A couple of springs ago, business compelling some friends of mine to
cross over into Spain, I gladly accepted the cordial invitation they
extended to me to visit with them that “splendid realm of old
romance.”
Our destination was Utrera, a small town situated between Seville and
Xeres, and lying in the midst of those vast plains so often mentioned
in the _Conquest of Granada_.
I confess that I was rather disappointed to find how hurriedly we
passed through Madrid and Seville, and I longed to be permitted to
linger for a little space within their walls; but ours was not
entirely a party of pleasure, and a diversion was soon created in my
thoughts by our arrival at Utrera, which, from a distance, presented a
most Oriental appearance. The houses, many of which are built in the
Moorish fashion and dazzlingly white, stand out clearly defined
against the deep blue southern sky; the tall tower of Santiago, with
little perhaps but its unusual height to recommend it to a stranger’s
notice, has, nevertheless, an imposing appearance; and even a palm
tree, which, solitary and alone, rears its stately head in the centre
of the town, puts in its claim for adding in no small degree to the
effect of the whole picture. Notwithstanding, with all the combined
advantages of white houses, tall towers, solitary palm trees and
romantic situations, I would advise no one who is not a traveller at
heart or intent upon his worldly profit to fix his residence in this
primitive little Andalusian town.
We first took up our quarters at the posada, with the intention of
remaining there during our stay, but were soon obliged to abandon the
idea, for, though the best inn in Utrera, it was most uncomfortable,
and noisy beyond description.
We began to look about us, therefore, and were soon installed in a
small but beautifully clean and cool-looking house in a street leading
out of the plaza, and found no reason to be discontented with our
abode. It boasted of a pleasant patio (or inner courtyard) and a wide
verandah or gallery, into which our rooms opened. As the days grew
warmer (and very warm indeed they grew after a while) this patio was
our greatest comfort; for, following the example of our neighbours, we
had it covered with an awning, and spent the greater part of the day,
seated with our books or work, beside its mimic fountain. But if we
gained in material comfort by exchanging the noisy and dirty posada
for apartments of our own, we had also drawn down upon ourselves the
burden of housekeeping, which we found in Spain to be no sinecure.
Some friends who had resided a few months in the town, and acquired a
fair knowledge of the language, manners, and customs of the natives of
Utrera, volunteered to send us a maid, warranted honest and a
tolerable proficient in the art of cookery. But she proved a care-full
blessing. To give her her due, she possessed one good quality, and we
found by experience that it was about the only one she or her
sisterhood could boast of: she was very fond of water. The floors of
our new house were formed of stone, partially covered by strips of
matting which were easily removed; and we soon lived in a perpetual
swamp. Antonia was always both ready and willing to “clean up,” and
never seemed happier than when dashing water in all directions, or
brushing away vigorously at the matting with her little short-handled
broom.
By the way, I wonder why Spanish women prefer to bend double over
their sweeping, instead of adopting our easier method of performing
the same operation? In vain did I strive to convince Antonia of the
advantages attendant on the use of a broom with a long handle: she
only smiled, shook her head, and went obstinately on her weary way.
The water for our own consumption was drawn daily from the Moorish
aqueduct just outside the town, and brought to us by the aguador, an
old fellow who wore a rusty black velvet turban hat stuck full of
cigarettes, besides having one always in his mouth. He would pour the
water from his wooden barrels into a large butt which stood in the
kitchen; but as we discovered that he (together with all who felt so
inclined) dipped his glass, with the fingers that held it, into the
reservoir whenever he wished to quench his thirst, we speedily
invested in a filter.
We soon found that it was utterly impossible to infuse any ideas of
cookery or housework into the head of the fair Antonia. If we showed
her how to lay the tablecloth and place the dishes, she eyed us with
surprise, bordering on contempt, that ladies should perform such
menial offices; and the next day all our instructions were as though
they had never been. It was the same with everything, until we decided
that it was far less trouble to wait on ourselves, and our life at
Utrera resolved itself into a picnic without an end.
Nevertheless, when we arose one morning to find that Antonia (wearied
perhaps of English suggestions) had quietly walked off and left us to
shift entirely for ourselves, we felt inclined to think that we had
undervalued her. But she had received her wages on the day before, and
we learned afterward that under those circumstances it is a common
thing for Spanish servants to quit their places without any warning,
and return home for a while to live at their ease on the produce of
their labour.
Our next attendant was Pepa, a bright, dark-eyed girl, who always
looked so picturesque, with a spray of starry jessamine or scarlet
verbena coquettishly placed in her black hair, that it was impossible
not to overlook her misdemeanours. She had such an arch way of tossing
her head and shaking her long gold earrings that there was no
resisting her; and indeed Pepa was but too well aware of the fact
herself, and made the best use of her knowledge.
