FROM GRANADA TO MALAGA.
The Robbers and Cosarios of Andalusia--Alhama--Malaga--Travelling
Students--A Bull-fight--Montes--The Theatre.
A piece of news, well calculated to throw a whole Spanish town into
a state of commotion, had suddenly been bruited about Granada, to
the great delight of the _aficionados_. The new circus at Malaga
was at last finished, after having cost the contractor five million
reals. In order to inaugurate it solemnly, by exploits worthy of
the palmy days of the art, the great Montes de Chielana--Montes,
the first _espada_ of Spain, the brilliant successor of Romero and
Pepe Illo--had been engaged with his quadrille, and was to appear
in the ring three days consecutively. We had already been present
at several bull-fights, but we had not been fortunate enough to
see Montes, who was prevented by his political opinions from
making his appearance in the circus at Madrid; and to quit Spain
without having seen Montes would be something as barbarous and
savage as to leave Paris without having witnessed the performance
of Mademoiselle Rachel. Although, had we taken the direct road, we
ought to have proceeded at once to Cordova, we could not resist
this temptation, and we resolved, in spite of the difficulties of
the journey and the short time at our disposal, to make a little
excursion to Malaga.
There is no diligence from Granada to Malaga, and the only means of
transport are the _galeras_ or mules: we chose the latter as being
surer and quicker, for we were under the necessity of taking the
cross-roads through the Alpurjas, in order to arrive even on the
very day of the fight.
Our friends in Granada recommended us a _cosario_ (conductor
of a convoy) named Lanza, a good-looking honest fellow, and
very intimate with the brigands. This fact would certainly not
tell much in his favour in France, but on the other side of the
Pyrenees the case is different. The muleteers and conductors of
the _galeras_ know the robbers and make bargains with them; for
so much a head, or so much for the whole convoy, according to
the terms agreed upon, they obtain a free passage, and are never
attacked. These arrangements are observed by both parties with
the most scrupulous probity, if I may use the word, and if it is
not too much out of place when talking of transactions of this
description. When the chief of the gang infesting a peculiar track,
takes advantage of the _indulto_,[10] or, for some reason or other,
cedes his business and customers to any one else, he never neglects
presenting officially to his successor those _cosarios_ who pay him
"black mail," in order that they may not be molested by mistake.
By this system, travellers are sure of not being pillaged, while
the robbers avoid the risk of making an attack and meeting with
a degree of resistance which is often accompanied with danger to
them; so that the arrangement is advantageous to both parties.
One night, between Alhama and Velez, our cosario had dropped to
sleep upon the neck of his mule, in the rear of the convoy, when
suddenly he was awakened by shrill cries, and saw a number of
trabucos glistening at the road-side. There was no doubt about the
matter; the convoy was attacked. In the greatest state of surprise,
he threw himself from his mule, and averting the muzzles of the
blunderbusses with his hand, declared who he was. "Ah! we beg your
pardon, Señor Lanza," said the brigands, quite confused at their
mistake, "but we did not recognise you. We are honest men, totally
incapable of so indelicate a proceeding as to molest you. We have
too much honour to deprive you of even so much as a single cigar."
If you do not travel with a man who is known along the road, it is
absolutely necessary to be accompanied by a numerous escort, armed
to the teeth, and which cost a great deal, besides offering less
security, for the _escopeteros_ are generally retired robbers.
It is the custom in Andalusia, when a person travels on horseback,
and goes to the bull-fights, to put on the national costume.
Accordingly our little caravan was rather picturesque, and made
a very good appearance as it left Granada. Seizing with delight
this opportunity of disguising myself out of Carnival time, and
quitting, for a short space, my horrible French attire, I donned my
_majo's_ costume, consisting of a peaked hat, embroidered jacket,
velvet waistcoat, with filigree buttons, red silk sash, webbed
breeches, and gaiters open at the calf. My travelling companion
wore his dress of green velvet and Cordova leather. Some of the
others wore _monteras_, black jackets, and breeches decorated with
silk trimmings of the same colour, and yellow cravats and sashes.
Lanza was remarkable for the magnificence of his silver buttons,
made of pillared dollars, soldered to a shank, and the floss-silk
embroideries of his second jacket, which he wore hanging from his
shoulder like a hussar's pelisse.
The mule that had been assigned to me was close-shaved halfway up
his body, so that I was enabled to study his muscular development
with as much ease as if he had been flayed. The saddle was composed
of two variegated horse-cloths, put on double, in order to soften
as much as possible the projecting vertebræ, and the sloping shape
of the animal's backbone. On each side hung down, in the guise
of stirrups, two kinds of wooden troughs, rather resembling our
rat-traps. The head-trappings were so loaded with rosettes, tufts,
and other gewgaws, that it was almost impossible to distinguish
the capricious brute's sour crabbed profile through the mass of
ornament fluttering about it.
Whenever they travel, Spaniards resume their ancient originality,
and eschew the imitation of anything foreign. The national
characteristics reappear in all their pristine vigour, in these
convoys through the mountains--convoys which cannot differ much
from the caravans through the desert. The roughness of the roads,
that are scarcely marked out, the grand savage aspects of the
various places you pass through, the picturesque costume of the
_arrieros_, and the strange trappings of the mules, horses, and
asses, marching along in files, all transport you a thousand
miles away from civilized life. Travelling becomes a reality, an
action in which you take a part. In a diligence a man is no longer
a man, he is but an inert object, a bale of goods, and does not
much differ from his portmanteau. He is thrown from one place
to the other, and might as well stop at home. The pleasure of
travelling consists in the obstacles, the fatigue, and even the
danger. What charm can any one find in an excursion, when he is
always sure of reaching his destination, of having horses ready
waiting for him, a soft bed, an excellent supper, and all the ease
and comfort which he can enjoy in his own house? One of the great
misfortunes of modern life is the want of any sudden surprise, and
the absence of all adventures. Everything is so well arranged, so
admirably combined, so plainly labelled, that chance is an utter
impossibility; if we go on progressing, in this fashion, towards
perfection for another century, every man will be able to foresee
everything that will happen to him from the day of his birth to
the day of his death. Human will will be completely annihilated.
There will be no more crimes, no more virtues, no more characters,
no more originality. It will be impossible to distinguish a Russian
from a Spaniard, an Englishman from a Chinese, or a Frenchman from
an American. People will not even be able to recognise one another,
for every one will be alike. An intense feeling of _ennui_ will
then take possession of the universe, and suicide will decimate the
population of the globe, for the principal spring of life, namely,
curiosity, will have been destroyed for ever.
A journey in Spain is still a perilous and romantic affair. You
must risk your life, and possess courage, patience, and strength.
You are exposed to danger at every step you take. Privations of all
kinds, the absence of the most indispensable articles, the wretched
state of the roads, that would offer insurmountable difficulties to
any but an Andalusian muleteer, the most horrible heat, with the
sun darting its rays upon you as if it were about to split your
skull, are the most trifling inconveniences. Besides all this,
there are the _factions_, the robbers, and the innkeepers, all
ready to plunder and ill-treat you, and who regulate their honesty
by the number of carbines that accompany you. Peril encircles you,
follows you, goes before you, is all around you. You hear nothing
but terrible and mysterious stories discussed in a low, terrified
tone. Yesterday the bandits supped in the very _posada_ at which
you alight. A caravan has been attacked and carried off into the
mountains by the brigands, in the hope that their prisoners will
be ransomed. Pallilos is lying in ambush at such and such a spot,
which you will have to pass! Without doubt there is a good deal
of exaggeration in all this, but however incredulous you may be,
you cannot avoid believing something of it, when, at each turn of
the road, you perceive wooden crosses with inscriptions of this
kind--_Aqui mataron à un hombre, Aqui murio de maupairada_.
We had left Granada in the evening, and were to travel all night.
