contemporary narrative from the Spanish side of the attack made on Cadiz
by Sir Francis Drake when he set out to singe the beard of Philip II.;
and this induced me afterwards to look into the English story. It is far
from me to wish to inform the reader, but the account is not
undiverting, and shows, besides, a frame of mind which the Anglo-Saxon
has not ceased to cultivate. 'But the Almighty God,' says the historian,
'knowing and seeing his (the Spanish king's) wicked intent to punish,
molest, and trouble His little flock, the children of Israel, hath
raised up a faithful Moses for the defence of His chosen, and will not
suffer His people utterly to fall into the hands of their enemies.'
Drake set sail from Plymouth with four of her Majesty's ships, two
pinnaces, and some twenty merchantmen. A vessel was sent after, charging
him not to show hostilities, but the messenger, owing to contrary winds,
could never come near the admiral, and vastly to the annoyance of the
Virgin Queen, as she solemnly assured the ambassadors of foreign powers,
had to sail home. Under the circumstances it was, perhaps, hardly
discreet of her to take so large a share of the booty.
Faithful Moses arrived in Cadiz, spreading horrid consternation, and the
Spanish pamphlet shows very vividly the confusion of the enemy. It
appears that, had he boldly landed, he might have sacked the town, but
he imagined the preparations much greater than they were. However, he
was not idle. 'The same night our general, having, by God's good favour
and sufferance, opportunity to punish the enemy of God's true gospel and
our daily adversary, and further willing to discharge his expected duty
towards God, his peace and country, began to sink and fire divers of
their ships.'
The English fleet burned thirty sail of great burden, and captured vast
quantities of the bread, wheat, wine and oil which had been prepared for
the descent upon England. Sir Francis Drake himself remarks that 'the
sight of the terrible fires were to us very pleasant, and mitigated the
burden of our continual travail, wherein we were busied for two nights
and one day, in discharging, firing, and lading of provisions.'
* * *
It is a curious thing to see entirely deserted a place of entertainment,
where great numbers of people are in the habit of assembling. A theatre
by day, without a soul in it, gives me always a sensation of the
ridiculous futility of things; and a public garden towards evening
offers the same emotion. On the morrow I was starting for Africa; I
watched the sunset from the quays of Cadiz, the vapours of the twilight
rise and envelop the ships in greyness, and I walked by the _alamadas_
that stretch along the bay till I came to the park. The light was
rapidly failing and I found myself alone. It had quaint avenues of
short palms, evidently not long planted, and between them rows of yellow
iron chairs arranged with great neatness and precision. It was there
that on Sunday I had seen the populace disport itself, and it was full
of life then, gay and insouciant. The fair ladies drove in their
carriages, and the fine gentlemen, proud of their English clothes,
lounged idly. The chairs were taken by all the lesser fry, by stout
mothers, dragons attendant on dark-eyed girls, and their lovers in broad
hats, in all the gala array of the _flamenco_. There was a joyous
clamour of speech and laughter; the voices of Spanish women are harsh
and unrestrained; the park sparkled with colour, and the sun caught the
fluttering of countless fans.
For those blithe people it seemed that there was no morrow: the present
was there to be enjoyed, divine and various, and the world was full of
beauty and of sunshine; merely to live was happiness enough; if there
was pain or sorrow it served but to enhance the gladness. The hurrying
hours for a while had ceased their journey. Life was a cup of red wine,
and they were willing to drink its very dregs, a brimming cup in which
there was no bitterness, but a joy more thrilling than the gods could
give in all their paradise.
But now I walked alone between the even rows of chairs. The little palms
were so precise, with their careful foliage, that they did not look like
real trees; the flower-beds were very stiff and neat, and now and then a
pine stood out, erect and formal as if it were a cardboard tree from a
Noah's Ark. The scene was so artificial that it brought to my mind the
setting of a pantomime. I stopped, almost expecting a thousand
ballet-girls to appear from the wings, scantily clad, and go through a
measure to the playing of some sudden band, and retire and come forward
till the stage was filled and a great tableau formed.
But the day grew quite dim, and the vast stage remained empty. The
painted scene became still more unreal, and presently the park was
filled with the ghostly shapes of all the light-hearted people who had
lived their hour and exhibited their youth in the empty garden. I heard
the whispered compliments, and the soft laughter of the ladies; there
was a peculiar little snap as gaily they closed their fans.
