Spanish Highways and Byways

The genius of Velázquez dwelt not above the earth, but upon it, in the heart of its most brilliant life. He was no dreamer of dreams; he "painted the thing as he saw it," and with what sure eyes he saw, and with what a firm and glowing brush he painted! His sala surrounds us at once with an atmosphere of brightness, beauty, elegance, variety, delight. His work is so superb, so supreme, that, like perfect manners, it puts even the humblest of us at our ease. We are not artists, but we seem to understand Velázquez.

Of course we don't. No knight of the palette would admit it for an instant. What can the rabble know of the mysterious compoundings and touchings from which sprang these splendors of color that outshine the centuries? Young men with streaming hair are continually escorting awed-looking señoras about the room, discoursing with dramatic vehemence on the "periods" of the Master's work. As a youth at Seville, they explain, Velázquez had of necessity taken religious subjects, for the Church was the chief patron of art in Andalusia; but his natural bent even then displayed itself in tavern studies and sketches of popular types, as the "Water-seller of Seville" and the "Old Woman Frying Eggs." Of his early religious pieces the archbishop's palace of Seville keeps "San Ildefonso Receiving the Chasuble from the Hands of the Virgin," and the National Gallery of London secured "Christ in the House of Martha," but "The Adoration of the Kings" hangs here at our right as we enter the Velázquez sala. A little stiff, say these accomplished critics, with a suggestion of the dry manner of his master, Pacheco, but bear you in mind that this is the production of a youth of twenty. It is obvious, too, that Andalusians, not celestial visions, served him as models.

A longing to see the Tintorets and Titians, those starry treasures of the dark Escorial, drew him to Madrid at twenty-three. Here he was fortunate in finding friends, who brought his portraits to the notice of Philip IV, a dissolute boy ruled by the Count-Duke Olivares. Youth inclines to youth. Velázquez was appointed painter to the king at the same salary as that paid to the royal barber, and henceforth he had no care in life but to paint. And how he painted! His first portraits of Philip show a blond young face, with high brow, curled mustache, the long Hapsburg chin, and eyes that hint strange secrets. Again and again and again Velázquez traced those Austrian features, while the years stamped them ever more deeply with lines of pride and sin – a tragic face in the end as it was ill-omened in the beginning. But the masterpiece of Velázquez's twenties is "The Drunkards," a scene of peasant revelry where the young are gloriously tipsy and the old are on the point of maudlin tears. Here it is, Los Borrachos, farther to the right. In looking on it one remembers that a contemporary realist, in the Protestant island which has often been so sharp a thorn in Spain's side, likewise crowned the achievement of his springtime by a group of topers, Prince Hal and Falstaff and their immortal crew.

Not the influence of Rubens, who spent nine months in Spain in 1628-29, painting like the wind, nor a visit to the Holy Land of Raphael and Michael Angelo could make Velázquez other than he was. This "Vulcan's Forge," which we see here, painted in Italy, is mythological only in the title. Back he came at the royal summons, to paint more portraits – Philip over and over, on foot, on horseback, half length, full length, all lengths; the winsome Infante Baltasar, as a toddling baby with his dwarf, as a gallant little soldier, hunter, horseman, and in the princely dignity of fourteen, when he had but three more years to live; the sad French queen, the king's brother, the magnificent Olivares, the sculptor Montañes, counts, dukes, buffoons. Within these twenty years Velázquez produced his two most famous works of religious tenor – "Christ Bound to the Column," a "captain jewel" of the London National Gallery, and that majestic "Crucifixion" before which Spaniards in the Prado bare their heads. But the crown of this period is Las Lanzas, or "The Surrender of Breda," which holds the place of honor on the wall fronting the door. It is vivid past all praise, and nobler than any battle scene in its beauty of generosity. The influence of Italy had told especially on Velázquez's backgrounds. The bright, far landscapes opening out beyond his portrayed figures, especially those on horseback, – and his horses are as lifelike as his dogs, – give to the sala an exhilarating effect of free space and wide horizons.

In 1650 he made his second visit to Rome, where he portrayed Pope Innocent X. Nine years of glorious work in Spain remained to him. Still he painted the king, even at his royal prayers, for which there was full need, and the young Austrian queen, who had succeeded the dead mother of the dead Baltasar. On that happy left-hand wall of the sala shines, in all its vigorous grace, the "Mercury and Argos," but if the hundred eyes of Argos are ready to close, their place is supplied by the terrible scrutiny of a row of portraits, embarrassing the boldest of us out of note-taking. How those pairs of pursuing black eyes, sage and keen and mocking, stare the starers out of countenance! The series of pet dwarfs is here, old Æsop, and Menippus, and the sly buffoon, "Don Juan of Austria." Of these two wonder-works, Las Meninas, "The Maids of Honor," has a room to itself, and thus Las Hilanderas, "The Weavers," becomes the central magnet of this returning wall. A saint picture and even a coronation of the Virgin cannot draw the crowds from before this ultimate triumph of the actual – this factory interior, where a group of peasant women fashion tapestries, while a broad shaft of sunshine works miracles in color.