But the dinners were still our _bêtes noires_, and in these,
notwithstanding all her prettiness, she could help us little better
than her predecessor. The meat which we procured was simply uneatable,
but happily animal food is little needed in those southern climes, and
we had plenty of game. Hares, partridges, and wild ducks were most
abundant; and a woman used constantly to call on us with live quails
for sale, which she would despatch by sticking one of their own
feathers into their brains.
Of course, everything was more or less spoiled which we entrusted to
the tender mercies of our handmaid; but fortunately there were no
epicures amongst us, and we generally received the goods the gods
provided with contentment if not gratitude, and had many resources to
turn to in order to eke out a distasteful meal. The bread was
excellent, and we always had an abundance of oranges, chestnuts,
melons, and pomegranates; so that, under the circumstances, we were
not to be pitied.
But one day Pepa, disheartened by her repeated failures, begged to be
allowed to serve us a Spanish dinner, after tasting which, she
affirmed, we should never desire to eat any other; and having received
the permission of her mistress, she set to work, and at the usual hour
triumphantly placed the national dish of “puchero” upon the table. We
gathered round it rather doubtfully, but after the first timid trial
pronounced it, “not so bad, though rather rich.” It seemed to contain
a little of everything--beef, lard, garlic, garbanzos (or small, hard
beans), lettuce, pepper, potatoes, and I know not what besides; and
the mixture had been kept simmering in an earthenware pot for hours.
The next dish served by Pepa was “gaspacho,” or a Spanish salad, which
is mixed quite differently from an English one, and to most tastes not
so palatable. And then she placed before us a large dish of rice,
profusely sprinkled with cinnamon, and various small cakes fried in
oil; and Pepa’s Spanish dinner (which, by the way, was only a sample,
I suppose, of the most ordinary national fare), was concluded.
We were thankful that it had been sufficiently good to enable us to
praise it enough to give her satisfaction, though we were compelled to
adopt more than one ruse in order, without hurting her feelings, to
escape having the same feast repeated every day.
There are not many “lions” in Utrera, but, such as they are, of course
we visited them. The principal one perhaps is in the vaults beneath
the church of Santiago, but we were scarcely prepared for the ghastly
spectacle which met our gaze there. It appears that, many years ago,
while digging for some purpose round the church, the workmen found
several bodies, which, owing to some peculiar quality of the soil in
which they had been buried, were in a wonderful state of preservation;
and, by order of the authorities, they were placed in upright
positions against the walls of the church vaults. The old sacristan,
who acted as our cicerone, pointed out the bodies to us with his
lighted torch, and directed our attention especially to one, evidently
that of a very stout woman, which had still a jacket and skirt
clinging to it. Strange to say, the bodies were all clothed, although
in most cases it had become difficult to distinguish the garments from
the remains, for all seemed to partake of the same hue and texture. It
is a humbling sight to look upon the dead after they have turned again
to their dust, and with but a semblance of the human frame left
clinging to them, as though in mockery of our mortality. We could not
bear to see the idlers who had followed our party down into the vaults
jeering at the appearance of these poor carcases, and touching them in
a careless and irreverent manner. Had we had our way, they should all
have been tenderly consigned again to the bosom of their mother earth,
and we experienced a strange sensation of relief as we turned our
backs upon them and emerged once more into the open air.
The principal object of a stroll in Utrera is a visit to the Church of
Consolation, which stands on the outskirts of the town, at the end of
a long walk bordered with lines of olive trees. At intervals along the
way benches are placed, and here on Sundays and feast-days the
inhabitants congregate as they come to and from the church. The latter
is an interesting edifice, though its architecture is unpretending
enough.
Its nave is lofty, and on the white-washed walls hang hundreds of
little waxen and silver limbs, and effigies, with articles of
children’s clothing and an endless assortment of plaited tails of
hair. These are all offerings made to “Our Lady of Consolation,” in
fulfilment of vows or as tokens of thanksgiving for recovery from
sickness; and there is something very touching in the idea of these
women giving up their most cherished possessions (for every one knows
how justly proud the Spanish are of their magnificent hair) as
tributes of gratitude to her from whom they have received the favours.
The walls near the western door of the Church of Consolation are hung
with innumerable pictures, each bearing so strong a resemblance to the
other, both in style and subject, that they might have been drawn by
the same hand. As works of art they are valueless, for even the rules
of perspective are ignored in a most comical manner, and with slight
variations they all represent the same subject. On one hand is an
invalid man, woman or child, as the case may be, and on the other a
kneeling figure imploring aid for them of the “Virgin of Consolation,”
who is also portrayed appearing to the suppliant, and encircled by a
golden halo. Beneath the painting is inscribed the name of the
patient, the nature of his disease, and the date of his recovery.
