VERDOLAY--THE DANCE AT CONENI'S
We had been looking forward to the dance which Coneni had promised us.
Spanish music had become with us a hobby, and the dancing which goes
with it had excited our imagination. Antonio's sister had led us to
believe that wonderful dancing was to be found in the Murcian huertas,
and the vague hints of gay times _al campo_ stirred us up to eager
anticipation.
On Sunday afternoon at about four o'clock we set off, Jan carrying the
big white guitar in its case. The cicadas were making their accustomed
strident din in the mulberry trees, men on the roadside shouted to us:
"Vaya con dios, y con la guitarra."
The Conenis were furbished up for the occasion. A few girls in bright
cottons and a few young men in check suits, English caps and buttoned
brilliant boots were awaiting us. Others came in one by one. Coneni
chopped up a huge pink-fleshed melon for us, and while we were yet
revelling in its cool lusciousness the faint sound of music was heard
through the saw-note of the cicadas. The sound came nearer. Presently
through the trees a band of youths and girls headed by a girl playing a
guitar, and a boy of fourteen playing a Spanish lute (or laud) were
visible.
They marched into the garden thrumming bravely a popular two-step march.
It is the custom of the musicians thus to arrive in full cry, as it
were. Amongst the group was the little Señor's nurse-maid bravely
carrying through the heat the inevitable baby. Later on the baby caused
a diversion by getting itself stung by a bee.
The arrival of the music drove Coneni to a pitch of excitement. He
brought out a drinking flask of wine. The flask had a long slender
spout, and the guests drank by pouring the wine straight into their
mouths, tilting their heads backwards. I was afraid of this method, and
to my disgrace had to be given a glass. Tables and chairs, made of rough
planking, were brought from neighbouring huertas.
"Now," cried Coneni, "for some dancing."
The guitar and laud players sat down. They played a polka, a common
polka. And the girls and English-capped youths danced a solemn polka.
Then followed a schottische, then another polka, then a murdered
two-step.
Disappointment rushed upon us.
But where then was the Spanish dancing? Had this infernal European
mechanical civilization quite driven all feeling from the land? Where
were the jotas, the malagueñas, the baturras?
"But," said Jan at last to Coneni, "can you not dance a Spanish dance?"
"Why, of course," cried Coneni. "Here, let us dance a malagueña. It is
my favourite dance. Come, who will dance with me?"
But there was nobody amongst the girls who could dance it. Mrs. Coneni
said that she was too old and too fat. Nor was there amongst the laud
players one who could play a malagueña, nor could the guitar player beat
the _tempo_.
So in the end it was Jan who played the malagueña as best he could,
while Coneni, using his lank limbs with the flexibility of a youth,
danced in marvellous fashion. But he soon tired of dancing solos.
We went home, headed by the band, seconded by Coneni's son carrying for
us a large green melon, followed by Coneni's daughter loaded with a
basket of figs.
We parted from the band at El Angel, we going up to Verdolay, they going
across to Alverca, but with the good-byes the guitar playing girl said:
"Aha, but since you are so 'affectionate' to music we will come and play
to you this evening at your house."
When Encarnacion heard this, she said:
"Oh, beautiful! And I will ask all my friends and we will dance. And I
will bring all Mother's chairs."
[Illustration]
We arranged all Encarnacion's mother's chairs in a neat circle in our
entrada and waited. Nine o'clock went by--no music--ten passed and
10.30. At eleven o'clock we heard the band far away on the Alverca road.
It came musically through the night. We had contrived an especial
illumination of candles, but our guests repudiated houses. They were too
hot. So in spite of any possible traffic the chairs were dragged out
into the middle of the road, and we had our concert there.
It was not a very inspiring concert. At the opening of it the young laud
player handed his instrument to Jan, demanding that it should be tuned.
We discovered later that quite a number of the minor village executants
cannot tune their own instruments. Jan, however, at this time knew
nothing about lauds. So the boy had to do the best he could with it. He
managed to worry the instrument more or less into tune with itself, but
the task of getting his laud accorded with his sister's guitar was
beyond his power. However, a concert could not be disturbed for so
trifling a matter; and to the perfect satisfaction of the players, and,
as far as we could see, of the audience, the two instruments played
until about three o'clock in the morning, each one a semi-tone different
in pitch from the other.
We had provided bottles of wine for the occasion at the cost of sixpence
a bottle. This wine was the ordinary drinking wine of the district. It
speaks well of the abstemiousness of the Spaniard that though we had at
least thirty guests about half a bottle of wine only was drunk. The
major part of the audience contented itself with cool water from the
algazarra.
Some time later on in the evening the players confided to us that they
were the pupils of a maestro who lived in Alverca, and that they had
only been studying for two months. The fact that there was a teacher in
Alverca fired me. I had wanted to learn the laud for some while, but the
opportunity had not offered itself. I inquired his terms. The band said
that they were twopence-halfpenny a lesson. So I at once told it to send
the maestro along. At 3.30--after we had been wondering for some time
how much longer our eyes would remain open--the band took its leave,
saying that it would come again one evening. It then marched, playing
loudly, back to Alverca.
The maestro sent word that he would come on Tuesday evening. He was of
that type of southern European that the American terms "Dago." He was
typically Dago. He was a plumber by trade, and in the evening augmented
his income by odd twopence-halfpennies picked up from the would-be
"affectionates" of the guitar or laud. He loved wine with a sincere
though timid reverence. When she heard that he was coming to give me a
lesson, Encarnacion said:
"Oh, beautiful! And we will all come and listen to your lesson, and
afterwards we will dance."
But even Spain could not make me unselfconscious enough to support that
test. With grim harshness we locked the door on our lessons.
The maestro, like Blas, considered two airs his daily portion. At the
end of the first air he would empty his tumbler of wine, and would
gently repudiate the idea that it should be refilled. The third glass he
accepted with quite vehement protestations. His course homeward was, I
fear, usually more discursive than that of his coming. Like all Spanish
musicians he sang upon the slightest excuse. He corrected my melody by
singing: "Lo, La, Lo, La, Lo, La," as I played.
Having played the violin, the mandolin and the piano, I did not find the
laud very difficult. It has a queer tuning in fourths and is played with
the plectrum. But when La Merchora discovered that I had learned a piece
in two days she was quite eloquent in her astonishment.