It was not long before the moon rose, frosting with silver the
precipitous rocks exposed to her beams. These rocks threw their
long strange shadows over the road we were following, and produced
some very singular optical effects. We heard in the distance, like
the notes of an harmonica, the tinkling of the asses' bells, for
the asses had been sent on beforehand with our luggage, or some
_mozo de mulas_ singing some amorous couplets with that guttural
tone and peculiar far-sounding pitch of voice, so poetical when
heard at night and in the mountains. The song was delightful; and
the reader will perhaps thank us for giving two stanzas, which were
probably improvised, and which, from their graceful quaintness,
have ever since remained engraved on our memory:
Son tus labios dos cortinas
De terciopelo carmesi;
Entre cortina y cortina,
Niña, dime que se.
Atame con un cabello
A los bancos de tu cama,
Aunque el cabello se compa
Segura esta que no me vaya.
Thy lips are two curtains
Of crimson velvet;
Between curtain and curtain,
Dear girl, say to me, Yes.
Fasten me with a hair
To the frame of your couch,
Even if the hair should snap,
Be sure that I would not leave you.
We soon passed Cacin, where we forded a pretty little torrent
some inches deep. The clear water glittered on the sand like the
scales on the belly of a bleak, and then streamed down the steep
mountain-side like an avalanche of silver spangles.
Beyond Cacin, the road becomes most wretchedly bad. Our mules
sunk up to their girths in the stones, while they had a shower of
sparks round each of their hoofs. We had to ascend and descend,
to pass along the edges of precipices and to proceed in all sorts
of zigzags and diagonals, for we had entered those inaccessible
solitudes, those savage and precipitous mountain-chains, the
Alpujarras, whence the Moors, so runs the report, could never be
completely expelled, and where some thousands of their descendants
live concealed at the present day.
At a turn in the road, we experienced a very tolerable amount of
alarm. We perceived, by the light of the moon, seven strapping
fellows, draped in long mantles, with peaked hats on their heads,
and _trabuchos_ on their shoulders, standing motionless in the
middle of the way. The adventure we had so long panted for,
was about to be realized in the most romantic manner possible.
Unfortunately, the banditti saluted us politely with a respectful
_Vayan Ustedes con Dios_. They were the very reverse of robbers,
being Miquelets, that is to say, gendarmes! Oh, what a cruel
disappointment was this for two enthusiastic young travellers,
who would willingly have lost their luggage for the sake of an
adventure.
We were to stop for the night at a little town called Alhama,
perched like an eagle's nest upon the top of a mountain peak.
Nothing can be more picturesque than the sharp angle which the road
conducting to this eyrie is obliged to make, in order to adapt
itself to the unevenness of the ground. We reached our destination
about two in the morning, half dead with hunger and thirst, and
worn out with fatigue. We quenched our thirst by means of three or
four jars of water, and appeased our hunger by a tomato omelette,
which, considering it was a Spanish one, did not contain too
many feathers. A stony kind of mattress, bearing a strong family
likeness to a sack of walnuts, was given us for a couch. At the
expiration of two minutes, I was buried in that peculiar sleep
attributed to the Just, and my companion religiously followed my
example. The day surprised us in the same attitudes, as motionless
as lumps of lead.
I went down into the kitchen to implore them to give me some
food, and, thanks to my eloquence, obtained some cutlets, a fowl
fried in oil, and half of a water-melon, besides for dessert,
some Barbary figs, whose prickly skin the landlady took off very
dexterously. The water-melon did us a great deal of good; the rosy
pulp contained inside its green rind has a most delightfully cool
and thirst-assuaging look. Scarcely have you bitten it, before you
are inundated up to your elbows with a very agreeably-flavoured and
slightly sweet juice, which bears no sort of resemblance to that of
our cantaloups. We really stood in need of this refreshing fruit
to moderate the burning effects of the peppers and spices with
which all Spanish dishes are seasoned. We were on fire internally
and roasted externally; the heat was atrocious. We lay down upon
the brick floor of our room, on which the forms of our bodies were
marked by pools of perspiration. The only method we could discover
for rendering the place, comparatively speaking, a little cool, was
by closely shutting all the doors and windows, and remaining in
complete darkness.
In spite of this Indian temperature, however, I boldly threw my
jacket over my shoulder, and went out to take a turn in the streets
of Alhama. The sky was as white as metal in a state of fusion: the
pavingstones glistened as if they had been waxed and polished; the
whitewashed walls presented a micaceous scintillating appearance,
while the pitiless blinding sunshine penetrated into every hole
and corner. The shutters and doors were cracking with heat, the
gasping soil was full of yawning fissures, and the branches of the
vines writhed like green wood when thrown into the fire; while, in
addition to all this, there was the reflection of the neighbouring
rocks, which cast back the rays of light even hotter than they
were before. To complete my torture, I had got on very thin shoes,
through which the pavement burnt the soles of my feet. There was
not a breath of air, not so much wind as would have ruffled a
feather. It is impossible to conceive anything more dull, more
melancholy, or more savage.
I wandered at hazard through the solitary streets, whose
chalk-coloured walls, pierced by a few windows, scattered far
apart, and closed by means of wooden shutters, gave them a
completely African appearance, until, I will not say without
meeting a human being, but absolutely without seeing a living
creature, I reached the great square, which is exceedingly
picturesque and quaint. It is crossed by the stone arches of an
aqueduct, and consists simply of a level space cleared away on the
bare rock itself, which has grooves cut in it to prevent persons
from slipping. The whole of one side overlooks the abyss, at the
bottom of which peep out, from the midst of clumps of trees,
several mills that are turned by a torrent which foams so violently
that it resembles a quantity of soap-suds.
The hour fixed upon for our departure was approaching, and I
returned to the _posada_ wet through with perspiration, just as if
I had been out in a heavy shower of rain, but satisfied at having
done my duty as a traveller, although you might have boiled eggs by
the mere heat of the atmosphere.
Our caravan again set out, proceeding through most abominable but
highly picturesque roads, where no other creature but a mule could
have stood without falling. I had thrown the bridle on the neck of
mine, thinking that he was better qualified to direct his steps
than I was, and leaving him all the responsibility of passing
the dangerous points. I had already had several very animated
discussions with him, in order to induce him to walk beside the
mule of my companion, but I was at last convinced of the inutility
of my efforts. I bow, in all submission, to the truth of the
saying--_As obstinate as a mule_. Give a mule the spur and it will
stand still; touch it with a whip, it will lie down; pull it up,
and it will start off at full gallop: in the mountains, a mule is
really intractable; it feels its importance and takes a most unfair
advantage of it. Very often, right in the middle of the road, a
mule will suddenly stop, raise its head, stretch out its neck, draw
back its lips, so as to expose its gums and long teeth, and indulge
in a series of the most horrible inarticulate sighs, convulsive
sobs, and frightful clucking, resembling the shrieks of a child who
is being murdered. During the time it is indulging in this system
of vocalization you might kill it, without being able to make it
move one step.
Our path now lay through a veritable Campo Santo. The crosses
erected where murders had been committed, became frightfully
numerous: in the situations that were favourable to this kind of
thing, we sometimes counted more than three or four crosses in
less than a hundred paces; we were no longer on a road, but in a
cemetery. I must own, however, that if it were the custom in France
to perpetuate the memory of violent deaths by the erection of
crosses, there would be quite as many of them in certain streets
of Paris as there are on the road from Grenada to Velez-Malaga.
The dates of a great number of these sinister monuments are
already very old; it is very certain, however, that they keep the
traveller's mind actively employed, rendering him attentive to the
slightest noise, causing him to look very carefully about him, and
hindering any feeling of _ennui_. At every turn of the road, he
says to himself, if he sees a rock that looks at all suspicious, or
a mysterious cluster of trees: "There is some vagabond concealed
behind there, who is the act of taking aim, and is on the point
of making me the pretext for another cross destined to edify the
travellers of future generations who may happen to pass by the
spot."
