riven asunder, and I saw a great furnacethat lit up the whole sky. The mountains were purple, unreal as thepainted mountains of a picture. The light was gone from the east, andthere everything was chill and grey; the barren rocks looked so desolatethat one shuddered with horror of the cold. But the sun fell gold andred, and the rift in the clouds was a kingdom of gorgeous light; theearth and its petty inhabitants died away, and in the crimson flame Icould almost see Lucifer standing in his glory, god-like and young;Lucifer in all majesty, surrounded by his court of archangels, Beelzebub, Belial, Moloch, Abaddon. 

* * *

I had discovered in the morning, from the steeple of _Santa Maria_, aqueer ruined church, and was oddly impressed by the bare façade, withthe yawning apertures of empty windows. I went to it, but every entrancewas bricked up save one, which had a door of rough boards fastened by apadlock; and in a neighbouring house I found an old man with a key. Itwas a spot of utter desolation; the roof had gone or had never been. Thecustodian could not tell whether the church was the wreck of an oldbuilding or a framework that had never been completed; the walls werefalling to decay. Along the nave and in the chapels trees were growing, shrubs and rank weeds; it was curious the utter ruin in the midst of thepopulous town. Pigs ran hither and thither, feeding, with noisy grunts, as they burrowed about the crumbling altar. 

The old man inquired whether I wished to buy the absolute uselessnessof the place fascinated me. I asked the price. He looked me up and down, and seeing I was foreign, suggested a ridiculous sum. And while I amusedmyself with bargaining, I wondered what on earth one could do with aruined church in Ronda. Half a dozen fantastic notions passed through mymind, but they were really too melodramatic. 

And now when the sun had set I returned. Notwithstanding his suspicions, I induced the keeper to give me his key; he could not understand what Idesired at such an hour in that solitary place, and asked if I wished tosleep there! But I calmed his fears with a _peseta_--money goes a longway in Spain--and went in alone. The pigs had been removed and all wassilent. A few bats flitted to and fro quickly. The light fell awaygreyly, the cold descended on the ruin, and it became very strange andmysterious. Presently, the roofless chapels seemed to grow alive withweird invisible things, the rank weeds exhaled chill odours; and in thelonely silence a mass began. At the ruined altar ghostly priestsofficiated, passing quietly from side to side, with bows andgenuflections. The bell tinkled as they raised an invisible host. Soonit became quite dark, and the moon shone through the great empty windowsof the façade. 

V

[Sidenote: Medinat Az-Zahra]

In what you divine rather than in what you see lies half the charm ofAndalusia, in the suggestion of all manner of delicate antique things, in the vivid memory of past grandeur. The Moors have gone, but stillthey inhabit the land in spirit and not seldom in a spectral way seem toregain their old dominion. Often towards evening, as I rode through thedesolate country, I thought I saw an half-naked Moor ploughing hisfield, urging the lazy oxen with a long goad. Often the Spaniard on hishorse vanished, and I saw a Muslim knight riding in pride and glory, hisvelvet cloak bespattered with the gold initial of his lady, and herfavour fluttering from his lance. Once near Granada, standing on a hill, I watched the blood-red sun set tempestuously over the plain; andpresently in the distance the gnarled olive-trees seemed living beings, and I saw contending hosts, two ghostly armies silently battling withone another; I saw the flash of scimitars, and the gleam of standards, the whiteness of the turbans. They fought with horrible carnage, and theland was crimson with their blood. Then the sun fell below the horizon, and all again was still and lifeless. 

And what can be more fascinating than that magic city of Az-Zahra, thewonder of its age, of which now not a stone remains? It was made tosatisfy the whim of a concubine by a Sultan whose flamboyant passionmoved him to displace mountains for the sake of his beloved; and thememory thereof is lost so completely that even its situation till latelywas uncertain. Az-Zahra the Fairest said to Abd-er-Rahm[=a]n, her lord:'Raise me a city that shall take my name and be mine. ' The Khalif builtat the foot of the mountain which is called the Hill of the Bride; butwhen at last the lady, from the great hall of the palace, gazed at thesnow-white city contrasting with the dark mountain, she remarked: 'See, O Master! how beautiful this girl looks in the arms of yonderEthiopian. ' The jealous Khalif immediately commanded the removal of theoffending hill; and when he was convinced the task was impossible, ordered that the oaks and other mountain trees which grew upon it shouldbe uprooted, and fig-trees and almonds planted in their stead. 

Imagine the _Hall of the Khalif_, with walls of transparent andmany-coloured marble, with roof of gold; on each side were eight doorsfixed upon arches of ivory and ebony, ornamented with precious metalsand with precious stones; and when the sun penetrated them, thereflection of its rays upon the roof and walls was sufficient to deprivethe beholders of sight! In the centre was a great basin filled withquicksilver, and the Sultan, wishing to terrify a courtier, would causethe metal to be set in motion, whereupon the apartment would seemtraversed by flashes of lightning, and all the company would falla-trembling. 

The old author tells of running streams and of limpid water, of statelybuildings for the household guards, and magnificent palaces for thereception of high functionaries of state; of the thronging soldiers, pages, eunuchs, slaves, of all nations and of all religions, insumptuous habiliments of silk and of brocade; of judges, theologians, and poets, walking with becoming gravity in the ample courts.... Alas!that poets now should rush through Fleet Street with unseemly haste, attired uncouthly in bowler hats and in preposterous tweeds!

* * *

From the celebrated legend of Roderick the Goth to that last scene whenBoabdil handed the keys of Granada to King Ferdinand, the history of theMoorish occupation reads far more like romance than like sober fact. Itis rich with every kind of passionate incident; it has all the strangevicissitudes of oriental history. What career could be more wonderfulthan that of Almanzor, who began life as a professional letter-writer, (a calling which you may still see exercised in the public places ofMadrid or Seville, ) and ended it as absolute ruler of an Empire! Hischarm of manner, his skill in flattery, the military genius which hedeveloped when occasion called, his generosity and sense of justice, hislove of literature and art, make him a figure to be contemplated withadmiration; and when you add his utter lack of scruple, his selfishness, his ingratitude, his perfidy, you have a character complex enough tosatisfy the most exacting. 

Those who would read of these things may find an admirable account inMr. Lane-Poole's _Moors in Spain_; but I cannot renounce the pleasure ofgiving one characteristic detail. After the death of Abd-er-Rahm[=a]n, the builder of that magnificent city of Az-Zahra, a paper was found inhis own handwriting, upon which he had noted those days in his longreign which had been free from all sorrow: they numbered fourteen. Sovereign lord of a country than which there is on earth none moredelightful, his life had been of uninterrupted prosperity; success inpeace and war attended him always; he possessed everything that it waspossible for man to have. These are the observations of Al Makkary, theArabic historian, when he narrates the incident:

_O man of understanding! Wonder and observe the small portion of realhappiness the world affords even in the most enviable position. Praisebe given to Him, the Lord of eternal glory and everlasting empire! Thereis no God but He the Almighty, the Giver of Empire to whomsoever Hepleases. _

VI

[Sidenote: The Mosque]

But Cordova, from which Az-Zahra was about four miles distant, hasvisible delights that can vie with its neighbour's vanished pomp. I knownothing that can give a more poignant emotion than the interior of themosque at Cordova; and yet I remember well the splendour of barbaric andoriental magnificence which was my first sight of St. Mark's at Venice, as I came abruptly from the darkness of an alley into the golden lightof the Piazza. But to me at least the famous things of Italy, known fromchildhood in picture and in description, afford more than anything ajoyful sense of recognition, a feeling as it were of home-coming, suchas may hope to experience the devout Christian on entering upon hisheritage in the Kingdom of Heaven. The mosque of Cordova is oriental andbarbaric too; but I had never seen nor imagined anything in the leastresembling it; there was no disillusionment possible, as too often inItaly, for the accounts I had read prepared me not at all for thatoverwhelming impression. It was so weird and strange, I felt myselftransported suddenly to another world. 

They were singing Vespers when I entered, and I heard the shrill voicesof choristers crying the responses; it did not sound like Christianmusic. The mosque was dimly lit, the air heavy with incense; and I sawthis forest of pillars, extending every way, as far as the eye couldreach. It was mysterious and awe-inspiring as those enchanted forests ofone's childhood in which huge trees grew in serried masses and where incavernous darkness goblins and giants of the fairy-tales, wild beastsand monstrous shapes, lay in wait for the terrified traveller who hadlost his way. I wandered, keeping the Christian chapels out of sight, trying to lose myself among the columns; and now and then gained viewsof horseshoe arches interlacing, decorated with Moorish tracery. 

At length I came to the _Mihrab_, which is the Holy of Holies, the mostexquisite as well as the most sacred part of the mosque. It isapproached by a vestibule of which the roof is a miracle of grace, withmosaics that glow like precious stones, ultramarine, scarlet, emerald, and gold. The arch between the chambers is ornamented with four pillarsof coloured marble, and again with mosaic, the gold letters of an Arabicinscription forming on the deep sapphire of the background a decorativepattern. The _Mihrab_ itself, which contained the famous Koran ofOthman, has seven sides of white marble, and the roof is a huge shellcut from a single block. 

I tried to picture to myself the mosque before the Christians laid theirdesecrating hands upon it. The floor was of coloured tiles, tiles suchas may still be seen in the Alhambra of Granada and in the Alcazar atSeville. The columns are of marble, of porphyry and jasper; traditionsays they came from Carthage, from pagan temples in France and Christianchurches in Spain; they are slender and unadorned, they must havecontrasted astonishingly with the roof of larch wood, all ablaze withgold and with vermilion. 

There were three hundred chandeliers; and eight thousand lamps--cast ofChristian bells--hung from the roof. The Arab writer tells of goldshining from the ceiling like fire, blazing like lightning when it dartsacross the clouds. The pulpit, wherein was kept the Koran, was of ivoryand of exquisite woods, of ebony and sandal, of plantain, citron andaloe, fastened together with gold and silver nails and encrusted withpriceless gems. It needed six Khalifs and Almanzor, the great Vizier, tocomplete the mosque of which Arab writers, with somewhat prosaicenthusiasm, said that 'in all the lands of Islam there was none of equalsize, none more admirable in its workmanship, in its construction anddurability. '

* * *

Then the Christians conquered Cordova, and the charming civilisation ofthe Moors was driven out by monks and priests and soldiers. First theybuilt only chapels in the outermost aisles; but in a little while, tomake room for a choir, they destroyed six rows of columns; and at last, when Master Martin Luther had rekindled Catholic piety, they set up agreat church in the very middle of the mosque. The story of thisvandalism is somewhat quaint, and one detail at least affords asuggestion that might prove useful in the present time; for the TownCouncil of Cordova menaced with death all who should assist in the work:one imagines that a similar threat from the Lord Mayor of London mighthave a salutary effect upon the restorers of Westminster Abbey or thedecorators of St. Paul's. How very much more entertaining must have beenthe world when absolutism was the fashion and the preposterous method ofuniversal suffrage had never been considered! But the Chapter, as thosein power always are, was bent upon restoring, and induced Charles V. Togive the necessary authority. The king, however, had not understood whatthey wished to do, and when later he visited Cordova and saw what hadhappened, he turned to the dignitaries who were pointing out theimprovements and said: 'You have built what you or others might havebuilt anywhere, but you have destroyed something that was unique in theworld. ' The words show a fine scorn; but as a warning to latergenerations it would have been more to the purpose to cut off a dozenpriestly heads. 

Yet oddly enough the Christian additions are not so utterly discordantas one would expect! Hernan Ruiz did the work well, even though it waswork he might conveniently have been drawn and quartered for doing. Typically Spanish in its fine proportion, in its exuberance of fantasticdecoration, his church is a masterpiece of plateresque architecture. Norare the priests entirely out of harmony with the building wherein theyworship. For an hour they had sung Vespers, and the deep voices of thecanons, chaunting monotonously, rang weird and long among the columns;but they finished, and left the choir one by one, walking silentlyacross the church to the sacristy. The black cassock and the scarlethood made a fine contrast, while the short cambric surplice added to thecostume a most delicate grace. One of them paused to speak with twoladies in _mantillas_, and the three made a picturesque group, suggesting all manner of old Spanish romance. 

VII

[Sidenote: The Court of Oranges]

I went into the cathedral from the side and issuing by another door, found myself in the Court of Oranges. The setting sun touched it withwarm light and overhead the sky was wonderfully blue. In Moorish timesthe mosque was separated from the court by no dividing-wall, so that thearrangement of pillars within was continued by the even lines oforange-trees; these are of great age and size, laden with fruit, and intheir copious foliage stand with a trim self-assurance that is quiteimposing. 

In the centre, round a fountain into which poured water from jets at thefour corners, stood a number of persons with jars of earthenware andbright copper cans. One girl held herself with the fine erectness of aCaryatid, while her jar, propped against the side, filled itself withthe cold, sparkling water. A youth, some vessel in his hand, leaned overin an attitude of easy grace; and looking into her eyes, appeared to paycompliments, which she heard with superb indifference. A little boy ranup, and the girl held aside her jar while he put his mouth to the spoutand drank. Then, as it overflowed, she lifted it with comely motion toher head and slowly walked away. 

By now the canons had unrobed, and several strolled about the court inthe sun, smoking cigarettes. The acolytes with the removal of theirscarlet cassocks, were become somewhat ragged urchins playing pitch andtoss with much gesture and vociferation. Two of them quarrelled fiercelybecause one player would not yield the halfpenny he had certainly lost, and the altercation must have ended in blows if a corpulent, elderlycleric had not indignantly reproved them, and boxed their ears. A row oftattered beggars, very well contented in the sunshine, were seated on astep, likewise smoking cigarettes, and obviously they did not considertheir walk of life unduly hard. 

And the thought impressed itself upon me while I lingered in thatpeaceful spot, that there was far more to be said for the simplepleasures of sense than northern folk would have us believe. The Englishhave still much of that ancient puritanism which finds a vaguesinfulness in the uncostly delights of sunshine, and colour, and ease ofmind. It is well occasionally to leave the eager turmoil of great citiesfor such a place as this, where one may learn that there are other, morenatural ways of living, that it is possible still to spend long days, undisturbed by restless passion, without regret or longing, content inthe various show that nature offers, asking only that the sun shouldshine and the happy seasons run their course. 

An English engineer whom I had seen at the hotel, approaching me, expressed the idea in his own graphic manner. 'Down here there are agood sight more beer and skittles in life than up in Sheffield!'

One canon especially interested me, a little thin man, bent andwrinkled, apparently of fabulous age, but still something of a dandy, for he wore his clothes with a certain air, as though half a centurybefore, byronically, he had been quite a devil with the ladies. Thesilver buckle on his shoes was most elegant, and he protruded his footas though the violet silk of his stocking gave him a discreet pleasure. To the very backbone he was an optimist, finding existence evidently sodelightful that it did not even need rose-coloured spectacles. He was anamiable old man, perhaps a little narrow, but very indulgent to thefollies of others. He had committed no sin himself--for many years: asuspicion of personal vanity is in itself proof of a pure and gentlemind; and as for the sins of others--they were probably not heinous, andat all events would gain forgiveness. The important thing, surely, wasto be sound in dogma. The day wore on and the sun now shone only in anarrow space; and this the canon perambulated, smoking the end of acigarette, the delectable frivolity of which contrasted pleasantly withhis great age. He nodded affably to other priests as they passed, a pairof young men, and one obese old creature with white hair and anexpression of comfortable self-esteem. He removed his hat with a greatand courteous sweep when a lady of his acquaintance crossed his path. The priests basking in the warmth were like four great black cats. Itwas indeed a pleasant spot, and contentment oozed into one by everypore. The canon rolled himself another cigarette, smiling as he inhaledthe first sweet whiffs; and one could not but think the sovereign herbmust greatly ease the journey along the steep and narrow way which leadsto Paradise. The smoke rose into the air lazily, and the old clericpaused now and again to look at it, the little smile ofself-satisfaction breaking on his lips. 

Up in the North, under the cold grey sky, God Almighty may be a hardtaskmaster, and the Kingdom of Heaven is attained only by muchendeavour; but in Cordova these things come more easily. The aged priestwalks in the sun and smokes his _cigarillo_. Heaven is not such aninaccessible place after all. Evidently he feels that he has done hisduty--with the help of Havana tobacco--in that state of life wherein ithas pleased a merciful providence to place him; and St. Peter wouldnever be so churlish as to close the golden gates in the face of anancient canon who sauntered to them jauntily, with the fag end of acigarette in the corner of his mouth. Let us cultivate our cabbages inthe best of all possible worlds; and afterwards--_Dieu pardonnera; c'estson métier_. 

* * *

Three months later in the _Porvenir_, under the heading, 'Suicide of aPriest, ' I read that one of these very canons of the Cathedral atCordova had shot himself. A report was heard, said the journal, and theCivil Guard arriving, found the man prostrate with blood pouring fromhis ear, a revolver by his side. He was transported to the hospital, thesacrament administered, and he died. In his pockets they found aletter, a pawn-ticket, a woman's bracelet, and some peppermint lozenges. He was thirty-five years old. The newspaper moralised as follows: 'Wheneven the illustrious order to which the defunct belonged is tainted withsuch a crime, it is well to ask whither tends the incredulity of societywhich finds an end to its sufferings in the barrel of a revolver. Letmoralists and philosophers combat with all their might this dreadfultendency; let them make even the despairing comprehend that death is notthe highest good but the passage to an unknown world where, according toChristian belief, the ill deeds of this existence are punished and thevirtuous rewarded. '

VIII

[Sidenote: Cordova]

Ronda, owing its peculiarities to the surrounding mountains, was notreally very characteristic of the country, and might equally well havebeen an highland townlet in any part of Southern Europe. But Cordovaoffers immediately the full sensation of Andalusia. It is absolutely aMoorish city, white and taciturn, so that you are astonished to meetpeople in European dress rather than Arabs, in shuffling yellowslippers. The streets are curiously silent; for the carriage, as inTangiers, is done by mules and donkeys, which walk so quietly that younever hear them. Sometimes you are warned by a deep-voiced '_Cuidado_, 'but more often a pannier brushing you against the wall brings the firstknowledge of their presence. On looking up you are again surprised tosee not a great shining negro in a burnouse, but a Spaniard in tighttrousers, with a broad-brimmed hat. 

And Cordova has that sweet, exhilarating perfume of Andalusia than whichnothing gives more vividly the complete feeling of the country. Thosetravellers must be obtuse of nostril who do not recognise differentsmells, grateful or offensive, in different places; no other peculiarityis more distinctive, so that an odour crossing by chance one's sense isable to recall suddenly all the complicated impressions of a strangeland. When I return from England it is always that subtle fragrancewhich first strikes me, a mingling in warm sunlight of orange-blossom, incense, and cigarette smoke; and two whiffs of a certain brand oftobacco are sufficient to bring back to me Seville, the most enchantingof all my memories. I suppose that nowhere else are cigarettes consumedso incessantly; for in Andalusia it is not only certain classes who usethem, but every one, without distinction of age or station--from theragamuffin selling lottery-tickets in the street to the portly, solemnpriest, to the burly countryman, the shop-keeper, the soldier. Afterall, no better means of killing time have ever been devised, andconsequently to smoke them affords an occupation which most thoroughlysuits the Spaniard. 

* * *

I looked at Cordova from the bell-tower of the cathedral. The roofs, very lovely in their diversity of colour, were of rounded tiles, fadingwith every variety of delicate shade from russet and brown to yellow andthe tenderest green. From the courtyards, here and there, rose a tallpalm, or an orange-tree, like a dash of jade against the brilliant sun. The houses, plainly whitewashed, have from the outside so mean a lookthat it is surprising to find them handsome and spacious within. Theyare built, Moorish fashion, round a _patio_, which in Cordova at leastis always gay with flowers. When you pass the iron gates and note thecontrast between the snowy gleaming of the street and that southerngreenery, the suggestion is inevitable of charming people who must restthere in the burning heat of summer. With those surroundings and in sucha country passion grows surely like a poisonous plant. At night, in thestarry darkness, how irresistible must be the flashing eyes of love, howeloquent the pleading of whispered sighs! But woe to the maid who admitsthe ardent lover among the orange-trees, her head reeling with the sweetintoxication of the blossom; for the Spanish gallant is fickle, quick toforget the vows he spoke so earnestly: he soon grows tired of kissing, and mounting his horse, rides fast away. 

The uniformity of lime-washed houses makes Cordova the most difficultplace in the world wherein to find your way. The streets are exactlyalike, so narrow that a carriage could hardly pass, paved with roughcobbles, and tortuous: their intricacy is amazing, labyrinthine; theywind in and out of one another, leading nowhither; they meander on forhalf a mile and stop suddenly, or turn back, so that you are forced togo in the direction you came. You may wander for hours, trying to findsome point that from the steeple appeared quite close. Sometimes youthink they are interminable. 

IX

[Sidenote: The Bridge of Calahorra]

The bridge that the Moors built over the Guadalquivir straggles acrossthe water with easy arches. Somewhat dilapidated and very beautiful, ithas not the strenuous look of such things in England, and the mere sightof it fills you with comfort. The clustered houses, with an addedsoftness from the light burning mellow on their roofs and on their whitewalls, increase the happy impression that the world is not necessarilyhurried and toilful. And the town, separated from the river by no formalembankment, lounges at the water's edge like a giant, prone on the grassand lazy, stretching his limbs after the mid-day sleep. 

There is no precipitation in such a place as Cordova; life is quite longenough for all that it is really needful to do; to him who waits comeall things, and a little waiting more or less can be of no greatconsequence. Let everything be taken very leisurely, for there is ampletime. Yet in other parts of Andalusia they say the Cordovese are thegreatest liars and the biggest thieves in Spain, which points toconsiderable industry. The traveller, hearing this, will doubtless askwhat business has the pot to call the kettle black; and it is true thatthe standard of veracity throughout the country is by no means high. But this can scarcely be termed a vice, for the Andalusians see in itnothing discreditable, and it can be proved as exactly as a propositionof Euclid that vice and virtue are solely matters of opinion. InSouthern Spain bosom friends lie to one another with complete freedom;no man would take his wife's word, but would believe only what hethought true, and think no worse of her when he caught her fibbing. Mendacity is a thing so perfectly understood that no one is abashed bydetection. In England most men equivocate and nearly all women, but theyare ashamed to be discovered; they blush and stammer and hesitate, orfly into a passion; the wiser Spaniard laughs, shrugging his shoulders, and utters a dozen rapid falsehoods to make up for the first. It isalways said that a good liar needs an excellent memory, but he wantsmore qualities than that--unblushing countenance, the readiest wit, amanner to beget confidence. In fact it is so difficult to liesystematically and well that the ardour of the Andalusians in thatpursuit can be ascribed only to an innate characteristic. Theirimaginations, indeed, are so exuberant that the bald fact is to themgrotesque and painful. They are like writers in love with words fortheir own sake, who cannot make the plainest statement without a gayparade of epithet and metaphor. They embroider and decorate, they colourand enhance the trivial details of circumstance. They must seethemselves perpetually in an attitude; they must never fail to beeffective. They lie for art's sake, without reason or rhyme, from meredevilry, often when it can only harm them. Mendacity then becomes anintellectual exercise, such as the poet's sonneteering to an imaginarylady-love. 

But the Cordovan very naturally holds himself in no such unflatteringestimation. The motto of his town avers that he is a warlike person anda wise one:

 Cordoba, casa de guerrera gente Y de sabiduria clara fuente!

And the history thereof, with its University and its Khalifs, bears himout. Art and science flourished there when the rest of Europe wasenveloped in mediæval darkness: when our Saxon ancestors lived in dirtyhovels, barbaric brutes who knew only how to kill, to eat, and topropagate their species, the Moors of Cordova cultivated all theelegancies of life from verse-making to cleanliness. 

* * *

I was standing on the bridge. The river flowed tortuously through thefertile plain, broad and shallow, and in it the blue sky and the whitehouses of the city were brightly mirrored. In the distance, like avapour of amethyst, rose the mountains; while at my feet, in mid-stream, there were two mills which might have been untouched since Moorish days. There had been no rain for months, the water stood very low, and hereand there were little islands of dry yellow sand, on which grew reedsand sedge. In such a spot might easily have wandered the half-nakedfisherman of the oriental tale, bewailing in melodious verse thehardness of his lot; since to his net came no fish, seeking a broken potor a piece of iron wherewith to buy himself a dinner. There might hefind a ring half-buried in the sand, which, when he rubbed to see if itwere silver, a smoke would surely rise from the water, increasing tillthe light of day was obscured; and half dead with fear, he wouldperceive at last a gigantic body towering above him, and a voice moreterrible than the thunder of Allah, crying: 'What wishest thou from thyslave, O king? Know that I am of the Jin, and Suleyman, whose name beexalted, enslaved me to the ring that thou hast found. '

In Cordova recollections of the _Arabian Nights_ haunt you till thecommonest sights assume a fantastic character, and the franklyimpossible becomes mere matter of fact. You wonder whether your life isreal or whether you have somehow reverted to the days when Scheherazade, with her singular air of veracity, recited such enthralling stories toher lord as to save her own life and that of many other maidens. Ilooked along the river and saw three slender trees bending over it, reflecting in the placid water their leafless branches, and under themknelt three women washing clothes. Were they three beautiful princesseswhose fathers had been killed, and they expelled from their kingdom andthus reduced to menial occupations? Who knows? Indeed, I thought it veryprobable, for so many royal persons have come down in the world of late;but I did not approach them, since king's daughters under thesecircumstances have often lost one eye, and their morals are nearlyalways of the worst description. 

X

[Sidenote: Puerta del Puente]

I went back to the old gate which led to the bridge. Close by, in thelittle place, was the hut of the _consumo_, the local custom-house, withofficials lounging at the door or sitting straddle-legged on chairs, lazily smoking. Opposite was a tobacconist's, with the gaudy red andyellow sign, _Campañia arrendataria de tabacos_, and a dram-shop wherethree hardy Spaniards from the mountains stood drinking _aguardiente_. Than this, by the way, there is in the world no more insidious liquor, for at first you think its taste of aniseed and peppermint verydisagreeable; but perseverance, here as in other human affairs, has itsreward, and presently you develop for it a liking which time increasesto enthusiasm. In Spain, the land of custom and usage, everything isdone in a certain way; and there is a proper manner to drink_aguardiente_. To sip it would show a lamentable want of decorum. ASpaniard lifts the little glass to his lips, and with a comic, abruptmotion tosses the contents into his mouth, immediately afterwardsdrinking water, a tumbler of which is always given with the spirit. Itis really the most epicurean of intoxicants because the charm lies inthe after-taste. The water is so cool and refreshing after thefieriness; it gives, without the gasconnade, the emotion Keatsexperienced when he peppered his mouth with cayenne for the greaterenjoyment of iced claret. 

But the men wiped their mouths with their hands and came out of the wineshop, mounting their horses which stood outside--shaggy, long-hairedbeasts with high saddles and great box-stirrups. They rode slowlythrough the gate one after the other, in the easy slouching way of menwho have been used to the saddle all their lives and in the course ofthe week are accustomed to go a good many miles in an easy jog-trot toand from the town. It seems to me that the Spaniards resolve themselvesinto types more distinctly than is usual in northern countries, whilebetween individuals there is less difference. These three, clean-shavenand uniformly dressed, of middle size, stout, with heavy strong featuresand small eyes, certainly resembled one another very strikingly. Theywere the typical inn-keepers of Goya's pictures but obviously could notall keep inns; doubtless they were farmers, horse-dealers, orforage-merchants, shrewd men of business, with keen eyes for the mainchance. That class is the most trustworthy in Spain, kind, hospitable, and honest; they are old-fashioned people with many antique customs, andpreserve much of the courteous dignity which made their fathers famous. 

