flores y abanicos._” (When the matadors are killing in the bull ring,
come the pretty girls with flowers and fans.)
Not far from the plaza, as we were passing a house of quality, with
seraphic green gargoyles, Don Jaime halted and looked sharply across the
way. A correct young man, in a rakish gray sombrero, stood at the
opposite corner waiting, not loitering like us; it was evident that he
was here with a purpose.
“Behold the _novio_!” said the Don; “I feared he dead or married.”
Patsy asked who the gentleman with the varnished boots might be, who was
gazing at an upper window with a white blind; he, apparently, did not
see us. The Don explained that he was a _novio_ (fiancé) _haciendo el
oso_ (doing the bear). He had heard it said that every afternoon, for
five years, this faithful lover had stood outside the window of his
beloved for exactly three hours!
“Is he mad?”
“Is love lunatics? Then must be vasty, crazy palaces by all Spain. He
follow one antique custom, what we call ‘_cosas de España_.’”
Sunset found us far from the town on a lonely path skirting the coast.
We looked through the ragged, blue cactus hedge at the beautiful view;
watched the flame kindle and flash out from the lighthouse on Isla
Verde; the ferry boat, _Elvira_, pass on her last trip from Gibraltar to
Algeciras. A few steps further on the path brought us out upon a bold
headland where, out of sight of the town, an old house sloughed and
sagged on its foundations. A large fig tree grew on one side of the
porch, a cork tree on the other; a tame lamb lifted its head from
nibbling the grass and bleated a long “ba-a-a.”
“Picturesque, isn’t it?” said Patsy. His gaze, idly roving over the
landscape, concentrated and grew intent as the door opened, and a girl
in a red dress, with a yellow handkerchief over her head, came out of
the old house. It was as if a rough oyster shell had opened and shown
the perfect pearl it held.
“I say, don’t you think it wicked to be so handsome?” groaned Patsy.
With a light, graceful step the girl walked to the edge of the cliff. A
straggling path led down to the beach where an old, patched boat lay on
its side. On a shelf of clean sand, below a tiny, ill-kept kitchen
garden, lay an elderly man dressed in good black clothes--it was Sunday.
The girl, evidently his daughter, called him to come in, the sun had
gone down, he would catch cold. The old fellow obstinately refused to
move; he was very comfortable where he was. Then, seeing us, he
scrambled to his feet:
“Olá, olá! Engerlish, Engerlish!” he hailed us gleefully, waving an arm
over his disreputable head. Two grave men of his own class, who passed
at that moment, reproved him sternly, but he was in the incorrigibly
merry stage and continued to wave and shout:
“Engerlish, Engerlish! How much? Very dear, goddam.”
“This is my third visit to Spain,” said J., “and that is the first
drunken man I have seen even here.”
“_Claro_,” said Don Jaime, “we are not afflict with that vice of
drunkenness.”
A rusty brown water spaniel, lying near the old drunkard, rose, yawned,
stretched itself fore and aft, and sniffed at Patsy’s boots.
“Notice where the hair is worn off his back?” Patsy murmured, taking a
burr out of the dog’s long, flapping ear. “A strap has done that--a
strap, I suspect, that fastens together two little water-tight kegs
filled with tobacco from Gibraltar. Smuggler! Is the old fellow your
partner? Where’s the entrance to the smuggler’s cave? Don, we’ve
discovered a _contrabandista’s_ den!”
“May be!” laughed Don Jaime.
The spaniel lost interest in us and sat down to search for fleas. The
girl had persuaded her father to come indoors. She supported him as he
staggered towards the house.
“I’m off; it must mortify her to have us see him.” Patsy strode ahead;
we followed. Soon the fierce, prickly blades of the blue cactus hid the
house from view.
“A pretty gel, not?” was the Don’s comment.
“I wonder what her name is?” said Patsy. “Dolores, Pepita? It was worth
the price of the journey just to see her face!” He was silent during the
rest of the walk, keeping well ahead of us and singing snatches of an
old song:
“_vous connaissez que j’ai por mie_
_une Andalouse a l’oeil lutin----_”
We left Algeciras before daylight for Ronda. If the Spaniard sleeps late
at home, on his travels he must be an early bird,--the trains all seem
to start between midnight and cockcrow. Don Jaime remained behind. Some
night, he explained, when he felt particularly fit, he would omit going
to bed; otherwise he must pass all his life in Algeciras; to get up in
time for that hobgoblin train was not possible.
