Toledo, the Type of the Spanish City—Its Architectural Monuments—The
Intermingling of Arab and Christian Art—Granada—The Alhambra—Cordova—The
Great Mosque—Seville, the City of Pleasure—The Special Character of the
Streets—The _Cafés_ and Shops—The Typical Andalusian—The Parks—The
_Sevillanas_—Spanish Courtship—The Houses of Seville—The _Patios_—The
Home-life of the Sevillians—Spanish Hospitality.
Toledo has kept, perhaps, more than any city in Spain its mediæval
aspect, combining in its buildings of so many civilizations that here
remain together; churches, convents, mosques, Gothic walls and ornaments,
Moorish houses and steep passages—everywhere the Moorish design is
evident—and a great Christian cathedral—much of what is most typical of
the genuine Spanish civilization. I know of no city that can give a more
poignant emotion than Toledo.
A great town, set on its rough and elevated rock of granite in the midst
of the blue Sierra, closely ringed by the deep brown water of the Tajo,
it is like no other city in the world. The national character, strong
and aloof, passionate and brilliant, and the nation’s history, are here
epitomized before you. And coming to the city, as the stranger does,
from Madrid, blatant, noisy, and modern, you will feel transplanted back
into an older world.
Your first impression is of something extraordinarily austere. You seem
to have passed into silence and an almost painful absence of life.
[Picture: Bridge of Alcantara and the Alcázar, Toledo]
Toledo has remained as the Moors built it, a tortuous network of cobbled
alleys, as was most fitting in a city built upon rock, scorched by sun in
summer, and in winter swept with icy winds. The tall houses, rising in
straight upward lines like an arrangement of flat walls, are almost all
windowless on the side next to the street; where there is a window it is
barred and closely latticed, and the high gates are studded with iron
bosses and seem to forbid an entrance. No sight of the tree-shaded court
is given, as at Seville and Cordova. No one appears to go in and out of
these doors. Every house has the aspect of a prison; they all look as if
they had histories.
There is the same absence of bustling modern life in the streets. In the
Calle del Comercio there are shops, but the wares are simple, having an
old-world air; only specially interesting is that of Alvarez, the best
maker of damascene. Even in the Zocodover, the centre of the city’s
business, all is sedate. You will see the water-carriers driving their
mules up the steep streets from the _vega_, a peasant whose beast is
laden with bright-coloured fruits and vegetables, or a group of goats
that supply the milk for the city. Yet often the streets seem deserted.
Only the companies of beggar children, who clamour incessantly around you
with their strange cry, “Un caukie sou! Un caukie sou!” remind you of
the life hidden in the sleeping city.
Romance lives in Toledo. How many scenes and how many figures famous in
Spain’s history are recalled to our memory here. In no other city are
there the same number of architectural monuments. It is the chief centre
of the two great elements of Spanish civilization, the Christian and the
Arab, which makes it the place where the native art can best be studied.
Its cathedral and churches are furnished with the most perfect examples
of the industrial arts that have been produced in the Peninsula. El
Greco, who adopted Toledo as his home, expresses in his pictures, which
are one of the great possessions of the city, the Toledan spirit, which
is the spirit of Spain. The churches are the museums and
picture-galleries of the city; each one has its special appeal—its
precious mosaics, its ironwork, its glass windows, its cloisters, its
tombs, its beautiful carvings, or its pictures.
In Toledo you understand the part that religion has taken in the history
of the country. You can hardly walk for five minutes in any direction
without coming upon some church; they stand at the corner of almost every
square, many are embedded between the brown walls of the houses.
Its architecture shows a curious mingling of Arab, Gothic, and
Renaissance work. Christian and Moor overlap in many buildings, while in
others the art of each emerges isolated and independent. In the great
cathedral, the perfection of Gothic in Spain, we see nothing of the Moor,
while in the mosque of Bel-el-pardon, now called El Cristo de la Luz, and
in the ancient mosque in the Calle de las Tornarias, which has never been
converted to Christian uses, and retains its original character almost
unimpaired, we can with difficulty trace the Christian. But in other
buildings—the Sinagoga del Tránsito, for instance—we find the Moorish
traditions persisting with the Christian. And it is this intermingling
and absorption of the Moorish civilization with the Christian that gives
the real character to Toledo. Not only in the churches that once were
mosques does the passage of that great people remain, but in the houses,
austere without but beautiful within, in ancient palaces, in fragments of
gardens that still are places of rest, in embattled bridge and arch, in
exquisite harmonies of ornament that meet you everywhere, and, more than
all, we find this gracious influence in the spirit of the city itself.
Toledo is a living picture, a city in which each building is a voice that
speaks the history of Spain.
In Cordova, and even in Granada, you are less sharply conscious of the
Moorish influence.