XXXIX
[Sidenote: El Genero Chico]
In the evening I wandered again along the quay, my thoughts part
occupied with the novel things I expected from Morocco, part sorrowful
because I must leave the scented land of Spain. I seemed never before to
have enjoyed so intensely the exquisite softness of the air, and there
was all about me a sense of spaciousness which gave a curious feeling of
power. In the harbour, on the ships, the lights of the masts twinkled
like the stars above; and looking over the stony parapet, I heard the
waves lap against the granite like a long murmur of regret; I tried to
pierce the darkness, straining my eyes to see some deeper obscurity
which I might imagine to be the massive coasts of Africa. But at last I
could bear the solitude no longer, and I dived into the labyrinth of
streets.
At first, in unfrequented ways, I passed people only one by one, some
woman walking rapidly with averted face, or a pair of chattering
students; but as I came near the centre of the town the passers-by grew
more frequent, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of a thronging,
noisy crowd. I looked up and saw that I was opposite a theatre; the
people had just come from the second _funcion_. I had heard that the
natives of Cadiz were eager theatre-goers, and was curious to see how
they took this pleasure. I saw also that the next piece was _Las
Borrachos_, a play of Seville life that I had often seen; and I felt
that I could not spend my last evening better than in living again some
of those scenes which pattered across my heart now like little sorrowful
feet.
* * *
The theatre in Spain is the only thing that has developed further than
in the rest of Europe--in fact, it has nearly developed clean away. The
Spaniards were the first to confess that dramatic art bored them to
death; and their habits rendered impossible the long play which took an
evening to produce. Eating late, they did not wish to go to the theatre
till past nine; being somewhat frivolous, they could not sit for more
than an hour without going outside and talking to their friends; and
they were poor. To satisfy their needs the _genero chico_, or little
style, sprang into existence; and quickly every theatre in Spain was
given over to the system of four houses a night. Each function is
different, and the stall costs little more than sixpence.
We English are idealists; and on the stage especially reality stinks in
our nostrils. The poor are vulgar, and in our franker moments we confess
our wish to have nothing to do with them. The middle classes are sordid;
we have enough of them in real life, and no desire to observe their
doings at the theatre, particularly when we wear our evening clothes.
But when a dramatist presents duchesses to our admiring eyes, we feel
at last in our element; we watch the acts of persons whom we would
willingly meet at dinner, and our craving for the ideal is satisfied.
But in Spain nobles are common and excite no overwhelming awe. The
Spaniard, most democratic of Europeans, clamours for realism, and
nothing pleases him more than a literal transcript of the life about
him. The manners and customs of good society do not entertain him, and
the _genero chico_ concerns itself almost exclusively with the lower
classes. The bull-fighter is, of course, one of the most usual figures;
and round him are gathered the lovers of the ring, inn-keepers, cobblers
and carpenters, policemen, workmen, flower-sellers, street-singers,
cigarette girls, country maidens. The little pieces are innumerable, and
together form a compend of low life in Spain; the best are full of
gaiety and high spirits, with a delicate feeling for character, and
often enough are touched by a breath of poetry. Songs and dances are
introduced, and these come in the more naturally since the action
generally takes place on a holiday. The result is a musical comedy in
one act; but with nothing in it of the entertainment which is a joy to
the British public: an Andalusian audience would never stand that
representation of an impossible and vulgar world in which the women are
all trollops and the men, rips, nincompoops and bounders; they would
never suffer the coarse humour and the shoddy patriotism.
Unfortunately, these one-act plays have destroyed the legitimate drama.
Whereas Maria Guerrero, that charming actress, will have a run of twenty
nights in a new play by Echegaray, a popular _zarzuela_ will be acted
hundreds of times in every town in Spain. But none can regret that the
Spaniards have evolved these very national little pieces, and little has
been lost in the non-existence of an indefinite number of imitations
from the French. The _zarzuela_, I should add, lasts about an hour, and
for the most part is divided into three scenes.
Such a play as _Los Borrachos_ is nothing less than a _genre_ picture of
Seville life. It reminds one of a painting by Teniers; and I should like
to give some idea of it, since it is really one of the best examples of
the class, witty, varied, and vivacious. But an obstacle presents itself
in the fact that I can find no vestige of a plot. The authors set out to
characterise the various lovers of the vine, (nowhere in Andalusia are
the devotees of the yellow Manzanilla more numerous than in Seville,)
and with telling strokes have drawn the good-natured tippler, the surly
tippler, the religious tippler. To these they have added other types,
which every Andalusian can recognise as old friends--the sharp-tongued
harridan, the improviser of couplets with his ridiculous vanity, the
flower-seller, and the 'prentice-boy of fifteen, who, notwithstanding
his tender years, is afflicted with love for the dark-eyed heroine. The
action takes place first in a street, then in a court-yard, lastly in a
carpenter's shop. There are dainty love-scenes between Soledad, the
distressed maiden, and Juanillo, the flower-seller; and one, very
Spanish, where the witty and precocious apprentice offers her his
diminutive hand and heart. Numerous people come and go, the drunkards
drink and quarrel and make peace; the whole thing, if somewhat confused,
is very life-like, and runs with admirable lightness and ease. It is
true that the play has neither beginning nor end, but perhaps that only
makes it seem the truer; and if the scenes have no obvious connection
they are all amusing and characteristic. It is acted with extraordinary
spirit. The players, indeed, are not acting, but living their ordinary
lives, and it is pleasant to see the zest with which they throw
themselves into the performance. When the hero presses the heroine in
his arms, smiles and passionate glances pass between them, which suggest
that even the love-making is not entirely make-believe.