Across the bay we could make out the faint silhouette of Gibraltar
against the ashen sky, a black lion asleep under the pallid day-star.
The swift-coming dawn little by little transformed it to a gray lion
dormant on an amethyst sea. Long after the great caved mountain was lost
to sight, a distant growl shook the air.
“Morning gunfire at the Rock,” said Patsy, “that’s the last we shall
hear of the British Lion for some time.”
Sunrise came while we were in the heart of a dark forest. The hoary old
trees had mighty, wide-spreading boughs, covered thick with small,
gray-green leaves like the ilex; the trunks were old and frail--some of
them mere hollow shells that might have housed a dryad or a satyr. They
stood well apart from each other, the undergrowth and dead wood
carefully trimmed away from their roots.
“See how well cared for the forest patriarchs are,” said Patsy. “They
must be kept alive as long as possible, like some old people, because
they are the main support of the community.”
Gold-tipped arrows of sunlight now began to pierce the thick green
shadows of the forest, and striking the old trunks and the heavy lower
branches brought out their wonderful tints.
“Look at those gorgeous rainbow trees! See the colors,--mother of pearl,
carmine, violet, lavender,--what does it mean?” I cried.
It meant, I found, that this was the cork forest, and that the bark of
the cork trees had lately been cut. Those rainbow colors soon fade,
however, like the pink and white complexion of youth.
At the next station stood many cars laden with rough cork.
“The coarse, outer layers are used for fishing nets and life preservers.
To even things up,” Patsy explained, “they keep the fine, inner pinkish
layers to bottle up those two great life destroyers, the drugs and
liquors of the world.”
The way now led over the Sierra Rondena, through the wildest, most
beautiful part of Andalusia; past thickets of gum cistus, covered with
glorious, golden-hearted, white blossoms; across green _vegas_ enamelled
with clumps of amber gorse; through waves of daisies, white and yellow,
regiments of scarlet poppies marching through the pale green wheat,
multitudes of cornflowers, morning glories, and ruby-headed alfalfa,
king of all the handsome clover tribe. In this company of old friends a
stranger flower stooped through the fields, half drooping, half
mourning, a purple hood pulled over its head almost hiding the small
blue bells hanging from the bending stalk. In that holiday crowd it
looked like a hooded monk, a purple _penitente_ at a carnival. I could
never learn its true name, so we called it the Spanish Friar....
“Lift thine eyes, oh, lift thine eyes to the mountains, whence cometh
help!” sang Patsy.
Intoxicated with the flower feast, the way had brought us within sight
of the distant Sierras without our being aware. The mountains came to
meet us, nearer, nearer; then, all at once, we were in their midst; the
tall blue peaks came crowding all about us. As the engine panted “up,
up” the mountain pass, the way crossed a flashing mountain torrent
leaping down, down to the _vega_ and the sea beyond; it looked more like
a river of emeralds and snow than mere green water and white foam.
“Andalusia, once Vandalusia, named for the Vandals, who tarried here
before their wild dash across the Alps down into Italy. Andalusia,
‘ultima terræ’ of the ancients, the uttermost parts of the earth, where
good old Jonah longed to flee, small blame to him,” Patsy maundered on,
sleepily giving us bits of guidebook information.
“Andalusia, Vandalusia, Vandalusia, Andalusia.” The wheels sang it like
a lullaby. “Anda----”
“Ronda, Ronda!” cried the guard. We rubbed our eyes, snatched our
belongings, tumbled out of the compartment to the platform, and almost
into the arms of the Sibyl of Ronda, patiently waiting for us there,
like Fate. She was a tiny old woman, draped like a Tanagra statuette, in
veils of soft, rusty black: her face was like a damask rose that has
withered on its stalk; the eyes alone, diamond bright, were young, full
of fire. With a tremulous hand she offered J. a box of matches. An
officious young man, with oiled hair and a green cravat, pushed her
rudely aside. She was not to trouble the gentlefolk, responsibility for
whose welfare in Ronda he assumed. Was he not the “offeecial” guide? Did
he not speak English?
“We can speak English ourselves, and we don’t want a guide,” J.
interposed. “We want a philosopher and friend. If we must have somebody
to toot us about, I vote we take the Sibyl.”
“What? Prefer an old thing like that to an active young man like me?”
The official guide was incredulous!
“Isn’t she a little old?” I ventured.
“Did you ever see handsomer wrinkles? They are perfectly classic,” said
J.
