streets of Seville at night, alone and disguised, to seek adventure or
to see for himself the humour of his subjects; and like them also it
pleased him to administer justice seated in the porch of his palace. If
he was often hard and proud towards the nobles, with the people he was
always very gracious; to them he was the redressor of wrongs and a
protector of the oppressed; his justice was that of the Mussulman
rulers, rapid, terrible and passionate, often quaint. For instance: a
rich priest had done some injury to a cobbler, who brought him before
the ecclesiastical tribunals, where he was for a year suspended from his
clerical functions. The tradesman thought the punishment inadequate, and
taking the law into his own hands gave the priest a drubbing. He was
promptly seized, tried, condemned to death. But he appealed to the king
who, with a witty parody of the rival Court, changed the punishment to
suspension from his trade, and ordered the cobbler for twelve months to
make no boots.
On the other hand, the Alcazar itself has been the scene of Pedro's
vilest crimes, in the whole list of which is none more insolent, none
more treacherous, than that whereby he secured the priceless ruby which
graces still the royal crown of England. There is a school of historians
which insists on finding a Baptist Minister in every hero--think what a
poor-blooded creature they wish to make of the glorious Nelson--but no
casuistry avails to cleanse the memory of Pedro of Castille: even for
his own ruthless age he was a monster of cruelty and lust. Indeed the
indignation with which his biographers have felt bound to charge their
pens has somewhat obscured their judgment; they have so eagerly insisted
on 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 mother
every insult and humiliation, while his father's mistress kept queenly
state, and her children received the honours of royal princes. When he
came to the throne he found himself a catspaw between his natural
brothers and ambitious nobles. His nearest relatives were ever his
bitterest enemies, and he was continually betrayed by those he trusted;
even his mother delivered to the rebellious peers the strongholds and
the treasures he had left in her charge and caused him to be taken
prisoner. As a boy he had been violent and impetuous, yet always loyal:
but before he was twenty he became suspicious and mistrustful; in his
weakness he made craft and perfidy his weapons, practising to compose
his face, to feign forgetfulness of injury till the moment of vengeance;
he learned to dissemble so that none could tell his mind, and treated no
courtiers with greater favour than those upon whose death he had already
determined.
Intermingled with this career of vice and perfidy and bloodshed is the
love of Maria de Padilla, whom the king met when he was eighteen, and
till her death loved passionately--with brief inconstancies, for
fidelity has never been a royal virtue; and she figures with gentle
pathos in that grim history like wild perfumed flowers on a storm-beaten
coast. After the assassination of the unfortunate Blanche, the French
Queen whom he loathed with an extraordinary physical repulsion, Pedro
acknowledged a secret marriage with Maria de Padilla, which legitimised
her children; but for ten years before she had been treated with royal
rights. The historian says that she was very beautiful, but her especial
charm seems to have been that voluptuous grace which is characteristic
of Andalusian women. She was simple and pious, with a nature of great
sweetness, and she never abused her power; her influence, as runs the
hackneyed phrase, was always for good, and untiringly she did her
utmost to incline her despot lover to mercy. She alone sheds a ray of
light on Pedro's memory, only her love can save him from the execration
of posterity. When she died rich and poor alike mourned her, and the
king was inconsolable. He honoured her with pompous obsequies, and
throughout the kingdom ordered masses to be sung for the rest of her
soul.
* * *
The guardians of the Alcazar show you the chambers in which dwelt this
gracious lady, and the garden-fountain wherein she bathed in summer.
Moralists, anxious to prove that the way of righteousness is hard, say
that beauty dies, but they err, for beauty is immortal. The habitations
of a lovely woman never lose the enchantment she has cast over them, her
comeliness lingers in their empty chambers like a subtle odour; and
centuries after her very bones have crumbled to dust it is her presence
alone that is felt, her footfall that is heard on the marble floors.
Garish colours, alas! have driven the tender spirit of Maria de Padilla
from the royal palace, but it has betaken itself to the old garden, and
there wanders sadly. It is a charming place of rare plants and exotic
odours; cypress and tall palm trees rise towards the blue sky with their
irresistible melancholy, their far-away suggestion of burning deserts;
and at their feet the ground is carpeted with violets. Yet to me the
wild roses brought strangely recollections of England, of long summer
days 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. The
gorgeous palace had only suggested the long past days of history, and
Seville the joy of life and the love of sunshine; but the old quiet
garden took me far away from Spain, so that I longed to be again in
England. In thought I wandered through a garden that I knew in years
gone by, filled also with flowers, but with hollyhocks and jasmine; the
breeze carried the sweet scent of the honeysuckle to my nostrils, and I
looked at the green lawns, with the broad, straight lines of the
grass-mower. The low of cattle reached my ears, and wandering to the
fence I looked into the fields beyond; yellow cows grazed idly or lay
still 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 long
lines that met, making two sides of a huge triangle; they flew quickly
in the cloudless sky, far above me, and presently were lost to view.