I wish I could translate the song which Juanillo sings when he passes
his lady's window, bearing his basket of flowers:
Carnations for pretty girls that are true,
Musk-roses for pretty girls that are coy,
Rosebuds as small as thy mouth, my dearest,
And roses as fair as thy cheeks.
I cannot, indeed, resist the temptation of giving one verse in that
Andalusian dialect, from which all harsh consonants and unmusical sounds
have been worn away--the most complete and perfect language in the world
for lovers and the passion of love:
_Sal, morena, á tu ventana,_
_Mira las flores que traigo;_
_Sal y di si son bastantes_
_Pa arfombrita de tu cuarto._
_Que yo te quiero_
_Y a ti te doy_
_Tos los tesoros der mundo entero,_
_To le que vargo, to lo que soy._
XL
[Sidenote: Adios]
And then the morrow was come. Getting up at five to catch my boat, I
went down to the harbour; a grey mist hung over the sea, and the sun had
barely risen, a pallid, yellow circle; the fishing-boats lolled on the
smooth, dim water, and fishermen in little groups blew on their fingers.
And from Cadiz I saw the shores of Spain sink into the sea; I saw my
last of Andalusia. Who, when he leaves a place that he has loved, can
help wondering when he will see it again? I asked the wind, and it
sighed back the Spanish answer: '_Quien sabe?_ Who knows?' The traveller
makes up his mind to return quickly, but all manner of things happen,
and one accident or another prevents him; time passes till the desire is
lost, and when at last he comes back, himself has altered or changes
have occurred in the old places and all seems different. He looks quite
coldly at what had given an intense emotion, and though he may see new
things, the others hardly move him; it is not thus he imagined them in
the years of waiting. And how can he tell what the future may have in
store; perhaps, notwithstanding all his passionate desires, he will
indeed never return.
Of course the intention of this book is not to induce people to go to
Spain: railway journeys are long and tedious, the trains crawl, and the
hotels are bad. Experienced globe-trotters have told me that all
mountains are very much alike, and that pictures, when you have seen a
great many, offer no vast difference. It is much better to read books of
travel than to travel oneself; he really enjoys foreign lands who never
goes abroad; and the man who stays at home, preserving his illusions,
has certainly the best of it. How delightful is the anticipation as he
looks over time-tables and books of photographs, forming delightful
images of future pleasure! But the reality is full of disappointment,
and the more famous the monument the bitterer the disillusion. Has any
one seen St. Peter's without asking himself: Is that all? And the truest
enjoyment arises from things that come unexpectedly, that one had never
heard of. Then, living in a strange land, one loses all impression of
its strangeness; it is only afterwards, in England, that one realises
the charm and longs to return; and a hundred pictures rise to fill the
mind with delight. Why can one not be strong enough to leave it at that
and never tempt the fates again?
The wisest thing is to leave unvisited in every country some place that
one wants very much to see. In Italy I have never been to Siena, and in
Andalusia I have taken pains to avoid Malaga. The guide-books tell me
there is nothing whatever to see there; and according to them it is
merely a prosperous sea-port with a good climate. But to me, who have
never seen it, Malaga is something very different; it is the very cream
of Andalusia, where every trait and characteristic is refined to perfect
expression.
I imagine Malaga to be the most smiling town on the seaboard, and it
lies along the shore ten times more charmingly than Cadiz. The houses
are white, whiter than in Jerez; the patios are beautiful with oranges
and palm-trees, and the dark green of the luxuriant foliage contrasts
with the snowy walls. In Malaga the sky is always blue and the sun
shines, but the narrow Arab streets are cool and shady. The passionate
odours of Andalusia float in the air, the perfume of a myriad cigarettes
and the fresh scent of fruit and flower. The blue sea lazily kisses the
beach and fishing-boats bask on its bosom.