“And the twinkle in her eye!” Patsy supported him. “Wrinkles and
twinkles against stall-fed guidebookery? The old girl for me. She’s
over eighty, she says; she was born in Ronda; has lived here all her
life. She must know more about it than that Algerine pirate with the
emerald tie. Past eighty, you said, didn’t you?”
“_Ochanta dos; perro en Ronda los ombres a ochanta son pollones_,” the
Sibyl answered. I am eighty-two, but in Ronda men of eighty are only
chickens.
“I understand her Spanish!” cried Patsy. “That settles it; sealed to the
Sibyl! I’ll go bond she will let us in for something worth seeing.” As
usual, Patsy and J. had their way, and the active young man, angry and
chapfallen, watched us with a sinister look, as we pottered slowly along
beside the Sibyl. Our guides were mostly chosen for beauty, or charm. On
the whole the plan worked well enough.
The Romans showed their usual colossal common sense in choosing the site
of Arunda. Rome always was the model city they kept in mind. Three
things, they rightly held, were necessary to a city; a not too distant
view of mountains, to uplift the soul of the citizen; a fine climate to
stimulate his body; a river for boys to swim and fish in, and for men to
traffic by. When they found this high, fertile plain shut in by an
amphitheatre of mountains, with one lone hill in the midst, surrounded
and cut in halves by a rushing river, they built their city of Arunda
on the cleft, river-girt rock we call Ronda. The Moors, who cleverly
dovetailed their towns and their civilization into what Rome left, built
their town of Ronda with the ruins of Arunda. We found remains of both
Roman and Moorish walls. The modern town, built by the “Catholic Kings,”
Ferdinand and Isabel, is remarkable chiefly for the wonderful view from
the _alameda_. You look down a sheer six hundred feet to the green
_vega_, and the turbulent river Guadelevin fretting and fuming below.
After roaring and raging through the Tajo, the deep chasm that divides
Ronda, the river tumbles with a series of mad leaps and bounds to the
plain beyond. Cutting a few antics with eddies and whirlpools,
Guadelevin finally gets himself in hand, and goes soberly to work; turns
the wheels of the old Moorish mills, makes flour for Ronda, as the Moors
taught him to do; lends his strength to a new labor, for, marvel of
marvels, old Moorish Ronda is lighted by electricity. In summer, when
the river shrinks to a mere thread, its waning power is carefully
husbanded and the water is led by pipes to do its work. Water, always
water, alpha and omega of civilization! No town that could not be well
supplied with water from the snowy Sierras or from some mountain lake
was ever founded by Roman or Moor. Their wisdom is clearer now than
ever before. What city prospers, lacking the Siamese twins of successful
manufacture, water power, and electricity?
A flock of evil-looking birds hovered over a lonely thicket of
tamarisks, close by the foot of the wall.
“From there,” said the Sibyl, pointing to the tamarisks, “they throw the
dead horses over the walls, after the bull-fights. The vultures soon
pick their bones!” Grrrr! The ugly word spoiled the lovely view.
The Sibyl lived in the old, Moorish part of the city, that is called the
Ciudad. She led us through the steep, narrow streets, pointing out the
show houses. Here lived the grim Moorish king, Almoneted. He drank his
wine from the skulls of enemies whose heads he had cut off, made into
goblets, and inlaid with splendid jewels. Patsy, in his rococo Spanish,
wondered if Almoneted had hoped to inherit the courage that once flashed
from the sockets he stopped with emerald and ruby. The Sibyl twinkled
all over at his suggestion.
“_Claro_,” she said, “it was doubtless his idea.”
She showed us the Mina, an underground staircase of three hundred and
sixty-five steps, one for every day in the year, like the churches in
old Rome, leading down to the river. It was built so that, in case of
siege, Ronda should not be cut off from water. Moorish caution! The
Romans of Arunda apparently never contemplated such a possibility. The
houses of the Ciudad are oriental in character, with blank, whitewashed
walls, and rare, grated windows; they are all built to look as much
alike as possible, in order to avoid attracting attention. The doors are
the only distinguishing feature; all of them are massive, and built for
defence; some are of walnut, some of oak, iron barred, iron bound,
studded with bronze bosses or brass ornaments. Oh, redoubtable doors of
old Ronda! What stores of wealth, what moons of beauty did you guard for
the jealous Moors that made you?
The Sibyl understood all Patsy meant but could not say. The moment their
eyes met, flash, flash, a secret code was established between them.