And this, too, is Spanish. Cervantes is as true a facet of many-sided Spain as Calderon, and Velázquez as Murillo. With all the national propensity to emotion and exaggeration, Spaniards are a truth-seeing people. The popular coplas are more often satiric than sentimental. They like to bite through to the kernel of fact, even when it is bitter. Velázquez, with his rich and noble realism, is of legitimate descent.

XX

CHORAL GAMES OF SPANISH CHILDREN

"Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,She turns to favor and to prettiness."– Shakespeare: Hamlet.

On one of my last afternoons in Madrid, I visited again my early haunts in the Buen Retiro, for a farewell sight of the children there at play. After all, it is one of the prettiest things to be seen in Spain, these graceful, passionate, dramatic little creatures dancing in tireless circles, and piping those songs that every niña knows, without being able to tell when or where or from whom she learned them. Only very small boys, as a rule, join the girls in these fairy rings, though occasionally I found a troop of urchins marching to a lusty chorus of their own. One, which I heard in Madrid, but whose parrots are more suggestive of Seville, runs something like this: —

"In the street they call ToledoIs a famous school for boys,Chundarata, chundarata,Chundarata, chún-chún;Where all we lads are goingWith a most heroic noise,Chundarata, chundarata,Chundarata, chún-chún."And the parrots on their perches,They mock us as we go,Chundarata, chundarata,Chundarata, chún-chún.'I hate my school,' whines Polly,'For my master beats me so,'Chundarata, chundarata,Chundarata, chún-chún."

Another, which came to me in fragments, is sung in playing soldier.

"The Catalans are coming,Marching two by two.All who hear the drummingTiptoe for a view.Ay, ay!Tiptoe for a view.Red and yellow banners,Pennies very few.Ay, ay!Pennies very few."Red and yellow banners!The Moon comes out to see.If moons had better manners,She'd take me on her knee.Ay, ay!Take me on her knee.She peeps through purple shutters,Would I were tall as she!Ay, ay!Would I were tall as she!"Soldiers need not learn letters,Nor any schooly thing,But unless they mind their betters,In golden chains they'll swing.Ay, ay!In golden chains they'll swing.Or sit in silver fetters,Presents from the King.Ay, ay!Presents from the King."

This ironic touch, so characteristically Spanish, reappears in many of the games, as in A La Limón, known throughout the Peninsula and the Antilles. I should expect to find it, too, in corners of Mexico, South America, the Philippines, wherever the Spanish oppressor has trod and the oppressor's children have sported in the sun. The little players, ranged in two rows, each row hand in hand, dance the one toward the other and retreat, singing responsively. With their last couplet, the children of the first line raise their arms, forming arches, and the children of the second line, letting go hands, dance under these arches as they respond.

1. "A la limón, á la limón!All broken is our bright fountain.2. "A la limón, á la limón!Give orders to have it mended.1. "A la limón, á la limón!We haven't a bit of money.2. "A la limón, á la limón!But we have money in plenty.1. "A la limón, á la limón!What kind of money may yours be?2. "A la limón, á la limón!Oh, ours is money of eggshells.1. "A la limón, á la limón!An arch for the lords and ladies.2. "A la limón, á la limón!Right merrily we pass under."

Another lyric dialogue, whose fun is spent on the lean purses of students and the happy-go-lucky life of Andalusia, must have originated since the overthrow, in 1892, of the leaning tower of Saragossa. The stanzas are sung alternately by two rows of children, advancing toward each other and retreating with a dancing step.

1. "In Saragossa– Oh, what a pity! —Has fallen the tower,Pride of the city.2. "Fell it by tempest,Fairies or witches,The students will raise it,For students have riches.1. "Call on the students,Call louder and louder!They've only two coppersTo buy them a chowder.2. "Chowder of studentsIs sweeter than honey,But the gay AndalusiansHave plenty of money.1. "The gay AndalusiansHave fiddle and ballad,But only two coppersTo buy them a salad.2. "In Saragossa– Oh, what a pity! —Has fallen the tower,Pride of the city."