A string of grey donkeys came along the bridge, their panniersearth-laden, poor miserable things that plodded slowly and painfully, with heads bent down, placing one foot before the other with thedonkey's peculiar motion, patiently doing a thing they had patientlydone ever since they could bear a load. They seemed to have a dullfeeling that it was no use to make a fuss, or to complain; it would justgo on till they dropped down dead and their carcases were sold forleather and glue. There was a Spanish note in the red trappings, braidedand betasselled, but all worn, discoloured and stained. 

Inside the gate they stopped, waiting in a huddled group, with the sameheavy patience, for the examination of the _consumo_. An officer of thecustom-house went round with a long steel prong, which he ran into thebaskets one by one, to see that there was nothing dutiable hidden in theearth. Then, sparing of his words, he made a sign to the driver and satdown again straddle-wise on his chair. '_Arre, burra!_' The first donkeywalked slowly on, and as they heard the tinkling of the leader's bellthe rest stepped forward in the long line, their heads hanging down, with that hopeless movement of the feet. 

* * *

In the night, wandering at random through the streets, their silentwhiteness filled me again with that intoxicating sensation of the_Arabian Nights_. I looked through the iron gateways as I passed, intothe _patios_ with their dark foliage, and once I heard the melancholytwang of a guitar. I was sure that in one of those houses the threeprincesses had thrown off their disguise and sat radiant in queenlybeauty, their raven tresses falling in a hundred plaits over theirshoulders, their fingers stained with henna and their long eyelashesdarkened with kohl. But alas! though I lost my way I found them not. 

Yet many an amorous Spaniard, too passionate to be admitted within hismistress' house, stood at her window. This method of philandering, surely most conducive to the ideal, is variously known as _comerhierro_, to eat iron, and _pelar la pava_, to pluck the turkey. Oneimagines that the cold air of a winter's night must render the mostardent lover platonic. It is a significant fact that in Spanish novelsif the hero is left for two minutes alone with the heroine there areinvariably asterisks and some hundred pages later a baby. So it isdoubtless wise to separate true love by iron bars, and perchancebeauty's eyes flash more darkly to the gallant standing without thegate; illusions, the magic flower of passion, arise more willingly. Butin Spain the blood of youth is very hot, love laughs at most restraintsand notwithstanding these precautions, often enough there is acatastrophe. The Spaniard, who will seduce any girl he can, is pitilessunder like circumstances to his own womenkind; so there is much weeping, the girl is turned out of doors and falls readily into the hands of theprocuress. In the brothels of Seville or of Madrid she finds at least aroof and bread to eat; and the fickle swain goes his way rejoicing. 

I found myself at last near the _Puerta del Puente_, and I stood againon the Moorish bridge. The town was still and mysterious in the night, and the moon shone down on the water with a hard and brilliant coldness. The three trees with their bare branches looked yet more slender, nakedand alone, like pre-Raphaelite trees in a landscape of _Pélléas etMélisande_; the broad river, almost stagnant, was extraordinarily calmand silent. I wondered what strange things the placid Guadalquivir hadseen through the centuries; on its bosom many a body had been bornetowards the sea. It recalled those mysterious waters of the Easterntales which brought to the marble steps of palaces great chests in whichlay a fair youth's headless corpse or a sleeping beautiful maid. 

XI

[Sidenote: Seville]

The impression left by strange towns and cities is often a matter ofcircumstance, depending upon events in the immediate past; or on thechance which, during his earliest visit, there befell the traveller. After a stormy passage across the Channel, Newhaven, from the mere factof its situation on solid earth, may gain a fascination which closeracquaintance can never entirely destroy; and even Birmingham, first seenby a lurid sunset, may so affect the imagination as to appear for everlike some infernal, splendid city, restless with the hurried toil ofgnomes and goblins. So to myself Seville means ten times more than itcan mean to others. I came to it after weary years in London, heartsickwith much hoping, my mind dull with drudgery; and it seemed a land offreedom. There I became at last conscious of my youth, and it seemed abelvedere upon a new life. How can I forget the delight of wandering inthe Sierpes, released at length from all imprisoning ties, watching thevarious movement as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid thatthe falling curtain would bring back reality! The songs, the dances, thehappy idleness of orange-gardens, the gay turbulence of Seville bynight; ah! there at least I seized life eagerly, with both hands, forgetting everything but that time was short and existence full of joy. I sat in the warm sunshine, inhaling the pleasant odours, remindingmyself that I had no duty to do then, or the morrow, or the day after. Ilay a-bed thinking how happy, effortless and free would be my day. Mounting my horse, I clattered through the narrow streets, over thecobbles, till I came to the country; the air was fresh and sweet, andAguador loved the spring mornings. When he put his feet to the springyturf he gave a little shake of pleasure, and without a sign from mebroke into a gallop. To the amazement of shepherds guarding their wildflocks, to the confusion of herds of brown pigs, scampering hastily aswe approached, he and I excited by the wind singing in our ears, wepelted madly through the country. And the whole land laughed with thejoy of living. 

But I love also the recollection of Seville in the grey days ofDecember, when the falling rain offered a grateful contrast to theunvarying sunshine. Then new sights delighted the eye, new perfumes thenostril. In the decay of that long southern autumn a more sombreopulence was added to the gay colours; a different spirit filled theair, so that I realised suddenly that old romantic Spain of Ferdinandand Isabella. It lay a-dying still, gorgeous in corruption, sober yetflamboyant, rich and poverty-stricken, squalid, magnificent. The whitestreets, the dripping trees, the clouds gravid with rain, gave to allthings an adorable melancholy, a sad, poetic charm. Looking back, Icannot dismiss the suspicion that my passionate emotions were somewhatridiculous, but at twenty-three one can afford to lack a sense ofhumour. 

* * *

But Seville at first is full of disillusion. It has offered abundantmaterial to the idealist who, as might be expected, has drawn of it apicture which is at once common and pretentious. Your idealist can seeno beauty in sober fact, but must array it in all the theatricalproperties of a vulgar imagination; he must give to things more imposingproportions, he colours gaudily; Nature for him is ever posturing in thefull glare of footlights. Really he stands on no higher level than thehousemaid who sees in every woman a duchess in black velvet, an AubreyPlantagenet in plain John Smith. So I, in common with many anothertraveller, expected to find in the Guadalquivir a river of transparentgreen, with orange-groves along its banks, where wandered ox-eyed youthsand maidens beautiful. Palm-trees, I thought, rose towards heaven, likepassionate souls longing for release from earthly bondage; Spanishwomen, full-breasted and sinuous, danced _boleros_, _fandangos_, whilethe air rang with the joyous sound of castanets, and toreadors inpicturesque habiliments twanged the light guitar. 

Alas! the Guadalquivir is like yellow mud, and moored to the busy quayslie cargo-boats lading fruit or grain or mineral; there no perfumescents the heavy air. The nights, indeed, are calm and clear, and thestars shine brightly; but the river banks see no amours more romanticthan those of stokers from Liverpool or Glasgow, and their lady-loveshave neither youth nor beauty. 

Yet Seville has many a real charm to counter-balance these lostillusions. He that really knows it, like an ardent lover with hismistress' imperfections, would have no difference; even theGuadalquivir, so matter-of-fact, really so prosaic, has an unimaginedattractiveness; the crowded shipping, the hurrying porters, add to thatsensation of vivacity which is of Seville the most fascinatingcharacteristic. And Seville is an epitome of Andalusia, with its lifeand death, with its colour and vivid contrasts, with its boyish gaiety. 

It is a city of delightful ease, of freedom and sunshine, of torridheat. There it does not matter what you do, nor when, nor how you do it. There is none to hinder you, none to watch. Each takes his ease, and iscontent that his neighbour should do the like. Doubtless people are lazyin Seville, but good heavens! why should one be so terribly strenuous?Go into the Plaza Nueva, and you will see it filled with men of allages, of all classes, 'taking the sun'; they promenade slowly, untroubled by any mental activity, or sit on benches between thepalm-trees, smoking cigarettes; perhaps the more energetic read thebull-fighting news in the paper. They are not ambitious, and they do notgreatly care to make their fortunes; so long as they have enough to eatand drink--food is very cheap--and cigarettes to smoke, they are quitehappy. The Corporation provides seats, and the sun shines down fornothing--so let them sit in it and warm themselves. I daresay it is asgood a way of getting through life as most others. 

A southern city never reveals its true charm till the summer, and fewEnglish know what Seville is under the burning sun of July. It was builtfor the great heat, and it is only then that the refreshing coolness ofthe _patio_ can be appreciated. In the streets the white glare ismitigated by awnings that stretch from house to house, and the halflight in the Sierpes, the High Street, has a curious effect; the peoplein their summer garb walk noiselessly, as though the warmth made soundimpossible. Towards evening the sail-cloths are withdrawn, and a breathof cold air sinks down; the population bestirs itself, and along theSierpes the _cafés_ become suddenly crowded and noisy. 

Then, for it was too hot to ride earlier, I would mount my horse andcross the river. The Guadalquivir had lost its winter russet, and underthe blue sky gained varied tints of liquid gold, of emerald and ofsapphire. I lingered in Triana, the gipsy-quarter, watching the people. Beautiful girls stood at the windows, so that the whole way was linedwith them, and their lips were not unwilling to break into charmingsmiles. One especially I remember who was used to sit on a balcony at astreet-corner; her hair was irreproachable in its elaborate arrangement, and the red carnation in it gleamed like fire against the night. Herface was long, fairer-complexioned than is common, with regular anddelicate features. She sat at her balcony, with a huge book open on herknee, which she read with studied disregard of the passers-by; but whenI looked back sometimes I saw that she had lifted her eyes, lustrous anddark, and they met mine gravely. 

And in the country I passed through long fields of golden corn, whichreached as far as I could see; I remembered the spring, when it had allbeen new, soft, fresh, green. And presently I turned round to look atSeville in the distance, bathed in brilliant light, glowing as thoughits walls were built of yellow flame. The Giralda arose in its wonderfulgrace like an arrow; so slim, so comely, it reminded one of an Arabyouth, with long, thin limbs. With the setting sun, gradually the cityturned rosy-red and seemed to lose all substantiality, till it became amany-shaped mist that was dissolved in the tenderness of the sky. 

Late in the night I stood at my window looking at the cloudless heaven. From the earth ascended, like incense, the mellow odours of summer-time;the belfry of the neighbouring church stood boldly outlined against thedarkness, and the storks that had built their nest upon it weremotionless, not stirring even as the bells rang out the hours. The cityslept, and it seemed that I alone watched in the silence; the sky stillwas blue, and the stars shone in their countless millions. I thought ofthe city that never rested, of London with its unceasing roar, theendless streets, the greyness. And all around me was a quiet serenity, atranquillity such as the Christian may hope shall reward him in Paradisefor the troublous pilgrimage of life. But that is long ago and passedfor ever. 

XII

[Sidenote: The Alcazar]

Arriving at Seville the recollection of Cordova took me quickly to theAlcazar; but I was a little disappointed. It has been ill and tawdrilyrestored, with crude pigments, with gold that is too bright and tooclean; but even before that, Charles V. And his successors had madeadditions out of harmony with Moorish feeling. Of the palace where livedthe Mussulman Kings nothing, indeed, remains; but Pedro the Cruel, withwhom the edifice now standing is more especially connected, was no lessoriental than his predecessors, and he employed Morisco architects torebuild it. Parts are said to be exact reproductions of the olderstructure, while many of the beautiful tiles were taken from Moorishhouses. 

The atmosphere, then, is but half Arabic; the rest belongs to thatflaunting, multi-coloured barbarism which is characteristic of NorthernSpain before the union of Arragon and Castile. Wandering in the desertedcourts, looking through horseshoe windows of exquisite design at thewild garden, Pedro the Cruel and Maria de Padilla are the figures thatoccupy the mind. 

Seville teems with anecdotes of the monarch who, according to the pointof view, has been called the Cruel and the Just. He was an amorist forwhom platonic dalliance had no charm, and there are gruesome tales ofladies burned alive because they would not quench the flame of hisdesires, of others, fiercely virtuous, who poured boiling oil on faceand bosom to make themselves unattractive in his sight. But the headthat wears a crown apparently has fascinations which few women canresist, and legend tells more frequently of Pedro's conquests than ofhis rebuffs. He was an ardent lover to whom marriage vows were of noimportance; that he committed bigamy is certain--and pardonable, butsome historians are inclined to think that he had at one and the sametime no less than three wives. He was oriental in his tastes. 

In imitation of the Paynim sovereigns Pedro loved to wander in thestreets of Seville at night, alone and disguised, to seek adventure orto see for himself the humour of his subjects; and like them also itpleased him to administer justice seated in the porch of his palace. Ifhe was often hard and proud towards the nobles, with the people he wasalways very gracious; to them he was the redressor of wrongs and aprotector of the oppressed; his justice was that of the Mussulmanrulers, rapid, terrible and passionate, often quaint. For instance: arich priest had done some injury to a cobbler, who brought him beforethe ecclesiastical tribunals, where he was for a year suspended from hisclerical functions. The tradesman thought the punishment inadequate, andtaking the law into his own hands gave the priest a drubbing. He waspromptly seized, tried, condemned to death. But he appealed to the kingwho, with a witty parody of the rival Court, changed the punishment tosuspension from his trade, and ordered the cobbler for twelve months tomake no boots. 

On the other hand, the Alcazar itself has been the scene of Pedro'svilest crimes, in the whole list of which is none more insolent, nonemore treacherous, than that whereby he secured the priceless ruby whichgraces still the royal crown of England. There is a school of historianswhich insists on finding a Baptist Minister in every hero--think what apoor-blooded creature they wish to make of the glorious Nelson--but nocasuistry avails to cleanse the memory of Pedro of Castille: even forhis own ruthless age he was a monster of cruelty and lust. Indeed theindignation with which his biographers have felt bound to charge theirpens has somewhat obscured their judgment; they have so eagerly insistedon the censure with which themselves regard their hero's villainies, that they have found little opportunity to explain a complex character. Yet the story of his early life affords a simple key to his maturity. Till the age of fifteen he lived in prisons, suffering with his motherevery insult and humiliation, while his father's mistress kept queenlystate, and her children received the honours of royal princes. When hecame to the throne he found himself a catspaw between his naturalbrothers and ambitious nobles. His nearest relatives were ever hisbitterest enemies, and he was continually betrayed by those he trusted;even his mother delivered to the rebellious peers the strongholds andthe treasures he had left in her charge and caused him to be takenprisoner. As a boy he had been violent and impetuous, yet always loyal:but before he was twenty he became suspicious and mistrustful; in hisweakness he made craft and perfidy his weapons, practising to composehis face, to feign forgetfulness of injury till the moment of vengeance;he learned to dissemble so that none could tell his mind, and treated nocourtiers with greater favour than those upon whose death he had alreadydetermined. 

Intermingled with this career of vice and perfidy and bloodshed is thelove of Maria de Padilla, whom the king met when he was eighteen, andtill her death loved passionately--with brief inconstancies, forfidelity has never been a royal virtue; and she figures with gentlepathos in that grim history like wild perfumed flowers on a storm-beatencoast. After the assassination of the unfortunate Blanche, the FrenchQueen whom he loathed with an extraordinary physical repulsion, Pedroacknowledged a secret marriage with Maria de Padilla, which legitimisedher children; but for ten years before she had been treated with royalrights. The historian says that she was very beautiful, but her especialcharm seems to have been that voluptuous grace which is characteristicof Andalusian women. She was simple and pious, with a nature of greatsweetness, and she never abused her power; her influence, as runs thehackneyed phrase, was always for good, and untiringly she did herutmost to incline her despot lover to mercy. She alone sheds a ray oflight on Pedro's memory, only her love can save him from the execrationof posterity. When she died rich and poor alike mourned her, and theking was inconsolable. He honoured her with pompous obsequies, andthroughout the kingdom ordered masses to be sung for the rest of hersoul. 

* * *

The guardians of the Alcazar show you the chambers in which dwelt thisgracious lady, and the garden-fountain wherein she bathed in summer. Moralists, anxious to prove that the way of righteousness is hard, saythat beauty dies, but they err, for beauty is immortal. The habitationsof a lovely woman never lose the enchantment she has cast over them, hercomeliness lingers in their empty chambers like a subtle odour; andcenturies after her very bones have crumbled to dust it is her presencealone that is felt, her footfall that is heard on the marble floors. 

Garish colours, alas! have driven the tender spirit of Maria de Padillafrom the royal palace, but it has betaken itself to the old garden, andthere wanders sadly. It is a charming place of rare plants and exoticodours; cypress and tall palm trees rise towards the blue sky with theirirresistible melancholy, their far-away suggestion of burning deserts;and at their feet the ground is carpeted with violets. Yet to me thewild roses brought strangely recollections of England, of long summerdays when the air was sweet and balmy; the birds sang heavenly songs, the same songs as they sing in June in the fat Kentish fields. Thegorgeous palace had only suggested the long past days of history, andSeville the joy of life and the love of sunshine; but the old quietgarden took me far away from Spain, so that I longed to be again inEngland. In thought I wandered through a garden that I knew in yearsgone by, filled also with flowers, but with hollyhocks and jasmine; thebreeze carried the sweet scent of the honeysuckle to my nostrils, and Ilooked at the green lawns, with the broad, straight lines of thegrass-mower. The low of cattle reached my ears, and wandering to thefence I looked into the fields beyond; yellow cows grazed idly or laystill chewing the cud; they stared at me with listless, sleepy eyes. 

But I glanced up and saw a flock of wild geese flying northwards in longlines that met, making two sides of a huge triangle; they flew quicklyin the cloudless sky, far above me, and presently were lost to view. About me was the tall box-wood of the southern garden, and tropicalplants with rich flowers of yellow and red and purple. A dark fir-treestood out, ragged and uneven, like a spirit of the North, erect as alife without reproach; but the foliage of the palms hung down with asad, adorable grace. 

XIII

[Sidenote: Calle de las Sierpes]

In Seville the Andalusian character thrives in its finest flower; andnowhere can it be more conveniently studied than in the narrow, sinuous, crowded thoroughfare which is the oddest street in Europe. The Calle delas Sierpes is merely a pavement, hardly broader than that ofPiccadilly, without a carriage-way. The houses on either side are veryirregular; some are tall, four-storeyed, others quite tiny; some arewell kept and freshly painted, others dilapidated. It is one of thecuriosities of Seville that there is no particularly fashionablequarter; and, as though some moralising ruler had wished to place beforehis people a continual reminder of the uncertainty of human greatness, by the side of a magnificent palace you will find a hovel. 

At no hour of the day does the Calle de las Sierpes lack animation, butto see it at its best you must go towards evening, at seven o'clock, forthen there is scarcely room to move. Fine gentlemen stand at the clubdoors or sit within, looking out of the huge windows; the merchants andthe students, smoking cigarettes, saunter, wrapped magnificently intheir capos. Cigarette-girls pass with roving eyes; they suffer from nofalse modesty and smile with pleasure when a compliment reaches theirears. Admirers do not speak in too low a tone and the fair Sevillan isnever hard of hearing. 

Newspaper boys with shrill cries announce evening editions: '_Porvenir!__Noticiero!_' Vendors of lottery-tickets wander up and down, audaciouslyoffering the first prize: '_Quien quiere el premio gardo?_' Beggarsfollow you with piteous tales of fasts improbably extended. But moststriking is the _gente flamenca_, the bull-fighter, with his numeroushangers-on. The _toreros_--toreador is an unknown word, good for comicopera and persons who write novels of Spanish life and cannot bebothered to go to Spain--the _toreros_ sit in their especial cafe, the_Cerveceria National_, or stand in little groups talking to one another. They are distinguishable by the _coleta_, which is a little plait ofhair used to attach the chignon of full-dress: it is the dearestambition of the aspirant to the bull-ring to possess this ornament; hegrows it as soon as he is full-fledged, and it is solemnly cut off whenthe weight of years and the responsibility of landed estates induce himto retire from the profession. The bull-fighter dresses peculiarly andthe _gente flamenca_, imitates him so far as its means allow. A famous_matador_ is as well paid as in England a Cabinet Minister or amusic-hall artiste. This is his costume: a broad-brimmed hat with a lowcrown, which is something like a topper absurdly flattened down, withbrims preposterously broadened out. The front of his shirt is befrilledand embroidered, and his studs are the largest diamonds; not evenfinanciers in England wear such important stones. He wears a low collarwithout a necktie, but ties a silk handkerchief round his neck like anEnglish navvy; an Eton jacket, fitting very tightly, brown, black, orgrey, with elaborate frogs and much braiding; the trousers, skin-tightabove, loosen below, and show off the lower extremities when, like theheroes of feminine romance, the wearer has a fine leg. Indeed, it is amode of dress which exhibits the figure to great advantage, and many ofthese young men have admirable forms. 

In their strong, picturesque way they are often very handsome. They havea careless grace of gesture, a manner of actors perfectly at ease in aneffective part, a brutal healthiness; there is a flamboyance in theirbearing, a melodramatic swagger, which is most diverting. And theirfaces, so contrasted are the colours, so strongly marked the features, are full of interest. Clean shaven, the beard shows violet through theolive skin; they have high cheek bones and thin, almost hollow cheeks, with eyes set far back in the sockets, dark and lustrous under heavybrows. The black hair, admirably attached to the head, is cut short;shaved on the temples and over the ears, brushed forward as in othercountries is fashionable with gentlemen of the box: it fits the skulllike a second, tighter skin. The lips are red and sensual, the teethwhite, regular and well shaped. The bull-fighter is remarkable also forthe diamond rings which decorate his fingers and the massive gold, theponderous seals, of his watch-chain. 

Who can wonder then that maidens fair, their hearts turning to thoughtsof love, should cast favourable glances upon this hero of a hundredfights? The conquests of tenors and grand-dukes and fiddlers areinsignificant beside those of a bull-fighter; and the certainty offeminine smiles is another inducement for youth to exchange the drudgeryof menial occupations for the varied excitement of the ring. 

* * *

At night the Sierpes is different again. Little by little the peoplescatter to their various homes, the shops are closed, the clubs put outtheir lights, and by one the loiterers are few. The contrast is vividbetween the noisy throng of day-time and this sudden stillness; theemptiness of the winding street seems almost unnatural. The houses, losing all variety, are intensely black; and above, the sinuous line ofsky is brilliant with clustering stars. A drunken roysterer reels from atavern-door, his footfall echoing noisily along the pavement, butquickly he sways round a corner; and the silence, more impressive forthe interruption, returns. The night-watchman, huddled in a cloak ofmany folds, is sleeping in a doorway, dimly outlined by the yellow gleamof his lantern. 

Then I, a lover of late hours, returning, seek the _guardia_. Sevillanhouses are locked at midnight by this individual, who keeps thelatch-keys of a whole street, and is supposed to be on the look-out fortardy comers. I clap my hands, such being the Spanish way to attractattention, and shout; but he does not appear. He is a good-natured, round man, bibulous, with grey hair and a benevolent manner. I know hishabits and resign myself to inquiring for him in the neighbouringdram-shops. I find him at last and assail him with all the abuse at mycommand; he is too tipsy to answer or to care, and follows me, janglinghis keys. He fumbles with them at the door, blaspheming because they areso much alike, and finally lets me in. 

_'Buena noche. Descanse v bien. '_

XIV

[Sidenote: Characteristics]

It is a hazardous thing to attempt the analysis of national character, for after all, however careful the traveller may be in his inquiries, itis from the few individuals himself has known that his most definiteimpressions are drawn. Of course he can control his observations byasking the opinion of foreigners long resident in the country; butcuriously enough in Andalusia precisely the opposite occurs from whatelsewhere is usual. Aliens in England, France, or Italy, with increasingcomprehension, acquire also affection and esteem for the people amongwhom they live; but I have seldom found in Southern Spain aforeigner--and there are many, merchants, engineers and the like, withintimate knowledge of the inhabitants--who had a good word to say forthe Andalusians. 

But perhaps it is in the behaviour of crowds that the most accuratepicture of national character can be obtained. Like compositephotographs which give the appearance of a dozen people together, but arecognisable portrait of none, the multitude offers as it were alikeness in the rough, without precision of detail yet with certainmarked features more obviously indicated. The crowd is an individualwithout responsibility, unoppressed by the usual ties of prudence anddecorum, who betrays himself because he lacks entirelyself-consciousness and the desire to pose. In Spain the crowd is aboveall things good-humoured, fond of a joke so long as it is none toosubtle, excitable of course and prone to rodomontade, yet practical, eager to make the best of things and especially to get its money'sworth. If below the surface there are a somewhat brutal savagery, acruel fickleness, these are traits common with all human beings togetherassembled; they are merely evidence of man's close relationship to apeand tiger. 

From contemporary novels more or less the same picture appears, and alsofrom the newspapers, though in these somewhat idealised; for the Press, bound to flatter for its living, represents its patrons, as do someportrait-painters, not as they are but as they would like to be. In theeyes of Andalusian journalists their compatriots are for ever making amagnificent gesture; and the condition would be absurd if a hornet'snest of comic papers, tempering vanity with a lively sense of theridiculous, did not save the situation by abundantly coarse caricatures. 

It is vanity then which emerges as the most distinct of national traits, a vanity so egregious, so childish, so grotesque, that the onlooker isastounded. The Andalusians have a passion for gorgeous raiment and forjewellery. They must see themselves continually in the brightest light, standing for ever on some alpine eminence of vice or virtue, in fullview of their fellow men. Like schoolboys they will make themselves outdesperate sinners to arouse your horror, and if that does not impressyou, accomplished actors ready to suit your every mood, they will poseas saints than whom none more truly pious have existed on the earth. They are the Gascons of Spain, but beside them the Bordelais is atruthful, unimaginative creature. 

Next comes laziness. There is in Europe no richer soil than that ofAndalusia, and the Arabs, with an elaborate system of irrigation, obtained three crops a year; but now half the land lies uncultivated, and immense tracts are planted only with olives, which, comparatively, entail small labour. But the inhabitants of this fruitful country arehappy in this, that boredom is unknown to them; content to lie in thesun for hours, neither talking, thinking, nor reading, they are nevertired of idleness: two men will sit for half a day in a _cafe_, with aglass of water before them, not exchanging three remarks in an hour. Ifancy it is this stolidness which has given travellers an impression ofdignity; in their quieter moments they remind one of very placid sheep, for they have not half the energy of pigs, which in Spain at least arerestless and spirited creatures. But a trifle will rouse them; and then, quite unable to restrain themselves, pallid with rage, they hurl abuseat their enemy--Spanish, they say, is richer in invective than any otherEuropean tongue--and quickly long knives are whipped out to avenge theaffront. 

