A DAY IN SPAIN
There is always a thrill about motoring for the first time in a new
country. We had long looked forward to crossing the Spanish frontier and
visiting the summer capital of King Alfonso XIII. It was a ride of about
thirty miles, far too short for one of the most interesting sweeps of
country to be found anywhere in Europe.
There was plenty of variety. This Basque country, forming a triangular
corner of northern Spain and reaching over into France, is full of it.
The people speak a dialect which is as much a puzzle to Spanish as to
French. Until less than half a century ago, they had retained their
independence. Proud of their history, and claiming to be the oldest race
in Europe, they still cling to their language and hold to their ancient
customs, their dances, songs, and pastoral plays. In this region of
valleys and mountains we were always within sight or sound of the sea,
the road approaching a smooth, white beach washed with foam, or sinking
into a quiet valley drowsy with the faint monotone of the waves.
A few miles before reaching Spain is the old seaside town of St.
Jean-de-Luz, once the winter headquarters of Wellington and now buried
in the shade of its venerable trees. The life in this little village of
only four thousand people was not always so simple as it is now. Louis
XIV was a frequent visitor, with his courtiers. One can see the château
where the "Grand Monarque" lodged at the time of his marriage to the
Infanta Marie Thérèse of Spain on June 9, 1660. Another page from this
gorgeous period is the church of St. Jean Baptiste, where the ceremony
took place. Following the Basque custom, the upper galleries are
reserved for the men, while the area below is reserved for the women.
On reaching the Franco-Spanish frontier village of Béhobie a French
officer appeared and, after he had entered the necessary details in his
book, allowed us to cross the bridge over the Bidassoa River into Spain.
This part of the town is called Béhobeia. It is a unique arrangement,
this administration of what is practically one and the same town by two
different countries. Yet the difference between Béhobie and Béhobeia is
as great as the difference between France and Spain. The houses across
the river began to display the most lively colors. It would have been
hard to say whether browns, pinks, blues, or greens predominated. Some
of the people wore blue shoes. Red caps were the style for cab drivers.
Of course we looked around for some of our "castles in Spain," but saw
instead the Spanish customhouse. An official came out, modestly arrayed
in more than Solomon's glory. He wore red trousers, yellow hose, and
blue shoes, and looked as though in more prosperous days he might have
been a _matador_. We had forgotten to bring along a fluent supply of
Spanish. The oversight caused us no inconvenience. French is sufficient
to carry one through any matter of official red tape.
One hears many reports about the difficulty of passing the Spanish
customhouse, the severity of the examination, of the long delays. At our
hotel in Biarritz they told us that the only safe way would be to pay
eight francs to a private company on the French side of the frontier,
and that with the _passavant_ so obtained, together with our
_triptyque_, we would not only secure prompt service but also make this
company responsible for our safety while in Spain. So much solicitude
made us wonder just what percentage of our eight francs would be
received by this hotel proprietor, so we decided to cross the frontier
without the much advised _passavant_.
These warnings proved to be exaggerated. The delay was not greater than
it would have been in France or Germany. The _douaniers_ were,
nevertheless, keenly alert to prevent the smuggling of motor supplies
for purposes of sale in Spain. These articles are much more expensive in
Spain than elsewhere in Europe. The number of our tires was noted, so
that the officials could make sure that we carried the same number of
tires out of the country. Another arrangement, new to us, was the method
of ascertaining how much the gasoline duty would be. The amount of
gasoline in the tank was calculated by depth only and not by capacity.
A hundred fascinating scenes of Spanish country life attracted our
attention. Peasant women, evidently returning from market, bestraddled
patient little donkeys, or walked, balancing on their heads burdens of
various kinds. One of them carried a baby under one arm, a pail filled
with wine bottles under the other, and all the time preserved with her
head the equilibrium of a basket piled several stories high with
household articles. We would not have been greatly surprised to see
another baby tucked away somewhere in the top story. These peasant types
looked bent and worn, their wrinkled faces old from drudging toil in the
fields; they fitted in perfectly with the dilapidated farmhouses. The
country was fertile, with vineyards and cornfields, but a prosperity in
such contrast with the wretched homes of the people. Little donkeys
strained in front of heavily loaded wagons that would have taxed the
strength of a large horse. The ox carts were curious creations, the
wheels being without spokes, as though made from a single piece of flat
board. The small chimneys on the houses resembled those which we had
seen in Italy. We did not see a single plow, not even a wooden one; the
peasants of the Basque country use instead the _laga_, or digging
fork, an implement shaped like the letter "h."
[Illustration: _The ox-carts were curious creations_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
San Sebastian is a clean, fresh-looking city, a place essentially,
almost exaggeratedly, Spanish, with all that gayety and vivid
architecture which one naturally expects to see in a place patronized by
the royal court. It was hopeless to think of finding a place for our car
in any garage. They were all full. This was the day of the bull fight.
From different parts of Spain, as well as from France, motorists had
swarmed in to see the _matadors_ show their skill and daring. In Spain
the people divert themselves at the bull fight very much as we would go
to see a baseball game. We saw motor cars stationed in long files in the
streets.
Leaving our car to stand in the rear of one of these imposing lines, we
strolled down a bright, picturesque street to the Concha. Just as La
Grande Plage represents Biarritz, so the Concha represents San
Sebastian. "Concha" suggests a bay shaped like a shell. The word exactly
describes the beautiful body of water around which the city is built.