When we emerged from the defiles, the crosses became somewhat
less frequent. Our road now lay along the bases of stern, grand
mountains, whose summits were cut off by immense archipelagos of
mist. The country was a complete desert, with no other habitations
save the reed hut of some _aguador_, or vender of brandy. This
brandy is colourless, and is drunk out of long glasses filled
up with water, which it causes it to turn white exactly as
Eau-de-Cologne would.
The weather was heavy and stormy, and the heat suffocating: a few
large drops of water, the only ones that had fallen for a space
of four months, from the implacable sky of lapis-lazuli, spotted
the parched sand, and made it resemble a panther's skin; however,
there was no shower after all, and the canopy of heaven resumed its
immutable serenity. The sky was so constantly blue during my stay
in Spain, that I find the following notice in my pocketbook: "Saw a
white cloud," as if such an object was worthy of being especially
recorded. We inhabitants of the north are so accustomed to behold
the heavens covered with clouds, constantly varying in form and
colour, and with which the wind builds mountains, islands, and
palaces, that it soon destroys again to build elsewhere, that we
cannot form any conception of the feeling of profound melancholy
caused by this azure tint, as uniform as eternity itself, and which
is always hanging over one's head. In a little village which we
traversed, all the population were standing outside their houses in
order to enjoy the rain, just as we should go in doors to avoid it.
The night has set in without any twilight, almost in an instant,
as is the case in warm climates, and we were not very far from
Velez-Malaga, where we intended sleeping. The mountain-steeps began
to be less abrupt, and gradually subsided in small stony plains,
traversed by streams fifteen or twenty feet broad, and one foot
deep; their banks were covered with gigantic reeds. The funeral
crosses again became more numerous than ever, and their white
colour caused them to stand out distinctly from the blue mist of
night. We counted three of them in the distance of twenty paces,
but the fact is, that the spot presents a most lonely appearance,
and is admirably adapted for an ambuscade.
It was eleven o'clock when we entered Valez-Malaga; the windows
were joyfully lighted up, and the streets re-echoed with songs and
the sounds of guitars. The young maidens seated in the balconies
were singing verses which the _novios_ accompanied from the
street below, and each stanza was followed by laughter, shouts,
and applause, which I thought would never end. Other groups were
dancing the cachucha, the fandango, and the jalo, at the corners
of the streets. The guitars emitted a dull hum like that of bees,
the castagnettes rattled merrily, and all was music and delight.
It would almost appear as if the most important business of a
Spaniard's life were pleasure; he gives himself up to it, heart
and soul, with admirable ease and frankness. No nation in the
world appears to know less of misfortune than the Spaniards, and
a stranger travelling through the Peninsula can scarcely believe
that the state of political affairs can be so serious, or that
he is traversing a country which for ten years has been ravaged
and laid waste by civil war. Our peasants are far from possessing
the happy carelessness, the joyful look, and the elegant costume
of the Andalusian _majos_, and in the matter of education they
are greatly inferior to them. Almost all the Spanish peasants can
write; their minds are stored with poetry, which they recite or
sing without destroying the measure; they are good horsemen, and
very dexterous in the use of the knife and carbine. It is true that
the admirable fertility of the soil and the beauty of the climate
relieves them from the necessity of that brutalizing work, which,
in less favoured countries, reduces man to the condition of a beast
of burden or a machine, and robs him of those two gifts of heaven,
force and beauty.
It was not without a feeling of the profoundest satisfaction, that
I tied my mule to the bars of the posada.
Our supper was extremely frugal; all the servants, both male
and female, were gone out to dance, so that we had to content
ourselves with a simple _gaspacho_. The _gaspacho_ is worthy of
a particular description, and we will therefore give our readers
the receipt for making it--a receipt which would have caused the
late Brillat-Savarin's hair to stand on end with horror. You first
pour some water into a soup-tureen; to this water you then add a
small quantity of vinegar, some cloves of garlic, some onions cut
into quarters, some sliced cucumber, a little pimento, and a pinch
of salt. You then cut some slices of bread and let them soak in
this agreeable compound, which is served up cold. In France, a dog
with the least pretensions to a good education would refuse to
compromise himself by putting his nose into such a mixture; but
it is the favourite dish of the Andalusians, and the most lovely
women do not hesitate of an evening, to swallow large messes of
this diabolical soup. The _gaspacho_ is considered very refreshing,
an opinion which struck us, allowing scope for some diversity of
opinion; yet, strange as the mixture appears the first time you
taste it, you gradually grow accustomed to it, and, ultimately,
even like it. By a providential chance we had, to enable us to wash
down this meagre repast, a large decanterful of excellent dry white
Malaga, which we conscientiously finished to the last pearly drop,
and which restored our strength, that was completely exhausted by
a ride of nine hours, over the most improbable roads, and in a
temperature like that of a limekiln.
At three o'clock the conveyance set out once more upon its march.
The sky looked lowering; a warm mist hung over the horizon, and
the humidity of the air warned us that we were approaching the
sea, which soon afterwards appeared in the extreme distance like a
streak of hard blue. A few fleecy flakes of foam were visible here
and there, while the waves came and died away in regular volutes
upon the sand, which was as fine as boxwood sawdust. High cliffs
rose upon our right. At one moment the rocks separated and left
us a free passage, and at the next they barricaded the road, and
obliged us to wind slowly round them. It is not often that Spanish
roads proceed in a right line; it would be so difficult a task to
overcome the various obstacles, that it is far better to go round
than to surmount them. The famous motto, _Linea recta brevissima_,
would in Spain be completely false.
The rising sun dispersed the mist as if it had been so much smoke;
the sky and the sea recommenced their azure struggle, in which it
is impossible to say which of the two is victorious; the cliffs
reassumed their varied tints of reddish-brown, shot-colour,
amethyst, and burnt topaz; the sand began once again to rise in
small thin clouds, and the water to glisten in the intensity of the
sunshine. Far, far away, almost on the line of the horizon, the
sails of five fishing-boats palpitated in the wind like the wings
of a dove.
The declivities now became less steep; from time to time, a little
house appeared, as white as lump-sugar, with a flat roof, and a
kind of peristyle formed by a vine clustering over trellis-work,
supported at each end by a square pillar, and in the middle by a
massive pylone, that presented quite an Egyptian appearance. The
_aguardiente_ stores became more numerous; they were still built
of reeds, but they were more natty, and boasted of whitewashed
counters daubed with a few streaks of red. The road, which was
now distinctly marked out, began to be lined on each side with
a line of cactus and aloe-trees, broken now and then by gardens
and houses, before which women were mending nets, and children,
completely naked, playing about. On seeing us pass by on our
mules, they cried out, "_Toro! Toro!_" taking us, on account of
our _majo_ costume, for proprietors of _ganaderias_, or for the
_toreros_ belonging to the quadrille directed by Montes.
Carts drawn by oxen and strings of asses now followed at shorter
intervals, and the bustle which invariably marks the neighbourhood
of a large town became every moment more apparent. On all sides,
convoys of mules, carrying persons who were on their way to witness
the opening of the circus, made their appearance: we met a great
number in the mountains coming from a distance of thirty or forty
leagues. The _aficionados_ are as superior, by their passionate and
furious love of their favourite amusement, to our dilettanti, as
the interest excited by a bull-fight is superior to that produced
by the representation of an opera: nothing stops them; neither the
heat, nor the difficulty or danger of the journey; provided they
reach their destination and obtain a place near the _barrera_, from
which they can pat the bull on the back, they consider themselves
amply repaid for whatever fatigue they may have undergone. What
tragic or comic author can boast of possessing such powers of
attraction? This, however, does not prevent a set of namby-pamby
sentimental authors from pretending that the taste for this
_barbarous amusement_, as they term it, is every day gradually
dying away in Spain.