Universal opinion has given its verdict in an epithet: and just as manypeople speak of the volatile Frenchman, the stolid Dutchman, the amatoryItalian, they talk of the proud Spaniard. But it is pride of a peculiarsort; a Sevillian with only the smallest claims to respectability wouldrather die than carry a parcel through the street; however poor, someone must perform for him so menial an office: and he would consider itvastly beneath his dignity to accept charity, though if he had thechance would not hesitate to swindle you out of sixpence. But in mattersof honesty these good people show a certain discrimination. Yourservants, for example, would hesitate to steal money, especially ifliable to detection, but not to take wine and sugar and oil: which isproved by the freedom with which they discuss the theft among themselvesand the calmness with which they acknowledge it when a wrathful mastertakes them in the act. The reasoning is, if you're such a fool as not tokeep your things under lock and key you deserve to be robbed; and ifdismissed for such a peccadillo they consider themselves very hardlyused. 

Uncharitable persons, saying that a Spaniard will live for a week onbread and water duly to prepare himself for a meal at another's expense, accuse them of gluttony; but I have always found the Andalusiansabstemious eaters, nor have I wondered at this, since Spanish food isabominable. But drunkards they often are. I should think as many peoplein proportion get drunk in Seville as in London, though it is only fairto add that their heads are not strong, and very little alcohol willproduce in them an indecent exhilaration. 

But if the reader, because the Andalusians are slothful, truthless, butmoderately honest, vain, concludes that they are an unattractive peoplehe will grossly err. His reasoning, that moral qualities make pleasantcompanions, is quite false; on the contrary it is rigid principles andunbending character, strength of will and a decided sense of right andwrong, which make intercourse difficult. A sensitive conscience is noaddition to the amenities of the dinner-table. But when a man is willingto counter a deadly sin with a shrug of the shoulders, when betweenwhite and black he can discover no insupportable contrast, theprobabilities are that he will at least humour your whims and respectyour prejudices. And so it is that the Andalusians make very agreeableacquaintance. They are free and amiable in their conversation, and willalways say the thing that pleases rather than the brutal thing that is. They miss no opportunity to make compliments, which they do so well thatat the moment you are assured these flattering remarks come from thebottom of their hearts. Very reasonably, they cannot understand why youshould be disagreeable to a man merely because you rob him; to injury, unless their minds are clouded by passion, they have not the bad tasteto add insult. Compare with these manners the British abhorrence ofpolite and complimentary speeches, especially if they happen to be true:the Englishman may hold you in the highest estimation, but wild horseswill not drag from him an acknowledgment of the fact; whereby humanismand the general stock of self-esteem are notably diminished. 

Nothing can be more graceful than their mode of speech, for the veryconstruction of the language conduces to courtesy. The Spaniards havealso an oriental way of offering you things, placing themselves andtheir houses entirely at your disposal. If you remark on anything oftheirs they beg you at once to take it. If you go into a pot-house wherea peasant is dining on a plate of ham, a few olives, and a glass ofwine, he will ask: '_Le gusta_, ' 'Will you have some, ' with a littlemotion of handing you his meal. Of course it would be an outrage todecorum to accept these generous offers, but that is beside thequestion; for good manners are not an affair of the heart, but acomplicated game to be learned and played on either side with dueattention to the rules. It may be argued that such details are notserious; but surely for the common round of life politeness is morenecessary than any heroic qualities. We need our friends' self-sacrificeonce in a blue moon, but their courtesy every day; and for my own part, I would choose the companions of my leisure rather for their goodbreeding than for the excellence of their dispositions. 

Beside this, however, the Andalusians are much attached to children, andit is pleasant to see the real fondness which exists between variousmembers of a family. One singular point I have noted, that although theSpanish marry for love rather than from convenience, a wife putskindred before husband, her affection remaining chiefly where it wasbefore marriage. But if the moralist desires yet more solid virtues, heneed only inquire of the first Sevillan he meets, who will give atshortest notice, in choice and fluent language, a far more impressivelist than I could ever produce. 

XV

[Sidenote: Don Juan Tenorio]

On its own behalf each country seems to choose one man, historical orimaginary, to stand for the race, making as it were an incarnation ofall the virtues and all the vices wherewith it is pleased to chargeitself; and nothing really better explains the character of a peoplethan their choice of a national hero. Fifty years ago John Bull was thetypical Englishman. Stout, rubicund and healthy, with a loud voice and asomewhat aggressive manner, he belonged distinctly to the middleclasses. He had a precise idea of his rights and a flattering opinion ofhis merits; he was peaceable, but ready enough to fight for commercialadvantages, or if roused, for conscience sake. And when this took placehe possessed always the comforting assurance that the Almighty was onhis side; he put his faith without hesitation on the Bible and on thesuperiority of the English Nation. For foreigners he had a magnificentcontempt and distinguished between them and monkeys only by a certainmental effort. Art he thought nasty, literature womanish; he was a Tory, middle-aged and well-to-do. 

But nowadays all that is changed; John Bull, having amassed greatwealth, has been gathered to his fathers and now disports himself in anearly Victorian paradise furnished with horse-hair sofas and mahoganysideboards. His son reigns in his stead; and though perhaps notofficially recognised as England's archetype, his appearance in noveland in drama, in the illustrated papers, in countless advertisements, proves the reality of his sway. It is his image that rests in the heartof British maidens, his the example that British youths industriouslyfollow. 

But John Bull, Junior, has added his mother's maiden name to his own, and remembers with pleasure that he belongs to a good old county family. He has changed his address from Bedford Square to South Kensington, andhas been educated at a Public School and at a University. Young, talland fair-haired, there is nothing to suggest that he will ever have thatinelegant paunch which prevented the father, even in his loftiestmoments of moral indignation, from being dignified. Of course he is asoldier, for the army is still the only profession for a gentleman, andEngland's hero is that above all things. His morals are unexceptional, since to the ten commandments of Moses he has added the decalogue ofgood form. His clothes, whether he wears a Norfolk jacket or a frockcoat, fit to perfection. He is a good shot, a daring rider, aserviceable cricketer. His heart beats with simple emotions, he willever cheer at the sight of the Union Jack, and the strains of _RuleBritannia_ bring patriotic tears to his eyes. Of late, (like myself, ) hehas become an Imperialist. His intentions are always strictlyhonourable, and he would not kiss the tip of a woman's fingers exceptHymen gave him the strictest rights to do so. If he became enamoured ofa lady with whom such tender sentiments should not be harboured, hewould invariably remember his duty at the psychological moment, and withmany moving expressions renounce her: in fact he is a devil atrenouncing women. I wonder it flatters them. 

Contrast with this pattern of excellence, eminently praiseworthy ifsomewhat dull, Don Juan Tenorio, who stands in exactly the same relationto the Andalusians as does John Bull to the English. He is a worthless, heartless creature, given over to the pursuit of emotion. The mainlines of the story are well known. The legend, so far as Seville isconcerned, (industrious persons have found analogues throughout theworld, ) appears to be founded on fact. There actually lived a Comendadorde Calatrava who was killed by Don Juan after the abduction of hisdaughter. The perfect amorist, according to the _Cronica de Sevilla_, was then inveigled into the church where lay his enemy and assassinatedby the Franciscans, who spread the pious fiction that the image of hisvictim, descending from its pedestal, had itself exacted vengeance. Itwas an unfortunate invention, for the catastrophe has proved astumbling-block to all that have dealt with the subject. The Spaniardsof Molina's day may not have minded the clumsy _deus ex machina_, butlater writers have been able to make nothing of it. In Molière's play, for instance, the grotesque statue is absurdly inapposite, for his DonJuan is a wit and a cynic, a courtier of Louis XIV. , with whose sinsavenging gods are out of all proportion. Love for him is an intellectualexercise and a pastime. 'Constancy, ' he says, 'is only good for fools. We owe ourselves to pretty women in general, and the mere fact of havingmet one does not absolve us from our duty to others. The birth ofpassion has an inexplicable charm, and the pleasure of love is invariety. ' And Zorilla, whose version is the most poetic of them all, hassucceeded in giving only a ridiculous exhibition of waxworks. 

But the monk, Tirso de Molina, who was the first to apply literary formto the legend, alone gives the character in its primitive simplicity. Hedrew the men of his time; and his compatriots, recognising themselves, have made the work immortal. For Spain, at all events, the type has beenirrevocably fixed. Don Juan Tenorio was indeed a Spaniard of his age, aman of turbulent instincts, with a love of adventure and a fine contemptfor danger, of an overwhelming pride; careful of his own honour, andcareless of that of others. He looked upon every woman as lawful preyand hesitated at neither perjury nor violence to gain his ends; despairand tears left him indifferent. Love for him was purely carnal, withnothing of the timid flame of pastoral romance, nor of the chivalrousand metaphysic passion of Provence; it was a fierce, consuming firewhich quickly burnt itself out. He was a vulgar and unoriginal seducerwho stole favours in the dark by pretending to be the lady's chosenlover, or induced guileless maids to trust him under promise ofmarriage, then rode away as fast as his horse could carry him. Themonotony of his methods and their success are an outrage to theintelligence of the sex. But for all his scoffing he remained a trueCatholic, devoutly believing that the day would come when he mustaccount for his acts; and he proposed, when too old to commit more sins, to repent and make his peace with the Almighty. 

It is significant that the Andalusians have thus chosen Don JuanTenorio, for he is an abstract, with the lines somewhat subdued by theadvance of civilisation, of the national character. For them his vices, his treachery, his heartlessness, have nothing repellent; nor does hisinconstancy rob him of feminine sympathy. He is, indeed, a far greaterfavourite with the ladies than John Bull. The Englishman they respect, they know he will make a good husband and a model father; but he is toomonogamous to arouse enthusiasm. 

XVI

[Sidenote: Women of Andalusia]

It is meet and just that the traveller who desires a closer acquaintancewith the country wherein he sojourns than is obtained by the Cockneytripper, should fall in love. The advantages of this proceeding aremanifold and obvious. He will acquire the language with a more rapidfacility; he will look upon the land with greater sympathy and hencewith sharper insight; and little particularities of life will becomeknown to him, which to the dreary creature who surveys a strange worldfrom the portico of an expensive hotel, must necessarily lie hid. If Ipersonally did not arrive at that delectable condition the fault is withthe immortal gods rather than with myself; for in my eagerness to learnthe gorgeous tongue of Calderon and of Cervantes, I placed myselfpurposely in circumstances where I thought the darts of young Cupidcould never fail to miss me. But finally I was reduced to Ollendorf'sGrammar. However, these are biographical details of interest to none butmyself; they are merely to serve as preface for certain observationsupon the women whom the traveller in the evening sees hurrying throughthe Sierpes on their way home. 

Human beauty is the most arbitrary of things, and the Englishman, accustomed to the classic type of his own countrywomen, will at firstperhaps be somewhat disappointed with the excellence of Spain. Itconsists but seldom in any regularity of feature, for their appeal is tothe amorist rather than to the sculptor in marble. Their red lips carrysuggestions of burning kisses, so that his heart must be hard indeed whodoes not feel some flutterings at their aspect. The teeth are small, very white, regular. Face and body, indeed, are but the expression of apassionate nature. 

But when I write of Spanish women I think of you, Rosarito; I findsuddenly that it is no impersonal creature that fills my mind, butyou--you! When I state solemnly that their greatest beauty lies in theirhair and eyes, it is of you I think; it is your dark eyes that werelustrous, soft as velvet, caressing sometimes, and sometimes sparklingwith fiery glances. (Alas! that I can find but hackneyed phrases todescribe those heart-disturbers!) And when I say that the eyebrows of aSpanish woman are not often so delicately pencilled as with many anEnglish girl, I remember that yours were thick; and the luxuriance gaveyou a certain tropical and savage charm. And your hair was plentiful andcurling, intensely black; I believe it was your greatest care in life. Don't you remember how often you explained to me that nothing was soharmful as to brush it, and how proud you were that it hung in gloriouslocks to your very knees?

Hardly any girl in Seville is too poor to have a _peinadora_ to do herhair; and these women go from house to house, combing and arranging thecoiffure for such infinitesimal sums as half a _real_, which is littlemore than a penny. 

Again I try to be impersonal. The complexion ranges through everyquality from dark olive to pearly white; but yours, Rosarito, was likethe very finest ivory, a perfect miracle of delicacy and brilliance; andthe blood in the cheeks shone through with a rich, soft red. I used tothink it was a colour by itself, not to be found on palettes, thecarnation of your cheeks, Rosarito. And none could walk with suchgraceful dignity as you; it was a pleasure to watch your perfect ease, your self-command. Your feet, I think, were somewhat long; but yourhands were wonderful, very small, admirably modelled, with littletapering fingers, and the most adorable filbert nails. Don't youremember how I used to look at them, and turn them over and discuss thempoint by point? And if ever I kissed their soft, warm palms, (I think itpossible, though I have no vivid recollections, ) remember that I wastwenty-three; and it was certainly an appropriate gesture in the littlecomedy which to our mutual entertainment we played so gravely. 

Now, as I write, my heart goes pit-a-pat, thinking of you, Rosarito; andI'm sure that if we had over again that charming time, I should fallhead over ears in love. Oh, you know we were both fibbing when we vowedwe adored one another; I am a romancer by profession, and you by nature. We parted joyously, and you had the grace not to force a tear, andneither of our hearts was broken. Where are you now, I wonder; and doyou ever think of me?

* * *

The whole chapter of Andalusian beauty is unfolded in the tobaccofactory at Seville. Six thousand women work there, at little tablesplaced by the columns which uphold the roof; they are of all ages, ofall types; plain, pretty, commonplace, beautiful; and ten, perhaps, arelovely. The gipsies are disappointing, not so comely as the pureSpaniards; and they attract only by the sphinx-like mystery of theircopper-coloured skin, by their hard, unfathomable eyes. 

The Sevillans are perhaps inclined to stoutness, but that is a charm intheir lover's sight, and often have a little down on the upper lip, thanwhich, when it amounts to no more than a shadow, nothing can be moreenchanting. They look with malicious eyes as you saunter through roomafter room in the factory; it is quite an experience to run the gauntletof their numerous tongues, making uncomplimentary remarks about yourperson, sometimes to your embarrassment offering you the carnation fromtheir hair, or other things. Their clothes are suspended to the pillars, and their costume in summer is more adapted for coolness than for theinspection of decorous foreigners. They may bring with them babies, andmany a girl will have a cradle by her side, which she rocks with onefoot as her fingers work nimbly at the cigarettes. 

They are very oriental, these women with voluptuous forms; they have noeducation, and with all their charm are unutterably stupid; they do notread, and find even newspapers tiresome! Those whose circumstances donot force them to work for their living, love nothing better than to liefor long hours on a sofa, neither talking nor thinking, in easy gowns, untrammelled by tight-fitting things. In the morning they put on a_mantilla_ and go to mass, and besides, except to pay a polite visit ona friend or to drive in the Paseo, hardly leave the house. They arecontent with the simplest life. They adore their children, and willinglydevote themselves entirely to them; they seem never to be bored. 

For them the days must come and go without distinction. Their fleetingbeauty leaves them imperceptibly; they grow fat, they grow thin, wrinkled, and gaunt; the years pass and their life proceeds withoutchange. They do not think, they do not live: they merely exist, and theydie, and that is the end of it. I suppose they are as happy as any oneelse. After all, taking it from one point of view, it matters verylittle what sort of life one leads, there are so many people in theworld, such millions have come and gone, such millions will come and go. If an individual makes no use of his hour what does it signify? He isonly one among countless hordes. In the existence of these handsomecreatures, so passionate and yet so apathetic, there are no particularpleasures beside the simple joys of sense, but on the other hand, beyondthe inevitable separations of death, there are no outstanding griefs. They propagate their species, and that, perhaps, is the only quitecertain duty that human beings have. 

XVII

[Sidenote: The Dance]

Cervantes said that there was never born a Spanish woman but she wasmade to dance; and he might have added that in the South, at all events, most men share the enviable faculty. The dance is one of the mostcharacteristic features of Andalusia, and as an amusement rivals inpopularity even the bull-fight. The Sevillans dance on every possibleoccasion, and nothing pleases them more than the dexterity ofprofessionals. Before a company has been assembled half an hour some oneis bound to suggest that a couple should show their skill; room isquickly made, the table pushed against the wall, the chairs drawn back, and they begin. Even when men are alone in a tavern, drinking wine, twoof them will often enough stand up to tread a _seguidilla_. On a rainyday it is the entertainment that naturally recommends itself. 

Riding through the villages round Seville on Sundays it delighted me tosee little groups making a circle about the house doors, in the middleof which were dancing two girls in bright-coloured clothes, with rosesin their hair. A man seated on a broken chair was twanging a guitar, thesurrounders beat their hands in time and the dancers made music withtheir castanets. Sometimes on a feast-day I came across a little band, arrayed in all its best, that had come into the country for anafternoon's diversion, and sat on the grass in the shade of summer or inthe wintry sun. Whenever Andalusians mean to make merry some one willcertainly bring a guitar, or if not the girls have their castanets; andthough even these are wanting and no one can be induced to sing, arhythmical clapping of hands will be sufficient accompaniment, and theperformers will snap their fingers in lieu of castanets. 

It is charming then to see the girls urge one another to dance; eachvows with much dramatic gesture that she cannot, calling the BlessedVirgin to witness that she has strained her ankle and has a shockingcold. But some youth springs up and volunteers, inviting a particulardamsel to join him. She is pushed forward, and the couple take theirplaces. The man carefully puts down his cigarette, jams hisbroad-brimmed hat on his head, buttons his short coat and arches hisback! The spectators cry: '_Ole!_' The girl passes an arranging handover her hair. The measure begins. The pair stand opposite one another, a yard or so distant, and foot it in accordance with one another'smotions. It is not a thing of complicated steps, but, as one mightexpect from its Moorish origin, of movements of the body. With muchgraceful swaying from side to side the executants approach and retire, and at the middle of the dance change positions. It finishes with agreat clapping of hands, the maiden sinks down among her friends andbegins violently to fan herself, while her partner, with a greataffectation of nonchalance, takes a seat and relights his cigarette. 

And in the music-halls the national dances are, with the national songs, the principal attraction. Seville possesses but one of theseestablishments; it is a queer place, merely the _patio_ of a privatehouse, with a stage at one end, in which chairs and tables have beenplaced. On holiday nights it is crammed with students, with countrymenand artisans, with the general riff-raff of the town, and with women ofno particular reputation. Now and then appears a gang of soldiers, giving a peculiar note with the uniformity of their brown holland suits;and occasionally a couple of British sailors come sauntering in withfine self-assurance, their fair hair and red cheeks contrasting with thegeneral swartness. You pay no entrance money, but your refreshment costsa _real_--which is twopence ha'penny; and for that you may enjoy notonly a cup of coffee or a glass of manzanilla, but an evening'sentertainment. As the night wears on the heat is oven-like, and the airis thick and grey with the smoke of countless cigarettes. 

The performance consists of three 'turns' only, and these are repeatedevery hour. The company boasts generally of a male singer, a femalesinger, and of the _corps de ballet_, which is made up of six persons. Spain is the stronghold of the out-of-date, and I suppose it alonepreserves the stiff muslin ballet-skirts which delighted our fathers. Tosee half-a-dozen dancers thus attired in a remote Andalusian music-hallis so entirely unexpected that it quite takes the breath away. But bythe time the traveller reaches Seville he must be used to disillusion, and he must be ingenuous indeed if he expects the Spaniards to havepreserved their national costume for the most national of theirpastimes. Yet the dances are still Spanish; and even if the pianofortehas ousted the guitar, the castanets give, notwithstanding, acharacteristic note which the aggressive muslin and the pink, ill-fitting tights cannot entirely destroy. 

* * *

But I remember one dancer who was really a great artist. She wasill-favoured, of middle age, thin; but every part of her was imbued withgrace, expressive, from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers. The demands of the public sometimes forced upon her odiousballet-skirts, sometimes she wasted her talent on the futilities ofskirt-dancing; but chiefly she loved the national measures, and herphenomenal leanness made her only comfortable in the national dress. Shetravelled from place to place in Spain with another woman whom she hadtaught to dance, and whose beauty she used cleverly as a foil to her ownuncomeliness; and so wasted herself in these low resorts, earning hardlysufficient to keep body and soul together. I wish I could remember hername. 

When she began to dance you forgot her ugliness; her gaunt arms gainedshape, her face was transfigured, her dark eyes flashed, and her mouthand smile said a thousand eloquent things. Even the nape of her neck, which in most women has no significance, with her was expressive. Aconsummate actress, she exhibited all her skill in the _bolero_, whichrepresents a courtship; she threw aside the castanets and wrappedherself in a _mantilla_, while her companion, dressed as a man, washidden in a _capa_. The two passed one another, he trying to see thelady's face, which she averted, but not too strenuously; he pursued, shefled, but not too rapidly. Dropping his cloak, the lover attacked withgreater warmth, while alternately she repelled and lured him on. At lastshe too cast away the _mantilla_. They seized the castanets and dancedround one another with all manner of graceful and complicatedevolutions, making love, quarrelling, pouting, exhibiting every varietyof emotion. The dance grew more passionate, the steps flew faster, tillat last, with the music, both stopped suddenly dead still. This abruptcessation is one of the points most appreciated by a Spanish audience. '_Ole!_' they cry, '_bien parado!_'

But when, unhampered by a partner, this nameless, exquisite dancer gavefull play to her imagination, there was no end to the wildness of herfancy, to the intricacy and elaboration of her measures, to the gayaudacity of her movements. She performed a hundred feats, each moredifficult than the other--and all impossible to describe. 

* * *

Then, between Christmas and Lent, at midnight on Saturdays and Sundays, the tables and the chairs are cleared away for the masked ball; and youwill see the latest mode of Spanish dance. The women are of the lowestpossible class; some, with a kind of savage irony, disguised as nuns, others in grotesque dominos of their own devising; but most wearevery-day clothes with great shawls draped about them. The men are of acorresponding station, and through the evening wear their broad-brimmedhats. On the stage is a brass band, which plays one single tune tillday-break, and to that one single measure is danced--the _habanera_. 

In this alone may people take part as in any round dance. The coupleshold one another in the very tightest embrace, the lady clasping herarms round her partner's neck, while he places both his about her waist. They go round the room very slowly, immediately behind one another; itis a kind of straight polka, with a peculiar, rhythmic swaying of thebody; the feet are not lifted off the floor, and you do not turn at all. The highest gravity is preserved throughout, and the whole performanceis--well, very oriental. 

XVIII

[Sidenote: A Feast Day]

I arrived in Seville on the Eve of the Immaculate Conception. All daypeople had been preparing to celebrate the feast, decorating theirhouses with great banners of blue and white; and at night the silent, narrow streets had a strange appearance, for in every window werelighted candles, throwing around them a white, unusual glare; theylooked a little like the souls of infants dead. All day the bells of ahundred churches had been ringing, half drowned by the rolling peals ofthe Giralda. 

It had been announced that the archbishop would himself officiate at theHigh Mass in the Blessed Virgin's honour; and early in the morning thecathedral steps were crowded with black-robed women, making their way tothe great sacristy where was to be held the service. I joined thethrong, and entering through the darkness of the porch, was almostblinded by the brilliant altar, upon which stood a life-sized image ofthe Virgin, surrounded by a huge aureole, with great bishops, all ofsilver, on either side. It was ablaze with the light of many candles, sothat the nave was thrown into deep shadow, and the kneeling women werescarcely visible. 

The canons in the choir listlessly droned their prayers. At last theorgan burst forth, and a long procession slowly came into the chapel, priests in white and blue, the colours of the Virgin, four bishops inmitres, the archbishop with his golden crozier; and preceding them all, in odd contrast, the beadle in black, with a dark periwig, bearing asilver staff. From the choir in due order they returned to the altar, headed this time by three pairs of acolytes, bearing great silvercandlesticks, and by incense-burners, that filled the church with richperfume. 

When the Mass was finished, a young dark man in copious robes of violetascended the pulpit and muttered a text. He waited an instant to collecthimself, looking at the congregation; then turning to the altar began apassionate song of praise to the Blessed Virgin, unsoiled by originalsin. He described her as in a hundred pictures the great painter of theImmaculate Conception has portrayed her--a young and graceful maid, clothed in a snowy gown of ample folds, with an azure cloak, a maidmysteriously pure; her hair, floating on the shoulders in luxuriousringlets, was an aureole more glorious than the silver rays whichsurrounded the great image; her dark eyes, with their languid lashes, her mouth, with the red lips, expressed a beautiful and immaculatevirtue. It might have been some earthly woman of whom the priest spoke, one of those Andalusians that knelt below him, flashing quick glances atthe gallant who negligently leaned against a pillar. 

The archbishop sat on his golden throne--a thin, small man with awrinkled face, with dead and listless eyes; in his gorgeous vestmentshe looked hardly human, he seemed a puppet, sitting stilly. At the endof the sermon he went back to the altar, and in his low, broken voiceread the prayers. And then turning towards the great congregation hegave the plenary absolution, for which the Pope's Bull had been readfrom the pulpit steps. 

* * *

In the afternoon, when the sun was going down behind the Guadalquivir, over the plain, I went again to the cathedral. The canons in the choirstill droned their chant in praise of the Blessed Virgin, and in thegreater darkness the altar shone more magnificently. The same processionfiled through the nave, some priests were in black, some in violet, somein the Virgin's colours; but this time the archbishop wore gorgeousrobes of scarlet, and as he knelt at the altar his train spread to thechancel steps. From the side appeared ten boys and knelt before thealtar, and stood in two lines facing one another. They were dressed likepages of the seventeenth century, with white stockings and breeches, anda doublet of blue and silver, holding in their hands hats with longfeathers. The archbishop, kneeling in front of the throne, buried hisface in his hands. 

A soft melody, played by violins and 'cellos, broke the silence, andpresently the ten pages began to sing:

 _Los cielos y la tierra alaben al Señor_ _Con imnos de alabanza que inflamen al Señor. _

It was a curious, old-fashioned music, reminding one a little of thequiet harmonies of Gluck. Then, putting on their hats, the pages danced, continuing their song; they wound in and out of one another, gravelyfooting it, swaying to and fro with the music very slowly. The measurewas performed with the utmost reverence. Now and then the chorus came, and the fresh boys' voices, singing in unison, filled the church withdelightful melody. And still the old archbishop prayed, his face buriedin his hands. 

The boys ceased to sing, but continued the dance, marking the time nowwith castanets, and the mundane instrument contrasted strangely with theglittering altar and with the kneeling priests. I wondered of what thearchbishop thought, kneeling so humbly--of the boys dancing before thealtar, fresh and young? Was he thinking of their white souls darkeningwith the sins of the world, or of the troubles, the disillusionments oflife, and the decrepitude? Or was it of himself--did he think of his ownyouth, so long past, so hopelessly gone, or did he think that he was oldand worn, and of the dark journey before him, and of the light thatseemed so distant? Did he regret his beautiful Seville with the bluesky, and the orange-trees bowed down with their golden fruit? He seemedso small and weak, overwhelmed in his gorgeous robes. 

Again the ten boys repeated their song and dance and their castanets, and with a rapid genuflection disappeared. 

The archbishop rose painfully from his knees and ascended to the altar. A priest held open a book before him, and another lighted the printedpage with a candle; he read out a prayer. Then, kneeling down, he bentvery low, as though he felt himself unworthy to behold the magnificenceof the Queen of Heaven. The people fell to their knees, and a man'svoice burst forth--_Ave Maria, gratia plena_; waves of passionate soundfloated over the worshippers, upwards, towards heaven. And from theGiralda, the Moorish tower, the Christian bells rang joyfully. Thearchbishop turned towards the people; and when in his thin, broken voicehe gave the benediction, one thought that no man in his heart felt suchhumility as the magnificent prince of the Church, Don Marcelo Spinola yMaestre, Archbishop of Seville. 