About me was the tall box-wood of the southern garden, and tropical
plants with rich flowers of yellow and red and purple. A dark fir-tree
stood out, ragged and uneven, like a spirit of the North, erect as a
life without reproach; but the foliage of the palms hung down with a
sad, adorable grace.
XIII
[Sidenote: Calle de las Sierpes]
In Seville the Andalusian character thrives in its finest flower; and
nowhere can it be more conveniently studied than in the narrow, sinuous,
crowded thoroughfare which is the oddest street in Europe. The Calle de
las Sierpes is merely a pavement, hardly broader than that of
Piccadilly, without a carriage-way. The houses on either side are very
irregular; some are tall, four-storeyed, others quite tiny; some are
well kept and freshly painted, others dilapidated. It is one of the
curiosities of Seville that there is no particularly fashionable
quarter; and, as though some moralising ruler had wished to place before
his 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, but
to see it at its best you must go towards evening, at seven o'clock, for
then there is scarcely room to move. Fine gentlemen stand at the club
doors or sit within, looking out of the huge windows; the merchants and
the students, smoking cigarettes, saunter, wrapped magnificently in
their capos. Cigarette-girls pass with roving eyes; they suffer from no
false modesty and smile with pleasure when a compliment reaches their
ears. Admirers do not speak in too low a tone and the fair Sevillan is
never hard of hearing.
Newspaper boys with shrill cries announce evening editions: '_Porvenir!_
_Noticiero!_' Vendors of lottery-tickets wander up and down, audaciously
offering the first prize: '_Quien quiere el premio gardo?_' Beggars
follow you with piteous tales of fasts improbably extended. But most
striking is the _gente flamenca_, the bull-fighter, with his numerous
hangers-on. The _toreros_--toreador is an unknown word, good for comic
opera and persons who write novels of Spanish life and cannot be
bothered 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 of
hair used to attach the chignon of full-dress: it is the dearest
ambition of the aspirant to the bull-ring to possess this ornament; he
grows it as soon as he is full-fledged, and it is solemnly cut off when
the weight of years and the responsibility of landed estates induce him
to retire from the profession. The bull-fighter dresses peculiarly and
the _gente flamenca_, imitates him so far as its means allow. A famous
_matador_ is as well paid as in England a Cabinet Minister or a
music-hall artiste. This is his costume: a broad-brimmed hat with a low
crown, which is something like a topper absurdly flattened down, with
brims preposterously broadened out. The front of his shirt is befrilled
and embroidered, and his studs are the largest diamonds; not even
financiers in England wear such important stones. He wears a low collar
without a necktie, but ties a silk handkerchief round his neck like an
English navvy; an Eton jacket, fitting very tightly, brown, black, or
grey, with elaborate frogs and much braiding; the trousers, skin-tight
above, loosen below, and show off the lower extremities when, like the
heroes of feminine romance, the wearer has a fine leg. Indeed, it is a
mode of dress which exhibits the figure to great advantage, and many of
these young men have admirable forms.
In their strong, picturesque way they are often very handsome. They have
a careless grace of gesture, a manner of actors perfectly at ease in an
effective part, a brutal healthiness; there is a flamboyance in their
bearing, a melodramatic swagger, which is most diverting. And their
faces, so contrasted are the colours, so strongly marked the features,
are full of interest. Clean shaven, the beard shows violet through the
olive skin; they have high cheek bones and thin, almost hollow cheeks,
with eyes set far back in the sockets, dark and lustrous under heavy
brows. The black hair, admirably attached to the head, is cut short;
shaved on the temples and over the ears, brushed forward as in other
countries is fashionable with gentlemen of the box: it fits the skull
like a second, tighter skin. The lips are red and sensual, the teeth
white, regular and well shaped. The bull-fighter is remarkable also for
the diamond rings which decorate his fingers and the massive gold, the
ponderous seals, of his watch-chain.
Who can wonder then that maidens fair, their hearts turning to thoughts
of love, should cast favourable glances upon this hero of a hundred
fights? The conquests of tenors and grand-dukes and fiddlers are
insignificant beside those of a bull-fighter; and the certainty of
feminine smiles is another inducement for youth to exchange the drudgery
of menial occupations for the varied excitement of the ring.