It is impossible to conceive anything more picturesque and strange
than the environs of Malaga. You appear to be transported to
Africa: the dazzling whiteness of the houses, the deep indigo
colour of the sea, and the overpowering intensity of the sun, all
combine to keep up the illusion. On each side of the road are
numbers of enormous aloe-trees, bristling up and waving their
leafy cutlasses, and gigantic cactuses with their green broad
foliage and misshapen trunks, writhing hideously like monstrous
boa-constrictors, or resembling the backbones of so many stranded
whales; while here and there a palm-tree shoots up like a column,
displaying its green capital by the side of some tree of European
parentage, which seems surprised at such a neighbour, and alarmed
at seeing the formidable vegetation of Africa crawling at its feet.
An elegant white tower now stood out upon the blue sky behind; it
was the Malaga lighthouse; we had reached our destination. It was
about eight o'clock in the morning; the town was already alive
and stirring: the sailors were passing and re-passing, loading
and unloading the vessels anchored in the port, and displaying
a degree of animation which was something uncommon in a Spanish
town; the women, with their heads and figures enveloped in large
scarlet shawls, which suited their Moorish faces most marvellously,
were walking quickly along, and dragging after them some brat,
who was entirely naked, or who had only got on a shirt. The men,
with their cloaks thrown round them, or their jackets cast over
their shoulders, hurried on their way; and it is a curious fact,
that all this crowd was proceeding in the same direction,--that
is, towards the _Plaza de Toros_. What struck me most, however, in
this multicoloured concourse of people, was the sight of the negro
galley-slaves, dragging a cart. They were of gigantic stature, with
such monstrously savage faces, possessing so little of anything
human, and stamped with such an expression of ferocious brutality,
that on beholding them I stopped motionless with horror, as if they
had been a team of tigers. The kind of linen robe which constituted
their dress rendered their appearance still more diabolical and
fantastic. I do not know what crime had brought them to the
galleys; but I should certainly have sent them there merely because
they were villains enough to have such faces.
[Illustration: MALAGA FROM THE ALAMEDA.]
We put up at the _parador_ of the Three Kings, which, comparatively
speaking, is a very comfortable establishment, shaded by a fine
vine, whose tendrils clustered round the ironwork of the balcony,
and adorned with a large room, where the landlady sat enthroned
behind a counter, loaded with porcelain, somewhat after the
fashion of the Parisian cafés. A very beautiful servant-girl,
a charming specimen of the lovely women for which Malaga is
celebrated all through Spain, showed us to our rooms, and threw us,
for a few minutes, into a state of desperate anxiety, by informing
us that all the places in the circus were already taken, and that
we should have great difficulty in procuring any. Fortunately, our
_cosario_, Lanza, got us two _asientos de preferencia_ (numbered
seats); it is true that they were exposed to the sun, but we did
not care for that. We had long since sacrificed the freshness of
our complexion, and were not particular about our bistre-coloured
yellow faces becoming a trifle more sunburnt. The circus was to be
open during three days consecutively. The tickets for the first day
were crimson; for the second, green; and for the third, blue; in
order that there might be no confusion, and that the lovers of the
sport might not obtain admission twice with the same card.
While we were breakfasting, a company of travelling students
came in. They were four in number, and were more like some of
Ribiera's or Murillo's models than theological students, so ragged,
barefooted, and dirty were they. They sang some comic songs,
accompanying themselves with the tambourine, the triangle, and
the castagnettes. The one who played the _pandero_ was a virtuoso
in his way: he performed on his ass's skin with his knees, his
elbows, and his feet, and, not content with these various means
of percussion, would now and then apply the dirk, ornamented with
its copper circles, on the head of some _muchacho_, or old woman.
One of the students, who was the orator of the band, went round to
collect alms, and indulged, with an excessive amount of volubility,
in all sorts of pleasantry, in order to excite the generosity of
the company. "A _realito_!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into
the most supplicating postures, "so that I may finish my studies,
become a priest, and live without doing anything." Whenever he
obtained a small piece of silver, he stuck it on his forehead, near
to those he had already extorted, exactly like the Almees, who
cover their faces, bathed in perspiration, with the sequins and
piastres which the enchanted Osmanlis have thrown them.
The performances were to begin at five o'clock, but we were advised
to be at the circus at about one, as the corridors would be choked
up by the crowd at an early hour, and prevent us from reaching our
places, although they were numbered and reserved. We swallowed our
breakfast, therefore, as quickly as we could, and set out towards
the _Plaza de Toros_, preceded by our guide Antonio, a tall, thin
fellow, whose waist was tied in most atrociously by a broad red
sash, increasing still more his natural meagreness, which he
pleasantly attributed to the fact of his having been crossed in
love.
The streets were swarming with an immense multitude, which became
more and more dense as we approached the circus; the _aguadors_,
the venders of iced _cebada_, of paper fans, and parasols, and
of cigars, as well as the _calessin_ drivers, were creating a
frightful uproar: a confused rumour floated over the town like a
fog of noise.
After twisting and turning about, for a considerable time, in
the narrow, complicated streets of Malaga, we at last arrived
before the building, whose exterior offers nothing remarkable. A
detachment of troops had considerable difficulty in keeping back
the crowd, which would otherwise have invaded the Circus; although
it was not more than one o'clock, at the latest, the seats were all
occupied from top to bottom, and it was only by a free use of our
elbows, and the interchange of a profusion of invectives, that we
succeeded in reaching our stalls.
The Circus at Malaga is really antique in size, and will contain
twelve or fifteen thousand spectators in its vast funnel-like
interior, of which the arena forms the bottom, while the acroteria
rises to the height of a five-storied house. It gives you a notion
of what the Roman amphitheatres must have been, as well as those
terrible spectacles where men were opposed to wild beasts, under
the eyes of a whole nation.
It is impossible to conceive any sight more strange and more
splendid, than that of these immense rows of seats occupied by an
impatient crowd, endeavouring to while away the hours they had to
wait by all kinds of jokes and _andaluzados_ of the most piquant
originality. The number of persons in modern costume was very
limited; those who were dressed in this manner were greeted with
shouts of laughter, cries, and hisses; this improved the general
appearance of the audience very much; the vivid-coloured jackets
and sashes, the scarlet drapery of the women, and the green and
jonquil fans, prevented the crowd from presenting that black,
lugubrious aspect which always distinguishes it in France, where
the sombre tints predominate.
There was a great number of women present, and I remarked very many
pretty ones among them. The Malagueña is remarkable for the pale,
golden uniformity of her complexion, tinging her cheek no more than
it does her forehead, for her long oval face, the bright carnation
of her lips, the delicacy of her nose, and the brilliancy of her
Arabian eyes, which any one might suppose were tinged with henna,
on account of the length the eyelashes extend towards the temples.
I do not know whether we must attribute it to the severe folds of
drapery round their faces, but they have a serious, passionate
look, which is completely Eastern in its character, and which is
not possessed by the women of Madrid, Granada, or Seville, who are
smaller, more graceful, and more _coquet_, and always thinking
somewhat of the effect they produce. I saw some admirable heads,
superb types, by which the painters of the Spanish school have not
sufficiently profited, and which would furnish an artist of talent
with matter for a series of precious and entirely new studies.
According to our notions, it appears strange that women can like to
witness a performance, in which the lives of human beings are every
moment in danger, where blood flows in large pools, and where the
wretched horses are gored until their feet get entangled in their
own intestines; a person unacquainted with the true state of the
case would be very likely to imagine that women who could do this
were brazen-faced, shameless creatures, but he would be greatly
mistaken.
Never did more gentle, Madonna-like faces, more silken eyelashes,
or more gentle smiles ever watch over a sleeping child. The various
chances of the bull's death are attentively observed by pale,
lovely beings, of whom an elegiac poet would be glad to make an
Elvira. The merit of the different thrusts is discussed by mouths
so pretty that you would fain hear them talk of nothing but love.