[Picture: A street in Cordova, looking towards the Mosque]
Time, the tamer of proud cities, has shadowed Granada, and to visit it is
to understand the desolation of conquest. The big hotels, placed so
incongruously near to the Alhambra, the clamorous guides, the beggars—all
the disagreeable conditions of a show city that trades on its past are
here. The efforts of recent years, that have developed a certain amount
of industrial activity, have not lessened this impression; for modern
enterprise seems strangely out of place in Granada, while the attempts to
improve the old city, such as the boulevard which has been driven through
its centre, have been left unfinished, with a result of added desolation.
In the air itself there seems something of decay, as the white mists from
the snowy heights of the Sierra Nevada rest shroud-like upon the _vega_.
Always you seem to catch an echo of that _ultimo suspiro del Moro_.
Ruins meet you everywhere; only the gardens in Granada have kept the
charm of their exquisite beauty.
But there is one possession that conquest has left to Granada. It is to
see the Alhambra that everyone comes to the city, which is but a setting
to this Moorish jewel. And in the wooded garden, which lies around the
citadel, where nightingales sing, and flowers embroider the grass, and
the sound of running water is always heard, Granada, with its memories of
ruin, seems shut off as by a veil of quiet. The Alhambra is the supreme
pearl of Moorish art in Spain. It is bewildering in the appeal of its
strange beauty. It is like an invocation of an Eastern sorcerer, and as
you wander in its courts and halls the Thousand and One Nights seem true.
It is hardly conceivable that people lived here. You seem to understand
the brilliant dominion of the Moors in Spain. Only people with a history
like theirs could have reigned here; life lived here could but have been
a romance.
The first impression you gather from the almost bewildering beauty is how
any building so seemingly fragile can be so strong. More than five
centuries have passed since the Alhambra was built. The repeated
earthquakes which did so much damage to Granada, and laid in ruin the
Renaissance palace of Charles V., have been powerless to destroy this
most delicate of architectural structures. To-day the Alhambra is kept
as a show-place, rejuvenated by the restorer. But even this has not been
able to dim the exquisite beauty of its courts and halls. And all the
jewelled weaving of ornaments, so difficult to grasp as being quite real,
have kept much of their splendour. It almost seems as though the common
superstition were true, and that the charm of Fate does guard the Red
Palace of the Moors.
Cordova suffers from the memory of a past greatness which she cannot now
support. Gautier describes the city as _le squelette blanché et
calciné_. Cordova is a city in sleep; it rests in a quiet and beautiful
dream. Here the Eastern spirit of acceptance echoes with an unsilenced
voice. And this is why the sensitive stranger will find such perfect
satisfaction in the white city’s sleeping peace. Cordova was the town
that I most loved in Spain.
But the tourist goes to Cordova in haste to visit the mosque. “Mezquita?
Mezquita?” Each Cordovese you encounter will surmise your desire and
direct you without question. They know that this imperishable building
is the one interesting lion in their city; it is to visit it that the
stranger comes to Cordova.
The great mosque is a “wonder of the world,” the one perfectly satisfying
building left in the city of the Khalif, the Cordova that was known as
“the Bride of Andalusia.” This Church of the Divine Wisdom is the most
complete expression in building that the Moors have left in Spain, more
even than the Alhambra. It is one of the buildings that sum up the
genius of a people, the experience of a race, and the teaching of a
school.
In the Outer Court of Oranges, where the water of the fountains and the
leafy shade of the orange-trees give delicious coolness from the blazing
heart of the sun, you will find the untiring charm and dreamy peace of
Oriental repose. You will see the women of Cordova gathered around the
great _almîda_ fountain with their red-brown pitchers to fill. You will
hear them chattering, telling the news of the day. Now and then will
come a sound of laughter as a youth, also with a vessel to fill, joins
them. The women will leave their pitchers and go into the mosque, one by
one or in groups together, for prayer is a part of the day’s work.
Figures move slowly up and down the cloisters; they are the Canons; each
will be smoking a cigarette. Groups of beggars crouch on the low stone
seats; they seem quite content in the sun. At the hour of service a band
of acolytes will come from the chancery and cross the court slowly to the
mosque, making a line of scarlet. And presently there will be a soft
sound of music as the boys sing the _coplas_ in honour of the Virgin.
Yes, the Court of Oranges is the most perfect spot in Cordova, to which
the stranger will come again and again.
[Picture: Puerta Del Perdón (Gate of Pardon) the Mosque, Cordova]
And when you go into the mosque itself, you will pass out of the
colonnades of orange-trees into colonnades of stone. Before you, around
you, everywhere, a forest of columns; and the canopy of curves above you,
formed by the double rows of crossed fantastic arches, will seem like the
interlacing branches of great trees. You will remember those enchanted
forests you dreamed of as a child. In truth, the architecture of the
mosque is like a living thing. The light, entering from above, plays
upon the arches, causing the red stones to gleam like fire; it frets the
thousand columns with moving patterns; it catches the glass mosaics in
jewelled brilliance, and makes a soft shining upon the marble pavement,
in which, as you look up and down, you see the long arcades reflected
until the distance dies away, mysterious and apparently unending.
