The bridge that the Moors built over the Guadalquivir straggles across
the water with easy arches. Somewhat dilapidated and very beautiful, it
has not the strenuous look of such things in England, and the mere sight
of it fills you with comfort. The clustered houses, with an added
softness from the light burning mellow on their roofs and on their white
walls, increase the happy impression that the world is not necessarily
hurried and toilful. And the town, separated from the river by no formal
embankment, lounges at the water's edge like a giant, prone on the grass
and lazy, stretching his limbs after the mid-day sleep.
There is no precipitation in such a place as Cordova; life is quite long
enough for all that it is really needful to do; to him who waits come
all things, and a little waiting more or less can be of no great
consequence. Let everything be taken very leisurely, for there is ample
time. Yet in other parts of Andalusia they say the Cordovese are the
greatest liars and the biggest thieves in Spain, which points to
considerable industry. The traveller, hearing this, will doubtless ask
what business has the pot to call the kettle black; and it is true that
the standard of veracity throughout the country is by no means high.
But this can scarcely be termed a vice, for the Andalusians see in it
nothing discreditable, and it can be proved as exactly as a proposition
of Euclid that vice and virtue are solely matters of opinion. In
Southern Spain bosom friends lie to one another with complete freedom;
no man would take his wife's word, but would believe only what he
thought true, and think no worse of her when he caught her fibbing.
Mendacity is a thing so perfectly understood that no one is abashed by
detection. In England most men equivocate and nearly all women, but they
are ashamed to be discovered; they blush and stammer and hesitate, or
fly into a passion; the wiser Spaniard laughs, shrugging his shoulders,
and utters a dozen rapid falsehoods to make up for the first. It is
always said that a good liar needs an excellent memory, but he wants
more qualities than that--unblushing countenance, the readiest wit, a
manner to beget confidence. In fact it is so difficult to lie
systematically and well that the ardour of the Andalusians in that
pursuit can be ascribed only to an innate characteristic. Their
imaginations, indeed, are so exuberant that the bald fact is to them
grotesque and painful. They are like writers in love with words for
their own sake, who cannot make the plainest statement without a gay
parade of epithet and metaphor. They embroider and decorate, they colour
and enhance the trivial details of circumstance. They must see
themselves perpetually in an attitude; they must never fail to be
effective. They lie for art's sake, without reason or rhyme, from mere
devilry, often when it can only harm them. Mendacity then becomes an
intellectual exercise, such as the poet's sonneteering to an imaginary
lady-love.
But the Cordovan very naturally holds himself in no such unflattering
estimation. The motto of his town avers that he is a warlike person and
a wise one:
Cordoba, casa de guerrera gente
Y de sabiduria clara fuente!
And the history thereof, with its University and its Khalifs, bears him
out. Art and science flourished there when the rest of Europe was
enveloped in mediæval darkness: when our Saxon ancestors lived in dirty
hovels, barbaric brutes who knew only how to kill, to eat, and to
propagate their species, the Moors of Cordova cultivated all the
elegancies of life from verse-making to cleanliness.
* * *
I was standing on the bridge. The river flowed tortuously through the
fertile plain, broad and shallow, and in it the blue sky and the white
houses of the city were brightly mirrored. In the distance, like a
vapour 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 here
and there were little islands of dry yellow sand, on which grew reeds
and sedge. In such a spot might easily have wandered the half-naked
fisherman of the oriental tale, bewailing in melodious verse the
hardness of his lot; since to his net came no fish, seeking a broken pot
or a piece of iron wherewith to buy himself a dinner. There might he
find a ring half-buried in the sand, which, when he rubbed to see if it
were silver, a smoke would surely rise from the water, increasing till
the light of day was obscured; and half dead with fear, he would
perceive at last a gigantic body towering above him, and a voice more
terrible than the thunder of Allah, crying: 'What wishest thou from thy
slave, O king? Know that I am of the Jin, and Suleyman, whose name be
exalted, enslaved me to the ring that thou hast found.'
In Cordova recollections of the _Arabian Nights_ haunt you till the
commonest sights assume a fantastic character, and the frankly
impossible becomes mere matter of fact. You wonder whether your life is
real or whether you have somehow reverted to the days when Scheherazade,
with her singular air of veracity, recited such enthralling stories to
her lord as to save her own life and that of many other maidens. I
looked along the river and saw three slender trees bending over it,
reflecting in the placid water their leafless branches, and under them
knelt three women washing clothes. Were they three beautiful princesses
whose fathers had been killed, and they expelled from their kingdom and
thus reduced to menial occupations? Who knows? Indeed, I thought it very
probable, for so many royal persons have come down in the world of late;
but I did not approach them, since king's daughters under these
circumstances have often lost one eye, and their morals are nearly
always of the worst description.