Because they behold unmoved scenes of carnage which would cause
our sensitive Parisian beauties to faint, it must not be inferred
that they are cruel and deficient in tenderness of soul; in spite
of their presence at such sights, they are good, simple-minded, and
full of compassion for the unfortunate. But custom is everything;
the sanguinary side of a bull-fight, which is what strikes
foreigners the most forcibly, is exactly that which least interests
Spaniards, who devote their whole attention to the importance of
the different blows and the amount of address displayed by the
_toreros_, who do not run so great a risk as might at first be
imagined.
It was not more than two o'clock, and the sun inundated with a
deluge of fire all the seats on the side we were placed. How we
envied those favoured individuals who were revelling in the bath
of shade, thrown over them by the upper boxes! After riding thirty
leagues in the mountains, the fact of remaining the whole day
exposed to an African sun, with the thermometer at thirty-eight, is
rather creditable on the part of a wretched critic, who, on this
occasion, had paid for his place and did not wish to lose it.
The _asientos de sombra_ (places in the shade) hurled all kinds of
sarcasms at us; they sent us the water-merchants, to prevent us
from catching fire; they begged permission to light their cigars
at our fiery noses, and kindly offered us a little oil in order
that we might be properly fried. We answered as successfully as
our means would allow, and when the shade, shifting as the day
advanced, delivered up one of our tormentors to the rays of the
sun, the event was celebrated by shouts of laughter and an endless
tumult of applause.
Thanks to some jars full of water, some dozen oranges, and two
fans in constant movement, we managed not to catch fire, and we
were not quite roasted, nor struck by apoplexy when the musicians
took possession of the places set apart for them, and the picket
of cavalry proceeded to clear the arena for a whole host of
_muchachos_ and _mozos_, who, by some inexplicable process,
found places among the general mass of spectators, although,
mathematically speaking, there was not room for one more; under
certain circumstances, however, a crowd is marvellously elastic.
An immense sigh of satisfaction proceeded from the fifteen thousand
breasts that were now relieved from the irksome necessity of
waiting any longer. The members of the _Ayuntamiento_ were greeted
with frantic applause, and on their entering their box, the
orchestra struck up the national airs--_Yo que soy Contrabandista_
and the march of _Riego_--the whole assemblage singing them at the
same time, clapping their hands, and stamping their feet.
We do not here pretend to give a detailed account of a bull-fight.
We have already had occasion to describe one with conscientious
accuracy, during our sojourn in Madrid, and shall therefore only
relate the principal events and remarkable instances of skill that
occurred in the course of the performances, during which the same
combatants appeared three days without resting, twenty-four bulls
were killed and ninety-six horses stretched dead upon the arena,
without any accident happening to any of the combatants, with the
exception of one _capeador_, whose arm was slightly gored by a
bull's horn; his wound, however, was not dangerous, and did not
prevent his appearance in the circus the following day.
At five o'clock precisely the gates of the arena were thrown
open, and the actors in the drama about to be presented proceeded
in procession round the circus. At the head were the three
_picadores_, Antonio Sanchez and Jose Trigo, both from Seville, and
Francisco Briones, from Puerto Real, with their hand upon their
hip and their lance upon their foot, as grave as Roman conquerors
going in triumph to the Capitol. On the saddles of their horses was
the name of the proprietor of the circus, Antonio Maria Alvarez,
formed with gilt-headed nails. After them came the _capeadores_ or
_chulos_, with their cocked-hats and gaudy-coloured mantles; while
the _banderilleros_, dressed like Figaro, followed close behind.
In the rear of the cortége, in majestic isolation, marched the two
_matadores_,--_the swords_, as they are styled in Spain,--Montes
de Chiclana, and Jose Parra de Madrid. Montes was always
accompanied by his own faithful quadrille, a very important thing
for the safety of the combatants; for in these times of political
dissensions, it often happens that the Christino _toreros_ will
not assist the Carlist _toreros_ when in danger, and _vice versâ_.
The procession was significantly terminated by the team of mules
destined to remove the dead bulls and horses.
The conflict was about to commence. The Alguazil, dressed in
everyday costume, and whose duty it was to carry the keys of the
_toril_ to the groom of the circus, had a spirited horse, which
he managed very awkwardly, prefacing the tragedy with rather an
amusing farce. He first lost his hat, and then his stirrups. His
trousers, which had no straps, were rucked up as far as his knees
in the most grotesque fashion, and, in consequence of the door
having been maliciously opened for the bull's entrance, before
the alguazil had had time to quit the circus, his fright was
increased to a fearful pitch, rendering him still more ridiculous
by the contortions he threw himself into on his steed. He was not,
however, unhorsed, to the great disappointment of the vulgar; the
bull, dazzled by the torrents of light which inundated the arena,
did not instantly perceive him, but allowed him to escape without
injury. It was therefore in the midst of an immense Homeric and
Olympian fit of laughter that the fight began, but silence was
soon restored, the bull having ripped up the horse of the first
_picador_, and thrown the second.
All our attention was engrossed by Montes, whose name is popular
all through Spain, and whose feats of daring form the subject of
a thousand wonderful stories. Montes was born at Chiclana, in the
neighbourhood of Cadiz. He is from forty to forty-three years
of age, and rather above the middle size. He has a serious cast
of countenance, a deliberate, measured walk, and a pale olive
complexion, with nothing remarkable about him save the mobility of
his eyes, which appear to be the only part of his impassible face
endowed with life; he seems to be more supple than robust, and owes
his success more to his coolness, the justness of his glance, and
his profound study of the art, than to his muscular force. At the
very first step a bull takes in the arena, Montes can tell whether
he is short or long sighted, whether he is _clear_ or _dark_; that
is to say, whether he attacks frankly or has recourse to stratagem,
whether he is _de muchas piernas_ or _aplomado_, light or heavy,
and whether he will shut his eyes to execute the _cogida_, or keep
them open. Thanks to these observations, made with the rapidity of
thought, Montes is always enabled to vary his mode of defence as
circumstances require. However, as he carries his cool temerity to
the greatest possible lengths, he has during his career received a
considerable number of thrusts, as the scar down his cheek proves,
and, on several occasions he has been borne out of the circus
grievously wounded.
On this occasion, he wore an extremely elegant and magnificent suit
of apple-green silk embroidered with silver, for Montes is a rich
man, and, if he still continues to appear in the arena, it is from
a love of the art, and the want of strong emotions; his fortune
amounts to more than 50,000 duros, which is a considerable sum
for him to possess, if we consider what the _matadores_ have to
pay for their dress, a complete suit costing from 1,500 to 2,000
francs, and, also the perpetual journeys they are always making,
accompanied by their quadrille, from one town to another.
Montes is not like other _espadas_, contented with despatching a
bull when the signal of his death is given. He is always on the
watch, he directs the combat, and comes to the succour of the
_picadores_ and _chulos_ in peril. More than one _torero_ owes
his life to Montes' intervention. One bull, that would not allow
his attention to be diverted by the cloaks that the _chulos_ were
waving before him, had ripped up the belly of a horse that he had
thrown down, and was endeavouring to do the same to the rider,
who was protected by the carcass of his steed. Montes seized the
savage beast by the tail, and in the midst of the frantic applause
of the whole assembly, caused him to waltz round several times,
to his infinite disgust; thus allowing time for the _picador_
to be carried off. Sometimes he will place himself motionless
before the bull, with his arms crossed on his breast, and his eye
fixed, and the monster will suddenly stop short, subjugated by
his opponent's look, which is as bright, as sharp, and as cold as
the blade of a sword. A feat of this description is followed by
shouts, bellowings, vociferations, stamping of feet and thunders
of bravoes, of which it is impossible to form any idea; a feeling
of delirium seizes every one present, a general giddiness causes
the fifteen thousand spectators, intoxicated with _aguardiente_,
sunshine, and blood, to reel upon their seats; handkerchiefs are
waved, and hats thrown up into the air, while Montes alone, calm in
the midst of this multitude, enjoys in silence the profound feeling
of joy which he restrains within his own breast, merely bowing
slightly like a man who is capable of performing many other feats
of the same description. I can easily understand a man risking
his life every minute for applause like this; it is not dear at
the price. O ye singers with golden throats, ye fairy-footed
danseuses, ye actors of all descriptions, ye emperors and ye poets,
ye who fancy that you have excited a people's enthusiasm, you never
heard Montes applauded!