Through the narrow channel we could see the waves roll in, contracted
at first, then widening as they sweep down the bay to break on the long,
curving stretch of yellow sand. From the Concha we could see the white
walls of the royal Villa Miramar. The fortress La Mota guarded from its
high elevation the narrow entrance to the harbor. We walked along the
Paseo de la Concha, in the dense shade of tamarisk trees which nearly
encircled the bay. Sitting in chairs under the trees were Spanish girls,
their dark eyes glowing through their black lace veils. The scene was
full of color, completely Spanish, the green of the tamarisks shining
between the golden sands and the white villas which edged the water. We
watched the bathers, haughty dons from Madrid and peasants from Aragon,
for the moment on a level in the joyous democracy of the surf.
After lunching at the Continental Hotel, fronting on the Concha, we
turned our steps in the direction of the amphitheater, where the bull
fight was to take place. The tickets cost twelve _pesetas_ (about $2.40)
apiece. It was not with any anticipation of pleasure that we decided to
watch the Spaniards engage in their national sport. The bull fight is a
combination of a scene from the Chicago stockyards and from an ancient
Roman arena. It is a succession of shivers and thrills, from the first
blast of the trumpet announcing the entry of the _toreadors_ to the
final _estocade_, when the last bull falls dying upon the bloody sand.
Few of the _toreadors_ die a natural death. Connected with the large
amphitheater is the operating room, where the wounded fighters can
receive prompt treatment. We were told that it is customary for them to
receive the sacrament before entering into the arena. Their coolness and
dexterity in sidestepping the mad rushes of the bull are wonderful. But
the moment comes when the bull is unexpectedly quick, when the foot
slips just a little, or when the eye misjudges the precious fraction of
an inch which may mean life or death. We noticed at regular intervals,
around the arena, wooden barriers, placed just far enough from the main
encircling barrier to let the hard-pressed _toreador_ slip in, when
there was no time to vault.
These exhibitions take place all over Spain, and in San Sebastian at
least once a week. There is keen rivalry between Spanish cities over
the skill of their _toreadors_. Bull fighting is not on the decline. The
city of Cordova has just started a school for the training of
professional bull fighters.
When we arrived the amphitheater was crowded to the highest tier of
seats. The vast crowd, impatient, whistled and shouted. Attendants
passed among the spectators, selling Spanish fans painted with
bull-fight scenes. The large orchestra was playing. Suddenly, above the
music and the noise of the crowds, sounded the piercing blast of a
trumpet. The music ceased. The crowd became silent, then cheered and
clapped as doors swung open and two horsemen dashed out and made the
tour of the arena. They were followed by a procession of _toreadors_,
_picadores_, and _banderilleros_, with their attendants. The _picadores_
were armed with long pikes with which to enrage the bull. They were
mounted on wretched skeletons of so-called horses, with one eye
blindfolded. Six bulls were to battle with their tormentors before
finally falling, pierced by the _toreador's_ sword. Three or four horses
are usually killed by each bull. The _banderilleros_ appear in the
second phase of the struggle, after the horses have been killed. They
are on foot. Their work is to face the bull, infuriated by the pikes of
the _picadores_, and to plant in his neck several darts, each over two
feet long and decorated with ribbons. The _toreador_ comes on the scene
the last of all, when the bull, though tired, is still dangerous. It
would be a mistake to imagine that the bulls are spiritless, or have
been so starved that they are weak, without strength, energy, and
courage. These animals that we saw leap into the arena were all
specially bred Andalusian bulls, the very picture of strength and wild
ferocity.
We have no desire to describe in detail the barbarous spectacle which
followed. In front of us sat an American couple. It was the lady's first
bull fight, and when the moment was critical, the scene a gory confusion
of bull, horses, and _picadores_, she would scream and hide her face
behind her fan. In contrast, were the Spanish girls seated around us.
Their faces were whitened more by powder than by emotion. They would
languidly move embroidered fans, or wave them with gentle enthusiasm
when the _banderillero_ planted a daring dart or the _toreador_ thrust
home the death stroke.
There was one moment in that exhibition, however, when even their
hardened indifference to suffering was touched. One of the
_banderilleros_ planted his dart in the neck of the bull, but slipped
while trying to get away from the enraged beast. There was a cry of
horror, a groan of pity from the crowd as the great armed head lifted
its victim and hurled him thirty feet through the air. The man struck
heavily on the sand, moved a little, and then lay motionless. There was
no shouting at that moment. An agony of suspense pervaded the
amphitheater. But the bull was given no opportunity to follow up his
attack; a _toreador_ waved a red cape before his eyes; another dart was
planted in his neck. He turned savagely to face and charge on his new
assailants, who nimbly avoided his rush. The wounded man was carried
from the arena. The enthusiasm and cheers of the crowd were unbounded
when he revived and struggled with the attendants to get back into the
arena.
[Illustration: _The death stroke_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
After all, human nature has changed but little under these southern
skies, so that what the plebeian sought in the gladiatorial combats of
the amphitheater, the Spaniard or Frenchman of to-day seeks and finds in
the bloody scenes of the _course de tauraux_.
We left early to get a start of the rush of motor cars for the French
frontier, but others had done the same thing, so that by the time the
Spanish authorities had stamped our _sortie definitive_, we found the
international bridge filled with cars, all impatiently waiting to take
their turn at the French _douane_. Then amid a whirl of dust and a
blowing of horns, car after car leaped for the homeward flight. Ahead of
us and behind us, cars of every make, motor horns of every variety. The
dust fog was continuous. Every one seemed racing to get out of it. It
was a likely place for an accident. There was the wind-smothered shriek
of a horn as a French racer shot by to lead the exciting procession.
Farther ahead, the road turned sharply, and we stopped to find thirty or
forty cars held up at a railway crossing. One of them was the French
racer; officers were taking her number. It was growing dark, and we
lighted our lamps. Looking back from the summit of a long hill, we could
see the lights of other cars swiftly ascending around the curves. The
wind was rising. Through the twilight came the dull roaring of heavy
surf. A revolving beacon light, appearing and then disappearing,
announced that we were once more in Biarritz.