The people flocked out quickly, and soon only a few devout penitentsremained. A priest came, waving censers before the altar, and thickvolumes of perfume ascended to the Blessed Virgin. He disappeared, andone by one the candles were extinguished. The night crept silently alongthe church, and the silver image sank into the darkness; at last twocandles only were left on the altar, high up, shining dimly. 

Outside the sky was still blue, bespattered with countless stars. 

 NOTE. --I believe there is no definite explanation of this ceremony, and the legend told me by an ancient priest that it was invented during the Moorish dominion so that Christian services might be held under cover of a social gathering--intruding Muslims would be told merely that people were there assembled to see boys dance and to listen to their singing--is more picturesque than probable. Rather does it seem analogous with the leaping of David the King before the Ark of Jehovah, when he danced before the Lord with all his might, girt with a linen Ephod; and this, if I may hazard an opinion, was with a view to amuse a deity apt to be bored or languid, just as Nautch girls dance to this day before the idols of the Hindus, and tops are spun before Krishna to divert him. 

XIX

[Sidenote: The Giralda]

The Christian bells rang joyfully from the Moorish tower, the great oldbells christened with holy oil, _el Cantor_ the Singer, _la Gorda_ theGreat, _San Miguel_. I climbed the winding passage till I came to theterrace where stood the ringers, and as they pulled their ropes thebells swung round on their axles, completing a circle, with deafeningclamour. The din was terrific, so that the solid masonry appeared toshake, and I felt the vibrations of the surrounding air. It was astrange sensation to shout as loud as possible and hear no sound issuefrom my mouth. 

The Giralda, with its Moorish base and its Christian belfry, is a symbolof Andalusia. There is in the Ayuntamiento an old picture of the Minaretbuilt by Djâbir the Moor, nearly one hundred feet shorter than thecompleted tower, but surmounted by a battlemented platform on which arehuge brazen balls and an iron standard. These were overthrown by anearthquake, and later, when the discoveries of Christopher Columbus hadpoured unmeasured riches into Seville, the Chapter commissioned HernanRuiz to add a belfry to the Moorish base. Hernan Ruiz nearly ruined themosque at Cordova, but here he was entirely successful. Indeed it isextraordinary that the two parts should be joined in such admirableharmony. It is impossible to give in words an idea of the slender graceof the Giralda, it does not look a thing of bricks and mortar, it is sostraight and light that it reminds one vaguely of some beautiful humanthing. The great height is astonishing, there is no buttress orprojection to break the very long straight line as it rises, with a kindof breathless speed, to the belfry platform. And then the renaissancebuilding begins, ascending still more, a sort of filigree work, excessively rich, and elegant beyond all praise. It is surmounted by afemale figure of bronze, representing Faith and veering with everybreeze, and the artist has surrounded his work with the motto: _NomenDomini Fortissima Turris_. 

But the older portion gains another charm from the Moorish windows thatpierce it, one above the other, with horseshoe arches; and from thearabesque network with which the upper part is diapered, a bricktrellis-work against the brick walls, of the most graceful and delicateintricacy. The Giralda is almost toylike in the daintiness of itsdecoration. Notwithstanding its great size it is a masterpiece ofexquisite proportion. At night it stands out with strong lines againstthe bespangled sky, and the lights of the watchers give it a magicappearance of some lacelike tower of imagination; but on high festivalsit is lit with countless lamps, and then, as Richard Ford puts it, hangsfrom the dark vault of heaven like a brilliant chandelier. 

I looked down at Seville from above. A Spanish town wears always itsmost picturesque appearance thus seen, but it is never different; the_patios_ glaring with whitewash, the roofs of brown and yellow tiles, and the narrow streets, winding in unexpected directions, narrower thanever from such a height and dark with shade, so that they seem blackrivulets gliding stealthily through the whiteness. Looking at a northerncity from a tall church tower all things are confused with one another, the slate roofs join together till it is like a huge uneven sea of grey;but in Seville the atmosphere is so limpid, the colour so brilliant, that every house is clearly separated from its neighbour, and sometimesthere appears to be between them a preternatural distinctness. Eachstands independently of any other; you might suppose yourself in astrange city of the _Arabian Nights_ where a great population lived inhouses crowded together, but invisibly, so that each person fanciedhimself in isolation. 

Immediately below was the Cathedral and to remind you of Cordova, theCourt of Oranges; but here was no sunny restfulness, nor old-worldquiet. The Court is gloomy and dark, and the trim rows of orange-treescontrast oddly with the grey stone of the Cathedral, its huge porches, and the flamboyant exuberance of its decoration. The sun never shines init and no fruit splash the dark foliage with gold. You do not think ofthe generations of priests who have wandered in it on the summerevenings, basking away their peaceful lives in the sunshine; but ratherof the busy merchants who met there in the old days when it was stillthe exchange of Seville, before the Lonja was built, to discuss the warwith England, or the fate of ships bringing gold from America. At oneend of the court is an old stone pulpit from which preached St. Francisof Borga and St. Vincent Ferrer and many an unknown monk besides. Thenit was thronged with multi-coloured crowds, with townsmen, soldiers andgreat noblemen, when the faith was living and strong; and the preacher, with all the gesture and the impassioned rhetoric of a Spaniard, pouredout burning words of hate for Jew and Moor and Heretic, so that thelisteners panted and a veil of blood passed before their eyes; or elseuttered so eloquent a song in praise of the Blessed Virgin, immaculatelyconceived, that strong men burst into tears at the recital of herperfect beauty. 

XX

[Sidenote: The Cathedral of Seville]

Your first impression when you walk round the cathedral of Seville, noting with dismay the crushed cupolas and unsightly excrescences, thedinginess of colour, is not enthusiastic. It was built by Germanarchitects without a thought for the surrounding houses, brilliantlywhitewashed, and the blue sky, and it proves the incongruity of northernart in a southern country; but even lowering clouds and mist could lendno charm to the late Gothic of _Santa Maria de la Sede_. 

The interior fortunately is very different. Notwithstanding the Gothicgroining, as you enter from the splendid heat of noonday, (in the Plazadel Triunfo the sun beats down and the houses are more dazzling thansnow, ) the effect is thoroughly and delightfully Spanish. Light is veryfatal to devotion and the Spaniards have been so wise as to make theirchurches extremely dark. At first you can see nothing. Incense floatsheavily about you, filling the air, and the coolness is like a draughtof fresh, perfumed water. But gradually the church detaches itself fromthe obscurity and you see great columns, immensely lofty. The spaces arelarge and simple, giving an impression of vast room; and the choir, walled up on three sides, in the middle of the nave as in all Spanishcathedrals, by obstructing the view gives an appearance of almostunlimited extent. To me it seems that in such a place it is easier tocomprehend the majesty wherewith man has equipped himself. Scienceoffers only thoughts of human insignificance; the vastness of the sea, the terror of the mountains, emphasise the fact that man is of noaccount, ephemeral as the leaves of summer. But in those bold aisles, bythe pillars rising with such a confident pride towards heaven, it isalmost impossible not to feel that man indeed is god-like, lord of theearth; and that the great array of nature is builded for his purpose. 

Typically Spanish also is the decoration, and very rich. Thechoir-stalls are of carved wood, florid and exuberant like the Spanishimagination; the altars gleam with gold; pictures of saints are framedby golden pillars carved with huge bunches of grapes and fruit andfantastic leaves. I was astounded at the opulence of the treasure; therewere gorgeous altars of precious metal, great saints of silver, casketsof gold, monstrances studded with rare stones, crosses and crucifixes. The vestments were of unimaginable splendour: there were two hundredcopes of all ages and of every variety, fifty of each colour, white forChristmas and Easter, red for Corpus Christi, blue for the ImmaculateConception, violet for Holy Week; there were the special copes of thePrimate, copes for officiating bishops, copes for dignitaries from othercountries and dioceses. They were of the richest velvet and satin, heavily embroidered with gold, many with saints worked in silk, soheavy that it seemed hardly possible for a man to bear them. 

In the Baptistery, filling it with warm light, is the _San Antonio_ ofMurillo, than which no picture gives more intensely the religiousemotion. The saint, tall and meagre, beautiful of face, looks at theDivine Child hovering in a golden mist with an ecstasy that is no longerhuman. 

It is interesting to consider whether an artist need feel the sentimenthe desires to convey. Certainly many pictures have been painted underthe influence of profound feeling which leave the spectator entirelycold, and it is probable enough that the early Italians felt few of theemotions which their pictures call forth. We know that the masterpiecesof Perugino, so moving, so instinct with religious tenderness, were verymuch a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. But Luis de Vargas, on theother hand, daily humbled himself by scourging and by wearing a hairshirt, and Vicente Joanes prepared himself for a new picture bycommunion and confession; so that it is impossible to wonder at the rudeand savage ardour of their work. And the impression that may be gatheredof Murillo from his pictures is borne out by the study of his grave andsimple life. He had not the turbulent piety of the other two, but a calmand sweet devotion, which led him to spend long hours in church, meditating. He, at any rate, felt all that he expressed. 

I do not know a church that gives the religious sentiment morecompletely than Seville Cathedral. The worship of the Spaniards issombre, full-blooded, a thing of dark rich colours; it requires theheaviness of incense and that overloading of rococo decoration. It iscurious that notwithstanding their extreme similarity to theNeapolitans, the Andalusians should in their faith differ so entirely. Of course, in Southern Italy religion is as full of superstition--anadoration of images in which all symbolism is lost and only the grossidol remains; but it is a gayer and a lighter thing than in Spain. Mostcharacteristic of this is the difference between the churches; and with_Santa Maria de la Sede_ may well be contrasted the Neapolitan _SantaChiara_, with its great windows, so airy and spacious, sparkling withwhite and gold. The paintings are almost frolicsome. It is like aballroom, a typical place of worship for a generation that had no desireto pray, but strutted in gaudy silks and ogled over pretty fans, pretending to discuss the latest audacity of Monsieur Arouet deVoltaire. 

XXI

[Sidenote: The Hospital of Charity]

The Spaniards possess to the fullest degree the art of evoking devoutemotions, and in their various churches may be experienced every phaseof religious feeling. After the majestic size and the solemn mystery ofthe Cathedral, nothing can come as a greater contrast than the Church ofthe Hermandad de la Caredad. It was built by don Miguel de Mañara, whorests in the chancel, with the inscription over him: '_Aqui jacen loshuesos y ceñizas del peor hombre que ha habido en el mundo; ruegan porel_'--'Here lie the bones and ashes of the worst man that has ever beenin the world; pray for him. ' But like all Andalusians he was a braggart;for a love of chocolate, which appears to have been his besetting sin, is insufficient foundation for such a vaunt: a vice of that order isadequately punished by the corpulence it must occasion. However, legend, representing don Miguel as the most dissolute of libertines, is morefriendly. The grave sister who escorts the visitor relates that one dayin church don Miguel saw a beautiful nun, and undaunted by her habit, made amorous proposals. She did not speak, but turned to look at him, whereupon he saw the side of her face which had been hidden from hisgaze, and it was eaten away by a foul and loathsome disease, so that itseemed more horrible than the face of death. The gallant was soterrified that he fainted, and afterwards the face haunted him, the faceof matchless beauty and of revolting decay, so that he turned from theworld. He devoted his fortune to rebuilding the hospital and church ofthe Brotherhood of Charity, whose chief office it was to administer thesacraments to those condemned to death and provide for their burial, andwas eventually received into their Order. 

It was in the seventeenth century that Mañara built his church, andconsequently rococo holds sway with all its fantasies. It is small, without aisles or chapels, and the morbid opulence of the decorationgives it a peculiar character. The walls are lined with red damask, andthe floor carpeted with a heavy crimson carpet; it gives the sensationof a hothouse, or, with its close odours, of a bedchamber transformedinto a chapel for the administration of the last sacrament. Theatmosphere is unhealthy: one pants for breath. 

At one end, taking up the entire wall, is a reredos by Pedro Roldan, ofwhich the centrepiece is an elaborate 'Deposition in the Tomb, ' withnumerous figures coloured to the life. It is very fine in its minglingof soft, rich hues and flamboyant realism. The artist has revelled inthe opportunity for anguish of expression that his subject afforded, buthas treated it with such a passionate seriousness that, in his grim, fierce way, he does not fail to be impressive. The frame is of twistedgolden pillars, supported by little naked angels, and decorated withgrapes and vine-leaves. Above and at the sides are great saints incarved wood, and angels with floating drapery. 

Murillo was on terms of intimacy with don Miguel de Mañara, and like hima member of the Hermandad. For his friend he painted some of his mostfamous pictures, which by the subdued ardour of their colour, by theiropulent tones, harmonise most exquisitely with the church. MarshalSoult, with a fine love of art that was profitable, carried off severalof them, and their empty frames stare at one still. But before that, when they were all in place, the effect must have been of uniquemagnificence. 

It must be an extraordinary religion that flourishes in such a place, anartificial faith that needs heat like tropical plants, that desiresunnatural vows. It breathes of neurotic emotions with its damask-coveredwalls, with its carpet that deadens the footfall, its sombre, gorgeouspictures. The sweet breeze of heaven never enters there, nor thesunlight; the air is languid with incense; one is oppressed by astrange, heavy silence. In such a church sins must be fostered for themorbid pleasure of confession. One can imagine that the worshippers inthat overloaded atmosphere would see strange visions, voluptuous andmystical; the Blessed Mary and the Saints might gain visible andpalpable flesh, and the devil would not be far off. There the gruesomeimaginings of Valdes Leal are a fitting decoration. Every one knows thatgrim picture of a bishop in episcopal robes, eaten by worms, his fleshputrefying, which led Murillo to say: 'Leal, you make me hold my nose, 'and the other answered: 'You have taken all the flesh and left menought but the bones. ' Elsewhere, by the same master, there is apainting that suggests, with greater poignancy to my mind because lessbrutally, the thoughts evoked by the more celebrated work, and since itseems to complete the ideas awakened by this curious chapel, I mentionit here. 

It represents a priest at the altar, saying his mass, and the altarafter the Spanish fashion is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. Hewears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wearsthem as though their weight were more than he could bear; and in themeagre, trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the darkhollowness of the eyes and in the sunken cheeks, there is a bodilycorruption that is terrifying. The priest seems to hold together withdifficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of thesoul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the LordAlmighty had forsaken him, and the high heavens were empty of theirsolace. All the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothingin the world but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has attacked already theliving man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, andthe darkness before him offer nought but fear, and what soul is there torise again! Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the darknight of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea oflife whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart. 

* * *

Then, if you would study yet another phase of the religious sentiment, go to the Museo, where are the fine pictures that Murillo painted forthe Capuchin Monastery. You will see all the sombreness of Spanishpiety, the savage faith, dissolved into ineffable love. Religion hasbecome a wonderful tenderness, in which passionate human affection isinextricably mingled with god-like adoration. Murillo, these sensualforms quivering with life, brought the Eternal down to earth, and gaveterrestrial ardour to the apathy of an impersonal devotion; that, perhaps, is why to women he has always been the most fascinating ofpainters. In the _Madonna de la Servilleta_--painted on a napkin for thecook of the monastery--the child is a simple, earthly infant, fresh androsy, with wide-open, wondering eyes and not a trace of immortality. Imyself saw a common woman of the streets stand before this picture withtears running down her cheeks. 

'_Corazon de mi alma!_' she said, 'Heart of my soul! I could cover hislittle body with kisses. '

She smiled, but could hardly restrain her sobs. The engrossing love of amother for her child seemed joined in miraculous union with the worshipof a mortal for his God. 

Murillo had neither the power nor the desire to idealise his models. Thesaints of these great pictures, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Felix ofCantalicio, St. Thomas of Villanueva, are monks and beggars such as mayto this day be seen in the streets of Seville. St. Felix is merely anold man with hollow cheeks and a grey, ragged beard; but yet as heclasps the child in his arms with eager tenderness, he is transfiguredby a divine ecstasy: his face is radiant with the most touchingemotion. And St. Antony of Padua, in another picture, worships theinfant God with a mystic adoration, which, notwithstanding the realismof the presentment, lifts him far, far above the earth. 

XXII

[Sidenote: Gaol]

I was curious to see the prison in Seville. Gruesome tales had been toldme of its filth and horror, and the wretched condition of the prisoners;I had even heard that from the street you might see them pressingagainst the barred windows with arms thrust through, begging thepasser-by for money or bread. Mediæval stories recurred to my mind andthe clank of chains trailed through my imagination. 

I arranged to be conducted by the prison doctor, and one morning soonafter five set out to meet him. My guide informed me by a significantgesture that his tendencies were--bibulous, and our meeting-place was atavern; but when we arrived they told us that don Felipe--such was hisname--had been taken his morning dram and gone; however, if we went toanother inn we should doubtless find him. But there we heard he had notyet arrived, he was not due till half-past five. To pass the time wedrank a mouthful of _aguardiente_ and smoked a cigarette, and eventuallythe medico was espied in the distance. We went towards him--a round, fatperson with a red face and a redder nose, somewhat shabbily dressed. 

He looked at me pointedly and said:

'I'm dry. _Vengo seco. _'

It was a hint not to be neglected, and we returned to the tavern wheredon Felipe had his nip. 

'It's very good for the stomach, ' he assured me. 

We sallied forth together, and as we walked he told me the number ofprisoners, the sort of crimes for which they were detained--ranging fromman-slaughter to petty larceny--and finally, details of his own career. He was an intelligent man, and when we came to the prison door insistedon drinking my health. 

The prison is an old convent, and it is a little startling to see thechurch façade, with a statue of the Madonna over the central porch. Atthe steps a number of women stood waiting with pots and jars andhandkerchiefs full of food for their relatives within; and when thedoctor appeared several rushed up to ask about a father or a son thatlay sick. We went in and there was a melodramatic tinkling of keys andan unlocking of heavy doors. 

The male prisoners, the adults, were in the _patio_ of the convent, where in olden days the nuns had wandered on summer evenings, wateringtheir roses. The iron door was opened and shut behind us; there was amovement of curiosity at the sight of a stranger, and many turned tolook at me. Such as had illnesses came to the doctor, and he looked attheir tongues and felt their pulse, giving directions to an assistantwho stood beside him with a note-book. Don Felipe was on excellent termswith his patients, laughing and joking; a malingerer asked if he couldnot have a little wine because his throat was sore; the doctor jeeredand the man began to laugh; they bandied repartees with one another. 

There were about two hundred in the _patio_, and really they did notseem to have so bad a time. There was one large group gathered round aman who read a newspaper aloud; it was Monday morning, and all listenedintently to the account of a bull-fight on the previous day, burstinginto a little cry of surprise and admiration on hearing that the_matador_ had been caught and tossed. Others lay by a pillar playingdraughts for matches, while half a dozen more eagerly watched, givingunsolicited advice with much gesticulation. The draught-board consistedof little squares drawn on the pavement with chalk, and the pieces werescraps of white and yellow paper. One man sat cross-legged by a columnbusily rolling cigarettes; he had piles of them by his side arranged inpackets, which he sold at one penny each; it was certainly an illegaloffence, because the sale of tobacco is a government monopoly, but ifyou cannot break the laws in prison where can you break them? Othersoccupied themselves by making baskets or nets. But the majority didnothing at all, standing about, sitting when they could, with theeternal cigarette between their lips; and the more energetic watched theblue smoke curl into the air. Altogether a very happy family!

Nor did they seem really very criminal, more especially as they wore noprison uniform, but their own clothes. I saw no difference between themand the people I met casually in the street. They were just veryordinary citizens, countrymen smelling of the soil, labouring men, artisans. Their misfortune had been only to make too free a use of theirlong curved knives or to be discovered taking something over whichanother had prior claims. But in Andalusia every one is potentially ascriminal, which is the same as saying that these jail-birds wereestimable persons whom an unkind fate and a mistaken idea of justice hadseparated for a little while from their wives and families. 

I saw two only whose aspect was distinctly vicious. One was a tallfellow with shifty eyes, a hard thin mouth, a cruel smile, and his facewas really horrible. I asked the doctor why he was there. Don Felipe, without speaking, made the peculiar motion of the fingers whichsignifies robbery, and the man seeing him repeated it with a leer. Ihave seldom seen a face that was so utterly repellent, so depraved andwicked: I could not get it out of my head, and for a long time sawbefore me the crafty eyes and the grinning mouth. Obviously the man wasa criminal born who would start thieving as soon as he was out ofprison, hopelessly and utterly corrupt. But it was curious that hischaracter should be marked so plainly on his face; it was adanger-signal to his fellows, and one would have thought the suspicionit aroused must necessarily keep him virtuous. It was a countenance thatwould make a man instinctively clap his hand to his pocket. 

The other was a Turk, a huge creature, with dark scowling face andprominent brows; he made a singular figure in his bright fez and baggybreeches, looking at his fellow prisoners with a frown of hate. 

But the doctor had finished seeing his patients and the iron door wasopened for us to go out. We went upstairs to the hospital, a long bareward, terribly cheerless. Six men, perhaps, lay in bed, guarded by twowarders; one old fellow with rheumatism groaning in agony, two othersdazed and very still, with high fever. We walked round quickly, donFelipe as before mechanically looking at their tongues and feeling theirpulse, speaking a word to the assistant and moving on. The windows wereshut and there was a horrid stench of illness and drugs and antiseptics. 

We went through long corridors to the female side, and meanwhile theassistant told the doctor that during the night a woman had beenconfined. Don Felipe sat down in an office to write a certificate. 

'What a nuisance these women are!' he said. 'Why can't they wait tillthey get out of prison? How is it?'

'It was still-born. '

'_Pero, hombre_, ' said the doctor crossly. 'Why didn't you tell me thatbefore? Now I shall have to write another certificate. This one's nogood. '

He tore it up and painfully made out a second with the slow laboriouswriting of a man unused to holding a pen. 

Then we marched on and came to another smaller _patio_ where the femaleswere. They were comparatively few, not more than twenty or thirty; andwhen we entered a dark inner-room to see the woman who was ill they alltrooped in after us--all but one. They stood round eagerly telling us ofthe occurrence. 

'Don't make such a noise, _por Dios_! I can't hear myself speak, ' saidthe doctor. 

The woman was lying on her back with flushed cheeks, her eyes staringglassily. The doctor asked a question, but she did not answer. She beganto cry, sobbing from utter weakness in a silent, unrestrained way. On atable near her, hidden by a cloth, lay the dead child. 

We went out again into the _patio_. The sun was higher now and it wasvery warm, the blue sky shone above us without a cloud. The prisonersreturned to their occupations. One old hag was doing a younger woman'shair; I noticed that even for Spain it was beautiful, very thick, curling, and black as night. The girl held a carnation in her hand toput in front of the comb when the operation was completed. Another womansuckled a baby, and several tiny children were playing about happily, while their mothers chatted to one another, knitting. 

But there was one, markedly different from the others, who sat alonetaking no notice of the scene. It was she who remained in the _patio_when the rest followed us into the sick room, a gipsy, tall and gaunt, with a skin of the darkest yellow. Her hair was not elaborately arrangedas that of her companions, but plainly done, drawn back stiffly from theforehead. She sat there, erect and motionless, looking at the groundwith an unnatural stare, silent. They told me she never spoke a wordnor paid attention to the women in the court. She might have beenentirely alone. She never altered her position, but sat there, sphinx-like, in that attitude of stony grief. She was a stranger amongthe rest, and her bronzed face, her silence gave a weird impression; sheseemed to recall the burning deserts of the East and an endless past. 

At last we came out, and the heavy iron door was closed behind us. Whata relief it was to be in the street again, to see the sun and the trees, and to breathe the free air! A cart went by with a great racket, drawnby three mules, and the cries of the driver as he cracked his whip werealmost musical; a train of donkeys passed; a man trotted by on a brownshaggy cob, his huge panniers filled with glowing vegetables, green andred, and in a corner was a great bunch of roses. I took long breaths ofthe free air, I shook myself to get rid of those prison odours. 

I offered don Felipe refreshment and we repaired to a dram-shopimmediately opposite. Two women were standing there. 

'_Ole!_' said the doctor to an old toothless hag with a vicious leer. 'What are you doing here? You've not been in for some time. '

She laughed and explained that she was come to fetch her friend, a youngwoman, who had been released that morning. The doctor nodded to her, asking how long she had been in gaol. 

'Two years and nine months, ' she said. 

And she began to laugh hysterically with tears streaming down hercheeks. 

'I don't know what I'm doing, ' she cried. 'I can't understand it. '

She looked into the street with wild, yearning eyes; everything seemedto her strange and new. 

'I haven't seen a tree for nearly three years, ' she sobbed. 

But the hag was pressing the doctor to drink with her; he acceptedwithout much hesitation, and gallantly proposed her health. 

'What are you going to do?' he said to the younger woman, she was hardlymore than a girl. 'You'd better not hang about in Seville or you'll getinto trouble again. '

'Oh no, ' she said, 'I'm going to my village--_mi pueblo_--thisafternoon. I want to see my husband and my child. '

Don Felipe turned to me and asked what I thought of the Seville prison. I made some complimentary reply. 

'Are English prisons like that?' he asked. 

I said I did not think so. 

'Are they better?'

I shrugged my shoulders. 

'I'm told, ' he said, 'that two years' hard labour in an English prisonkills a man. '

'The English are a great nation, ' I replied. 

'And a humane one, ' he added, with a bow and a smile. 

I bade him good-morning. 

XXIII

[Sidenote: Before the Bull-fight]

If all Andalusians are potential gaol-birds they are also potentialbull-fighters. It is impossible for foreigners to realise how firmly thelove of that pastime is engrained in all classes. In other countries thegift that children love best is a box of soldiers, but in Spain it is aminiature ring with tin bulls, _picadors_ on horseback and _toreros_. From their earliest youth boys play at bull-fighting, one of them takingthe bull's part and charging with the movements peculiar to that animal, while the rest make passes with their coats or handkerchiefs. Often, toincrease the excitement of the game, they have two horns fixed on apiece of wood. You will see them playing it at every street corner allday long, and no amusement can rival it; with the result that by thetime a boy is fifteen he has acquired considerable skill in theexercise, and a favourite entertainment then is to hire a bull-calf foran afternoon and practise with it. Every urchin in Andalusia knows thenames of the most prominent champions and can tell you their merits. 

The bull-fight is the national spectacle; it excites Spaniards asnothing else can, and the death of a famous _torero_ is more tragic thanthe loss of a colony. Seville looks upon itself as the very home andcentre of the art. The good king Ferdinand VII. --as precious a rascal asever graced a throne--founded in Seville the first academy for thecultivation of tauromachy, and bull-fighters swagger through the Sierpesin great numbers and the most faultless costume. 

There are only five great bull-fights in a year at Seville, namely, onEaster day, on the three days of the fair, and on Corpus Christi. Butduring the summer _novilladas_ are held every Sunday, with bulls ofthree years old and young fighters. Long before an important _corrida_there is quite an excitement in the town. Gaudy bills are posted on thewalls with the names of the performers and the proprietor of the bulls;crowds stand round reading them breathlessly, discussing with oneanother the chances of the fray; the papers give details and forecastsas in England they do for the better cause of horse-racing! And thejourneyings of the _matador_ are announced as exactly as with us thedoings of the nobility and gentry. 