Sometimes the spectators themselves beg him to execute one of
those daring feats in which he is always successful. A pretty girl
says to him, as she blows him a kiss, "Come, Señor Montes, come,
Paquirro" (which is his christian name), "I know how gallant you
are; do some trifle, _una cosita_, for a lady." Whereupon Montes
leaps over the bull, placing his head on the animal's neck as he
does so, or else, shaking his cape before the animal's muzzle, by a
rapid movement, wraps it round him so as to form an elegant piece
of drapery with irreproachable folds; he then springs on one side,
and lets the bull, who is unable to stop himself, pass by.
The manner in which Montes kills the bull is remarkable for its
precision, certainty, and ease: with him all idea of danger
ceases; he is so collected and so completely master of himself,
he appears so sure of success, that the combat seems no longer to
be serious, and, perhaps, loses somewhat of its exciting nature.
It is impossible to fear for his life; he strikes the bull where
he likes, when he likes, and how he likes. The chances of the
conflict become somewhat too unequal; a less skilful _matador_
will sometimes produce a more startling effect by the risks and
danger which he incurs. This will, perhaps, appear to be a piece
of refined barbarity; but _aficionados_, and all those persons who
have been present at a bull-fight, and felt interested in favour of
some particularly courageous, frank bull, will most certainly share
our sentiments. A circumstance which happened on the last day of
the performances will prove the truth of our assertion as surely
as it proved, rather harshly, to Montes, how strictly impartial a
Spanish public is both towards man and beast.
A magnificent black bull had just been let loose in the arena. The
quick, decided manner in which he issued from the _toril_ caused
all the connoisseurs present to conceive the highest opinion of
him. He possessed all the qualities requisite for a fighting bull;
his horns were long, sharp, and well-curved; his clean-made, slim,
and nervous legs, showed his extreme agility, while his broad
dewlap and well-developed flanks gave proof of an immense amount
of strength; indeed, he was called the Napoleon of the herd, that
being the only name capable of conveying a suitable idea of his
incontestable superiority. Without hesitating a single instant,
he rushed at the _picador_ stationed near the _tablas_, overthrew
him, together with his horse, who was killed on the spot, and
then attacked the second _picador_, who was not more fortunate,
and whom the assistants had scarcely time to help over the
barrier, severely bruised and injured by his fall. In less than a
quarter of an hour, six horses lay ripped open on the ground; the
_chulos_ only shook their coloured capes at a very long distance
off, without losing sight of the barrier, over which they leaped
immediately Napoleon gave signs of approaching. Montes himself
appeared troubled, and on one occasion had actually placed his foot
on the ledge of the _tablas_, ready to jump over to the other side,
in case he was too closely pressed; a thing he had not done during
the two preceding days. The delight of the spectators was made
manifest by the most noisy exclamations, and the most flattering
compliments for the bull were heard from every mouth. He shortly
afterwards performed a new feat of strength, which wound up the
enthusiasm to its highest possible pitch.
A _sobre-saliente_ (double) _de picador_--for the two principal
ones were too much injured to appear again, was awaiting, lance
in rest, the attack of the terrible Napoleon; the latter, without
paying any attention to the wound he received in the shoulder,
caught the horse under the belly, and, with one movement of his
head, caused him to fall with his fore-legs on the top of the
_tablas_; then, raising his hind quarters by a second movement,
sent him and his master completely over the barrier into the
corridor of refuge which runs all round the arena.
So great an exploit caused thunders of applause. The bull was
master of the field, galloping about victoriously, and amusing
himself, in default of any other adversaries, by tossing into the
air the dead bodies of the horses he had already gored. The supply
of victims was exhausted, and there were no more horses in the
stables of the circus to mount the _picadores_. The _banderilleros_
were seated astride upon the _tablas_, not daring to harass with
their darts, ornamented with paper, so redoubtable an adversary,
whose rage most certainly stood in no need of artificial
excitement. The spectators became impatient at this pause in the
proceedings, and vociferated, _Las banderillas! las banderillas!
Fuego al alcade!_ To the stake with the alcade for not giving the
necessary order! At last, at a sign from the director of the games,
one _banderillero_ detached himself from the rest, and planted two
darts in the neck of the furious animal, immediately retreating as
speedily as possible, but yet not quickly enough, as the bull's
horn grazed his arm, and tore up his sleeve. On seeing this, and
in spite of the hooting and vociferations of the public, the
alcade gave the death order, and made a sign to Montes to take his
_muleta_ and his sword, contrary to all the rules of Tauromachy,
which require that a bull shall have received at least four pairs
of _banderillas_ before being delivered up to the sword of the
_matador_.
Instead of advancing, according to his usual custom, into the
middle of the arena, Montes posted himself at the distance of some
twenty paces from the barrier, in order to have a place of refuge
in case of failure. He was very pale, and, without indulging in any
of those sportive acts and tricks of courage which have procured
him the admiration of all Spain, he displayed the scarlet _muleta_,
and called the bull, who required no pressing to come up to him.
Montes made two or three passes with his _muleta_, holding his
sword horizontally on a level with the monster's eyes; suddenly the
bull fell down, as if struck by lightning, and after giving one
convulsive start, expired. The sword had pierced his forehead and
entered his brain, contrary to the rules of the art, which require
the _matador_ to pass his arm between the horns of the animal, and
stab him between the nape of the neck and the shoulders, thereby
augmenting the danger of the man, but giving some chance to his
four-footed adversary.
When the public understood the blow, for all this had passed with
the rapidity of thought, one universal shout of indignation rose
from the _tendidos_ to the _palcos_; a storm of abuse and hisses,
accompanied by the most incredible tumult, burst forth on all
sides. "Butcher, assassin, brigand, thief, galley-slave, headsman!"
were the gentlest terms employed. "_A centa Montes!_ To the stake
with Montes! To the dogs with Montes! Death to the alcade!" were
the cries which were everywhere heard. Never did I behold such a
degree of fury, and I blush to own that I shared in it myself. Mere
vociferations, however, did not long suffice; the crowd commenced
throwing at the poor wretch fans, hats, sticks, jars full of water,
and pieces of the benches torn up for the purpose. There was still
one more bull to kill, but his death took place unperceived, in
the midst of the horrible tumult. It was Jose Para, the second
_espada_, who despatched the bull, with two very skilful thrusts.
As for Montes, he was livid; his face turned green with rage, and
his teeth made the blood start from his white lips, although he
displayed great calmness, and leant with affected gracefulness on
the hilt of his sword, the point of which, reddened against the
rules, he had wiped in the sand.
On what does popularity depend! On the first and second days of
the performance no person would ever have conceived it possible
that so sure an artist, one so certain of his public as Montes,
could be punished with such severity for an infraction of the
rules, which was, doubtless, called for by the most imperious
necessity, on account of the extraordinary agility, strength, and
fury, of the animal. When the fight was concluded, he got into a
calessin followed by his quadrille, and swearing by all that he
held sacred that he would never put his foot in Malaga again. I do
not know whether he has kept his word, and remembered the insults
of the last day longer than the triumphs and applause of the two
preceding ones. At present, I am of opinion that the public of
Malaga was unjust towards the great Montes de Chiclana, all whose
blows had been superbly aimed, and who, in every case of danger,
had displayed heroic coolness, and admirable address, so much so,
indeed, that the delighted audience had made him a present of all
the bulls he killed, and allowed him to cut off an ear of each, to
show that they were his property, and could not be claimed either
by the hospital or the proprietor of the circus.
We returned to our _parador_, giddy, intoxicated, and saturated
with violent emotion, hearing nothing, as we passed along the
streets, but the praises of the bull, and imprecations against
Montes.