Thanks to her, one of those mysterious doors was opened to us, and we
saw the interior of one of those old Moorish houses, whose key, perhaps,
is treasured by some Moor of Morocco to-day, for when they were driven
back to Africa, the Moors took the keys of their houses in Andalusia and
Granada with them, against the day they should return and reclaim their
lost paradise. These keys have been handed down from generation to
generation; some of them hang to-day in the Moorish houses of Tangiers
and Tetuan.
When we were tired with much sightseeing, the Sibyl hospitably took us
home to rest. In the patio of her house we found enchanting Moorish
columns with slender shafts, and capitals that must have been copied
from the Corinthian capitals the Romans used so much in Spain, only
these are lighter and less formal, and have more feeling of the lovely
form of the curling acanthus leaf. The patio, a survival of the Roman
atrium, is an open court in the middle of the house, surrounded by a
roofed corridor, where, during the warm weather, the life of an
Andalusian family centres. In the Sibyl’s patio stood an old Moorish
well with an Arabic inscription. I cast longing eyes at it.
“Whatever you see,” said J., “admire nothing that can be carried off by
the modern Vandals, who have looted Italy and are looting Spain. If you
do, she’ll sell it.”
“The old Vandals were a decent lot in comparison,” Patsy agreed.
“History has maligned them. If they did ‘lift’ a little property now and
again, they, at least, left the owners the privilege of enjoying a
virtuous indignation! These modern buyers, spoilers, barbarians, buy the
victim’s consent, add ignominy to spoiliation!”
A pair of goldfinches gossipped about their housekeeping in a wattle
cage hung near the old Moorish well. A lemon tree in a glazed
earthenware pot (it had one green lemon) and some gorgeous double
carnations, variegated dark red and yellow, planted in a petroleum can,
stood close to the well where they could be easily watered. As she
passed, the Sibyl pinched off a dead leaf with a touch that was a
caress,--these were her growing things, this was her pleasaunce.
In the living-room, which was the kitchen, too, was a quaint, carved
stone fireplace. On the balcony outside was a gilt iron grill,
surmounted by a battered pomegranate “final,” sure some day to find its
way into a “collection.” The house was clean, in spite of the horde of
children it sheltered, the Sibyl’s great-grandchildren, for whose sake
she sells matches at Ronda station.
The mother sat on a low stool rocking a wooden cradle with her foot; her
hands were busy shelling _garbanzoz_, chickpeas, for the _olla_. Twin
infants, lusty as Romulus and Remus, slept in the cradle; a pair of
babes a size larger played with each other’s toes in a long,
bath-shaped, wicker basket; a girl of five pretended to help her mother
with the _garbanzoz_. As we entered, the mother rose, welcomed us with
grave ceremony, offered us food and drink and assured us that this house
and everything it contained was ours: “_Esta muy a la disposicion de
Vmd._” It is very much at your disposal, the pretty old phrase goes.
Her face was plain beside the Sibyl’s, time had etched every line
_there_ with an artist’s fine care, but she had the grace, the reserve,
the proud bearing of the Andaluz that poets have praised before, and
since, De Musset, whose Andaluz lived in Barcelona, and was a Catalan,
after all. As the youngsters were very near of an age, when the mother
offered to give us everything in sight I asked if she could spare a
baby? She looked almost pretty as she unbent, smiled, patted the
biggest, and answered, with a twinkle like the old woman’s, that there
were none too many--indeed, that there were four more at school.
“Nine children, what a fine large family!” The Sibyl shrugged her
shoulders, rolled up her eyes, and lifted a withered hand to heaven in
protest.
“Granny doesn’t think it much of a family; she had seven boys and seven
girls.”
“It is true,” the Sibyl nodded, and stroked her lean flanks with
tremulous hands; “this,” she looked at her grandchild as if she expected
great things of her, “is the seventh daughter of my seventh daughter.”
When, our visit over, we rose to take leave, spokesman Patsy produced
the phrase from his vocabulary that he had been conning:
“_Muchas memorias. Adios._”
The Andaluz put this aside as too final. “_Hasta luego_,” she said, with
her slow, sweet smile,--“Till we meet again.”
“_Vamos!_” said the Sibyl, and showed the way to the door.