The great _matador_, Mazzantini or Guerrita, arrives the day before thefight, and perhaps takes a walk in the Sierpes. People turn to look athim and acquaintances shake his hand, pleased that all the world mayknow how friendly they are with so great a man. The hero himself is calmand gracious. He feels himself a person of merit, and cannot beunconscious that he has a fortune of several million _pesetas_ bringingin a reasonable interest. He talks with ease and assurance, oftencondescends to joke, and elegantly waves his hand, sparkling withdiamonds of great value. 

* * *

Many persons have described a bull-fight, but generally their emotionshave overwhelmed them so that they have seen only part of oneperformance, and consequently have been obliged to use an indignantimagination to help out a very faulty recollection. This is my excusefor giving one more account of an entertainment which can in no way bedefended. It is doubtless vicious and degrading; but with the constantdanger, the skill displayed, the courage, the hair-breadth escapes, thecatastrophes, it is foolish to deny that any pastime can be moreexciting. 

The English humanity to animals is one of the best traits of a greatpeople, and they justly thank God they are not as others are. Cananything more horrid be imagined than to kill a horse in the bull-ring, and can any decent hack ask for a better end when he is broken down, than to be driven to death in London streets or to stand for hours oncab ranks in the rain and snow of an English winter? The Spaniards arecertainly cruel to animals; on the other hand, they never beat theirwives nor kick their children. From the dog's point of view I would tentimes sooner be English, but from the woman's--I have my doubts. Somewhile ago certain papers, anxious perhaps to taste the comfortable joysof self-righteousness, turned their attention to the brutality ofSpaniards, and a score of journalists wrote indignantly of bull-fights. At the same time, by a singular chance, a prize-fighter was killed inLondon, and the Spanish papers printed long tirades against the gross, barbaric English. The two sets of writers were equally vehement, inaccurate and flowery; but what seemed most remarkable was that eachside evidently felt quite unaffected horror and disgust for theproceedings of the other. Like persons of doubtful character inveighingagainst the vices of the age, both were so carried away by moralenthusiasm as to forget that there was anything in their own historieswhich made this virtuous fury a little absurd. There is really a gooddeal in the point of view. 

XXIV

[Sidenote: Corrida de Toros--I]

On the day before a bull-fight all the world goes down to Tablada to seethe bulls. Youth and beauty drive, for every one in Seville of the leastpretension to gentility keeps a carriage; the Sevillans, characteristically, may live in houses void of every necessity andcomfort, eating bread and water, but they will have a carriage to drivein the _paseo_. You see vehicles of all kinds, from the new landau witha pair of magnificent Andalusian horses, or the strange omnibus drawn bymules, typical of Southern Spain, to the shabby victoria, with abroken-down hack and a decrepit coachman. 

Tablada is a vast common without the town, running along the river side, and here all manner of cattle are kept throughout the year. But thefighting bulls are brought from their respective farms the morningbefore the day of battle, and each is put in an enclosure with itsattendant oxen. The crowd looks eagerly, admiring the length of horn, forecasting the fight. 

The handsome brutes remain there till midnight, when they are brought tothe ring and shut in little separate boxes till the morrow. The_encierro_, as it is called, is an interesting sight. The road has beenpalisaded and the bulls are driven along by oxen. It is very curious towait in the darkness, in the silence, under the myriad stars of thesouthern night. Your ear is astrung to hear the distant tramp; thewaiting seems endless. A sound is heard and every one runs to the side;but nothing follows, and the waiting continues. Suddenly the stillnessis broken by tinkling bells, the oxen; and immediately there is a trampof rushing hoofs. Three men on horseback gallop through the entrance, and on their heels the cattle; the riders turn sharply round, a door isswung to behind them, and the oxen, with the bulls in their midst, poundthrough the ring. 

* * *

The doors are opened two hours before the performance. Through themorning the multitude has trooped to the Plaza San Fernando to buytickets, and in the afternoon all Seville wends its way towards thering. The road is thronged with people, they walk in dense crowds, pushing one another to get out of the way of broken-down shays that rollalong filled with enthusiasts. The drivers crack their whips, shouting:'_Un real, un real a los Toros!_'{a} The sun beats down and the sky isintensely blue. It is very hot, already people are blowing and panting, boys sell fans at a halfpenny each. '_Abanicos a perra chica!_'{b}

When you come near the ring the din is tremendous; the many vendorsshout their wares, middlemen offer tickets at double the usual price, friends call to one another. Now and then is a quarrel, a quick exchangeof abuse as one pushes or treads upon his neighbour; but as a rule allare astonishingly good-natured. A man, after a narrow escape from beingrun over, will shout a joke to the driver, who is always ready with arepartee. And they surge on towards the entrance. Every one is expectantand thrilled, the very air seems to give a sense of exhilaration. Thepeople crowd in like ants. All things are gay and full of colour andlife. 

A _picador_ passes on horseback in his uncouth clothes, and all turn tolook at him. 

And in the ring itself the scene is marvellous. On one side the sunbeats down with burning rays, and there, the seats being cheaper, notwithstanding the terrific heat people are closely packed. There is aperpetual irregular movement of thousands of women's fans fluttering toand fro. Opposite, in the shade, are nearly as many persons, but ofbetter class. Above, in the boxes sit ladies in _mantillas_, and when abeautiful woman appears she is often greeted with a burst of applause, which she takes most unconcernedly. When at last the ring is full, tierabove tier crammed so that not a place is vacant, it gives quite anextraordinary emotion. The serried masses cease then to be a collectionof individuals, but gain somehow a corporate unity; you realise, with akind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed beast of savage instinctsand of ruthless might. No crowd is more picturesque than the Spanish, and the dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the brightcolours of the women, with flowers in their hair and _mantillas_ ofwhite lace. 

But also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes you. Late arrivalswalk along looking for room, gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes;vendors of all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell prawns, shrimps, and crabs' claws from Cadiz pass with large baskets: '_Bocas, bocas!_'

The water sellers with huge jars: '_Agua, quien quiere agua? Agua!_'{c}The word sings along the interminable rows. A man demands a glass andhands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water is sent up to him. Itis deliciously cool. 

The sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the first prize:'_Premio gordo, quien quiere el premio gordo_';{d} or yelling the numberof the ticket: 'Who wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five forthree _pesetas_?'

And the newsboys add to the din: '_Noticiero! Porvenir!_' Later onarrives the Madrid paper: '_Heraldo! Heraldo!_'

Lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use as seats: '_A perrachica, dos periodicos a perra chica!_'{e}

Suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and looking up you find thepresident has come; he is supported by two friends, and all three, withcomic solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. They bow to the public. Bull-fighting is the only punctual thing in Spain, and the presidentarrives precisely as the clock strikes half-past four. He waves ahandkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, and the fightersenter. First come the three _matadors_, the eldest in the middle, thenext on his right, and the youngest on the left; they are followed bytheir respective _cuadrillas_, the _banderilleros_, the _capeadors_, the_picadors_ on horseback, and finally the _chulos_, whose duty it is tounsaddle dead horses, attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules, and perform other minor offices. They advance, gorgeous in theircoloured satin and gold embroidery, bearing a cloak peculiarly foldedover the arm; they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as ordained bythe convention of a century. They bow to the president, very solemnly. The applause is renewed. They retire to the side, three _picadors_ takeup their places at some distance from one another on the right of thedoor from which issues the bull. The _alguaciles_, in black velvet, withpeaked and feathered hats, on horseback, come forward, and the key ofthe bull's den is thrown to them. They disappear. The fighters meanwhileexchange their satin cloaks for others of less value. There is anotherflourish of trumpets, the gates are opened for the bull. 

Then comes a moment of expectation, every one is trembling withexcitement. There is perfect silence. All eyes are fixed on the opengate. 

Notes:

{a} 'Twopence-halfpenny to the Bulls. '

{b} "Fans, one halfpenny each!"

{c} 'Water, who wants water? Water!'

{d} 'The first prize, who wants the first prize?'

{e} 'One halfpenny, two papers for one halfpenny. '

XXV

[Sidenote: Corrida de Toros--II]

One or two shouts are heard, a murmur passes through the people, and thebull emerges--shining, black, with massive shoulders and fine horns. Itadvances a little, a splendid beast conscious of its strength, andsuddenly stops dead, looking round. The _toreros_ wave their capes andthe _picadors_ flourish their lances, long wooden spikes with an ironpoint. The bull catches sight of a horse, and lowering his head, bearsdown swiftly upon it. The _picador_ takes firmer hold of his lance, andwhen the brute reaches him plants the pointed end between its shoulders;at the same moment the senior _matador_ dashes forward and with hiscloak distracts the bull's attention. It wheels round and charges; hemakes a pass; it goes by almost under his arm, but quickly turns andagain attacks. This time the skilful fighter receives it backwards, looking over his shoulder, and again it passes. There are shouts ofenthusiasm from the public. The bull's glossy coat is stained with red. 

A second _picador_ comes forward, and the bull charges again, butfuriously now, exerting its full might. The horse is thrown to theground and the rider, by an evil chance, falls at the bull's very feet. 

It cannot help seeing him and lowers its head; the people catch theirbreath; many spring instinctively to their feet; here and there is awoman's frightened cry; but immediately a _matador_ draws the cape overits eyes and passionately the bull turns on him. Others spring forwardand lift the _picador_: his trappings are so heavy that he cannot risealone; he is dragged to safety and the steed brought back for him. Onemore horseman advances, and the bull with an angry snort bounds at him;the _picador_ does his best, but is no match for the giant strength. Thebull digs its horns deep into the horse's side and lifts man and beastright off the ground; they fall with a heavy thud, and as the ragingbrute is drawn off, blood spurts from the horse's flank. The _chulos_try to get it up; they drag on the reins with shouts and curses, andbeat it with sticks. But the wretched creature, wounded to the death, helplessly lifts its head. They see it is useless and quickly removesaddle and bridle, a man comes with a short dagger called the_puntilla_, which he drives into its head, the horse falls on its side, a quiver passes through its body, and it is dead. The people areshouting with pleasure; the bull is a good one. The first _picador_comes up again and the bull attacks for the fourth time, but it has lostmuch strength, and the man drives it off. It has made a horrible gash inthe horse's belly, and the entrails protrude, dragging along the ground. The horse is taken out. 

The president waves his handkerchief, the trumpets sound, and the firstact of the drama is over. 

The _picadors_ leave the ring and the _banderilleros_ take their darts, about three feet long, gay with decorations of coloured paper. Whilethey make ready, others play with the bull, gradually tiring it: onethrows aside his cape and awaits the charge with folded arms; the bullrushes at him, and the man without moving his feet twists his body awayand the savage brute passes on. There is a great burst of applause for adaring feat well done. 

Each _matador_ has two _banderilleros_, and it is proper that threepairs of these darts should be placed. One of them steps to withinspeaking distance of the animal, and holding a _banderilla_ in each handlifted above his head, stamps his foot and shouts insulting words. Thebull does not know what this new thing is, but charges blindly; at thesame moment the man runs forward, and passing, plants the two dartsbetween the shoulders. If they are well placed there is plentifulhand-clapping; no audience is so liberal of applause for skill orcourage, none so intolerant of cowardice or stupidity; and with equalreadiness it will yell with delight or hiss and hoot and whistle. Thesecond _banderillero_ comes forward to plant his pair; a third isinserted and the trumpets sound for the final scene. 

This is the great duel between the single man and the bull. The_matador_ advances, sword in hand, with the _muleta_, the red cloth forthe passes, over his arm. Under the president's box he takes off hishat, and with fine gesture makes a grandiloquent speech, wherein he vowseither to conquer or to die: the harangue is finished with a wheel roundand a dramatic flinging of his hat to attendants on the other side ofthe barrier. He pensively walks forward. All eyes are upon him--and heknows it. He motions his companions to stand back and goes close to thebull. He is quite alone, with his life in his hands--a slender figure, very handsome in the gorgeous costume glittering with fine gold. Hearranges the _muleta_ over a little stick, so that it hangs down like aflag and conceals his sword. Then quite solemnly he walks up to thebull, holding the red rag in his left hand. The bull watchessuspiciously, suddenly charges, and the _muleta_ is passed over itshead; the _matador_ does not move a muscle, the bull turns and standsquite motionless. Another charge, another pass. And so he continues, making seven or eight of various sorts, to the growing approbation ofthe public. At last it is time to kill. With great caution he withdrawsthe sword; the bull looks warily. He makes two or three passes more andwalks round till he gets the animal into proper position: the forefeetmust be set squarely on the ground. '_Ora! Ora!_' cry the people. 'Now!Now!' The bull is well placed. The _matador_ draws the sword back alittle and takes careful aim. The bull rushes, and at the same momentthe man makes one bound forward and buries the sword to the hilt betweenthe brute's shoulders. It falls to its knees and rolls over. 

Then is a perfect storm of applause; and it is worth while to seefourteen thousand people wild with delight. The band bursts into joyousstrains, and the mules come galloping in, gaily caparisoned; a rope ispassed round the dead beast, and they drag it away. The _matador_advances to the president's box and bows, while the shouting grows morefrantic. He walks round, bowing and smiling, and the public in itsenthusiasm throws down hats and cigars and sticks. 

But there are no intervals to a bull-fight, and the _picadors_immediately reappear and take their places; the doors are flung open, and a second bull rushes forth. The _matador_ still goes round bowing tothe applause, elaborately unmindful of the angry beast. 

Six animals are killed in an afternoon within two hours, and then themighty audience troop out with flushed cheeks, the smell of blood strongin their nostrils. 

XXVI

[Sidenote: On Horseback]

I had a desire to see something of the very heart of Andalusia, of thatpart of the country which had preserved its antique character, whererailway trains were not, and the horse, the mule, the donkey were stillthe only means of transit. After much scrutiny of local maps andconversation with horse-dealers and others, I determined from Seville togo circuitously to Ecija, and thence return by another route as best Icould. The district I meant to traverse in olden times was notorious forits brigands; even thirty years ago the prosperous tradesman, voyagingon his mule from town to town, was liable to be seized by unromanticoutlaws and detained till his friends forwarded ransom, while ears andfingers were playfully sent to prove identity. In Southern Spainbrigandage necessarily flourished, for not only were the country-folk incollusion with the bandits, but the very magistrates united with them toshare the profits of lawless undertakings. Drastic measures were needfulto put down the evil, and in a truly Spanish way drastic measures wereemployed. The Civil Guard, whose duty it was to see to the safety of thecountry side, had no confidence in the justice of Madrid, whithercaptured highwaymen were sent for trial; once there, for a few hundreddollars, the most murderous ruffian could prove his babe-like innocence, forthwith return to the scene of his former exploits and begin again. Sothey hit upon an expedient. The Civil Guards set out for the capitalwith their prisoner handcuffed between them; but, curiously enough, inevery single case the brigand had scarcely marched a couple of milesbefore he incautiously tried to escape, whereupon he was, of course, promptly shot through the back. People noticed two things: first, thatthe clothes of the dead man were often singed, as if he had not escapedvery far before he was shot down; that only proved his guardians' zeal. But the other was stranger: the two Civil Guards, when after a couple ofhours they returned to the town, as though by a mysterious premonitionthey had known the bandit would make some rash attempt, invariably hadwaiting for them an excellent hot dinner. 

The only robber of importance who avoided such violent death was thechief of a celebrated band who, when captured, signed a declaration thathe had not the remotest idea of escaping, and insisted on taking withhim to Madrid his solicitor and a witness. He reached the capital alive, and having settled his little affairs with benevolent judges, turned toa different means of livelihood, and eventually, it is said, occupied aresponsible post in the Government. It is satisfactory to think that hisfelonious talents were not in after-life entirely wasted. 

* * *

It was the beginning of March when I started. According to the oldproverb, the dog was already seeking the shade: _En Marzo busca lasombra el perro_; the chilly Spaniard, loosening the folds of his_capa_, acknowledged that at mid-day in the sun it was almost warm. Thewinter rains appeared to have ceased; the sky over Seville wascloudless, not with the intense azure of midsummer, but with a blue thatseemed mixed with silver. And in the sun the brown water of theGuadalquivir glittered like the scales on a fish's back, or like theburnished gold of old Moorish pottery. 

I set out in the morning early, with saddle-bags fixed on either sideand poncho strapped to my pommel. A loaded revolver, though of course Inever had a chance to use it, made me feel pleasantly adventurous. Iwalked cautiously over the slippery cobbles of the streets, disturbingthe silence with the clatter of my horse's shoes. Now and then a mule ora donkey trotted by, with panniers full of vegetables, of charcoal or ofbread, between which on the beast's neck sat perched a man in a shortblouse. I came to the old rampart of the town, now a promenade; and atthe gate groups of idlers, with cigarettes between their lips, stoodtalking. 

An hospitable friend had offered lodging for the night and food; afterwhich, my ideas of the probable accommodation being vague, I expected tosleep upon straw, for victuals depending on the wayside inns. I arrivedat the _Campo de la Cruz_, a tiny chapel which marks the same distancefrom the Cathedral as Jesus Christ walked to the Cross; it is the finalboundary of Seville. 

Immediately afterwards I left the high-road, striking across country toCarmona. The land was already wild; on either side of the bridle-pathwere great wastes of sand covered only by palmetto. The air was cool andfresh, like the air of English country in June when it has rainedthrough the night; and Aguador, snorting with pleasure, cantered overthe uneven ground, nimbly avoiding holes and deep ruts with thesure-footedness of his Arab blood. An Andalusian horse cares nothing forthe ground on which he goes, though it be hard and unyielding as iron;and he clambers up and down steep, rocky precipices as happily as hetrots along a cinder-path. 

I passed a shepherd in a ragged cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, holding acrook. He stared at me, his flock of brown sheep clustered about him asI scampered by, and his dog rushed after, barking. 

'_Vaya Usted con Dios!_'

I came to little woods of pine-trees, with long, thin trunks, and thefoliage spreading umbrella-wise; round them circled innumerable hawks, whose nests I saw among the branches. Two ravens crossed my path, theirwings heavily flapping. 

The great charm of the Andalusian country is that you seize romance, asit were, in the act. In northern lands it is only by a mental effortthat you can realise the picturesque value of the life that surroundsyou; and, for my part, I can perceive it only by putting it mentally inblack and white, and reading it as though between the covers of a book. Once, I remember, in Brittany, in a distant corner of that rock-boundcoast, I sat at midnight in a fisherman's cottage playing cards by thelight of two tallow candles. Next door, with only a wall between us, avery old sailor lay dying in the great cupboard-bed which had belongedto his fathers before him; and he fought for life with the remains ofthat strenuous vigour with which in other years he had battled againstthe storms of the Atlantic. In the stillness of the night, the waves, with the murmur of a lullaby, washed gently upon the shingle, and thestars shone down from a clear sky. I looked at the yellow light on thefaces of the players, gathered in that desolate spot from the fourcorners of the earth, and cried out: 'By Jove, this is romance!' I hadnever before caught that impression in the very making, and I wasdelighted with my good fortune. 

The answer came quickly from the American: 'Don't talk bosh! It's yourdeal. '

But for all that it was romance, seized fugitively, and life at thatmoment threw itself into a decorative pattern fit to be remembered. Itis the same effect which you get more constantly in Spain, so that thecommonest things are transfigured into beauty. For in the cactus and thealoe and the broad fields of grain, in the mules with their widepanniers and the peasants, in the shepherds' huts and the stragglingfarm-houses, the romantic is there, needing no subtlety to bediscovered; and the least imaginative may feel a certain thrill when heunderstands that the life he leads is not without its æsthetic meaning. 

* * *

I rode for a long way in complete solitude, through many miles of thissandy desert. Then the country changed, and olive-groves in endlesssuccession followed one another, the trees with curiously decorativeeffect were planted in long, even lines. The earth was a vivid red, contrasting with the blue sky and the sombre olives, gnarled andfantastically twisted, like evil spirits metamorphosed: in places theyhad sown corn, and the young green enhanced the shrill diversity ofcolour. With its clear, brilliant outlines and its lack of shadow, thescene reminded one of a prim pattern, such as in Jane Austen's day younggentlewomen worked in worsted. Sometimes I saw women among the trees, perched like monkeys on the branches, or standing below with largebaskets; they were extraordinarily quaint in the trousers which modestybade them wear for the concealment of their limbs when olive-picking. The costume was so masculine, their faces so red and weather-beaten, that the yellow handkerchief on their heads was really the only means ofdistinguishing their sex. 

But the path became more precipitous, hewn from the sandstone, and sopolished by the numberless shoes of donkeys and of mules that I hardlydared walk upon it; and suddenly I saw Carmona in front of me--quiteclose. 

XXVII

[Sidenote: By the Road--I]

The approach to Carmona is a very broad, white street, much too wide forthe cottages which line it, deserted; and the young trees planted oneither side are too small to give shade. The sun beat down with a fierceglare and the dust rose in clouds as I passed. Presently I came to agreat Moorish gateway, a dark mass of stone, battlemented, with a loftyhorseshoe arch. People were gathered about it in many-coloured groups, Ifound it was a holiday in Carmona, and the animation was unwonted; in acorner stood the hut of the _Consumo_, and the men advanced to examinemy saddle-bags. I passed through, into the town, looking right and leftfor a _parador_, an hostelry whereat to leave my horse. I bargained forthe price of food and saw Aguador comfortably stalled; then made my wayto the Nekropolis where lived my host. There are many churches inCarmona, and into one of these I entered; it had nothing of greatinterest, but to a certain degree it was rich, rich in its gildedwoodwork and in the brocade that adorned the pillars; and I felt thatthese Spanish churches lent a certain dignity to life: for all thecareless flippancy of Andalusia they still remained to strike a noblernote. I forgot willingly that the land was priest-ridden andsuperstitious, so that a Spaniard could tell me bitterly that there werebut two professions open to his countrymen, the priesthood and thebull-ring. It was pleasant to rest in that cool and fragrant darkness. 

My host was an archæologist, and we ate surrounded by brokenearthenware, fragmentary mosaics, and grinning skulls. It was curiousafterwards to wander in the graveyard which, with indefatigable zeal, hehad excavated, among the tombs of forgotten races, letting oneself downto explore the subterranean cells. The paths he had made in the giantcemetery were lined with a vast number of square sandstone boxes whichhad contained human ashes; and now, when the lid was lifted, a greenlizard or a scorpion darted out. From the hill I saw stretched before methe great valley of the Guadalquivir: with the squares of olive and ofploughed field, and the various greens of the corn, it was like a vast, multi-coloured carpet. But later, with the sunset, black clouds arose, splendidly piled upon one another; and the twilight air was chill andgrey. A certain sternness came over the olive-groves, and they mightwell have served as a reproach to the facile Andaluz; for their coldpassionless green seemed to offer a warning to his folly. 

At night my host left me to sleep in the village, and I lay in bed alonein the little house among the tombs; it was very silent. The wind sprangup and blew about me, whistling through the windows, whistling weirdly;and I felt as though the multitudes that had been buried in that oldcemetery filled the air with their serried numbers, a vast, silentcongregation waiting motionless for they knew not what. I recalled agruesome fact that my friend had told me: not far from there, in tombsthat he had disinterred the skeletons lay huddled spasmodically, withbroken skulls and a great stone by the side; for when a man, he said, lay sick unto death, his people took him, and placed him in his grave, and with the stone killed him. 

* * *

In the morning I set out again. It was five-and-thirty miles to Ecija, but a new high road stretched from place to place and I expected easyriding. Carmona stands on the top of a precipitous hill, round whichwinds the beginning of the road; below, after many zigzags, I saw itscontinuation, a straight white line reaching as far as I could see. InAndalusia, till a few years ago, there were practically no high roads, and even now they are few and bad. The chief communication from town totown is usually an uneven track, which none attempts to keep up, withdeep ruts, and palmetto growing on either side, and occasional pools ofwater. A day's rain makes it a quagmire, impassable for anything besidethe sure-footed mule. 

I went on, meeting now and then a string of asses, their panniers filledwith stones or with wood for Carmona; the drivers sat on the rump of thehindmost animal, for that is the only comfortable way to ride a donkey. A peasant trotted briskly by on his mule, his wife behind him with herarms about his waist. I saw a row of ploughs in a field; to each wereattached two oxen, and they went along heavily, one behind the other inregular line. By the side of every pair a man walked bearing a longgoad, and one of them sang a _Malagueña_, its monotonous notes risingand falling slowly. From time to time I passed a white farm, a littleway from the road, invitingly cool in the heat; the sun began to beatdown fiercely. The inevitable storks were perched on a chimney, by theirbig nest; and when they flew in front of me, with their broad whitewings and their red legs against the blue sky, they gave a quaintimpression of a Japanese screen. 

A farmhouse such as this seems to me always a type of the Spanishimpenetrability. I have been over many of them, and know the manner oftheir rooms and the furniture, the round of duties there performed andhow the day is portioned out; but the real life of the inhabitantsescapes me. My knowledge is merely external. I am conscious that it isthe same of the Andalusians generally, and am dismayed because I knowpractically nothing more after a good many years than I learnt in thefirst months of my acquaintance with them. Below the superficialsimilarity with the rest of Europe which of late they have acquired, there is a difference which makes it impossible to get at the bottom oftheir hearts. They have no openness as have the French and the Italians, with whom a good deal of intimacy is possible even to an Englishman, buton the contrary an Eastern reserve which continually baffles me. Icannot realise their thoughts nor their outlook. I feel always below thegrace of their behaviour the instinctive, primeval hatred of thestranger. 

Gradually the cultivation ceased, and I saw no further sign of humanbeings. I returned to the desert of the previous day, but the land wasmore dreary. The little groves of pine-trees had disappeared, there wereno olives, no cornfields, not even the aloe nor the wilder cactus; buton either side as far as the horizon, desert wastes, littered withstones and with rough boulders, grown over only by palmetto. For manymiles I went, dismounting now and then to stretch my legs and saunteringa while with the reins over my shoulder. Towards mid-day I rested by thewayside and let Aguador eat what grass he could. 

Presently, continuing my journey, I caught sight of a little hovel wherethe fir-branch over the door told me wine was to be obtained. I fastenedmy horse to a ring in the wall, and, going in, found an aged crone whogave me a glass of that thin white wine, produce of the last year'svintage, which is called _Vino de la Hoja_, wine of the leaf; she lookedat me incuriously as though she saw so many people and they were so muchalike that none repaid particular scrutiny. I tried to talk with her, for it seemed a curious life that she must lead, alone in that hut manymiles from the nearest hamlet, with never a house in sight; but she wastaciturn and eyed me now with something like suspicion. I asked forfood, but with a sullen frown she answered that she had none to spare. Iinquired the distance to Luisiana, a village on the way to Ecija whereI had proposed to lunch, and shrugging her shoulders, she replied: 'Howshould I know!' I was about to go when I heard a great clattering, and ahorseman galloped up. He dismounted and walked in, a fine example of theAndalusian countryman, handsome and tall, well-shaved, withclose-cropped hair. He wore elaborately decorated gaiters, the usualshort, close-fitting jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat; in his belt were aknife and a revolver, and slung across his back a long gun. He wouldhave made an admirable brigand of comic-opera; but was in point of facta farmer riding, as he told me, to see his _novia_, or lady-love, at aneighbouring farm. 