Unchildlike innuendoes pervade that curious game of many variants in which the priest and abbess play a leading part. Two children are chosen for these dignitaries, while the others call out the names of such flowers, fruits, or vegetables as each may decide to personate. "I'm a cabbage." "I'm a jasmine." "I'm a cherry." Then the little sinners kneel in a circle, crying: —

"Through the door, up the stairs,On the floor, say your prayers!"

and chant some childish gibberish, during which no one must laugh on pain of a forfeit. After this, all sing: —

"The house of the priest it cracked like a cup.Half fell down and half stood up.Sir Priest, Sir Priest, now tell us aright,In whose house did you sleep last night?Priest. With the rose slept I.Rose. Fie, O fie!I never saw your tonsured head.Priest. Then with whom did you make your bed?Rose. With the Pink.Pink. I should think!I never saw your petals red.Rose. Then with whom did you make your bed?Pink. With the lily.Lily. Don't be silly!I never heard your fragrant tread.Pink. Then with whom did you make your bed?Lily. With the priest.Priest. Little beast!If I went near you, may I fall dead!Lily. Then with whom did you make your bed?Priest. With the abbess, I.Abbess. Oh, you lie!"

But this seems to be the conclusion of the game.

The most of these choral songs, however, are sweet and innocent, concerned with the natural interests of childhood, as this: —

"The shepherdess rose lightlyLarán – larán – larito,The shepherdess rose lightlyFrom off her heather seat – O."Her goats went leaping homeward,Larán – larán – larito,Her goats went leaping homewardOn nimble little feet – O."With strong young hands she milked them,Larán – larán – larito,With strong young hands she milked themAnd made a cheese for treat – O."The kitty watched and wondered,Larán – larán – larito,The kitty crept and ponderedIf it were good to eat – O."The kitty sprang upon it,Larán – larán – larito,The kitty sprang upon itAnd made a wreck complete – O."Scat, scat, you naughty kitty!Larán – larán – larito,Scat, scat, you naughty kitty!Are stolen cheeses sweet – O?"

The baby girls have a song of their own, which, as a blending of doll-play, gymnastics, music, mathematics, and religion, leaves little to be desired.

"Oh, I have a dolly, and she is dressed in blue,With a fluff of satin on her white silk shoe,And a lace mantilla to make my dolly gay,When I take her dancing this way, this way, this way.[Dances Dolly in time to the music."2 and 2 are 4, 4 and 2 are 6,6 and 2 are 8, and 8 is 16,And 8 is 24, and 8 is 32!Thirty-two! Thirty-two!Blesséd souls, I kneel to you.       [Kneels."When she goes out walking in her Manila shawl,My Andalusian dolly is quite the queen of all.Gypsies, dukes, and candy-men bow down in a row,While my dolly fans herself so and so and so.[Fans Dolly in time to the music."2 and 2 are 4, 4 and 2 are 6,6 and 2 are 8, and 8 is 16,And 8 is 24, and 8 is 24!Twenty-four! Twenty-four!Blesséd souls, I rise once more."

They have a number of bird-games, through which they flit and flutter with an airy grace that wings could hardly better. In one, the children form a circle, with "the little bird Pinta" in the centre. The chorus, dancing lightly around her, sings the first stanza, and Pinta, while passing about the circle to make her choice, sings the rest, with the suggested action. The child chosen becomes Pinta in turn.

Chorus.    "The little bird Pinta was poisingOn a scented green lemon-tree spray.She picked the leaf and the blossom,And chanted a roundelay.Pinta.      "Song in the land!While April is yet a newcomer,O mate of my summer,Give to me a hand now,Both hands I seek, O!Take a Spanish kiss, now,On the rosy cheek, O!"

Equally pretty and simple is the Andalusian play of "Little White Pigeons." The children form in two rows, which face each other some ten or twelve yards apart. One row sings the first stanza, dancing forward and slipping under the "golden arches" made by the lifted arms of the second row. The second row sings and dances in turn, passing under the "silver arches" to Granada.

1. "Little white pigeonsAre dreaming of Seville,Sun in the palm tree,Roses and revel.Lift up the arches,Gold as the weather.Little white pigeonsCome flying together.2. "Little white pigeonsDream of Granada,Glistening snows onSierra Nevada.Lift up the arches,Silver as fountains.Little white pigeonsFly to the mountains."