* * *
At night the Sierpes is different again. Little by little the people
scatter to their various homes, the shops are closed, the clubs put out
their lights, and by one the loiterers are few. The contrast is vivid
between the noisy throng of day-time and this sudden stillness; the
emptiness of the winding street seems almost unnatural. The houses,
losing all variety, are intensely black; and above, the sinuous line of
sky is brilliant with clustering stars. A drunken roysterer reels from a
tavern-door, his footfall echoing noisily along the pavement, but
quickly he sways round a corner; and the silence, more impressive for
the interruption, returns. The night-watchman, huddled in a cloak of
many folds, is sleeping in a doorway, dimly outlined by the yellow gleam
of his lantern.
Then I, a lover of late hours, returning, seek the _guardia_. Sevillan
houses are locked at midnight by this individual, who keeps the
latch-keys of a whole street, and is supposed to be on the look-out for
tardy comers. I clap my hands, such being the Spanish way to attract
attention, and shout; but he does not appear. He is a good-natured,
round man, bibulous, with grey hair and a benevolent manner. I know his
habits and resign myself to inquiring for him in the neighbouring
dram-shops. I find him at last and assail him with all the abuse at my
command; he is too tipsy to answer or to care, and follows me, jangling
his keys. He fumbles with them at the door, blaspheming because they are
so 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, it
is from the few individuals himself has known that his most definite
impressions are drawn. Of course he can control his observations by
asking the opinion of foreigners long resident in the country; but
curiously enough in Andalusia precisely the opposite occurs from what
elsewhere is usual. Aliens in England, France, or Italy, with increasing
comprehension, acquire also affection and esteem for the people among
whom they live; but I have seldom found in Southern Spain a
foreigner--and there are many, merchants, engineers and the like, with
intimate knowledge of the inhabitants--who had a good word to say for
the Andalusians.
But perhaps it is in the behaviour of crowds that the most accurate
picture of national character can be obtained. Like composite
photographs which give the appearance of a dozen people together, but a
recognisable portrait of none, the multitude offers as it were a
likeness in the rough, without precision of detail yet with certain
marked features more obviously indicated. The crowd is an individual
without responsibility, unoppressed by the usual ties of prudence and
decorum, who betrays himself because he lacks entirely
self-consciousness and the desire to pose. In Spain the crowd is above
all things good-humoured, fond of a joke so long as it is none too
subtle, excitable of course and prone to rodomontade, yet practical,
eager to make the best of things and especially to get its money's
worth. If below the surface there are a somewhat brutal savagery, a
cruel fickleness, these are traits common with all human beings together
assembled; they are merely evidence of man's close relationship to ape
and tiger.
From contemporary novels more or less the same picture appears, and also
from the newspapers, though in these somewhat idealised; for the Press,
bound to flatter for its living, represents its patrons, as do some
portrait-painters, not as they are but as they would like to be. In the
eyes of Andalusian journalists their compatriots are for ever making a
magnificent gesture; and the condition would be absurd if a hornet's
nest of comic papers, tempering vanity with a lively sense of the
ridiculous, 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 is
astounded. The Andalusians have a passion for gorgeous raiment and for
jewellery. They must see themselves continually in the brightest light,
standing for ever on some alpine eminence of vice or virtue, in full
view of their fellow men. Like schoolboys they will make themselves out
desperate sinners to arouse your horror, and if that does not impress
you, accomplished actors ready to suit your every mood, they will pose
as saints than whom none more truly pious have existed on the earth.
They are the Gascons of Spain, but beside them the Bordelais is a
truthful, unimaginative creature.
Next comes laziness. There is in Europe no richer soil than that of
Andalusia, 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 are
happy in this, that boredom is unknown to them; content to lie in the
sun for hours, neither talking, thinking, nor reading, they are never
tired of idleness: two men will sit for half a day in a _cafe_, with a
glass of water before them, not exchanging three remarks in an hour. I
fancy it is this stolidness which has given travellers an impression of
dignity; 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 are
restless and spirited creatures. But a trifle will rouse them; and then,
quite unable to restrain themselves, pallid with rage, they hurl abuse
at their enemy--Spanish, they say, is richer in invective than any other
European tongue--and quickly long knives are whipped out to avenge the
affront.
Universal opinion has given its verdict in an epithet: and just as many
people speak of the volatile Frenchman, the stolid Dutchman, the amatory
Italian, they talk of the proud Spaniard. But it is pride of a peculiar
sort; a Sevillian with only the smallest claims to respectability would
rather die than carry a parcel through the street; however poor, some
one must perform for him so menial an office: and he would consider it
vastly beneath his dignity to accept charity, though if he had the
chance would not hesitate to swindle you out of sixpence. But in matters
of honesty these good people show a certain discrimination. Your
servants, for example, would hesitate to steal money, especially if
liable to detection, but not to take wine and sugar and oil: which is
proved by the freedom with which they discuss the theft among themselves
and the calmness with which they acknowledge it when a wrathful master
takes them in the act. The reasoning is, if you're such a fool as not to
keep your things under lock and key you deserve to be robbed; and if
dismissed for such a peccadillo they consider themselves very hardly
used.