I found him more communicative and in the politest fashion we discussedthe weather and the crops. He had been to Seville. 

'_Che maravilla!_' he cried, waving his fine, strong hands. 'What amarvel! But I cannot bear the town-folk. What thieves and liars!'

'Town-folk should stick to the towns, ' muttered the old woman, lookingat me somewhat pointedly. 

The remark drew the farmer's attention more closely to me. 

'And what are you doing here?' he asked. 

'Riding to Ecija. '

'Ah, you're a commercial traveller, ' he cried, with fine scorn. 'Youforeigners bleed the country of all its money. You and the government!'

'Rogues and vagabonds!' muttered the old woman. 

Notwithstanding, the farmer with much condescension accepted one of mycigars, and made me drink with him a glass of _aguardiente_. 

We went off together. The mare he rode was really magnificent, ratherlarge, holding her head beautifully, with a tail that almost swept theground. She carried as if it were nothing the heavy Spanish saddle, covered with a white sheep-skin, its high triangular pommel of polishedwood. Our ways, however, quickly diverged. I inquired again how far itwas to the nearest village. 

'Eh!' said the farmer, with a vague gesture. 'Two leagues. Threeleagues. _Quien sabe?_ Who knows? _Adios!_'

He put the spurs to his mare and galloped down a bridle-track. I, whomno fair maiden awaited, trotted on soberly. 

XXVIII

[Sidenote: By the Road--II]

The endless desert grew rocky and less sandy, the colours duller. Eventhe palmetto found scanty sustenance, and huge boulders, strewn asthough some vast torrent had passed through the plain, alone broke thedesolate flatness. The dusty road pursued its way, invariably straight, neither turning to one side nor to the other, but continually in frontof me, a long white line. 

Finally in the distance I saw a group of white buildings and a clusterof trees. I thought it was Luisiana, but Luisiana, they had said, was apopulous hamlet, and here were only two or three houses and not a soul. I rode up and found among the trees a tall white church, and a pool ofmurky water, further back a low, new edifice, which was evidently amonastery, and a _posada_. Presently a Franciscan monk in his brown cowlcame out of the church, and he told me that Luisiana was a full leagueoff, but that food could be obtained at the neighbouring inn. 

The _posada_ was merely a long barn, with an open roof of wood, on oneside of which were half a dozen mangers and in a corner two mules. Against another wall were rough benches for travellers to sleep on. Idismounted and walked to the huge fireplace at one end, where I sawthree very old women seated like witches round a _brasero_, the greatbrass dish of burning cinders. With true Spanish stolidity they did notrise as I approached, but waited for me to speak, looking at meindifferently. I asked whether I could have anything to eat. 

'Fried eggs. '

'Anything else?'

The hostess, a tall creature, haggard and grim, shrugged her shoulders. Her jaws were toothless, and when she spoke it was difficult tounderstand. I tied Aguador to a manger and took off his saddle. The oldwomen stirred themselves at last, and one brought a portion of choppedstraw and a little barley. Another with the bellows blew on the cinders, and the third, taking eggs from a basket, fried them on the _brasero_. Besides, they gave me coarse brown bread and red wine, which was coarserstill; for dessert the hostess went to the door and from a neighbouringtree plucked oranges. 

When I had finished--it was not a very substantial meal--I drew my chairto the _brasero_ and handed round my cigarette-case. The old womenhelped themselves, and a smile of thanks made the face of my gaunthostess somewhat less repellent. We smoked a while in silence. 

'Are you all alone here?' I asked, at length. 

The hostess made a movement of her head towards the country. 'My son isout shooting, ' she said, 'and two others are in Cuba, fighting therebels. '

'God protect them!' muttered another. 

'All our sons go to Cuba now, ' said the first. 'Oh, I don't blame theCubans, but the government. '

An angry light filled her eyes, and she lifted her clenched hand, cursing the rulers at Madrid who took her children. 'They're robbers andfools. Why can't they let Cuba go? It isn't worth the money we pay intaxes. '

She spoke so vehemently, mumbling the words between her toothless gums, that I could scarcely make them out. 

'In Madrid they don't care if the country goes to rack and ruin so longas they fill their purses. Listen. ' She put one hand on my arm. 'My boycame back with fever and dysentery. He was ill for months--at death'sdoor--and I nursed him day and night. And almost before he could walkthey sent him out again to that accursed country. '

The tears rolled heavily down her wrinkled cheeks. 

* * *

Luisiana is a curious place. It was a colony formed by Charles III. OfSpain with Germans whom he brought to people the desolate land; and Ifancied the Teuton ancestry was apparent in the smaller civility of theinhabitants. They looked sullenly as I passed, and none gave thefriendly Andalusian greeting. I saw a woman hanging clothes on the lineoutside her house; she had blue eyes and flaxen hair, a healthy redface, and a solidity of build which proved the purity of her northernblood. The houses, too, had a certain exotic quaintness; notwithstandingthe universal whitewash of the South, there was about them still anorthern character. They were prim and regularly built, with littleplots of garden; the fences and the shutters were bright green. I almostexpected to see German words on the post-office and on the tobacco-shop, and the grandiloquent Spanish seemed out of place; I thought the Spanishclothes of the men sat upon them uneasily. 

The day was drawing to a close and I pushed on to reach Ecija beforenight, but Aguador was tired and I was obliged mostly to walk. Now thehighway turned and twisted among little hills and it was a strangerelief to leave the dead level of the plains: on each side the land wasbarren and desolate, and in the distance were dark mountains. The skyhad clouded over, and the evening was grey and very cold; the solitudewas awful. At last I overtook a pedlar plodding along by his donkey, thepanniers filled to overflowing with china and glass, which he was takingto sell in Ecija. He wished to talk, but he was going too slowly, and Ileft him. I had hills to climb now, and at the top of each expected tosee the town, but every time was disappointed. The traces of mansurrounded me at last; again I rode among olive-groves and cornfields;the highway now was bordered with straggling aloes and with hedges ofcactus. 

At last! I reached the brink of another hill, and then, absolutely at myfeet, so that I could have thrown a stone on its roofs, lay Ecija withits numberless steeples. 

XXIX

[Sidenote: Ecija]

The central square, where are the government offices, the taverns, and alittle inn, is a charming place, quiet and lackadaisical, its palebrowns and greys very restful in the twilight, and harmonious. Thehouses with their queer windows and their balconies of wrought iron arebuilt upon arcades which give a pleasant feeling of intimacy: in summer, cool and dark, they must be the promenade of all the gossips and theloungers. One can imagine the uneventful life, the monotonous round ofexistence; and yet the Andalusian blood runs in the people's veins. Tomy writer's fantasy Ecija seemed a fit background for some tragic storyof passion or of crime. 

I dined, unromantically enough, with a pair of commercial travellers, apost-office clerk, and two stout, elderly men who appeared to be retiredofficers. Spanish victuals are terrible and strange; food is even morean affair of birth than religion, since a man may change his faith, buthardly his manner of eating: the stomach used to roast meat andYorkshire pudding rebels against Eastern cookery, and a Christian maysooner become a Buddhist than a beef-eater a guzzler of _olla podrida_. The Spaniards without weariness eat the same dinner day after day, yearin, year out: it is always the same white, thin, oily soup; a dish ofharicot beans and maize swimming in a revolting sauce; a nameless_entrée_ fried in oil--Andalusians have a passion for other animals'insides; a thin steak, tough as leather and grilled to utter dryness;raisins and oranges. You rise from table feeling that you have beensoaked in rancid oil. 

My table-companions were disposed to be sociable. The travellers desiredto know whether I was there to sell anything, and one drew from hispocket, for my inspection, a case of watch-chains. The officers surmisedthat I had come from Gibraltar to spy the land, and to terrify me, spokeof the invincible strength of the Spanish forces. 

'Are you aware, ' said the elder, whose adiposity prevented his outwardappearance from corresponding with his warlike heart, 'Are you awarethat in the course of history our army has never once been defeated, andour fleet but twice?'

He mentioned the catastrophes, but I had never heard of them; andTrafalgar was certainly not included. I hazarded a discreet inquiry, whereupon, with much emphasis, both explained how on that occasion theSpanish had soundly thrashed old Nelson, although he had discomfited theFrench. 

'It is odd, ' I observed, 'that British historians should be soinaccurate. '

'It is discreditable, ' retorted my acquaintance, with a certainseverity. 

'How long did the English take to conquer the Soudan?' remarked theother, somewhat aggressively picking his teeth. 'Twenty years? Weconquered Morocco in three months. '

'And the Moors are devils, ' said the commercial traveller. 'I know, because I once went to Tangiers for my firm. '

After dinner I wandered about the streets, past the great old houses ofthe nobles in the _Calle de los Caballeros_, empty now and dilapidated, for every gentleman that can put a penny in his pocket goes to Madrid tospend it; down to the river which flowed swiftly between high banks. Below the bridge two Moorish mills, irregular masses of blackness, stoodfinely against the night. Near at hand they were still working at aforge, and I watched the flying sparks as the smith hammered ahorseshoe; the workers were like silhouettes in front of the leapingflames. 

At many windows, to my envy, couples were philandering; the night wascold and Corydon stood huddled in his cape. But the murmuring as Ipassed was like the flow of a rapid brook, and I imagined, I am sure, far more passionate and romantic speeches than ever the lovers made. Imight have uttered them to the moon, but I should have felt ridiculous, and it was more practical to jot them down afterwards in a note-book. Insome of the surrounding villages they have so far preserved the Moorishstyle as to have no windows within reach of the ground, and lovers thenmust take advantage of the aperture at the bottom of the door made forthe domestic cat's particular convenience. Stretched full length on theground, on opposite sides of the impenetrable barrier, they can stillwhisper amorous commonplaces to one another. But imagine the confusionof a polite Spaniard, on a dark night, stumbling over a recumbent swain:

'My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I had no idea.... '

In old days the disturbance would have been sufficient cause for a duel, but now manners are more peaceful: the gallant, turning a little, removes his hat and politely answers:

'It is of no consequence. _Vaya Usted con Dios!_'

'Good-night!'

The intruder passes and the beau endeavours passionately to catch sightof his mistress' black eyes. 

* * *

Next day was Sunday, and I walked by the river till I found a plot ofgrass sheltered from the wind by a bristly hedge of cactus. I lay downin the sun, lazily watching two oxen that ploughed a neighbouring field. 

I felt it my duty in the morning to buy a chap-book relating theadventures of the famous brigands who were called the Seven Children ofEcija; and this, somewhat sleepily, I began to read. It required abyronic stomach, for the very first chapter led me to a monastery wheremass proceeded in memory of some victim of undiscovered crime. Sevenhandsome men appeared, most splendidly arrayed, but armed to the teeth;each one was every inch a brigand, pitiless yet great of heart, saturnine yet gentlemanly; and their peculiarity was that though sixwere killed one day seven would invariably be seen the next. The mostgorgeously apparelled of them all, entering the sacristy, flung a purseof gold to the Superior, while a scalding tear coursed down his sunburntcheek; and this he dried with a noble gesture and a richly embroideredhandkerchief! In a whirlwind of romantic properties I read of a wickedmiser who refused to support his brother's widow, of the widow herself, (brought at birth to a gardener in the dead of night by a mysteriousmulatto, ) and of this lady's lovely offspring. My own feelings can neverbe harrowed on behalf of a widow with a marriageable daughter, but I amaware that habitual readers of romance, like ostriches, will swallowanything. I was hurried to a subterranean chamber where the SevenChildren, in still more elaborate garments, performed various darkdeeds, smoked expensive Havanas, and seated on silken cushions, partook(like Freemasons) of a succulent cold collation. 

The sun shone down with comfortable warmth, and I stretched my legs. Mypipe was out and I refilled it. A meditative snail crawled up andobserved me with flattering interest. 

I grew somewhat confused. A stolen will was of course inevitable, and sowere prison dungeons; but the characters had an irritating trick ofrevealing at critical moments that they were long-lost relatives. Itmust have been a tedious age when poor relations were never safelyburied. However, youth and beauty were at last triumphant and villainyconfounded, virtue was crowned with orange blossom and vice died amiserable death. Rejoicing in duty performed I went to sleep. 

XXX

[Sidenote: Wind and Storm]

But next morning the sky was dark with clouds; people looked updubiously when I asked the way and distance to Marchena, prophesyingrain. Fetching my horse, the owner of the stable robbed me with peculiarcallousness, for he had bound my hands the day before, when I went tosee how Aguador was treated, by giving me with most courteous ceremony aglass of _aguardiente_; and his urbanity was then so captivating thatnow I lacked assurance to protest. I paid the scandalous overcharge witha good grace, finding some solace in the reflection that he was at leasta picturesque blackguard, tall and spare, grey-headed, with finefeatures sharpened by age to the strongest lines; for I am alwaysgrateful to the dishonest when they add a certain æsthetic charm totheir crooked ways. There is a proverb which says that in Ecija everyman is a thief and every woman--no better than she should be: I was notdisinclined to believe it. 

I set out, guided by a sign-post, and the good road seemed to promise aneasy day. They had told me that the distance was only six leagues, and Iexpected to arrive before luncheon. Aguador, fresh after his day's rest, broke into a canter when I put him on the green plot, which the oldSpanish law orders to be left for cattle by the side of the highway. Butafter three miles, without warning, the road suddenly stopped. I foundmyself in an olive-grove, with only a narrow path in front of me. Itlooked doubtful, but there was no one in sight and I wandered on, trusting to luck. 

Presently, in a clearing, I caught sight of three men on donkeys, walking slowly one after the other, and I galloped after to ask my way. The beasts were laden with undressed skins which they were taking toFuentes, and each man squatted cross-legged on the top of his load. Thehindermost turned right round when I asked my question and satunconcernedly with his back to the donkey's head. He looked about himvaguely as though expecting the information I sought to be written onthe trunk of an olive-tree, and scratched his head. 

'Well, ' he said, 'I should think it was a matter of seven leagues, butit will rain before you get there. '

'This is the right way, isn't it?'

'It may be. If it doesn't lead to Marchena it must lead somewhere else. '

There was a philosophic ring about the answer which made up for theuncertainty. The skinner was a fat, good-humoured creature, like allSpaniards intensely curious; and to prepare the way for inquiries, offered a cigarette. 

'But why do you come to Ecija by so roundabout a way as Carmona, and whyshould you return to Seville by such a route as Marchena?'

His opinion was evidently that the shortest way between two places wasalso the best. He received my explanation with incredulity and asked, more insistently, why I went to Ecija on horseback when I might go bytrain to Madrid. 

'For pleasure, ' said I. 

'My good sir, you must have come on some errand. '

'Oh yes, ' I answered, hoping to satisfy him, 'on the search foremotion. '

At this he bellowed with laughter and turned round to tell his fellows. 

'_Usted es muy guason_, ' he said at length, which may be translated:'You're a mighty funny fellow. '

I expressed my pleasure at having provided the skinners with amusementand bidding them farewell, trotted on. 

I went for a long time among the interminable olives, grey and sadbeneath the sullen clouds, and at last the rain began to fall. I saw afarm not very far away and cantered up to ask for shelter. An old womanand a labourer came to the door and looked at me very doubtfully; theysaid it was not a _posada_, but my soft words turned their hearts andthey allowed me to come in. The rain poured down in heavy, obliquelines. 

The labourer took Aguador to the stable and I went into the parlour, along, low, airy chamber like the refectory of a monastery, with windowsreaching to the ground. Two girls were sitting round the _brasero_, sewing; they offered me a chair by their side, and as the rain fellsteadily we began to talk. The old woman discreetly remained away. Theyasked about my journey, and as is the Spanish mode, about my country, myself, and my belongings. It was a regular volley of questions I had toanswer, but they sounded pleasanter in the mouth of a pretty girl thanin that of an obese old skinner; and the rippling laughter which greetedmy replies made me feel quite witty. When they smiled they showed thewhitest teeth. Then came my turn for questioning. The girl on my right, prettier than her sister, was very Spanish, with black, expressive eyes, an olive skin, and a bunch of violets in her abundant hair. I askedwhether she had a _novio_, or lover; and the question set her laughingimmoderately. What was her name? 'Soledad--Solitude. '

I looked somewhat anxiously at the weather, I feared the shower wouldcease, and in a minute, alas! the rain passed away; and I was forced tonotice it, for the sun-rays came dancing through the window, importunately, making patterns of light upon the floor. I had no furtherexcuse to stay, and said good-bye; but I begged for the bunch of violetsin Soledad's dark hair and she gave it with a pretty smile. I plungedagain into the endless olive-groves. 

It was a little strange, the momentary irruption into other people'slives, the friendly gossip with persons of a different tongue andcountry, whom I had never seen before, whom I should never see again;and were I not strictly truthful I might here lighten my narrative bythe invention of a charming and romantic adventure. But if chance bringsus often for a moment into other existences, it takes us out with equalsuddenness so that we scarcely know whether they were real or mereimaginings of an idle hour: the Fates have a passion for the unfinishedsketch and seldom trouble to unravel the threads which they have solaboriously entangled. The little scene brought another to my mind. WhenI was 'on accident duty' at St. Thomas's Hospital a man brought his sonwith a broken leg; it was hard luck on the little chap, for he wasseated peacefully on the ground when another boy, climbing a wall, fellon him and did the damage. When I returned him, duly bandaged, to hisfather's arms, the child bent forward and put out his lips for a kiss, saying good-night with babyish pronunciation. The father and theattendant nurse laughed, and I, being young, was confused and blushedprofusely. They went away and somehow or other I never saw them again. Iwonder if the pretty child, (he must be eight or ten now, ) rememberskissing a very weary medical student, who had not slept much for severaldays, and was dead tired. Probably he has quite forgotten that he everbroke his leg. And I suppose no recollection remains with the prettygirl in the farm of a foreigner riding mysteriously through theolive-groves, to whom she gave shelter and a bunch of violets. 

* * *

I came at last to the end of the trees and found then that a mighty windhad risen, which blew straight in my teeth. It was hard work to rideagainst it, but I saw a white town in the distance, on a hill; and madefor it, rejoicing in the prospect. Presently I met some men shooting, and to make sure, asked whether the houses I saw really were Marchena. 

'Oh no, ' said one. 'You've come quite out of the way. That is Fuentes. Marchena is over there, beyond the hill. '

My heart sank, for I was growing very hungry, and I asked whether Icould not get shelter at Fuentes. They shrugged their shoulders andadvised me to go to Marchena, which had a small inn. I went on forseveral hours, battling against the wind, bent down in order to exposemyself as little as possible, over a huge expanse of pasture land, adesert of green. I reached the crest of the hill, but there was no signof Marchena, unless that was a tower which I saw very far away, itssummit just rising above the horizon. 

I was ravenous. My saddle-bags contained spaces for a bottle and forfood; and I cursed my folly in stuffing them with such uselessrefinements of civilisation as hair-brushes and soap. It is possiblethat one could allay the pangs of hunger with soap; but under noimaginable circumstances with hair-brushes. 

It was a tower in the distance, but it seemed to grow neither nearer norlarger; the wind blew without pity, and miserably Aguador tramped on. Ino longer felt very hungry, but dreadfully bored. In that waste ofgreenery the only living things beside myself were a troop of swallowsthat had accompanied me for miles. They flew close to the ground, infront of me, circling round; and the wind was so high that they couldscarcely advance against it. 

I remembered the skinner's question, why I rode through the country whenI could go by train. I thought of the _Cheshire Cheese_ in Fleet Street, where persons more fortunate than I had that day eaten hearty luncheons. I imagined to myself a well-grilled steak with boiled potatoes, and apint of old ale, Stilton! The smoke rose to my nostrils. 

But at last, the Saints be praised! I found a real bridle-path, signs ofcivilisation, ploughed fields; and I came in sight of Marchena perchedon a hill-top, surrounded by its walls. When I arrived the sun wassetting finely behind the town. 

XXXI

[Sidenote: Two Villages]

Marchena was all white, and on the cold windy evening I spent there, deserted of inhabitants. Quite rarely a man sidled past wrapped to theeyes in his cloak, or a woman with a black shawl over her head. I saw inthe town nothing characteristic but the wicker-work frame in front ofeach window, so that people within could not possibly be seen; it wasevidently a Moorish survival. At night men came into the eating-room ofthe inn, ate their dinner silently, and muffling themselves, quicklywent out; the cold seemed to have killed all life in them. I slept in alittle windowless cellar, on a straw bed which was somewhat verminous. 

But next morning, as I looked back, the view of Marchena was charming. It stood on the crest of a green hill, surrounded by old battlements, and the sun shone down upon it. The wind had fallen, and in the earlyhour the air was pleasant and balmy. There was no road whatever, noteven a bridle-track this time, and I made straight for Seville. Iproposed to rest my horse and lunch at Mairena. On one side was a greatplain of young corn stretching to the horizon, and on the other, withthe same mantle of green, little hills, round which I slowly wound. Thesun gave all manner of varied tints to the verdure--sometimes it wasall emerald and gold, and at others it was like dark green velvet. 

But the clouds in the direction of Seville were very black, and comingnearer I saw that it rained upon the hills. The water fell on the earthlike a transparent sheet of grey. Soon I felt an occasional drop, and Iput on my _poncho_. 

The rain began in earnest, no northern drizzle, but a streaming downpourthat soaked me to the skin. The path became marsh-like, and Aguadorsplashed along at a walk; it was impossible to go faster. The rainpelted down, blinding me. Then, oddly enough, for the occasion hardlywarranted such high-flown thoughts, I felt suddenly the utterhelplessness of man: I had never before realised with such completenesshis insignificance beside the might of Nature; alone, with not a soul insight, I felt strangely powerless. The plain flaunted itself insolentlyin face of my distress, and the hills raised their heads with a scornfulpride; they met the rain as equals, but me it crushed; I felt as thoughit would beat me down into the mire. I fell into a passion with theelements, and was seized with a desire to strike out. But the whitesheet of water was senseless and impalpable, and I relieved myself byraging inwardly at the fools who complain of civilisation and ofrailway-trains; they have never walked for hours foot-deep in mud, terrified lest their horse should slip, with the rain falling as thoughit would never cease. 

The path led me to a river; there was a ford, but the water was veryhigh, and rushed and foamed like a torrent. Ignorant of the depth andmistrustful, I trotted up-stream a little, seeking shallower parts; butnone could be seen, and it was no use to look for a bridge. I was boundto cross, and I had to risk it; my only consolation was that even ifAguador could not stand, I was already so wet that I could hardly getwetter. The good horse required some persuasion before he would enter;the water rushed and bubbled and rapidly became deeper; he stopped andtried to turn back, but I urged him on. My feet went under water, andsoon it was up to my knees; then, absurdly, it struck me as ratherfunny, and I began to laugh; I could not help thinking how foolish Ishould look and feel on arriving at the other side, if I had to swim forit. But immediately it grew shallower; all my adventures tailed off thusunheroically just when they began to grow exciting, and in a minute Iwas on comparatively dry land. 

I went on, still with no view of Mairena; but I was coming nearer. I meta group of women walking with their petticoats over their heads. Ipassed a labourer sheltered behind a hedge, while his oxen stood in afield, looking miserably at the rain. Still it fell, still it fell!

And when I reached Mairena it was the most cheerless place I had comeacross on my journey, merely a poverty-stricken hamlet that did not evenboast a bad inn. I was directed from place to place before I could finda stable; I was soaked to the skin, and there seemed no shelter. At lastI discovered a wretched wine-shop; but the woman who kept it said therewas no fire and no food. Then I grew very cross. I explained with heatthat I had money; it is true I was bedraggled and disreputable, but whenI showed some coins, to prove that I could pay for what I bought, sheasked unwillingly what I required. I ordered a _brasero_, and dried myclothes as best I could by the burning cinders. I ate a scanty meal ofeggs, and comforted myself with the thin wine of the leaf, sufficientlyalcoholic to be exhilarating, and finally, with _aguardiente_ regainedmy equilibrium. 

But the elements were against me. The rain had ceased while I lunched, but no sooner had I left Mairena than it began again, and Seville wassixteen miles away. It poured steadily. I tramped up the hills, coveredwith nut-trees; I wound down into valleys; the way seemed interminable. I tramped on. At last from the brow of a hill I saw in the distance theGiralda and the clustering houses of Seville, but all grey in the wet;above it heavy clouds were lowering. On and on!

The day was declining, and Seville now was almost hidden in the mist, but I reached a road. I came to the first tavern of the environs; aftera while to the first houses, then the road gave way to slippery cobbles, and I was in Seville. The Saints be praised!

XXXII

[Sidenote: Granada]

To go from Seville to Granada is like coming out of the sunshine intodeep shadow. I arrived, my mind full of Moorish pictures, expecting tofind a vivid, tumultuous life; and I was ready with a prodigal hand todash on the colours of my admiration. But Granada is a sad town, greyand empty; its people meander, melancholy, through the streets, unoccupied. It is a tradeless place living on the monuments whichattract strangers, and like many a city famous for stirring history, seems utterly exhausted. Granada gave me an impression that it wishedmerely to be left alone to drag out its remaining days in peace, awayfrom the advance of civilisation and the fervid hurrying of progress: itseemed like a great adventuress retired from the world after a life ofvicissitude, anxious only to be forgotten, and after so much storm andstress to be nothing more than pious. There must be many descendants ofthe Moors, but the present population is wan and lifeless. They aretaciturn, sombre folk, with nothing in them of the chattering andvivacious creatures of Arab history. Indeed, as I wandered through thestreets, it was not the Moors that engaged my mind, but rather Ferdinandof Arragon and Isabella of Castille. Their grim strength over-poweredthe more graceful shadows of Moordom; and it was only by an effort thatI recalled Gazul and Musa, most gallant and amorous of Paynim knights, tilting in the square, displaying incredible valour in the slaughter ofsavage bulls. I thought of the Catholic Kings, in full armour, ridingwith clank of steel through the captured streets. And the snowy summitsof the Sierra Nevada, dazzling sometimes under the sun and the blue sky, but more often veiled with mist and capped by heavy clouds, grim andterrifying, lent a sort of tragic interest to the scene; so that I feltthose grey masses, with their cloak of white, (they seemed near enoughto overwhelm one, ) made it impossible for the town built at their veryfeet, to give itself over altogether to flippancy. 

And for a while I found little of interest in Granada but the Alhambra. The gipsy quarter, with neither beauty, colour, nor even a touch ofbarbarism, is a squalid, brutal place, consisting of little dens builtin the rock of the mountain which stands opposite the Alhambra. Worsethan hovels, they are the lairs of wild beasts, foetid and oppressive, inhabited by debased creatures, with the low forehead, the copper skin, and the shifty cruel look of the Spanish gipsy. They surround thevisitor in their rags and tatters, clamouring for alms, and forexorbitant sums proposing to dance. Even in the slums of great cities Ihave not seen a life more bestial. I tried to imagine what sort ofexistence these people led. In the old days the rock-dwellings among thecactus served the gipsies for winter quarters only, and when the springcame they set off, scouring the country for something to earn or steal;but that is long ago. For two generations they have remained in thesehovels--year in, year out--employed in shoeing horses, shearing, and thelike menial occupations which the Spaniard thinks beneath his dignity. The women tell fortunes, or dance for the foreigner, or worse. It is amere struggle for daily bread. I wondered whether in the spring-time theyoung men loved the maidens, or if they only coupled like the beasts. Isaw one pair who seemed quite newly wed; for their scanty furniture wasnew and they were young. The man, short and squat, sat scowling, cross-legged on a chair, a cigarette between his lips. The woman wastaller and not ill-made, a slattern; her hair fell dishevelled on herback and over her forehead; her dress was open, displaying the bosom;her apron was filthy. But when she smiled, asking for money, her teethwere white and regular, and her eyes flashed darkly. She was attractivein a heavy sensual fashion, attractive and at the same time horriblyrepellant: she was the sort of woman who might fetter a man to herselfby some degrading, insuperable passion, the true Carmen of the famousstory whom a man might at once love and hate; so that though she draggedhim to hell in shame and in despair, he would never find the strength tofree himself. But where among that bastard race was the splendid desirefor freedom of their fathers, the love of the fresh air of heaven andthe untrammeled life of the fields?