[Picture: The Queen’s Chamber, Alhambra, Granada]
But words cannot describe this wonderful temple. The Moorish houses of
prayer will bring you a sense of joy: there is nothing of the mystic
suggestion of a Gothic cathedral—that of Seville, for instance; your
spirit is freed, not awed. The mosque was to the Moor this world as well
as the next. Here is the message of a race who understood the fulness of
living so well that they knew how to be joyously at home with their God;
and you realize more fully this lesson that the Moors gave to Spain,
which finds its expression to-day in the Spaniard’s happy familiarity
with his God.
The stranger will now be ready to understand the special atmosphere of
Seville, for it is this frank acceptance of joy as the gold thread of
life which gives the southern city its charm. It is not shadowed with
memory like sleeping Cordova, nor is it overburdened with heroic
monuments like Toledo; there are no ruins such as give sadness to
Granada; it is still a living city whose blood is pulsing with the joy of
life lived in the sunshine.
The buildings for which the city is famous all have this aspect of
joy—the Moorish Tower of Gold; the Alcázar, with its flower-crowded
gardens; the Giralda Tower, which is so old, and yet in its glittering
whiteness looks so new. There is a joyousness in these buildings that I
have never seen in the buildings of any other city.
Then, Seville is alive commercially, and from its wharves among the
orange-trees which line the banks of its rivers vessels carry away its
wine, its oil, and its oranges.
Seville has no rival among the cities of Spain. The old saying is still
true: “To him whom God loves He gives a home in Seville.”
In Seville you are happy without seeking to be so, and when the stranger
has learnt this he has learnt the secret of the _Sevillanos_.
Seville has the aspect of a city given up to a holiday humour; and if I
wished to describe the special quality of her happy people, I should say
that they understood perfectly the difficult art of loafing. You must be
happy to loaf successfully; that is why Northern people find it so
difficult. But not even the Venetians loaf as well as the _Sevillanos_.
Go to the Calle de las Sierpes, that narrow, animated street, the centre
of Seville’s joyous life; it is different from other streets; its gay
shops, with the double row of irregular, close-drawn windows that make a
sinuous line of light—certainly it is like a serpent. All day and far
into the night people saunter up and down its pavements or sit in one of
the many _cafés_, which are always filled with crowds of unoccupied
persons. You will seem to be watching a stage play. It is here that you
will see best the _majos_, or dandies of Seville; in springtime there is
sure to be a _matador_ strolling about in splendid costume, and women in
_mantillas_ saunter to and fro with their slow, graceful walk.
In the _cafés_ you will have an opportunity of studying the typical
Andalusian. He wears a short coat and very tight trousers of a light
colour, and a felt hat with a broad, flat brim. He is always
clean-shaven, and his hair is cut very short. These men are often
handsome, and have a striking expression of strength; the faces,
dignified and always humorous, often resemble a comic actor. They are an
affectionate and friendly company, and their conversation echoes with a
deafening buzz. Notice the way in which they smoke their cigarettes, and
at intervals drink their _refrescos_ or sip from their small glasses of
_aguardiente_. Their enjoyment is so Spanish, so epicurean. And women
in the street fan themselves in the same way. All these people are happy
in the frank acceptance of life as it is.
Inside the shops, which have doors wide open to the street, groups of
women sit to buy fans and _mantillas_. Making purchases is a delightful
game, in which all Spanish women excel. They smile, and chatter, and use
their fans, bargaining with delicious grace, while the salesman,
cigarette in hand, shrugs his shoulders and gesticulates.
“But the _mantilla_ is dear, señor.”
He throws out his hands in protest.
“No, señorita; I am giving it away at ten _pesetas_.”
“Is the quality good?” and she raises her eyebrows in bewitching
incredulity.
“As good as God’s blessing.”
And with mutual smiles and salutations the purchase is made.
[Picture: Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada]
It is in the Paseo de las Delicias—the name will tell you of the beauty
of this park, with its orange-groves, hedges of blue aloes, and all
manner of tropical trees and flowers—that the ladies of Seville drive and
promenade each afternoon. The _majos_ cast languishing glances upon them
as they walk to and fro, and compliments are given: “Oh, Jesus, what an
air!” “Happy is the mother that bore thee!” “Your eyes are as runaway
stars that would rather shine in your face than in the heavens!”
The _Sevillanas_ smile and chatter together; this play of love is a part
of the accustomed homage which is their due.