In Malaga, for me, there are dark churches, with massive, tall pillars;
the light falls softly through the painted glass, regilding the golden
woodwork, the angels and the saints and the bishops in their mitres. The
air is heavy with incense, and women in _mantillas_ kneel in the
half-light, praying silently. Now and then I come across an old house
with a fragment of Moorish work, reminding me that here again the Moors
have left their mark.
And in Malaga, for me, the women are more lovely than in Seville; for
their dark eyes glitter marvellously, and their lips, so red and soft,
are ever trembling with a half-formed smile. They are more graceful than
the daffodils, their hands are lovers' sighs, and their voice is a
caressing song. (What was your voice like, Rosarito? Alas! it is so long
ago that I forget.) The men are tall and slender, with strong, clear
features and shining eyes, deep sunken in their sockets.
In Malaga, for me, life is a holiday in which there are no dullards and
no bores; all the world is strong and young and full of health, and
there is nothing to remind one of horrible things. Malaga, I know, is
the most delightful place in Andalusia. Oh, how refreshing it is to get
away from sober fact, but what a fool I should be ever to go there!
* * *
The steamer plods on against the wind slowly, and as the land sinks
away, unsatisfied to leave the impressions hovering vaguely through my
mind, I try to find the moral. The Englishman, ever somewhat
sententiously inclined, asks what a place can teach him. The
churchwarden in his bosom gives no constant, enduring peace; and after
all, though he may be often ridiculous, it is the churchwarden who has
made good part of England's greatness.
And most obviously Andalusia suggests that it might not be ill to take
things a little more easily: we English look upon life so very
seriously, so much without humour. Is it worth while to be quite so
strenuous? At the stations on the line between Jerez and Cadiz, I
noticed again how calmly they took things; people lounged idly talking
to one another; the officials of the railway smoked their cigarettes; no
one was in a hurry, time was long, and whether the train arrived late or
punctual could really matter much to no one. A beggar came to the
window, a cigarette-end between his lips.
'_Caballero!_ Alms for the love of God for a poor old man. God will
repay you!'
He passed slowly down the train. It waited for no reason; the passengers
stared idly at the loungers on the platform, and they stared idly back.
No one moved except to roll himself a cigarette. The sky was blue and
the air warm and comforting. Life seemed good enough, and above all
things easy. There was no particular cause to trouble. What is the use
of hurrying to pile up money when one can live on so little? What is the
use of reading these endless books? Why not let things slide a little,
and just take what comes our way? It is only for a little while, and
then the great antique mother receives us once more in her bosom. And
there are so many people in the world. Think again of all the countless
hordes who have come and gone, and who will come and go; the immense sea
of Time covers them, and what matters the life they led? What odds is it
that they ever existed at all? Let us do our best to be happy; the earth
is good and sweet-smelling, there is sunshine and colour and youth and
loveliness; and afterwards--well, let us shrug our shoulders and not
think of it.
And then in bitter irony, contradicting my moral, a train came in with a
number of Cuban soldiers. There were above fifty of them, and they had
to change at the junction. They reached out to open the carriage doors
and crawled down to the platform. Some of them seemed at death's door;
they could not walk, and chairs were brought that they might be carried;
others leaned heavily on their companions. And they were dishevelled,
with stubbly beards. But what struck me most was the deathly colour; for
their faces were almost green, while round their sunken eyes were great
white rings, and the white was ghastly, corpse-like. They trooped along
in a dazed and listless fashion, wasted with fever, and now and then
one stopped, shaken with a racking cough; he leaned against the wall,
and put his hand to his heart as if the pain were unendurable. It was a
pitiful sight. They were stunted and under-sized; they ceased to develop
when they went to the cruel island, and they were puny creatures with
hollow chests and thin powerless limbs; often, strangely enough, their
faces had remained quite boyish. They were twenty or twenty-two, and
they looked sixteen. And then, by the sight of those boys who had never
known youth with its joyful flowers, doomed to a hopeless life, I was
forced against my will to another moral. Perhaps some would recover, but
the majority must drag on with ruined health, fever-stricken, dying one
by one, falling like the unripe fruit of a rotten tree. They had no
chance, poor wretches! They would return to their miserable homes; they
could not work, and their people were too poor to keep them--so they
must starve. Their lives were even shorter than those of the rest, and
what pleasure had they had?
And that is the result of the Spanish insouciance--death and corruption,
loss of power and land and honour, the ruin of countless lives, and
absolute decay. It is rather a bitter irony, isn't it? And now all they
have left is their sunshine and the equanimity which nothing can
disturb.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh
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