X
[Sidenote: Puerta del Puente]
I went back to the old gate which led to the bridge. Close by, in the
little place, was the hut of the _consumo_, the local custom-house, with
officials lounging at the door or sitting straddle-legged on chairs,
lazily smoking. Opposite was a tobacconist's, with the gaudy red and
yellow sign, _Campañia arrendataria de tabacos_, and a dram-shop where
three 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 very
disagreeable; but perseverance, here as in other human affairs, has its
reward, and presently you develop for it a liking which time increases
to enthusiasm. In Spain, the land of custom and usage, everything is
done in a certain way; and there is a proper manner to drink
_aguardiente_. To sip it would show a lamentable want of decorum. A
Spaniard lifts the little glass to his lips, and with a comic, abrupt
motion tosses the contents into his mouth, immediately afterwards
drinking water, a tumbler of which is always given with the spirit. It
is really the most epicurean of intoxicants because the charm lies in
the after-taste. The water is so cool and refreshing after the
fieriness; it gives, without the gasconnade, the emotion Keats
experienced when he peppered his mouth with cayenne for the greater
enjoyment of iced claret.
But the men wiped their mouths with their hands and came out of the wine
shop, mounting their horses which stood outside--shaggy, long-haired
beasts with high saddles and great box-stirrups. They rode slowly
through the gate one after the other, in the easy slouching way of men
who have been used to the saddle all their lives and in the course of
the week are accustomed to go a good many miles in an easy jog-trot to
and from the town. It seems to me that the Spaniards resolve themselves
into types more distinctly than is usual in northern countries, while
between individuals there is less difference. These three, clean-shaven
and uniformly dressed, of middle size, stout, with heavy strong features
and small eyes, certainly resembled one another very strikingly. They
were the typical inn-keepers of Goya's pictures but obviously could not
all keep inns; doubtless they were farmers, horse-dealers, or
forage-merchants, shrewd men of business, with keen eyes for the main
chance. That class is the most trustworthy in Spain, kind, hospitable,
and honest; they are old-fashioned people with many antique customs, and
preserve much of the courteous dignity which made their fathers famous.
A string of grey donkeys came along the bridge, their panniers
earth-laden, poor miserable things that plodded slowly and painfully,
with heads bent down, placing one foot before the other with the
donkey's peculiar motion, patiently doing a thing they had patiently
done ever since they could bear a load. They seemed to have a dull
feeling that it was no use to make a fuss, or to complain; it would just
go on till they dropped down dead and their carcases were sold for
leather and glue. There was a Spanish note in the red trappings, braided
and betasselled, but all worn, discoloured and stained.
Inside the gate they stopped, waiting in a huddled group, with the same
heavy patience, for the examination of the _consumo_. An officer of the
custom-house went round with a long steel prong, which he ran into the
baskets one by one, to see that there was nothing dutiable hidden in the
earth. Then, sparing of his words, he made a sign to the driver and sat
down again straddle-wise on his chair. '_Arre, burra!_' The first donkey
walked slowly on, and as they heard the tinkling of the leader's bell
the 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 silent
whiteness filled me again with that intoxicating sensation of the
_Arabian Nights_. I looked through the iron gateways as I passed, into
the _patios_ with their dark foliage, and once I heard the melancholy
twang of a guitar. I was sure that in one of those houses the three
princesses had thrown off their disguise and sat radiant in queenly
beauty, their raven tresses falling in a hundred plaits over their
shoulders, their fingers stained with henna and their long eyelashes
darkened with kohl. But alas! though I lost my way I found them not.
Yet many an amorous Spaniard, too passionate to be admitted within his
mistress' house, stood at her window. This method of philandering,
surely most conducive to the ideal, is variously known as _comer
hierro_, to eat iron, and _pelar la pava_, to pluck the turkey. One
imagines that the cold air of a winter's night must render the most
ardent lover platonic. It is a significant fact that in Spanish novels
if the hero is left for two minutes alone with the heroine there are
invariably asterisks and some hundred pages later a baby. So it is
doubtless wise to separate true love by iron bars, and perchance
beauty's eyes flash more darkly to the gallant standing without the
gate; illusions, the magic flower of passion, arise more willingly. But
in Spain the blood of youth is very hot, love laughs at most restraints
and notwithstanding these precautions, often enough there is a
catastrophe. The Spaniard, who will seduce any girl he can, is pitiless
under 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 the
procuress. In the brothels of Seville or of Madrid she finds at least a
roof 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 again
on 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, naked
and alone, like pre-Raphaelite trees in a landscape of _Pélléas et
Mélisande_; the broad river, almost stagnant, was extraordinarily calm
and silent. I wondered what strange things the placid Guadalquivir had
seen through the centuries; on its bosom many a body had been borne
towards the sea. It recalled those mysterious waters of the Eastern
tales which brought to the marble steps of palaces great chests in which
lay 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 of
circumstance, depending upon events in the immediate past; or on the
chance which, during his earliest visit, there befell the traveller.