The Spanish form of "Blindman's Buff" begins with "giving the pebble" to determine who shall be the Blind Hen. A child shuts in one hand the pebble and then presents both little fists to the other children passing in file. Each, while all sing the first stanza given below, softly touches first one of the hands, then the other, and finally slaps the one chosen. If this is empty, she passes on. If it holds the pebble, she must take it and be the one to offer the hands. The child who finally remains with the pebble in her possession, after all have passed, is the Blind Hen. As the game goes on, the children tease the Blind Hen, who, of course, is trying to catch them, by singing the second stanza given below.

1"Pebble, O pebble!Where may it be?Pebble, O pebble!Come not to me!Tell me, my mother,Which hand to choose.This or the other?That I refuse,This hand I choose."2"She's lost her thimble,Little Blind Hen.Better be nimble!Try it again!Who'll bring a taperFor the Blind Hen?Scamper and caper!Try it again!Try it again!"

Other games as well known to American children as "Blindman's Buff" are played by little Spaniards. They understand how to make the "hand-chair" and "drop the button," only their button is usually a ring. "Hide the Handkerchief" carries with it the familiar cries of hot and cold, but our "Puss in the Corner" becomes "A Cottage to Rent."

"'Cottage to rent?''Try the other side,You see that thisIs occupied.'"

In religious Seville the dialogue runs: —

"'A candle here?''Over there.''A candle here?''Otherwhere.'"'Candle, a candle!''Loss on loss.''Where is light?''In the Holy Cross.'"

For all these games, common to childhood the world over, have a rhyming element in the Peninsula, where, indeed, the ordinary intercourse of children often carries verses with it. For instance, our youngsters are content with cries of "Tell-tale!" and "Indian-giver!" but under similar provocation the fierce little nurslings of Catholic Spain will sing: —

"Tell-tale! Tell-tale!In hell you'll be served right,All day fed on mouldy bread,And pounded all the night!"

The other baby-curse is to the same effect: —

"He who gives and takes again,Long in hell may he remain!He who gives and takes once more,May we hear him beat on the Devil's door!"

The Spanish form of tag has a touch of mythological grace. One child, chosen by lot, is the Moon, and must keep within the shadow. The others, Morning-stars, are safe only in the lighted spaces. The game is for the Morning-stars to run into the shadow, daring the Moon, who, if successful in catching one, becomes a Morning-star in turn, and passes out into the light, leaving the one caught to act the part of Moon. As the Morning-stars run in and out of the Moon's domain, they sing over and over the following stanza: —

"O the Moon and the Morning-stars!O the Moon and the Morning-stars!Who dares to tread – OWithin the shadow?"

Even in swinging, the little girls who push carry on a musical dialogue with the happy holder of the seat.

"'Say good-day, say good-dayTo Miss Fannie Fly-away!At the door the guests are met,But the table is not set.Put the stew upon the fire.Higher, higher, higher, higher!Now come down, down, down, down,Or the dinner will all burn brown.Soup and bread! soup and bread!I know a plot of roses red,Red as any hero's sword,Or the blood of our Holy Lord.Where art thou, on the wing?''No, I'm sitting in the swing.''Who're thy playmates way up there?''Swallows skimming through the air.''Down, come down! The stew will burn.Let the rest of us have a turn.'"

In playing "Hide and Seek," the seeker must first sit in a drooping attitude with covered eyes, while the others stand about and threaten to strike him if he peeps: —

"Oil-cruet! Don't do it! Ras con ras!Pepper-pot? Peep not! Ras con ras!"

The menacing little fists are then suddenly withdrawn.

"No, no! Not a blow!But a pinch on the arm will do no harm.Now let the birdies take alarm!"

And off scamper the hiders to their chosen nooks. When they are safely tucked away, the indispensable Mother, standing by, sings to the seeker that stanza which is his signal for the start: —

"My little birds of the mountainForth from the cage are flown.My little birds of the mountainHave left me all alone."

Spanish forfeit games are numerous and ingenious. In one of these, called "The Toilet," the players take the names of Mirror, Brush, Comb, Towel, Soap, and other essentials, including Jesus, Devil, and Man Alive, these last for exclamatory purposes. As each is mentioned by the leader of the game, he must rise instantly, on pain of forfeit, no matter how fast the speaker may be rattling on: "Jesus! When will that devil of a maid bring me my powder and perfumes?" Characteristic titles of other forfeit games are, "The Key of Rome," "The Fan," "The Fountain," "I Saw my Love Last Night." The sentences vary from such gentle penalties as "The Caress of Cadiz" to the predicament of putting three feet on the wall at once.

The choral verses are often mere nonsense.

"Pipe away! pipe away!Let us play a little play!What will we play?We'll cut our hands away.Who cut them, who?Rain from out the blue.Where is the rain?Hens drank it up again.Hens? And where are they?Gone their eggs to lay.Who will eat them up?Friars when they sup.What do friars do?Sing 'gori-gori-goo.'"