As we left the house of many children, we met a cavalcade of gay young
people riding out of town. The men rode horses, the girls mules or
donkeys. The woman’s saddle was curiously made with crisscross arms and
a back like an armchair. They were evidently well to do farmer folk; all
wore good clothes and were well mounted. Several of them had ruddy,
northern complexions. The Sibyl laid this to the excellent climate,--“In
Ronda, we do not know when it is summer,” she said. The last of the
cavalcade to pass was a large, gray mule with as pretty a couple as you
might see, seated on his broad back. We felt sure they were bride and
groom. The man, a handsome fellow, full of the lust of life, sat very
straight in saddle; the slim girl on the pillion behind, her arm about
his waist, was full of bridal coquetries. She wore red stockings, a rose
behind her ear, a lace-trimmed petticoat. An old, yellowish, time-worn
guitar was slung over her shoulders by a cherry ribbon. As they rode
past us, both young people smiled and nodded to the Sibyl.
“Your friends?” Patsy asked.
“My relatives.” Proud that we should see them, and that they should see
us, her face kindled; so did Patsy’s. We all walked on through the
tortuous Moorish _calle_ with a lighter step, a braver heart for that
chance meeting. It seemed as if we had caught some reflection of the
hope, health, and love shining in their young faces.
“I play the guitar myself, after a fashion, not Spanish fashion, alack!”
said Patsy. “Shade of Espinal! I won’t leave Ronda till I have had a
lesson. He lived here, Espinal, who gave the fifth string, perfected the
guitar, made it what it is--what it can be in a Spaniard’s hands.”
A tall, arrogant-looking priest, with head held high, passed at this
moment and challenged us with the eye, as the British officer had
challenged us at Gibraltar. It seemed that he was master here, as that
other had been master on the Rock.
“If I were a priest of Ronda I should hold up my head,” said Patsy,
“just because Espinal was a priest. He did other things worth doing
beside giving us the fifth string: invented the decima, wrote a book,
Marcus de Obregan, that’s read to-day, three hundred years after;
translated Horace--a pleasant task--lived to be eight years older than
the Sibyl, died at ninety, still in the ring, still fighting. I like
Ronda; let’s buy a house and settle here!”
“Almoneted’s house for choice,” said J., and they began alloting
quarters forthwith. The window with the north light should be the
studio, the room on the courtyard far from noise, the library. In every
town we visited, and they approved of, they made plans for passing the
rest of our lives there.
* * * * *
The convent chapel smelt of lavender. The sunlight pouring through the
rose window over the high altar was so strong that you saw tiny motes
floating in the sunbeams. They could not have been dust, for the chapel
was immaculate, a temple of purity from the worn marble flags under foot
to the swinging silver lamps overhead, all freshly trimmed like the
lamps of the wise virgins. The Virgin’s lace handkerchief was a triumph
of clear starching. She was dressed in black and wore only a few of her
jewels--the Sibyl said--because it was Lent; we should see her at
Easter! The Virgin’s velvet dress was in the style of the sixteenth
century; she wore a hoop, a ruff, and a long pointed bodice.
The Sibyl was not devout. She took the holy water to cross herself,
mechanically, and made the most indifferent little duck for a courtesy
as she passed before the altar. She looked with a cold eye on dear San
Antonio di Padua, though he must be popular in Ronda, from the number of
candles burning before him. Her indifference was in marked contrast to
the piety of two freshly powdered young ladies, who were coming out of
the chapel as we entered. They were of the great world; their combs and
shoes were unquestionably from Paris.
“But the eyes, the eyes are Andalusian, and the torrents of black hair
piled and puffed under those blessed black mantillas!” murmured Patsy,
as they passed, smelling sweet of heliotrope and rice powder. The taller
had a rosary of gold and pearls in her left hand, a fan in the right;
the pearls slipped through her fingers, her lips moved; she was
evidently “telling her beads.” As they passed the statue of Santa
Teresa, both knelt and crossed themselves with extraordinary reverence.
“Remember what Don Jaime said,” Patsy reminded us; “that the common
people of Spain take their religion very easily; everybody did when he
was young, till the Queen Mother made it fashionable to be _devote_,
when she came to Spain, bringing back the Jesuits and all the rest of
them in her train. As a boy, the Don never remembers having seen a monk
or a nun.”
In spite of her “indifference,” the Sibyl had held stanchly to her
proposal that we should visit the convent where she had learned to sew
and to embroider. Mass was just over, the priest had left the altar, the
sacristan was snuffing out the candles. We had a glimpse of black veiled
figures passing slowly behind the altar from one unseen chamber to
another; they were followed by slighter, more lightly moving figures in
white that flitted ethereally where the others walked solidly. Two by
two they passed behind the altar with a noiseless step. When the last
one had vanished, the priest and the sacristan disappeared into the
sacristy, and we were left alone, with San Antonio and the other saints.