At the back of the church is a large garden belonging to one of the
richest proprietors in the neighbourhood of Utrera, and as the midday
heat became more oppressive it was a favourite haunt of ours during
the cool of the evening, when the air was laden with the perfume of
orange blossoms and other sweet-smelling flowers. The owners of the
garden permitted it to grow wild, but that circumstance only enhanced
its beauty. The orange trees were laden with golden fruit, of which we
were courteously invited to gather as much as we pleased. But our
visits to this charming retreat were necessarily short, for, as in
most southern latitudes, there was scarcely any twilight in Utrera,
and it always seemed as though the ringing of the Angelus were a
signal for the nights immediately to set in. But what glorious nights
they were! The dingy oil-lamps in the streets (for gas is an
innovation which had not yet found its way there) were little needed,
as the sky always seemed to be one bright blaze of beautiful stars.
The cemetery at Utrera is a quiet spot, surrounded by a high white
wall and thickly planted with cypress trees, which give it a most
solemn and melancholy appearance. They have the custom there (I am not
sure it is not prevalent in other parts of Spain) of burying the dead
in recesses in the walls, which are built expressly of an immense
thickness; the coffins are shoved into these large pigeon-holes, and
the opening is closed with a marble slab, which bears the inscription
usual in such cases, somewhat after the fashion of open-air catacombs.
But little respect seemed to be shown to the dead.
One day I met some children bearing a bier, upon which was stretched
the corpse of a little girl clothed in white garments and with a
wreath of flowers placed upon the placid brow. The children,
apparently quite unaware of the reverence due to their sacred burden,
carelessly laughed and chatted as they bore it along the highway,
sometimes sitting down to rest, and then hurrying forward with
unseemly haste, as though to make up for lost time. A tall man,
wrapped in a huge cloak, and who evidently belonged to the little
_cortège_, followed at a distance, but he too performed the duty at
his leisure, and seemed to find nothing extraordinary or out of the
way in the children’s want of decorum.
With the exception of periodical visits to the Church of Consolation
before mentioned, the people of Utrera rarely seemed to leave their
houses. To walk for the sake of walking is an idea which finds little
favour with a Spanish lady, and my friends and myself were looked upon
as very strange beings for taking so much exercise and caring to
explore the surrounding country.
But to our English taste it was pleasant to stroll up the Cadiz road
until we reached a small mound situated thereon, which was belted with
shady trees and amply provided with stone seats. This elevation
commanded the view of a vast extent of country, with the grand
frowning hills of the Sierra Nevada in the far distance, which the
gorgeous sunsets always invested with a strange, unearthly beauty. The
intense solitude of the scene, too, was not without its own peculiar
charm. At intervals the silence would be broken by the approach of a
picturesque-looking peasant bestriding a mule, the silvery jangle of
whose bells had been heard in the calm atmosphere for some time before
he made his personal appearance. These muleteers never failed to
interrupt the monotonous chants they are so fond of singing, to wish
us a friendly “Buenas tardes” (“Good evening”) while proceeding on
their way, and then we would listen to the sound of the mule’s bells
and the low rich voice of his master until both died away in the
distance, and the scene resumed its normal condition of undisturbed
tranquillity.
We made an expedition once, by the new railroad, to Moron, a very old
town perched on an almost perpendicular rock and visible for miles
distant. The heat was intense, but we toiled manfully up the steep and
execrably-paved street from the station, and, weary and footsore, were
thankful to find ourselves within the cool walls of the fine old
church. It possesses some valuable Murillos--one of which,
representing the head of our Blessed Lord, is especially beautiful.
The altar-rails, screen and reredos are all richly gilt, and the
sacristan, taking us into the vestry, unlocked several massively
carved chests, which disclosed some valuable plate and precious
stones; referring to which, he boasted, with pardonable pride, that
Utrera could not produce anything half so handsome. And indeed the
inhabitants of Moron may well congratulate themselves on these
treasures having escaped the grasp of the French during the war, for
the sacristan related to us how everything had been hidden away and
miraculously preserved from the hands of the spoiler.
But my chit-chat is drawing to a close. It was not without a certain
regret that we bade farewell to Utrera, for during the whole of our
stay there we had experienced nothing but kindness from all with whom
we had come in contact, and the memory of our sojourn in that little,
out-of-the-way Andalusian town, if not fraught with brilliant
recollections, will, at all events, take its rank with that portion of
the past which has been too peaceful to rise up again to trouble us.
And it were well if we could say the same for every part of our
storm-ridden lives.