Watching Spanish children, one may see two little girls, say White Rose and Sweetness, fly out into an open space, where White Rose carefully places the tips of her small shoes in touch with those of Sweetness. Then they clasp hands, fling their little bodies as far back as these conditions permit, and whirl round and round, singing lustily – until they are overcome by giddiness – the following rigmarole, or one of its variants: —

"Titirinela, if you please!Titirinela, bread and cheese:'What is your father's worshipful name?''Sir Red-pepper, who kisses your hands.''And how does he call his beautiful dame?''Lady Cinnamon, at your commands.'Titirinela, toe to toe!Titirinela, round we go!"

Even in some of their prettiest games the verses have a childish incoherence. Some dozen little girls form a circle, for instance, with the Butterfly in the centre. They lift her dress-skirt by the border, and hold it outspread about her. Another child, on the outside, runs around and around the ring, singing: —

"Who are these chatterers?Oh, such a number!Not by day nor by nightDo they let me slumber.They're daughters of the Moorish king,Who search the garden-closeFor lovely Lady Ana,The sweetest thing that grows.She's opening the jasmineAnd shutting up the rose."

Then the children suddenly lift their hands, which are holding Butterfly's frock, so as to envelop her head in the folds. The little singer outside continues: —

"Butterfly, butterfly,Dressed in rose-petals!Is it on candle-flameButterfly settles?How many shirtsHave you woven of rain?Weave me anotherEre I call you again."

These songs are repeated seven times. Then comes another stanza: —

"Now that Lady AnaWalks in garden sweet,Gathering the rosesWhose dew is on her feet,Butterfly, butterfly,Can you catch us? Try it, try!"

With this the circle breaks and scatters, while Butterfly, blinded as she is by the folds of her own skirt wrapped about her head, does her best to overtake some one, who shall then become her successor.

Many of the games are simplicity itself. Often the play is merely a circle dance, sometimes ending in a sudden kneeling or sitting on the ground, One of the songs accompanying this dance runs: —

"Potatoes and salt must little folks eat,While the grown-up people dineOff lemons and chestnuts and oranges sweet,With cocoanut milk for wine.On the ground do we take our seat,We're at your feet, we're at your feet."

Sometimes a line of children will form across the street and run, hand in hand, down its length, singing: —

"We have closed the streetAnd no one may pass,Only my grandpaLeading his assLaden with orangesFresh from the trees.Tilín! Tilín!Down on our knees!Tilín! Tilín! Tilín! Tilín!The holy bell of San Agustín!"

A play for four weans, training them early to the "eternal Spanish contradiction," consists in holding a handkerchief by its four corners, while one of them sings: —

"Pull and slacken!I've lost my treasure store.Pull and slacken!I'm going to earn some more.Slacken!"

And at this, the other three children must pull, on pain of forfeit, whereas if the word is pull, their business is to slacken.

They have a grasshopper game, where they jump about with their hands clasped under their knees, singing: —

"Grasshopper sent me an invitationTo come and share his occupation.Grasshopper dear, how could I say no?Grasshopper, grasshopper, here I go!"

In much the same fashion they play "Turkey," gobbling as they hop.

I never found them "playing house" precisely after the manner of our own little girls, but there are many variants for the dialogue and songs in their game of "Washerwoman." The Mother says: "Mariquilla, I'm going out to the river to wash. While I am gone, you must sweep and tidy up the house."

"Bueno, madre."

But no sooner is the Mother out of sight than naughty Mariquilla begins to frisk for joy, singing: —

"Mother has gone to wash.Mother'll be gone all day.Now can MariquillaLaugh and dance and play."

But the Mother returns so suddenly that Mariquilla sees her barely in time to begin a vigorous sweeping.

"'What hast been doing, Mary?''Sweeping with broom of brier.''A friar saw thee playing.''He was a lying friar.''A holy friar tell a lie!''He lied and so do you.''Come hither, Mary of my heart,'And I'll beat thee black and blue.'"

After this lively exercise, the washerwoman goes away again, charging Mariquilla to churn the butter, then to knead the bread, then to set the table, but always with the same disastrous results. The Mother finally condemns her to a dinner of bread and bitters, but Mariquilla makes a point of understanding her to say bread and honey, and shares this sweetness with her sympathetic mates who form the circle. This time the beating is so severe that the children of the ring raise their arms and let Mariquilla dodge freely in and out, while they do all they can to trip and hinder the irate washerwoman in her pursuit.