At first glance also the cathedral seemed devoid of charm. I supposetravellers seek emotions in the things they see, and often the morebeautiful objects do not give the most vivid sensations. Painterscomplain that men of letters have written chiefly of second-ratepictures, but the literary sentiment is different from the artistic; anda masterpiece of Perugino may excite it less than a mediocre work ofGuido Reni. 

The cathedral of Granada is said by the excellent Fergusson to be themost noteworthy example in Europe of early Renaissance architecture; itsproportions are evidently admirable, and it is designed and carried outaccording to all the canons of the art. 'Looking at its plan only, ' hesays, 'this is certainly one of the finest churches in Europe. It wouldbe difficult to point out any other, in which the central aisle leads upto the dome, so well proportioned to its dimensions, and to the dignityof the high altar which stands under it. ' But though I vaguelyrecognised these perfections, though the spacing appeared fine andsimple, and the columns had a certain majesty, I was left more than alittle cold. The whitewash with which the interior is coated gives anunsympathetic impression, and the abundant light destroys that mysterywhich the poorest, gaudiest Spanish church almost invariably possesses. In the _Capilla de los Reyes_ are the elaborate monuments of theCatholic Kings, of their daughter Joan the Mad, and of Philip herhusband; below, in the crypt, are four simple coffins, in which after somuch grandeur, so much joy and sorrow, they rest. Indeed, for the twopoor women who loved without requite, it was a life of pain almostunrelieved: it is a pitiful story, for all its magnificence, of Joanwith her fiery passion for the handsome, faithless, worthless husband, and her mad jealousy; and of Isabella, with patient strength bearingevery cross, always devoted to the man who tired of her quickly, andrepaid her deep affection with naught but coldness and distrust. 

Queen Isabella's sword and sceptre are shown in the sacristry, and incontrast with the implement of war a beautiful cope, worked with herroyal hands. And her crown also may be seen, one of the few I have comeacross which might really become the wearer, of silver, a masterpiece ofdelicate craftsmanship. 

But presently, returning to the cathedral and sitting in front of thehigh altar, I became at last conscious of its airy, restful grace. Thechancel is very lofty. The base is a huge arcade which gives an effectof great lightness; and above are two rows of pictures, and still highertwo rows of painted windows. The coloured glass throws the softestlights upon the altar and on the marble floor, rendering even quieterthe low tints of the pictures. These are a series of illustrations ofthe life of the Blessed Virgin, painted by Alonzo Cano, a native ofValladolid, who killed his wife and came to Granada, whereupon those inpower made him a prebendary. In the obscurity I could not see thepaintings, but divined soft and pleasant things after the style ofMurillo, and doubtless that was better than actually to see them. Thepulpits are gorgeously carved in wood, and from the walls fly greatangels with fine turbulence of golden drapery. And in the contrast ofthe soft white stone with the gold, which not even the most criticaltaste could complain was too richly spread, there is a delicate, fascinating lightness: the chancel has almost an Italian gaiety, whichcomes upon one oddly in the gloomy town. Here the decoration, the gildedvirgins, the elaborate carving, do not oppress as elsewhere; the effectis too debonair and too refreshing. It is one colour more, one moredistinction, in the complexity of the religious sentiment. 

* * *

But if what I have said of Granada seems cold, it is because I did noteasily catch the spirit of the place. For when you merely observe andadmire some view, and if industrious make a note of your impression, andthen go home to luncheon, you are but a vulgar tripper, scum of theearth, deserving the ridicule with which the natives treat you. Theromantic spirit is your only justification; when by the comeliness ofyour life or the beauty of your emotion you have attained that, (Shelleywhen he visited Paestum had it, but Théophile Gautier, flaunting his redwaistcoat _tras los montes_, was perhaps no better than a Cook'stourist, ) then you are no longer unworthy of the loveliness which it isyour privilege to see. When the old red brick and the green trees say toyou hidden things, and the _vega_ and the mountains are stretched beforeyou with a new significance, when at last the white houses with theirbrown tiles, and the labouring donkey, and the peasant at his plough, appeal to you so as to make, as it were, an exquisite pattern on yoursoul, then you may begin to find excuses for yourself. But you may seeplaces long and often before they are thus magically revealed to you, and for myself I caught the real emotion of Granada but once, when fromthe Generalife I looked over the valley, the Generalife in which aremingled perhaps more admirably than anywhere else in Andalusia all thecharm of Arabic architecture, of running water, and of cypress trees, ofpurple flags and dark red roses. It is a spot, indeed, fit for theplaintive creatures of poets to sing their loves, for Paolo andFrancesca, for Juliet and Romeo; and I am glad that there I enjoyed suchan exquisite moment. 

XXXIII

[Sidenote: The Alhambra]

From the church of _San Nicolas_, on the other side of the valley, theAlhambra, like all Moorish buildings externally very plain, with its redwalls and low, tiled roofs, looks like some old charter-house. Encircledby the fresh green of the spring-time, it lies along the summit of thehill with an infinite, most simple grace, dun and brown and deep red;and from the sultry wall on which I sat the elm-trees and the poplarsseemed very cool. Thirstily, after the long drought, the Darro, the Arabstream which ran scarlet with the blood of Moorish strife, wound its wayover its stony bed among the hills; and beyond, in strange contrast withall the fertility, was the grey and silent grandeur of the SierraNevada. Few places can be more charming than the green wood in whichstands the stronghold of the Moorish kings; the wind sighs among thetopmost branches and all about is the sweet sound of running water; inspring the ground is carpeted with violets, and the heavy foliage givesan enchanting coldness. A massive gateway, flanked by watch-towers, forms the approach; but the actual entrance, offering no hint of theincredible magnificence within, is an insignificant door. 

But then, then you are immediately transported to a magic palace, existing in some uncertain age of fancy, which does not seem the work ofhuman hands, but rather of Jin, an enchanted dwelling of seven lovelydamsels. It is barely conceivable that historical persons inhabited sucha place. At the same time it explains the wonderful civilisation of theMoors in Spain, with their fantastic battles, their songs and strangehistories; and it brings the _Arabian Nights_ into the bounds of soberreality: after he has seen the Alhambra none can doubt the literal truthof the stories of Sinbad the Sailor and of Hasan of Bassorah. 

* * *

From the terrace that overlooks the city you enter the Court ofMyrtles--a long pool of water with goldfish swimming to and fro, enclosed by myrtle hedges. At the ends are arcades, borne by marblecolumns with capitals of surpassing beauty. It is very quiet and veryrestful; the placid water gives an indescribable sensation of delight, and at the end mirrors the slender columns and the decorated arches sothat in reflection you see the entrance to a second palace, which isfilled with mysterious, beautiful things. But in the Alhambra theimagination finds itself at last out of its depth, it cannot conjure upchambers more beautiful than the reality presents. It serves only torecall the old inhabitants to the deserted halls. 

The Moors continually used inscriptions with great effect, and there isone in this court which surpasses all others in its oriental imagery, inpraise of Mohammed V. : _Thou givest safety from the breeze to theblades of grass, and inspirest terror in the very stars of heaven. Whenthe shining stars quiver, it is through dread of thee, and when thegrass of the field bends down it is to give thee thanks. _

But it is the Hall of the Ambassadors which shows most fully theunparalleled splendour of Moorish decoration. It is a square room, verylofty, with alcoves on three sides, at the bottom of which are windows;and the walls are covered, from the dado of tiles to the roof, with therichest and most varied ornamentation. The Moorish workmen did not sparethemselves nor economise their exuberant invention. One pattern followsanother with infinite diversity. Even the alcoves, and there are nine, are covered each with different designs, so that the mind is bewilderedby their graceful ingenuity. All kinds of geometrical figures are used, enlacing with graceful intricacy, intersecting, combining anddissolving; conventional foliage and fruit, Arabic inscriptions. Anindustrious person has counted more than one hundred and fifty patternsin the Hall of the Ambassadors, impressed with iron moulds on the moistplaster of the walls. The roof is a low dome of larch wood, intricatelycarved and inlaid with ivory and with mother-of-pearl; it has beenlikened to the faceted surface of an elaborately cut gem. The effect isso gorgeous that you are oppressed; you long for some perfectly plainspace whereon to rest the eye; but every inch is covered. 

Now the walls have preserved only delicate tints of red and blue, paleWedgwood blues and faded terracottas, that make with the ivory of theplaster most exquisite harmonies; but to accord with the tiles, theirbrilliancy still undiminished, the colours must have been very bright. The complicated patterns and the gay hues reproduce the oriental carpetsof the nomad's tent; for from the tent, it is said, (I know not withwhat justification, ) all oriental architecture is derived. The fragilecolumns upon which rest masses of masonry are, therefore, directimitations of tent-poles, and the stalactite borders of the archesrepresent the fringe of the woven hangings. The Moorish architect paidno attention to the rules of architecture, and it has been well saidthat if they existed for him at all it was only that he mightelaborately disregard them. His columns generally support nothing; hisarcades, so delicately worked that they seem like carved ivory, are ofthe lightest wood and plaster. 

And it is curious that there should be such durability in those daintymaterials: they express well the fatalism of the luxurious Moor, to whomthe past and future were as nothing, and the transient hour all in all;yet they have outlasted him and his conqueror. The Spaniard, ingloriousand decayed, is now but the showman to this magnificence; time has seenhis greatness come and go, as came and went the greatness of the Moor, but still, for all its fragility, the Alhambra stands hardly lessbeautiful. Travellers have always been astonished at the small size ofthe Alhambra, especially of the Court of Lions; for here, though theproportion is admirable the scale is tiny; and many have supposed thatthe Moors were of less imposing physique than modern Europeans. TheCourt is surrounded by exquisite little columns, singly, in twos, inthrees, supporting horseshoe arches; and in the centre is that beautifulfountain, borne by twelve lions with bristly manes, standing verystiffly, whereon is the inscription: _O thou who beholdest these lionscrouching, fear not. Life is wanting to enable them to show their fury. _

Indeed, their surroundings have such a delicate and playful grace thatit is hard to believe the Moors had any of our strenuous, latter-daypassions. Life must have been to them a masque rather than atragi-comedy; and whether they belong to sober history or no, thosecontests of which the curious may read in the lively pages of GinesPerez de Hita accord excellently with the fanciful environment. In theAlhambra nothing seems more reasonable than those never-ending duels inwhich, for a lady's favour, gallant knights gave one another such blowsthat the air rang with them, such wounds that the ground was red withblood; but at sunset they separated and bound up their wounds andreturned to the palace. And the king, at the relation of the adventure, was filled with amazement and with great content. 

* * *

Yet, notwithstanding, I find in the Alhambra something unsatisfying; formany an inferior piece of architecture has set my mind a-working so thatI have dreamed charming dreams, or seen vividly the life of other times. But here, I know not why, my imagination helps me scarcely at all. Theexistence led within these gorgeous walls is too remote; there is butlittle to indicate the thoughts, the feelings, of these people, and onecan take the Alhambra only as a thing of beauty, and despair tounderstand. 

I know that it is useless to attempt with words to give an idea of thesenumerous chambers and courts. A string of superlatives can do no morethan tire the reader, an exact description can only confuse; nor is thepainter able to give more than a suggestion of the bewildering charm. The effect is too emotional to be conveyed from man to man, and eachmust feel it for himself. Charles V. Called him unhappy who had lostsuch treasure--_desgraciado el que tal perdio_--and showed his ownappreciation by demolishing a part to build a Renaissance palace forhimself! It appears that kings have not received from heaven with theirright divine to govern wrong the inestimable gift of good taste; and forthem possibly it is fortunate, since when, perchance, a sovereign hasthe artistic temperament, a discerning people--cuts off his head. 

XXXIV

[Sidenote: Boabdil the Unlucky]

He was indeed unhappy who lost such treasure. The plain of Granadasmiles with luxuriant crops, a beautiful country, gay with a hundredcolours, and in summer when the corn is ripe it burns with vivid gold. The sun shines with fiery rays from the blue sky, and from thesnow-capped mountains cool breezes temper the heat. 

But from his cradle Boabdil was unfortunate; soothsayers prophesied thathis reign would see the downfall of the Moorish power, and his everystep tended to that end. Never in human existence was more evident themysterious power of the three sisters, the daughters of Night; the Fateshad spun his destiny, they placed the pitfalls before his feet andclosed his eyes that he might not see; they hid from him the way ofescape. _Allah Achbar!_ It was destiny. In no other way can be explainedthe madness which sped the victims of that tragedy to their ruin; forwith the enemy at their very gates, the Muslims set up and displacedkings, plotted and counterplotted. Boabdil was twice deposed and twiceregained the throne. Even when the Christian kingdoms had united toconsume the remnant of Moorish sovereignty the Moors could not ceasetheir quarrelling. Boabdil looked on with satisfaction while theterritory of the rival claimant to his crown was wrested from him, anddid not understand that his turn must inevitably follow. Verily, thegods, wishing to destroy him, had deranged his mind. It is a pitifulhistory of treachery and folly that was enacted while the CatholicSovereigns devoured the pomegranate, seed by seed. 

To me history, with its hopes bound to be frustrated and its uselessefforts, sometimes is so terrible that I can hardly read. I feel myselflike one who lives, knowing the inevitable future, and yet is powerlessto help. I see the acts of the poor human puppets, and know the disasterthat must follow. I wonder if the Calvinists ever realised the agony ofthat dark God of theirs, omniscient and yet so strangely weak, to whomthe eternal majesty of heaven was insufficient to save the predestinedfrom everlasting death. 

* * *

On March 22, 1491, began the last siege of Granada. 

Ferdinand marched his army into the plain and began to destroy thecrops, taking one by one the surrounding towns. He made no attempt uponthe city itself, and hostilities were confined to skirmishes beneath thewalls and single combats between Christian knights and Muslim cavaliers, wherein on either side prodigies of valour were performed. Through thesummer the Moors were able to get provisions from the Sierra Nevada, butwhen, with winter, the produce of the earth grew less and its conveyancemore difficult, famine began to make itself felt. The Moors consoledthemselves with the hope that the besieging army would retire with thecold weather, for such in those days was the rule of warfare; butFerdinand was in earnest. When an accidental fire burned his camp, hebuilt him a town of solid stone and mortar, which he named Santa Fè. Itstands still, the only town in Spain wherein a Moorish foot has nevertrod. Then the Muslims understood at last that the Spaniard would neveragain leave that fruitful land. 

And presently they began to talk of surrender; Spanish gold worked itsway with Boabdil's councillors, and before winter was out thecapitulation was signed. 

On the second day of the new year the final scene of the tragedy wasacted. Early in the morning, before break of day, Boabdil had sent hismother and his wife with the treasure to precede him to the Alpuxarras, in which district, by the conditions of the treaty, Ferdinand hadassigned him a little kingdom. Himself had one more duty to perform, andat the prearranged hour he sallied forth with a wretched escort of fiftyknights. On the Spanish side the night had been spent in joy andfeasting; but how must Boabdil have spent his, thinking of theinevitable morrow? To him the hours must have sped like minutes. Whatmust have been the agony of his last look at the Alhambra, that jewel ofincalculable price? Mendoza, the cardinal, had been sent forward tooccupy the palace, and Boabdil passed him on the hill. 

Soon he reached Ferdinand, who was stationed near a mosque surrounded byall the glory of his Court, pennons flying, and knights in theirmagnificent array. Boabdil would have thrown himself from his horse insign of homage to kiss the hand of the king of Arragon, but Ferdinandprevented him. Then Boabdil delivered the keys of the Alhambra to thevictor, saying: 'They are thine, O king, since Allah so decrees it; usethy success with clemency and moderation. ' Moving on sadly he salutedIsabella, and passed to rejoin his family; the Christians processionedto the city with psalm-singing. 

But when Boabdil was crossing the mountains he turned to look at thecity he had lost, and burst into tears. 

'You do well, ' said his mother, 'to weep like a woman for what you couldnot defend like a man. '

'Alas!' he cried, 'when were woes ever equal to mine?'

It was not to be expected that the pious Kings of Castille and Arragonwould keep their word, and means were soon invented to hound thewretched Boabdil from the principality they had granted. He crossed toAfrica, and settled in Fez, of which the Sultan was his kinsman. It ispathetic to learn that there he built himself a palace in imitation ofthe Alhambra. At last, after many years, he was killed in an obscurebattle fighting against the Sultan's rebels, and the Arab historianfinishes the account of him with these words: 'Wretched man! who couldlose his life in another's cause, though he dared not die in his own!Such was the immutable decree of destiny. Blessed be Allah, who exaltethand abaseth the kings of the earth according to His divine will, in thefulfilment of which consists that eternal justice which regulates allhuman affairs. '

In the day of El Makkary, the historian of the Moorish Empire, Boabdil'sdescendants had so fallen that they were nothing but common beggars, subsisting upon the charitable allowances made to the poor from thefunds of the mosques. 

_One generation passeth away and another generation cometh: but theearth abideth for ever. _

XXXV

[Sidenote: Los Pobres]

People say that in Granada the beggars are more importunate than in anyother Spanish town, but throughout Andalusia their pertinacity andnumber are amazing. They are licensed by the State, and the brass badgethey wear makes them demand alms almost as a right. It is curious tofind that the Spaniard, who is by no means a charitable being, givesvery often to beggars--perhaps from superstitious motives, thinkingtheir prayers will be of service, or fearing the evil eye, which maypunish a refusal. Begging is quite an honourable profession in Spain;mendicants are charitably termed the poor, and not besmirched, as inEngland, with an opprobrious name. 

I have never seen so many beggars as in Andalusia; at every church doorthere will be a dozen, and they stand or sit at each street corner, halt, lame and blind. Every possible deformity is paraded to arousecharity. Some look as though their eyes had been torn out, and theyglare at you with horrible bleeding sockets; most indeed are blind, andyou seldom fail to hear their monotonous cry, sometimes naming thesaint's day to attract particular persons: 'Alms for the love of God, for a poor blind man on this the day of St. John!' They stand frommorning till night, motionless, with hand extended, repeating the wordsas the sound of footsteps tells them some one is approaching; and then, as a coin is put in their hands, say gracefully: '_Dios se lo pagara!_God will repay you. '

In Spain you do not pass silently when a beggar demands alms, but prayhis mercy for God's love to excuse you: '_Perdone Usted por el amor deDios!_' Or else you beseech God to protect him: '_Dios le ampare!_' Andthe mendicant, coming to your gate, sometimes invokes the ImmaculateVirgin. 

'_Ave Maria purissima!_' he calls. 

And you, tired of giving, reply: '_Y por siempre!_ And for ever. '

He passes on, satisfied with your answer, and rings at the next door. 

It is not only in Burgos that Théophile Gautier might have admired thebeggar's divine rags; everywhere they wrap their cloaks about them inthe same magnificent fashion. The _capa_, I suppose, is the mostgraceful of all the garments of civilised man, and never more so thanwhen it barely holds together, a mass of rags and patches, stained bythe rain and bleached by the sun and wind. It hangs straight from theneck in big simple lines, or else is flung over one shoulder with apompous wealth of folds. 

There is a strange immobility about Andalusian beggars which recallstheir Moorish ancestry. They remain for hours in the same attitude, without moving a muscle; and one I knew in Seville stood day after day, from early morning till midnight, with hand outstretched in the samerather crooked position, never saying a word, but merely trusting to thepasser-by to notice. The variety is amazing, men and women and children;and Seville at fair-time, or when the foreigners are coming for HolyWeek, is like an enormous hospital. Mendicants assail you on all sides, the legless dragging themselves on their hands, the halt running towardsyou with a crutch, the blind led by wife or child, the deaf and dumb, the idiotic. I remember a woman with dead eyes and a huge hydrocephalichead, who sat in a bath-chair by one of the cathedral doors, andwhenever people passed, cried shrilly for money in a high, unnaturalvoice. Sometimes they protrude maimed limbs, feetless legs or armswithout hands; they display loathsome wounds, horribly inflamed; everyvariety of disease is shown to extort a copper. And so much is it arecognised trade that they have their properties, as it were: one oldman whose legs had been shot away, trotted through the narrow streets ofSeville on a diminutive ass, driving it into the shop-doors to demandhis mite. Then there are the children, the little boys and girls thatMurillo painted, barely covered by filthy rags, cherubs with black hairand shining eyes, the most importunate of all the tribe. The refusal ofa halfpenny is followed impudently by demands for a cigarette, and as alast resort for a match; they wander about with keen eyes forcigar-ends, and no shred of a smoked leaf is too diminutive for them toget no further use from it. 

And beside all these are the blind fiddlers, scraping out old-fashionedtunes that were popular thirty years ago; the guitarists, singing the_flamenco_ songs which have been sung in Spain ever since the Moorishdays; the buffoons, who extract tunes from a broomstick; the owners ofperforming dogs. 

They are a picturesque lot, neither vicious nor ill-humoured. Begging isa fairly profitable trade, and not a very hard one; in winter _el pobre_can always find a little sunshine, and in summer a little shade. It isno hardship for him to sit still all day; he would probably do littleelse if he were a millionaire. He looks upon life without bitterness;Fate has not been very kind, but it is certainly better to be a livebeggar than a dead king, and things might have been ten thousand timesworse. For instance, he might not have been born a Spaniard, and everyman in his senses knows that Spain is the greatest nation on earth, while to be born a citizen of some other country is the most dreadfulmisfortune that can befall him. He has his licence from the State, and acharitable public sees that he does not absolutely starve; he hascigarettes to smoke--to say that a blind man cannot enjoy tobacco isevidently absurd--and therefore, all these things being so, why shouldhe think life such a woeful matter? While it lasts the sun is there toshine equally on rich and poor, and afterwards will not a paternalgovernment find a grave in the public cemetery? It is true that thebeggar shares it with quite a number of worthy persons, doubtless mostestimable corpses, and his coffin even is but a temporaryconvenience--but still, what does it matter?

XXXVI

[Sidenote: The Song]

But the Moorish influence is nowhere more apparent than in the Spanishsinging. There is nothing European in that quavering lament, in thoselong-drawn and monotonous notes, in those weird trills. The sounds arestrange to the ear accustomed to less barbarous harmonies, and at firstno melody is perceived; it is custom alone which teaches the sad andpassionate charm of these things. A _malagueña_ is the particularcomplaint of the maid sorrowing for an absent lover, of the peasant whoploughs his field in the declining day. The long notes of such a song, floating across the silence of the night, are like a new melody on thegreat harpsichord of human sorrow. No emotion is more poignant than thatgiven by the faint sad sounds of a Spanish song as one wanders throughthe deserted streets in the dead of night; or far in the country, withthe sun setting red in the cloudless sky, when the stillness is brokenonly by the melancholy chanting of a shepherd among the olive-trees. 

An heritage of Moordom is the Spanish love for the improvisation ofwell-turned couplets; in olden days a skilful verse might procure thepoet a dress of cloth-of-gold, and it did on one occasion actuallyraise a beggar-maid to a royal throne: even now it has power to securethe lover his lady's most tender smiles, or at the worst a glass ofManzanilla. The richness of the language helps him with his rhymes, andhis southern imagination gives him manifold subjects. But, being theresult of improvisation--no lady fair would consider the suit of agallant who could not address her in couplets of his own devising--theSpanish song has a peculiar character. The various stanzas have nobearing upon one another; they consist of four or seven lines, but ineither case each contains its definite sentiment; so that one verse maybe a complete song, or the singer may continue as long as the museprompts and his subject's charms occasion. The Spanish song is like abarbaric necklace in which all manner of different stones are strungupon a single cord, without thought for their mutual congruity. 

Naturally the vast majority of the innumerable couplets thus inventedare forgotten as soon as sung, but now and then the fortuitousexcellence of one impresses it on the maker's recollection, and it maybe preserved. Here is an example which has been agreeably translated byMr. J. W. Crombie; but neither original nor English rendering can givean adequate idea of the charm which depends on the oriental melancholyof the music:

 Dos besos tengo en el alma Que no se apartan de mí: El ultimo de mi madre, Y el primero que te di. 

 _Deep in my soul two kisses rest, _ _Forgot they ne'er shall be:_ _The last my mother's lips impressed, _ _The first I stole from thee. _

Here is another, the survival of which testifies to the Spanish extremelove of a compliment; and the somewhat hackneyed sentiment can only havemade it more pleasant to the feminine ear:

 Salga el sol, si ha de salir, Y si no, que nunca salga; Que para alumbrarme á mí La luz de tus ojos basta. 

 _If the sun care to rise, let him rise, _ _But if not, let him ever lie hid;_ _For the light from my lady-love's eyes_ _Shines forth as the sun never did. _

It is a diverting spectacle to watch a professional improviser in thethroes of inspiration. This is one of the stock 'turns' of the Spanishmusic-hall, and one of the most popular. I saw a woman in Granada, whowas quite a celebrity; and the barbaric wildness of her performance, with its accompaniment of hand-clapping, discordant cries, and twangingof guitar, harmonised well with my impression of the sombre and mediævalcity. 

She threaded her way to the stage among the crowded tables, through theauditorium, a sallow-faced creature, obese and large-boned, with coarsefeatures and singularly ropy hair. She was accompanied by a fat smallman with a guitar and a woman of mature age and ample proportions: itappeared that the cultivation of the muse, evidently more profitablethan in England, conduced to adiposity. They stepped on the stage, taking chairs with them, for in Spain you do not stand to sing, and weregreeted with plentiful applause. The little fat man began to play thelong prelude to the couplet; the old woman clapped her hands andoccasionally uttered a raucous cry. The poetess gazed into the air forinspiration. The guitarist twanged on, and in the audience there werescattered cries of _Ole!_ Her companions began to look at the singeranxiously, for the muse was somewhat slow; and she patted her knee andgroaned; at last she gave a little start and smiled. _Ole! Ole!_ Theinspiration had come. She gave a moan, which lengthened into thecharacteristic trill, and then began the couplet, beating time with herhands. Such an one as this:

Suspires que de mí salgan, Y otros que de tí saldran, Si en el camino se encuentranQue de cosas se diran!

_If all the sighs thy lips now shape__Could meet upon the way__With those that from mine own escape__What things they'd have to say!_

She finished, and all three rose from their chairs and withdrew them, but it was only a false exit; immediately the applause grew clamorousthey sat down again, and the little fat man repeated his introduction. 

But this time there was no waiting. The singer had noticed a well-knownbull-fighter and quickly rolled off a couplet in his praise. Thesubject beamed with delight, and the general enthusiasm knew no bounds. The people excitedly threw their hats on the stage, and these werefollowed by a shower of coppers, which the performers, more heedful tothe compensation of Art than to its dignity, grovelled to picked up. 