The same evening, in spite of my fatigue, I procured a guide to
conduct me to the theatre, wishing to pass immediately from the
sanguinary reality of the circus to the intellectual emotions of
the stage. The contrast was striking; the one was full of life and
noise, the other was deserted and silent. The house was almost
empty, only a few spectators being scattered here and there over
the melancholy benches; and yet the entertainments consisted of
"The Lovers of Ternel," a drama by Don Juan Eugenio Hartzembusch,
and one of the most remarkable productions of the modern Spanish
school. It is the touching and poetical story of two lovers, who
remain unalterably faithful to one another, in spite of a thousand
various seductions and obstacles. Notwithstanding all the author's
endeavours--which are often very successful--to vary a situation
that is always the same, the piece would appear too simple to a
French audience. The passionate portions are treated with a great
deal of warmth and impulse, occasionally disfigured by a certain
melodramatic exaggeration, to which the author abandons himself
too easily. The love of the Sultana of Valencia for Isabel's
lover, Juan Diego Martinez Garces de Marsilla, whom she causes
to be drugged with a narcotic and brought into the harem; the
vengeance of this same Sultana when she sees that she is despised,
the guilty letters of Isabel's mother, which are found by Roderigo
d'Azagra, who uses them as a means of marrying the daughter, and
threatens to show them to the deceived husband, are, perhaps,
rather improbable incidents, but they afford an opportunity for
touching and dramatic scenes. The piece is written partly in verse
and partly in prose. As far as a foreigner can judge of the
style of a language, all the niceties of which he can never fully
appreciate, Hartzembusch's verses struck me as being superior to
his prose. They are free, bold, animated, and offer a great variety
in their form; they are also tolerably free from those poetical
amplifications into which the facility of their prosody often leads
the poets of southern countries. His prose dialogue appears to be
imitated from that of modern French melodramas, and offends by its
heavy, bombastic style. "The Lovers of Ternel" is really a literary
work, far superior to the translations, arranged, or deranged, from
the pieces played in the Boulevard theatres of Paris, and which
inundate the Peninsula. In "The Lovers of Ternel," you perceive
traces of the old ballads and great Spanish dramatists; and it is
greatly to be desired that the young poets on the other side the
Pyrenees would pursue this course rather than translate a quantity
of wretched melodramas into a Castilian more or less pure.
A very comic _saynete_ followed the serious piece. It set forth
the troubles of an old bachelor, who takes a pretty servant of
"all-work," as the advertisements say. The little rogue first
introduces as her brother a great strapping Valencian, six feet
high, with enormous whiskers, a tremendous _navaja_, an insatiable
appetite and inextinguishable thirst; she then brings into the
house a cousin, who is quite as wild a gentleman as her brother,
and is bristling with an unlimited number of blunderbusses,
pistols, and other dangerous arms. The said cousin is followed
by an uncle, who is a smuggler, and carries with him a complete
arsenal and a face to correspond, to the great terror of the
old man, who is very repentant for his improper levity. All
these various rascals were represented by the actors in the most
truthful and admirable manner. At last, a nephew appears, who is a
well-behaved young soldier, and delivers his uncle from the band of
ruffians who have taken up their quarters in his house, embraced
his servant while they were drinking his wine, smoked his cigars
and pillaged his dwelling. The uncle promises never to be served
for the future by any but old men-servants. The _saynetes_ resemble
our vaudevilles, but the plot is less complicated, sometimes
consisting merely of detached scenes, like the interludes in
Italian comedies.
The performances terminated with a _bayle nacional_, executed
by two couples of dancers and danseuses, in a very satisfactory
manner. Although the Spanish danseuses do not possess the
correct and accurate precision, or the elevated style of the
French danseuses, they are, in my opinion, vastly superior to
them by their graceful and fascinating appearance. As they study
but little, and do not subject themselves, in order to render
their bodies supple, to those terrible exercises which cause
a professional dancing-room to resemble a chamber of torture,
they avoid that race-horse sort of thinness which makes our
ballet-dancers look rather too deathlike and anatomical; they
preserve the outlines and fulness of their sex; they resemble women
dancing and not danseuses, which is a very different thing. Their
style has not anything in common with that of the French school. In
the latter, the immovability and perpendicularity of the upper part
of the body are expressly recommended, and the body never takes
part in the movement of the legs. In Spain, the feet hardly leave
the ground; there are none of those grand pirouettes or elevating
of the legs, which make a woman look like a pair of compasses
opened to their fullest extent, and which, in Spain, are considered
revoltingly indecent. It is the body which dances, the back which
undulates, the sides which bend, the waist which moves with all the
suppleness of an Almee or a serpent. When a Spanish danseuse throws
herself back, her shoulders almost touch the ground; her arms, in
a deathlike swoon, are as flexible and limp as a floating scarf;
you would think that her hands could scarcely raise and rattle
the ivory castagnettes with their golden strings, and yet, when
the proper moment is come, this voluptuous languor is succeeded
by the activity of a young African lion, proving that the body as
soft as silk envelopes muscles of steel. At the present day, the
Moorish Almees follow the same system; their dancing consists of a
series of harmoniously wanton undulations of the bust, the hips,
and the back, with the arms thrown back over the head. The Arabian
traditions have been preserved in the national dances, especially
those of Andalusia.
Although the Spanish male dancers are but mediocre, they have a
dashing, bold, and gallant bearing, which I greatly prefer to the
equivocal and vapid graces of ours. They are taken up neither by
themselves nor the public, and have not a look or a smile for any
one but their partner, of whom they appear passionately enamoured,
and whom they seem ready to defend against all comers. They possess
a ferocious kind of grace, a certain insolently daring demeanour,
which is peculiar to them. After wiping off their paint, they would
make excellent _banderilleros_, and might spring from the boards of
a theatre to the arena of the circus.
The _Malagueña_, which is a dance confined to Malaga, is really
most poetical and charming. The cavalier appears first, with his
_sombrero_ slouched over his eyes, and his scarlet cloak thrown
round him, like that of some hidalgo walking about in search of
adventures. The lady then enters, draped in her mantilla, and with
her fan in her hand, like a lady who is going to take a turn in
the _Almeda_. The cavalier endeavours to catch a glance of the
mysterious siren, but she manœuvres her fan so coquetishly, and so
well, she shuts and opens it so opportunely, she twists it about
so promptly on a level with her pretty face, that the gallant is
completely baffled, and retires a few steps to think of some new
stratagem. He rattles the castagnettes under his cloak. Directly
she hears them, the lady pricks up her ears; she smiles, her
breast heaves, and the tip of her little satin shoe marks the time
in spite of her; she throws aside her fan and her mantilla, and
appears in a gay dancing costume, glittering with spangles and
tinsel, with a rose in her hair, and a large tortoiseshell comb at
the back of her head. The cavalier then casts aside his mask and
cloak, and the two personages execute a deliciously original dance.
As I returned along the beach, and looked upon the sea which
reflected in its mirror of dark steel the pale visage of the moon,
I reflected on the contrast between the crowded circus and the
empty theatre,--on the eagerness displayed by the multitude for
brutal reality, and its indifference for the speculations of the
mind. As a poet, I could not help envying the gladiator, and I
regretted having given up action for reverie. The day before, at
the same theatre, they had played a piece of Lope de Vega, which
had not been more attractive than the work of the younger writer;
so that ancient genius and modern talent were not worth a thrust
from the sword of Montes!