There is a fascination about Spanish women not easy to define. Many of
them are not beautiful, but they are always graceful, and they all walk
beautifully. Then, most of them have the soft, expressive eyes which the
East has bequeathed to Spain. There is a quality and certain finish
about them which is unique; each one looks as if she understood that she
was a woman, and was very glad that this was so. Perhaps this is why
they are so attractive; this is the reason, too, why the old women are so
good-humoured, smiling, and gay. The indefinite unquietness that so
often characterizes English and American women is entirely absent. These
Spanish señoras, for their happiness, have kept the pagan content.
[Picture: A group of workers in a “patio” at Seville]
Much of what is characteristic of the home life of the Sevillians may be
gathered from the arrangement of their houses. They are all—the houses
of the poor as well as those of the rich citizens—built around the
_patio_, or shaded court, where palms, myrtles, pomegranates, and
jasmines grow, and the singing of caged birds mingles with the sound of
the playing fountains. Into this _patio_ all the windows of the house
open and the rooms lead. The doors are of open ironwork—no two doors are
alike—and often, even in the small houses, the grating is of exquisite
workmanship. One door, which also has an open _reja_, or grating, leads
into the street. It is in these _patios_ that the Sevillians spend their
lives, and this throwing open of their homes to the gaze of all who pass
in the streets is exactly characteristic of this simple, happy people.
Every afternoon and evening the youth of the family laugh and sing and
dance to the rattle of the castanets. It is against the _rejas_ that the
lovers stand at night and sing their serenades, and so persistent is
their patience that they have gained the title of “iron-eaters.” All
Andalusians are musical; even the beggar thrums his guitar, which he will
not part with for bread; to him music is a necessity, and bread a luxury
with which he can dispense.
The Andalusian’s leisure is a perpetual source of delight. What
impresses the serious foreigner, who is so fortunate as to become an
inmate of a Sevillian home, is the mirth and courtesy of the family, who
all seem to enjoy endless leisure. Spanish households have a
pleasantness quite their own. The men are never preoccupied with
business; smoking cigarettes, they will pass hours chattering to the
women of the family, who spend the greater part of the day working their
beautiful embroideries. Few books are read, and talking is the chief
occupation. No people can talk like the Spaniards, and the excitement is
so spontaneous that often the conversation is carried on far into the
night. The slightest incident gains a poetic vividness from their
dramatic telling. Cigarette-smoking and talking are the only indulgences
which the Sevillians carry to excess.
In their home life there is a love of visiting and a love of receiving
visitors. _Tertulias_, or parties, are frequent. But a Spanish party
differs materially from an English, in so far as there are no
refreshments—if we except the glasses of pure water and plate of
_azucarillos_ to sweeten the water, which are placed upon a side-table.
This is an instance of the sobriety of the Sevillians. The guests dance
and sing and talk incessantly, and are perfectly satisfied to enjoy
themselves without eating.
The Spaniards are good hosts; the exquisite politeness which is natural
to them, even to those of the very lowest classes, causes them to lay
themselves out to entertain; boredom would seem to be unknown to the
native host and hostess. They make a pleasure of the slightest social
intercourse. I recall one occasion in Seville, when I asked permission
to enter the house of a poor woman in the Macarena quarter, in order that
my artist friend might make a drawing from her balcony of a building of
which a satisfactory view could not be obtained in the street.
“My house is yours, señoras; make whatsoever use of it you will,” was her
answer to my request. And during the hours that my friend was at work
she put aside her occupations—she was a _planchadora_, and was ironing
with her assistants on our entrance—and gave herself up solely to help
and entertain us. A _refresco_ was brought to us; _calientes_, the
twisted doughnuts which are made in every Andalusian house, were fried
for us. Nor would she consent to receive the payment which we, with our
foreign stupidity, offered to her on our departure. No, the kindly,
cheery woman did not understand payment for hospitality.
But it is during the days of festival at Easter and the _Feria_ that the
fine hospitality of the Sevillians is seen at its best. The houses are
filled to overflowing, and hospitality is taxed to a degree that only the
most perfect courtesy and good-nature could endure. Every corner is
received with a chorus of welcome, and embraced like a brother. Beds are
surrendered, even sofas are given up, and as fresh strangers arrive,
unable to gain accommodation in the crowded inns, mattresses, pillows,
and rugs are brought out of cupboards, and beds are made upon the floor.
All the members of the family, and even the tired servants, who are
always joyously ready to help, sit up, because there is literally
_nowhere_ for them to sleep. The difficulty of obtaining provisions in
these seasons of festivity is very great: the butcher cannot provide
meat; even bread is hard to buy. But the señora of the house is never
troubled; she tells you her woes, and then goes smiling to fry
_calientes_ and prepare other delicacies for the refreshment of her
guests. The constant Spanish courtesy never fails, and the foreigner who
happily chances among this crowded joyous party can but wonder.
[Picture: “Las Planchadoras” (laundresses) at work, Seville]