* * *

Here is a lover's praise of the whiteness of his lady's skin:

 La neve por tu cara Paso diciendo: En donde no hago falta No me detengo. 

 _Before thy brow the snow-flakes_ _Hurry past and say:_ _'Where we are not needed, _ _Wherefore should we stay?'_

And this last, like the preceding translated by Mr. Crombie, shows oncemore how characteristic are Murillo's Holy Families of the popularsentiment:

 La Virgen lava la ropa, San José la esta tendiendo, Santa Ana entretiene el niño, Y el agua se va riendo. 

 _The Virgin is washing the clothes at the brook. _ _And Saint Joseph hangs them to dry. _ _Saint Anna plays with the Holy Babe, _ _And the water flows smiling by. _

XXXVII

[Sidenote: Jerez]

Jerez is the Andalusian sunshine again after the dark clouds of Granada. It is a little town in the middle of a fertile plain, clean andcomfortable and spacious. It is one of the richest places in Spain; thehouses have an opulent look, and without the help of Baedeker you mayguess that they contain respectable persons with incomes, and carriagesand horses, with frock-coats and gold watch-chains. I like the people ofJerez; their habitual expression suggests a consciousness that theAlmighty is pleased with them, and they without doubt are well contentwith the Almighty. The main street, with its trim shops and its _cafés_, has the air of a French provincial town--an appearance of agreeable easeand dulness. 

Every building in Jerez is washed with lime, and in the sunlight thebrilliancy is dazzling. You realise then that in Seville the houses arenot white--although the general impression is of a white town--but, onthe contrary, tinted with various colours from faintest pink to paleblue, pale green; they remind you of the summer dresses of women. Thesoft tones are all mingled with the sunlight and very restful. But Jerezis like a white banner floating under the cloudless sky, the pure whitebanner of Bacchus raised defiantly against the gaudy dyes of teetotalismand its shrieking trumpets. 

Jerez the White is, of course, the home of sherry, and the whole town isgiven over to the preparation of the grateful juice. The air isimpregnated with a rich smell. The sun shines down on Jerez; and itscleanliness, its prosperity, are a rebuke to harsh-voiced contemners ofthe grape. 

You pass _bodega_ after _bodega_, cask-factories, bottle-factories. Abottle-factory is a curious, interesting place, an immense barn, sombre, so that the eye loses itself in the shadows of the roof; and the scantylight is red and lurid from the furnaces, which roar hoarsely and long. Against the glow the figures of men, half-naked, move silently, performing the actions of their craft with a monotonous regularity whichis strange and solemn. They move to and fro, carrying an iron instrumenton which is the molten mass of red-hot glass, and it gleams with anextraordinary warm brilliancy. It twists hither and thither in obedienceto the artisan's deft movements; it coils and writhes into odd shapes, like a fire-snake curling in the torture of its own unearthly ardour. The men pass so regularly, with such a silent and exact precision, thatit seems a weird and mystic measure they perform--a rhythmic dance ofunimaginable intricacy, whose meaning you cannot gather and whoseharmony escapes you. The flames leap and soar in a thousand savageforms, and their dull thunder fills your ears with a confusion of sound. Your eyes become accustomed to the dimness, and you discern moreclearly the features of those swarthy men, bearded and gnome-like. Butthe molten mass has been put into the mould; you watch it withdrawn, thebottom indented, the mouth cut and shaped. And now it is complete, butstill red-hot, and glowing with an infernal transparency, gem-like andwonderful; it is a bottle fit now for the juice of satanic vineyards, and the miraculous potions of eternal youth, for which men in the olddays bartered their immortal souls. 

And the effect of a _bodega_ is picturesque, too, though in a differentway. It is a bright and cheerful spot, a huge shed with whitewashedwalls and an open roof supported by dark beams; great casks are piledup, impressing you in their vast rotundity with a sort of aldermanicstateliness. The whole place is fragrant with clean, vinous perfumes. Your guide carries a glass and a long filler. You taste wine after wine, in different shades of brown; light wines to drink with your dinner, older wines to drink before your coffee; wines more than a century old, of which the odour is more delicate than violets; new wines of thepreceding year, strong and rough; Amontillados, with the softest flavourin the world; Manzanillas for the gouty; Marsalas, heavy and sweet;wines that smell of wild-flowers; cheap wines and expensive wines. Thenthe brandies--the distiller tells you proudly that Spanish brandy ismade from wine, and contemptuously that French brandy is not--oldbrandies for which a toper would sell his soul; new brandies likefusel-oil; brandies mellow and mild and rich. It is a drunkard'sparadise. 

And why should not the drinker have his paradise? The teetotallers haveslapped their bosoms and vowed that liquor was the devil's owninvention. (Note, by the way, that liquor is a noble word that shouldnot be applied to those weak-kneed abominations that insolently flaunttheir lack of alcohol. Let them be called liquids or fluids orbeverages, or what you will. Liquor is a word for heroes, for theBritish tar who has built up British glory--Imperialism is quite thefashion now. ) And for a hundred years none has dared lift his voice inrefutation of these dyspeptic slanders. The toper did not care, henursed his bottle and let the world say what it would; but the moderatedrinker was abashed. Who will venture to say that a glass of beer givessavour to the humblest crust, and comforts Corydon, lamenting theinconstancy of Phyllis? Who will come forward and strike an attitude andprove the benefits of the grape? (The attitude is essential, for withoutit you cannot hope to impress your fellow men. ) Rise up in your might, ye lovers of hop and grape and rye--rise up and slay the Egyptians. Behonest and thank your stars for the cup that cheers. Bacchus was not apot-bellied old sot, but a beautiful youth with vine-leaves in his hair, Bacchus the lover of flowers; and Ariadne was charming. 

* * *

The country about Jerez undulates in just such an easy comfortablefashion as you would expect. It is scenery of the gentlest andpleasantest type, sinuous; little hills rising with rounded lines andfertile valleys. The vines cover the whole land, creeping over the brownsoil fantastically, black stumps, shrivelled and gnarled, tortured intouncouth shapes; they remind you of the creeping things in a naturalist'smuseum, of giant spiders and great dried centipedes and scorpions. Butimagine the vineyards later, when the spring has stirred the earth withfecundity! The green shoots tenderly forth; at first it is all toodelicate for a colour, it is but a mist of indescribable tenuity; andgradually the leaves burst out and trail along the ground withever-increasing luxuriance; and then it is a rippling sea of passionateverdure. 

But I liked Jerez best towards evening, when the sun had set and thetwilight glided through the tortuous alleys like a woman dressed inwhite. Then, as I walked in the silent streets, narrow and steep, withtheir cobble-paving, the white houses gained a new aspect. There seemednot a soul in the world, and the loneliness was more intoxicating thanall their wines; the shining sun was gone, and the sky lost its bluerichness, it became so pale that you felt it like a face of death--andthe houses looked like long rows of tombs. We walked through thedeserted streets, I and the woman dressed in white, side by sidesilently; our footsteps made no sound upon the stones. And Jerez waswrapped in a ghostly shroud. Ah, the beautiful things I have seen whichother men have not!

XXXVIII

[Sidenote: Cadiz]

I admire the strenuous tourist who sets out in the morning with hiswell-thumbed Baedeker to examine the curiosities of a foreign town, butI do not follow in his steps; his eagerness after knowledge, hisdevotion to duty, compel my respect, but excite me to no imitation. Iprefer to wander in old streets at random without a guide-book, trustingthat fortune will bring me across things worth seeing; and ifoccasionally I miss some monument that is world-famous, more often Idiscover some little dainty piece of architecture, some scrap ofdecoration, that repays me for all else I lose. And in this fashion theless pretentious beauties of a town delight me, which, if I sought underthe guidance of the industrious German, would seem perhaps scarcelyworth the trouble. Nor do I know that there is in Cadiz much to attractthe traveller beyond the grace with which it lies along the blue sea andthe unstudied charm of its gardens, streets, and market-place; the echoin the cathedral to which the gaping tripper listens with astonishmentleaves me unmoved; and in the church of _Santa Catalina_, which containsthe last work of Murillo, upon which he was engaged at his death, I ammore interested in the tall stout priest, unctuous and astute, whoshows me his treasure, than in the picture itself. I am relieved now andagain to visit a place that has no obvious claims on my admiration; itthrows me back on the peculiarities of the people, on the strayincidents of the street, on the contents of the shops. 

Cadiz is said to be the gayest town in Andalusia. Spaniards have alwaysa certain gravity; they are not very talkative, and like the English, take their pleasures a little sadly. But here lightness of heart isthought to reign supreme, and the inhabitants have not even the apparentseriousness with which the Sevillan cloaks a somewhat vacant mind. Theyare great theatre-goers, and as dancers, of course, have been famoussince the world began. But I doubt whether Cadiz deserves itsreputation, for it always seems to me a little prim. The streets arewell-kept and spacious, the houses, taller than is usual in Andalusia, have almost as cared-for an appearance as those in a prosperous suburbof London; and it is only quite occasionally, when you catch a glimpseof tawny rock and of white breakwater against the blue sea, that by areminiscence of Naples you can persuade yourself it is as immoral asthey say. For, not unlike the Syren City, Cadiz lies white and coolalong the bay, with gardens at the water's edge; but it has not themagic colour of its rival, it is quieter, smaller, more restful; and onthe whole lacks that agreeable air of wickedness which the Italian townpossesses to perfection. It is impossible to be a day in Naples withoutdiscovering that it is the most depraved city in Europe; there issomething in the atmosphere which relaxes the moral fibre, and thechurchwarden who keeps guard in the bosom of every Englishman fallsasleep, so that you feel capable of committing far more than the sevendeadly sins. Of course, you don't, but still it is comfortable to havethem within reach. 

* * *

I came across, while examining the wares of a vendor of antiquities, acontemporary narrative from the Spanish side of the attack made on Cadizby Sir Francis Drake when he set out to singe the beard of Philip II. ;and this induced me afterwards to look into the English story. It is farfrom me to wish to inform the reader, but the account is notundiverting, and shows, besides, a frame of mind which the Anglo-Saxonhas not ceased to cultivate. 'But the Almighty God, ' says the historian, 'knowing and seeing his (the Spanish king's) wicked intent to punish, molest, and trouble His little flock, the children of Israel, hathraised up a faithful Moses for the defence of His chosen, and will notsuffer His people utterly to fall into the hands of their enemies. 'Drake set sail from Plymouth with four of her Majesty's ships, twopinnaces, and some twenty merchantmen. A vessel was sent after, charginghim not to show hostilities, but the messenger, owing to contrary winds, could never come near the admiral, and vastly to the annoyance of theVirgin Queen, as she solemnly assured the ambassadors of foreign powers, had to sail home. Under the circumstances it was, perhaps, hardlydiscreet of her to take so large a share of the booty. 

Faithful Moses arrived in Cadiz, spreading horrid consternation, and theSpanish pamphlet shows very vividly the confusion of the enemy. Itappears that, had he boldly landed, he might have sacked the town, buthe imagined the preparations much greater than they were. However, hewas not idle. 'The same night our general, having, by God's good favourand sufferance, opportunity to punish the enemy of God's true gospel andour daily adversary, and further willing to discharge his expected dutytowards God, his peace and country, began to sink and fire divers oftheir ships. '

The English fleet burned thirty sail of great burden, and captured vastquantities of the bread, wheat, wine and oil which had been prepared forthe descent upon England. Sir Francis Drake himself remarks that 'thesight of the terrible fires were to us very pleasant, and mitigated theburden of our continual travail, wherein we were busied for two nightsand one day, in discharging, firing, and lading of provisions. '

* * *

It is a curious thing to see entirely deserted a place of entertainment, where great numbers of people are in the habit of assembling. A theatreby day, without a soul in it, gives me always a sensation of theridiculous futility of things; and a public garden towards eveningoffers the same emotion. On the morrow I was starting for Africa; Iwatched the sunset from the quays of Cadiz, the vapours of the twilightrise and envelop the ships in greyness, and I walked by the _alamadas_that stretch along the bay till I came to the park. The light wasrapidly failing and I found myself alone. It had quaint avenues ofshort palms, evidently not long planted, and between them rows of yellowiron chairs arranged with great neatness and precision. It was therethat on Sunday I had seen the populace disport itself, and it was fullof life then, gay and insouciant. The fair ladies drove in theircarriages, and the fine gentlemen, proud of their English clothes, lounged idly. The chairs were taken by all the lesser fry, by stoutmothers, dragons attendant on dark-eyed girls, and their lovers in broadhats, in all the gala array of the _flamenco_. There was a joyousclamour of speech and laughter; the voices of Spanish women are harshand unrestrained; the park sparkled with colour, and the sun caught thefluttering of countless fans. 

For those blithe people it seemed that there was no morrow: the presentwas there to be enjoyed, divine and various, and the world was full ofbeauty and of sunshine; merely to live was happiness enough; if therewas pain or sorrow it served but to enhance the gladness. The hurryinghours for a while had ceased their journey. Life was a cup of red wine, and they were willing to drink its very dregs, a brimming cup in whichthere was no bitterness, but a joy more thrilling than the gods couldgive in all their paradise. 

But now I walked alone between the even rows of chairs. The little palmswere so precise, with their careful foliage, that they did not look likereal trees; the flower-beds were very stiff and neat, and now and then apine stood out, erect and formal as if it were a cardboard tree from aNoah's Ark. The scene was so artificial that it brought to my mind thesetting of a pantomime. I stopped, almost expecting a thousandballet-girls to appear from the wings, scantily clad, and go through ameasure to the playing of some sudden band, and retire and come forwardtill the stage was filled and a great tableau formed. 

But the day grew quite dim, and the vast stage remained empty. Thepainted scene became still more unreal, and presently the park wasfilled with the ghostly shapes of all the light-hearted people who hadlived their hour and exhibited their youth in the empty garden. I heardthe whispered compliments, and the soft laughter of the ladies; therewas a peculiar little snap as gaily they closed their fans. 

XXXIX

[Sidenote: El Genero Chico]

In the evening I wandered again along the quay, my thoughts partoccupied with the novel things I expected from Morocco, part sorrowfulbecause I must leave the scented land of Spain. I seemed never before tohave enjoyed so intensely the exquisite softness of the air, and therewas all about me a sense of spaciousness which gave a curious feeling ofpower. In the harbour, on the ships, the lights of the masts twinkledlike the stars above; and looking over the stony parapet, I heard thewaves lap against the granite like a long murmur of regret; I tried topierce the darkness, straining my eyes to see some deeper obscuritywhich I might imagine to be the massive coasts of Africa. But at last Icould bear the solitude no longer, and I dived into the labyrinth ofstreets. 

At first, in unfrequented ways, I passed people only one by one, somewoman walking rapidly with averted face, or a pair of chatteringstudents; but as I came near the centre of the town the passers-by grewmore frequent, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of a thronging, noisy crowd. I looked up and saw that I was opposite a theatre; thepeople had just come from the second _funcion_. I had heard that thenatives of Cadiz were eager theatre-goers, and was curious to see howthey took this pleasure. I saw also that the next piece was _LasBorrachos_, a play of Seville life that I had often seen; and I feltthat I could not spend my last evening better than in living again someof those scenes which pattered across my heart now like little sorrowfulfeet. 

* * *

The theatre in Spain is the only thing that has developed further thanin the rest of Europe--in fact, it has nearly developed clean away. TheSpaniards were the first to confess that dramatic art bored them todeath; and their habits rendered impossible the long play which took anevening to produce. Eating late, they did not wish to go to the theatretill past nine; being somewhat frivolous, they could not sit for morethan an hour without going outside and talking to their friends; andthey were poor. To satisfy their needs the _genero chico_, or littlestyle, sprang into existence; and quickly every theatre in Spain wasgiven over to the system of four houses a night. Each function isdifferent, and the stall costs little more than sixpence. 

We English are idealists; and on the stage especially reality stinks inour nostrils. The poor are vulgar, and in our franker moments we confessour wish to have nothing to do with them. The middle classes are sordid;we have enough of them in real life, and no desire to observe theirdoings at the theatre, particularly when we wear our evening clothes. But when a dramatist presents duchesses to our admiring eyes, we feelat last in our element; we watch the acts of persons whom we wouldwillingly meet at dinner, and our craving for the ideal is satisfied. 

But in Spain nobles are common and excite no overwhelming awe. TheSpaniard, most democratic of Europeans, clamours for realism, andnothing pleases him more than a literal transcript of the life abouthim. The manners and customs of good society do not entertain him, andthe _genero chico_ concerns itself almost exclusively with the lowerclasses. The bull-fighter is, of course, one of the most usual figures;and round him are gathered the lovers of the ring, inn-keepers, cobblersand carpenters, policemen, workmen, flower-sellers, street-singers, cigarette girls, country maidens. The little pieces are innumerable, andtogether form a compend of low life in Spain; the best are full ofgaiety and high spirits, with a delicate feeling for character, andoften enough are touched by a breath of poetry. Songs and dances areintroduced, and these come in the more naturally since the actiongenerally takes place on a holiday. The result is a musical comedy inone act; but with nothing in it of the entertainment which is a joy tothe British public: an Andalusian audience would never stand thatrepresentation of an impossible and vulgar world in which the women areall trollops and the men, rips, nincompoops and bounders; they wouldnever suffer the coarse humour and the shoddy patriotism. 

Unfortunately, these one-act plays have destroyed the legitimate drama. Whereas Maria Guerrero, that charming actress, will have a run of twentynights in a new play by Echegaray, a popular _zarzuela_ will be actedhundreds of times in every town in Spain. But none can regret that theSpaniards have evolved these very national little pieces, and little hasbeen lost in the non-existence of an indefinite number of imitationsfrom the French. The _zarzuela_, I should add, lasts about an hour, andfor the most part is divided into three scenes. 

Such a play as _Los Borrachos_ is nothing less than a _genre_ picture ofSeville life. It reminds one of a painting by Teniers; and I should liketo give some idea of it, since it is really one of the best examples ofthe class, witty, varied, and vivacious. But an obstacle presents itselfin the fact that I can find no vestige of a plot. The authors set out tocharacterise the various lovers of the vine, (nowhere in Andalusia arethe devotees of the yellow Manzanilla more numerous than in Seville, )and with telling strokes have drawn the good-natured tippler, the surlytippler, the religious tippler. To these they have added other types, which every Andalusian can recognise as old friends--the sharp-tonguedharridan, the improviser of couplets with his ridiculous vanity, theflower-seller, and the 'prentice-boy of fifteen, who, notwithstandinghis tender years, is afflicted with love for the dark-eyed heroine. Theaction takes place first in a street, then in a court-yard, lastly in acarpenter's shop. There are dainty love-scenes between Soledad, thedistressed maiden, and Juanillo, the flower-seller; and one, verySpanish, where the witty and precocious apprentice offers her hisdiminutive hand and heart. Numerous people come and go, the drunkardsdrink and quarrel and make peace; the whole thing, if somewhat confused, is very life-like, and runs with admirable lightness and ease. It istrue that the play has neither beginning nor end, but perhaps that onlymakes it seem the truer; and if the scenes have no obvious connectionthey are all amusing and characteristic. It is acted with extraordinaryspirit. The players, indeed, are not acting, but living their ordinarylives, and it is pleasant to see the zest with which they throwthemselves into the performance. When the hero presses the heroine inhis arms, smiles and passionate glances pass between them, which suggestthat even the love-making is not entirely make-believe. 

I wish I could translate the song which Juanillo sings when he passeshis lady's window, bearing his basket of flowers:

 Carnations for pretty girls that are true, Musk-roses for pretty girls that are coy, Rosebuds as small as thy mouth, my dearest, And roses as fair as thy cheeks. 

I cannot, indeed, resist the temptation of giving one verse in thatAndalusian dialect, from which all harsh consonants and unmusical soundshave been worn away--the most complete and perfect language in the worldfor lovers and the passion of love:

 _Sal, morena, á tu ventana, _ _Mira las flores que traigo;_ _Sal y di si son bastantes_ _Pa arfombrita de tu cuarto. _ _Que yo te quiero_ _Y a ti te doy_ _Tos los tesoros der mundo entero, _ _To le que vargo, to lo que soy. _

XL

[Sidenote: Adios]

And then the morrow was come. Getting up at five to catch my boat, Iwent down to the harbour; a grey mist hung over the sea, and the sun hadbarely risen, a pallid, yellow circle; the fishing-boats lolled on thesmooth, dim water, and fishermen in little groups blew on their fingers. 

And from Cadiz I saw the shores of Spain sink into the sea; I saw mylast of Andalusia. Who, when he leaves a place that he has loved, canhelp wondering when he will see it again? I asked the wind, and itsighed back the Spanish answer: '_Quien sabe?_ Who knows?' The travellermakes up his mind to return quickly, but all manner of things happen, and one accident or another prevents him; time passes till the desire islost, and when at last he comes back, himself has altered or changeshave occurred in the old places and all seems different. He looks quitecoldly at what had given an intense emotion, and though he may see newthings, the others hardly move him; it is not thus he imagined them inthe years of waiting. And how can he tell what the future may have instore; perhaps, notwithstanding all his passionate desires, he willindeed never return. 

Of course the intention of this book is not to induce people to go toSpain: railway journeys are long and tedious, the trains crawl, and thehotels are bad. Experienced globe-trotters have told me that allmountains are very much alike, and that pictures, when you have seen agreat many, offer no vast difference. It is much better to read books oftravel than to travel oneself; he really enjoys foreign lands who nevergoes abroad; and the man who stays at home, preserving his illusions, has certainly the best of it. How delightful is the anticipation as helooks over time-tables and books of photographs, forming delightfulimages of future pleasure! But the reality is full of disappointment, and the more famous the monument the bitterer the disillusion. Has anyone seen St. Peter's without asking himself: Is that all? And the truestenjoyment arises from things that come unexpectedly, that one had neverheard of. Then, living in a strange land, one loses all impression ofits strangeness; it is only afterwards, in England, that one realisesthe charm and longs to return; and a hundred pictures rise to fill themind with delight. Why can one not be strong enough to leave it at thatand never tempt the fates again?

The wisest thing is to leave unvisited in every country some place thatone wants very much to see. In Italy I have never been to Siena, and inAndalusia I have taken pains to avoid Malaga. The guide-books tell methere is nothing whatever to see there; and according to them it ismerely a prosperous sea-port with a good climate. But to me, who havenever seen it, Malaga is something very different; it is the very creamof Andalusia, where every trait and characteristic is refined to perfectexpression. 

I imagine Malaga to be the most smiling town on the seaboard, and itlies along the shore ten times more charmingly than Cadiz. The housesare white, whiter than in Jerez; the patios are beautiful with orangesand palm-trees, and the dark green of the luxuriant foliage contrastswith the snowy walls. In Malaga the sky is always blue and the sunshines, but the narrow Arab streets are cool and shady. The passionateodours of Andalusia float in the air, the perfume of a myriad cigarettesand the fresh scent of fruit and flower. The blue sea lazily kisses thebeach and fishing-boats bask on its bosom. 

In Malaga, for me, there are dark churches, with massive, tall pillars;the light falls softly through the painted glass, regilding the goldenwoodwork, the angels and the saints and the bishops in their mitres. Theair is heavy with incense, and women in _mantillas_ kneel in thehalf-light, praying silently. Now and then I come across an old housewith a fragment of Moorish work, reminding me that here again the Moorshave left their mark. 

And in Malaga, for me, the women are more lovely than in Seville; fortheir dark eyes glitter marvellously, and their lips, so red and soft, are ever trembling with a half-formed smile. They are more graceful thanthe daffodils, their hands are lovers' sighs, and their voice is acaressing song. (What was your voice like, Rosarito? Alas! it is so longago that I forget. ) The men are tall and slender, with strong, clearfeatures and shining eyes, deep sunken in their sockets. 

In Malaga, for me, life is a holiday in which there are no dullards andno bores; all the world is strong and young and full of health, andthere is nothing to remind one of horrible things. Malaga, I know, isthe most delightful place in Andalusia. Oh, how refreshing it is to getaway from sober fact, but what a fool I should be ever to go there!

* * *

The steamer plods on against the wind slowly, and as the land sinksaway, unsatisfied to leave the impressions hovering vaguely through mymind, I try to find the moral. The Englishman, ever somewhatsententiously inclined, asks what a place can teach him. Thechurchwarden in his bosom gives no constant, enduring peace; and afterall, though he may be often ridiculous, it is the churchwarden who hasmade good part of England's greatness. 

And most obviously Andalusia suggests that it might not be ill to takethings a little more easily: we English look upon life so veryseriously, so much without humour. Is it worth while to be quite sostrenuous? At the stations on the line between Jerez and Cadiz, Inoticed again how calmly they took things; people lounged idly talkingto one another; the officials of the railway smoked their cigarettes; noone was in a hurry, time was long, and whether the train arrived late orpunctual could really matter much to no one. A beggar came to thewindow, a cigarette-end between his lips. 

'_Caballero!_ Alms for the love of God for a poor old man. God willrepay you!'

He passed slowly down the train. It waited for no reason; the passengersstared idly at the loungers on the platform, and they stared idly back. No one moved except to roll himself a cigarette. The sky was blue andthe air warm and comforting. Life seemed good enough, and above allthings easy. There was no particular cause to trouble. What is the useof hurrying to pile up money when one can live on so little? What is theuse of reading these endless books? Why not let things slide a little, and just take what comes our way? It is only for a little while, andthen the great antique mother receives us once more in her bosom. Andthere are so many people in the world. Think again of all the countlesshordes who have come and gone, and who will come and go; the immense seaof Time covers them, and what matters the life they led? What odds is itthat they ever existed at all? Let us do our best to be happy; the earthis good and sweet-smelling, there is sunshine and colour and youth andloveliness; and afterwards--well, let us shrug our shoulders and notthink of it. 

And then in bitter irony, contradicting my moral, a train came in with anumber of Cuban soldiers. There were above fifty of them, and they hadto change at the junction. They reached out to open the carriage doorsand crawled down to the platform. Some of them seemed at death's door;they could not walk, and chairs were brought that they might be carried;others leaned heavily on their companions. And they were dishevelled, with stubbly beards. But what struck me most was the deathly colour; fortheir faces were almost green, while round their sunken eyes were greatwhite rings, and the white was ghastly, corpse-like. They trooped alongin a dazed and listless fashion, wasted with fever, and now and thenone stopped, shaken with a racking cough; he leaned against the wall, and put his hand to his heart as if the pain were unendurable. It was apitiful sight. They were stunted and under-sized; they ceased to developwhen they went to the cruel island, and they were puny creatures withhollow chests and thin powerless limbs; often, strangely enough, theirfaces had remained quite boyish. They were twenty or twenty-two, andthey looked sixteen. And then, by the sight of those boys who had neverknown youth with its joyful flowers, doomed to a hopeless life, I wasforced against my will to another moral. Perhaps some would recover, butthe majority must drag on with ruined health, fever-stricken, dying oneby one, falling like the unripe fruit of a rotten tree. They had nochance, poor wretches! They would return to their miserable homes; theycould not work, and their people were too poor to keep them--so theymust starve. Their lives were even shorter than those of the rest, andwhat pleasure had they had?

And that is the result of the Spanish insouciance--death and corruption, loss of power and land and honour, the ruin of countless lives, andabsolute decay. It is rather a bitter irony, isn't it? And now all theyhave left is their sunshine and the equanimity which nothing candisturb. 

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh

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