Nor are the other theatres in Spain much better attended than that
at Malaga, not even the _Teatro del Principe_ in Madrid, although
there is a very great actor there,--namely, Julian Romea--and an
excellent actress, Matilde Diez. The course of the old Spanish
drama appears to be hopelessly dried up; and yet never did a
more copious stream flow in a broader channel,--never did there
exist a more profound and inexhaustible amount of fecundity. Our
most prolific vaudeville writers are still far behind Lope de
Vega, who never had any one to assist him, and whose works are so
numerous that the exact number is not known, and there is hardly a
complete copy of them to be found. Without including his comedies
_de cape et d'épée_, in which he has no rival, Calderon de la
Barca has written a multitude of _autos sacramentales_, which are
a kind of Roman-catholic mysteries, in which strange profundity
of thought and singularity of conception are united to the most
enchanting and luxuriously elegant poetry. It would require a
whole series of folio catalogues merely to enumerate the titles of
the pieces written by Lope de Rueda, Montalban, Guevara, Quevedo,
Tirso, Rojas, Moreto, Guilhen de Castro, Diamante, and a host of
others. The number of theatrical pieces written in Spain during
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries surpasses all that we
can imagine: we might as well endeavour to count the leaves in
the forest or the grains of sand upon the sea-shore. They are
almost all composed in verse of eight feet, varied by assonants,
and printed in two columns quarto, with a coarse engraving as a
frontispiece, each forming a book of from six to eight leaves.
The booksellers' shops are full of them; thousands may be seen
hung up pell-mell in the midst of the ballads and legends in verse
sold at the bookstalls in the streets. Without any exaggeration,
the epigram written on a too prolific Roman poet, who was, after
his death, burnt upon a funereal pile formed of his own books,
might be applied to most of the Spanish dramatic authors. They
possess a fertility of invention, an abundance of incidents, and
a complication of plot, of which no one can form any idea. Long
before Shakspeare the Spaniards invented the Drama; their works are
dramatic in the broadest acceptation of the word; and, with the
exception of some few erudite puerilities, they copy neither from
the Greeks nor the Romans, but, as Lope de Vega says in his "Arte
Nuevo de hacer Comedias in este Tiempo,"--
" ... Cuando he de escribir una comedia
Encierro los preceptos con seis llaves."
Spanish dramatic authors do not seem to have paid much attention
to the delineation of character, although fine, cutting instances
of observation are to be met with in each scene. But man is not
studied philosophically; and in their dramas you seldom find
those episodical figures so frequent in England's great tragic
poet,--those life-like sketches which are only indirectly connected
with the action of the piece, and have no other object than that
of presenting another phase of the human soul, another original
individuality, or reflection of the poet's mind. The Spanish author
rarely allows the public to perceive anything of his own peculiar
character until he asks pardon, at the conclusion of the drama, for
the faults of which he has been guilty.
The _primum mobile_ in Spanish pieces is the point of honour.
"Los Cusos de la honra son mejores,
Porque mueven con fuerza a toda gente,
Con ellos las acciones virtuosas
Que la virtud es donde quiera amada,"
says Lope de Vega, who was a pretty good judge in the matter,
and did not fail to follow his own precept. The point of honour
played the same part in the Spanish comedies as Fatality did
in the tragedies of the Greeks. Its inflexible laws and cruel
alternatives easily gave rise to dramatic scenes of deep interest.
_El Pundonor_, which was a kind of chivalric religion, with its
own laws, subtleties, and niceties, is far superior to the Ἀνάγκη,
or Fatality of the ancients, whose blow fell blindly, and by mere
chance, on the innocent, as well as on the guilty. When a person
reads the Greek tragic authors, his mind frequently revolts at
the situation of the hero, who is equally guilty, whether he
acts or no; but the point of honour of the Castilians is always
perfectly logical, and consonant with itself. Besides, it is only
an exaggerated representative of all human virtues carried to the
highest pitch of susceptibility. In his most horrible fits of rage,
and in his most frightful acts of revenge, the hero maintains a
noble and solemn attitude. It is always in the name of loyalty,
conjugal fidelity, respect for his ancestors, and the honour of
his name, that he draws his iron-hilted sword, frequently against
those whom he loves with all his soul, and whom he is compelled by
stern necessity to immolate. From this struggle of the passions
with the point of honour springs the interest of most of the pieces
of the old Spanish theatre, a profound and sympathetic interest
keenly felt by the spectators, who in a similar position would
not have acted otherwise than the personages of the drama. We can
no longer be astonished at the prodigious fertility of the old
dramatists of the Peninsula, when we reflect upon the inexhaustible
nature of their subject, which was so well suited to the manners
of the times. Another source of interest, not less rich, was found
in virtuous actions, chivalric devotion, sublime self-abnegation,
supernatural passion, and ideal delicacy, resisting the most
skilfully-combined plots, and the most complicated intrigues. In
cases of this description, the poet seems to have undertaken the
task of representing to the spectators a finished model of human
perfection, heaping on the head of his prince or princess all the
good qualities on which he can lay his hand, and making them more
careful of their purity than the white ermine, who prefers death to
a single spot upon its snow-like fur.
A profound sentiment of catholicism and feudal customs pervades the
whole Spanish theatre, which is truly national, both in matter and
form. The division of the pieces into three days adopted by the
Spanish authors, is certainly the most reasonable and most logical.
Every well-constructed dramatic piece naturally consists of the
exposition, the complicated consequences arising therefrom, and the
unravelling of the same. This is an arrangement we should do well
to adopt, in place of the ancient form in five acts, two of which
are often useless, the second and the fourth.
It must not, however, be supposed that the old Spanish pieces were
exclusively sublime. The grotesque, that indispensable element of
mediæval art, is often introduced under the form of the _gracioso_,
or _bobo_ (simpleton), who enlivens the serious portion of the
action by pleasantries and jokes more or less broad, producing,
in contrast to the hero, the same effect as the misshapen dwarfs
playing, in their many-coloured doublets, with greyhounds bigger
than themselves, as we see them represented by the side of kings
and princes, in the old pictures of public galleries.
Moratin, the author of the "Si de las Niñas" and "El Café,"
whose tombs may be seen in Père la Chaise at Paris, was the last
reflection of dramatic art in Spain, just as the old painter Goya,
who died at Bordeaux, in 1828, was the last whom we could look on
as a descendant of the great Velasquez.
At present, hardly anything else is played in Spanish theatres but
translations of French dramas and vaudevilles. At Jaen, in the
very heart of Andalusia, they give "Le Sonneur de Saint Paul;" at
Cadiz, which is but two steps from Africa, "Le Gamin de Paris."
The "Saynetes," which were formerly so gay and so original, and
possessing such a strong local tinge, are at present nothing save
imitations of the repertory of the Théâtre des Variétés. Not to
speak of Don Martinez de la Rosa, and Don Antonio Gil y Zarate, who
already belong to a less recent period, the Peninsula can still
boast of several young and talented authors of great promise; but
public attention in Spain, as in France, is diverted from the stage
by the gravity of political events. Hartzembusch, the author of
the "Lovers of Ternel;" Castro y Orozco, to whose pen we owe "Fray
Luis de Leon, or the Age and the World;" Zorilla, who brought out
successfully the drama of "El Rey y el Zapatero;" Breton de los
Herreros, the Duke de Rivas, Larra, who committed suicide for love;
Espronceda, whose death has just been announced in the papers, and
whose writings were characterized by a wild and passionate energy,
sometimes worthy of his model, Byron, are--alas! in speaking of the
last two we must say, were, men of great literary merit, ingenious,
elegant, and easy poets, who might take their places by the side
of the old masters, did they not want what we all want,--namely, a
sure and certain point to start from, a stock of ideas common both
to them and the public. The point of honour and the heroism of the
old pieces are either no longer understood or appear ridiculous,
and the belief of modern times is not sufficiently definite to
enable poets to describe it in their verse.
We must not, therefore, be too severe in judging the crowd, who
rush to the bull-ring and seek for emotion where it is to be
found; after all, it is not the people's fault that the stage
is not more attractive; all the worse for us poets, if we allow
ourselves to be beaten by the gladiators. In conclusion, it is more
healthy both for the mind and the body to see a brave man kill a
savage beast beneath the canopy of heaven, than to listen to an
actor without talent singing some obscene vaudeville, or spouting a
number of sophisticated lines before a row of smoky footlights.