After a stormy passage across the Channel, Newhaven, from the mere fact
of its situation on solid earth, may gain a fascination which closer
acquaintance can never entirely destroy; and even Birmingham, first seen
by a lurid sunset, may so affect the imagination as to appear for ever
like some infernal, splendid city, restless with the hurried toil of
gnomes and goblins. So to myself Seville means ten times more than it
can mean to others. I came to it after weary years in London, heartsick
with much hoping, my mind dull with drudgery; and it seemed a land of
freedom. There I became at last conscious of my youth, and it seemed a
belvedere upon a new life. How can I forget the delight of wandering in
the Sierpes, released at length from all imprisoning ties, watching the
various movement as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that
the falling curtain would bring back reality! The songs, the dances, the
happy idleness of orange-gardens, the gay turbulence of Seville by
night; 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, reminding
myself that I had no duty to do then, or the morrow, or the day after. I
lay a-bed thinking how happy, effortless and free would be my day.
Mounting my horse, I clattered through the narrow streets, over the
cobbles, till I came to the country; the air was fresh and sweet, and
Aguador loved the spring mornings. When he put his feet to the springy
turf he gave a little shake of pleasure, and without a sign from me
broke into a gallop. To the amazement of shepherds guarding their wild
flocks, to the confusion of herds of brown pigs, scampering hastily as
we approached, he and I excited by the wind singing in our ears, we
pelted madly through the country. And the whole land laughed with the
joy of living.
But I love also the recollection of Seville in the grey days of
December, when the falling rain offered a grateful contrast to the
unvarying sunshine. Then new sights delighted the eye, new perfumes the
nostril. In the decay of that long southern autumn a more sombre
opulence was added to the gay colours; a different spirit filled the
air, so that I realised suddenly that old romantic Spain of Ferdinand
and Isabella. It lay a-dying still, gorgeous in corruption, sober yet
flamboyant, rich and poverty-stricken, squalid, magnificent. The white
streets, the dripping trees, the clouds gravid with rain, gave to all
things an adorable melancholy, a sad, poetic charm. Looking back, I
cannot dismiss the suspicion that my passionate emotions were somewhat
ridiculous, but at twenty-three one can afford to lack a sense of
humour.
* * *
But Seville at first is full of disillusion. It has offered abundant
material to the idealist who, as might be expected, has drawn of it a
picture which is at once common and pretentious. Your idealist can see
no beauty in sober fact, but must array it in all the theatrical
properties of a vulgar imagination; he must give to things more imposing
proportions, he colours gaudily; Nature for him is ever posturing in the
full glare of footlights. Really he stands on no higher level than the
housemaid who sees in every woman a duchess in black velvet, an Aubrey
Plantagenet in plain John Smith. So I, in common with many another
traveller, expected to find in the Guadalquivir a river of transparent
green, with orange-groves along its banks, where wandered ox-eyed youths
and maidens beautiful. Palm-trees, I thought, rose towards heaven, like
passionate souls longing for release from earthly bondage; Spanish
women, full-breasted and sinuous, danced _boleros_, _fandangos_, while
the air rang with the joyous sound of castanets, and toreadors in
picturesque habiliments twanged the light guitar.
Alas! the Guadalquivir is like yellow mud, and moored to the busy quays
lie cargo-boats lading fruit or grain or mineral; there no perfume
scents the heavy air. The nights, indeed, are calm and clear, and the
stars shine brightly; but the river banks see no amours more romantic
than those of stokers from Liverpool or Glasgow, and their lady-loves
have neither youth nor beauty.
Yet Seville has many a real charm to counter-balance these lost
illusions. He that really knows it, like an ardent lover with his
mistress' imperfections, would have no difference; even the
Guadalquivir, so matter-of-fact, really so prosaic, has an unimagined
attractiveness; the crowded shipping, the hurrying porters, add to that
sensation of vivacity which is of Seville the most fascinating
characteristic. And Seville is an epitome of Andalusia, with its life
and death, with its colour and vivid contrasts, with its boyish gaiety.