Uncharitable persons, saying that a Spaniard will live for a week on
bread and water duly to prepare himself for a meal at another's expense,
accuse them of gluttony; but I have always found the Andalusians
abstemious eaters, nor have I wondered at this, since Spanish food is
abominable. But drunkards they often are. I should think as many people
in proportion get drunk in Seville as in London, though it is only fair
to add that their heads are not strong, and very little alcohol will
produce in them an indecent exhilaration.
But if the reader, because the Andalusians are slothful, truthless, but
moderately honest, vain, concludes that they are an unattractive people
he will grossly err. His reasoning, that moral qualities make pleasant
companions, is quite false; on the contrary it is rigid principles and
unbending character, strength of will and a decided sense of right and
wrong, which make intercourse difficult. A sensitive conscience is no
addition to the amenities of the dinner-table. But when a man is willing
to counter a deadly sin with a shrug of the shoulders, when between
white and black he can discover no insupportable contrast, the
probabilities are that he will at least humour your whims and respect
your prejudices. And so it is that the Andalusians make very agreeable
acquaintance. They are free and amiable in their conversation, and will
always say the thing that pleases rather than the brutal thing that is.
They miss no opportunity to make compliments, which they do so well that
at the moment you are assured these flattering remarks come from the
bottom of their hearts. Very reasonably, they cannot understand why you
should be disagreeable to a man merely because you rob him; to injury,
unless their minds are clouded by passion, they have not the bad taste
to add insult. Compare with these manners the British abhorrence of
polite and complimentary speeches, especially if they happen to be true:
the Englishman may hold you in the highest estimation, but wild horses
will not drag from him an acknowledgment of the fact; whereby humanism
and the general stock of self-esteem are notably diminished.
Nothing can be more graceful than their mode of speech, for the very
construction of the language conduces to courtesy. The Spaniards have
also an oriental way of offering you things, placing themselves and
their houses entirely at your disposal. If you remark on anything of
theirs they beg you at once to take it. If you go into a pot-house where
a peasant is dining on a plate of ham, a few olives, and a glass of
wine, he will ask: '_Le gusta_,' 'Will you have some,' with a little
motion of handing you his meal. Of course it would be an outrage to
decorum to accept these generous offers, but that is beside the
question; for good manners are not an affair of the heart, but a
complicated game to be learned and played on either side with due
attention to the rules. It may be argued that such details are not
serious; but surely for the common round of life politeness is more
necessary than any heroic qualities. We need our friends' self-sacrifice
once 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 good
breeding than for the excellence of their dispositions.
Beside this, however, the Andalusians are much attached to children, and
it is pleasant to see the real fondness which exists between various
members of a family. One singular point I have noted, that although the
Spanish marry for love rather than from convenience, a wife puts
kindred before husband, her affection remaining chiefly where it was
before marriage. But if the moralist desires yet more solid virtues, he
need only inquire of the first Sevillan he meets, who will give at
shortest notice, in choice and fluent language, a far more impressive
list than I could ever produce.
XV
[Sidenote: Don Juan Tenorio]
On its own behalf each country seems to choose one man, historical or
imaginary, to stand for the race, making as it were an incarnation of
all the virtues and all the vices wherewith it is pleased to charge
itself; and nothing really better explains the character of a people
than their choice of a national hero. Fifty years ago John Bull was the
typical Englishman. Stout, rubicund and healthy, with a loud voice and a
somewhat aggressive manner, he belonged distinctly to the middle
classes. He had a precise idea of his rights and a flattering opinion of
his merits; he was peaceable, but ready enough to fight for commercial
advantages, or if roused, for conscience sake. And when this took place
he possessed always the comforting assurance that the Almighty was on
his side; he put his faith without hesitation on the Bible and on the
superiority of the English Nation. For foreigners he had a magnificent
contempt and distinguished between them and monkeys only by a certain
mental 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 great
wealth, has been gathered to his fathers and now disports himself in an
early Victorian paradise furnished with horse-hair sofas and mahogany
sideboards. His son reigns in his stead; and though perhaps not
officially recognised as England's archetype, his appearance in novel
and in drama, in the illustrated papers, in countless advertisements,
proves the reality of his sway. It is his image that rests in the heart
of British maidens, his the example that British youths industriously
follow.