It is a city of delightful ease, of freedom and sunshine, of torrid
heat. 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 is
content that his neighbour should do the like. Doubtless people are lazy
in 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 all
ages, of all classes, 'taking the sun'; they promenade slowly,
untroubled by any mental activity, or sit on benches between the
palm-trees, smoking cigarettes; perhaps the more energetic read the
bull-fighting news in the paper. They are not ambitious, and they do not
greatly care to make their fortunes; so long as they have enough to eat
and drink--food is very cheap--and cigarettes to smoke, they are quite
happy. The Corporation provides seats, and the sun shines down for
nothing--so let them sit in it and warm themselves. I daresay it is as
good a way of getting through life as most others.
A southern city never reveals its true charm till the summer, and few
English know what Seville is under the burning sun of July. It was built
for the great heat, and it is only then that the refreshing coolness of
the _patio_ can be appreciated. In the streets the white glare is
mitigated by awnings that stretch from house to house, and the half
light in the Sierpes, the High Street, has a curious effect; the people
in their summer garb walk noiselessly, as though the warmth made sound
impossible. Towards evening the sail-cloths are withdrawn, and a breath
of cold air sinks down; the population bestirs itself, and along the
Sierpes the _cafés_ become suddenly crowded and noisy.
Then, for it was too hot to ride earlier, I would mount my horse and
cross the river. The Guadalquivir had lost its winter russet, and under
the blue sky gained varied tints of liquid gold, of emerald and of
sapphire. I lingered in Triana, the gipsy-quarter, watching the people.
Beautiful girls stood at the windows, so that the whole way was lined
with them, and their lips were not unwilling to break into charming
smiles. One especially I remember who was used to sit on a balcony at a
street-corner; her hair was irreproachable in its elaborate arrangement,
and the red carnation in it gleamed like fire against the night. Her
face was long, fairer-complexioned than is common, with regular and
delicate features. She sat at her balcony, with a huge book open on her
knee, which she read with studied disregard of the passers-by; but when
I looked back sometimes I saw that she had lifted her eyes, lustrous and
dark, and they met mine gravely.
And in the country I passed through long fields of golden corn, which
reached as far as I could see; I remembered the spring, when it had all
been new, soft, fresh, green. And presently I turned round to look at
Seville in the distance, bathed in brilliant light, glowing as though
its walls were built of yellow flame. The Giralda arose in its wonderful
grace like an arrow; so slim, so comely, it reminded one of an Arab
youth, with long, thin limbs. With the setting sun, gradually the city
turned rosy-red and seemed to lose all substantiality, till it became a
many-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 the
darkness, and the storks that had built their nest upon it were
motionless, not stirring even as the bells rang out the hours. The city
slept, and it seemed that I alone watched in the silence; the sky still
was blue, and the stars shone in their countless millions. I thought of
the city that never rested, of London with its unceasing roar, the
endless streets, the greyness. And all around me was a quiet serenity, a
tranquillity such as the Christian may hope shall reward him in Paradise
for the troublous pilgrimage of life. But that is long ago and passed
for ever.
XII
[Sidenote: The Alcazar]
Arriving at Seville the recollection of Cordova took me quickly to the
Alcazar; but I was a little disappointed. It has been ill and tawdrily
restored, with crude pigments, with gold that is too bright and too
clean; but even before that, Charles V. and his successors had made
additions out of harmony with Moorish feeling. Of the palace where lived
the Mussulman Kings nothing, indeed, remains; but Pedro the Cruel, with
whom the edifice now standing is more especially connected, was no less
oriental than his predecessors, and he employed Morisco architects to
rebuild it. Parts are said to be exact reproductions of the older
structure, while many of the beautiful tiles were taken from Moorish
houses.
The atmosphere, then, is but half Arabic; the rest belongs to that
flaunting, multi-coloured barbarism which is characteristic of Northern
Spain before the union of Arragon and Castile. Wandering in the deserted
courts, looking through horseshoe windows of exquisite design at the
wild garden, Pedro the Cruel and Maria de Padilla are the figures that
occupy the mind.
Seville teems with anecdotes of the monarch who, according to the point
of view, has been called the Cruel and the Just. He was an amorist for
whom platonic dalliance had no charm, and there are gruesome tales of
ladies burned alive because they would not quench the flame of his
desires, of others, fiercely virtuous, who poured boiling oil on face
and bosom to make themselves unattractive in his sight. But the head
that wears a crown apparently has fascinations which few women can
resist, and legend tells more frequently of Pedro's conquests than of
his rebuffs. He was an ardent lover to whom marriage vows were of no
importance; that he committed bigamy is certain--and pardonable, but
some historians are inclined to think that he had at one and the same
time no less than three wives. He was oriental in his tastes.