Wanderings in Spain

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 comediaEncierro 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 virtuosasQue 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.

CHAPTER XII

FROM MALAGA TO SEVILLE

The Four-wheeled Galera – Caratraca – The "Mayoral" – Ecija – The "Calle de los Caballeros" – La Carlotta – Cordova – The Archangel Raphael – The Mosque – Caliph Abderama – The Guadalquiver – Road to Seville.

As yet we were only acquainted with the galera on two wheels; we now had the pleasure of making a trial of one on four. An amiable vehicle of this description happened to be about starting for Cordova; it was already occupied with a Spanish family, and we helped to fill it still more. Just fancy rather a low wagon, with its sides formed of a number of wooden spokes at a considerable distance from each other, and having no bottom save a strip of spartum on which the trunks and packages are heaped, without much attention to the irregularities of surface which they may present. Above the luggage are thrown two or three mattresses, or, to speak more correctly, two or three linen sacks, in which a few tufts of wool but very slightly carded, float about, and on these mattresses the unfortunate travellers are stretched transversely, in a position very similar (excuse the triviality of the comparison) to that of calves that are being carried to market. The only difference is, that the travellers do not have their feet tied, but their situation is not much more comfortable for all that. The top consists of a coarse cloth, stretched on wooden hoops, and the whole machine is driven by a mayoral and dragged by four mules.

Our fellow-travellers consisted of the family of an engineer, who was rather a well educated man, and spoke very good French. They were accompanied by a tall, villanous, fantastic-looking individual, who had formerly been a brigand in Jose Maria's gang, and who was now a superintendent of mines. This gentleman followed the galera on horseback, with a knife stuck in his girdle and a carbine slung at his saddle-bow. The engineer appeared to entertain a high opinion of him, and spoke in very favourable terms of his probity, of which he was perfectly convinced in spite of the superintendent's old trade. It is true that in speaking of Jose Maria himself, he told me several times that he was a brave and worthy man. This opinion, which would strike us as slightly paradoxical in the case of a highway robber, is that of the most honourable persons in Andalusia. On this point, Spain is still Arabian, and brigands very frequently are looked upon as heroes. This is less strange than it may at first appear, especially in southern countries, where men's minds are so easily acted on. Is it not certain that the contempt of death, audacity, coolness, bold and prompt determination, address, and bodily strength, and all the kind of grandeur which belongs to a man who revolts against society, as well as the qualities which exercise so great an influence over minds as yet but little civilized, are exactly those which constitute great characters, and is the people so very wrong in admiring them in these energetic individuals, even although they employ them in a reprehensible manner?

The cross-road along which we were journeying ascended and descended rather abruptly through a country dented with hills and furrowed by narrow valleys, the bottom of which was occupied by the dry beds of torrents, and bristling with enormous stones that jolted us most atrociously, and elicited loud screams from the women and children. On our road we noticed some admirably coloured and poetical effects of sunset. The mountains in the distance assumed a variety of purple and violet hues, tinged with gold, of the most extraordinary warmth and intensity, while the total absence of vegetation imparted to the whole scene, consisting exclusively of ground and sky, a look of grand nudity and savage severity that is to be found in no other country, and which no painter has yet transferred to canvass. We halted for a few hours at nightfall, in a little hamlet of three or four houses, in order to rest our mules and obtain some refreshment: but with the thoughtlessness of true French travellers, although a sojourn of five months in Spain ought to have rendered us more prudent, we had brought nothing with us from Malaga, and the consequence was that we were obliged to sup on dry bread and white wine, which a woman in the posada was obliging enough to procure for us, for Spanish safes and cellars do not participate in that horror which Nature is said to entertain for a vacuum, but contain nothing with the most perfect tranquillity of conscience.

About one o'clock in the morning we set out again; and, in spite of the awful jolting, of the engineer's children rolling over us, and of the knocks that our heads received from bumping against the spokes of the wagon, we soon fell asleep. When the sun came and tickled our noses with one of his rays, as with a golden ear of corn, we were near Caratraca, an insignificant village which is not marked in the map, and which is only remarkable for its sulphurous springs, which are very beneficial in diseases of the skin, and attract to this remote spot a population that is rather suspicious and not calculated to prove very desirable company. Gambling is carried on there to a frightful extent, and although it was still very early, the cards and ounces of gold were passing from hand to hand. It was something hideous to see these invalids with their green, cadaverous faces, rendered still more ugly by rapacity, slowly stretching out their fingers and seizing convulsively their prey. The houses of Caratraca, like those of all Andalusian villages, are whitewashed; and this, in conjunction with the bright colour of the tiles, the festoons of the vines, and the shrubs growing around, gives them a comfortable, holiday look, very different from the picture we are accustomed to draw, in other parts of Europe, of Spanish filth; this notion is generally false, and the fact of its ever having been entertained can only be attributed to some miserable hamlets in Castile, whose wretchedness is equalled and even surpassed by some that we possess in Brittany.

In the courtyard of the inn, our attention was attracted by a number of coarse frescoes, representing, with primitive simplicity, bull-fights: round the pictures were coplas in honour of Paquirro Montes and his quadrille. The name of Montes enjoys the same kind of universal popularity in Andalusia as that of Napoleon does with us; walls, fans, and snuff-boxes are ornamented with his portrait; and the English, who always turn the public taste – whatever it may be – to good account, send from Gibraltar thousands of handkerchiefs with red, violet, and yellow printed portraits of the celebrated matador, accompanied by verses in his praise.

Remembering our famished condition the night before, we purchased some provisions from our host, and among other articles, a ham, for which he made us pay an exorbitant price. A great deal has been said about highway robberies, but it is not on the highway that the danger exists; it is at the road-side, in the inns, that you are robbed and pillaged with the most perfect safety to those that plunder you, without your possessing the right of having recourse to your weapons of defence, and discharging your carbine at the waiter who brings you your bill. I pity the brigands from the bottom of my heart; such landlords as those in Spain do not leave much for them, and only deliver travellers into their hands, like so many lemons with the juice squeezed out. In other countries, landlords make you pay a high price for the things with which they supply you, but in Spain you pay for the absence of everything with its weight in gold.

After we had taken our siesta, the mules were put to the galera, each person resumed his place, the escopetero bestrode his little mountain-steed, the mayoral laid in a stock of small flint-stones to hurl at the ears of his mules, and we set out once more on our journey. The country through which we passed was savage without being picturesque. We beheld nothing but bare, naked, sterile, rugged hills, stony torrent-beds, like scars made in the ground by the winter's rains, and woods of olive-trees, whose pale foliage, powdered over with dust, did not suggest the least idea of refreshing verdure. Here and there, on the gaping sides of the rocks of turf and chalk, was a solitary tuft of fennel, whitened by the heat; on the powdery road were the marks of serpents and vipers, while, over the whole, was a sky as glowing as the roof of an oven and not a gust of wind, not even so much as the slightest breath of air! The grey sand which was raised by the hoofs of the mules fell again without the least eddy to the ground. You might have made iron red-hot in the sun, which darted its rays on the cloth covering of our galera, in which we were ripening like melons under a glass frame. From time to time, we got out and walked a short distance, keeping in the shade projected by the body of the horse or the wagon; when we had stretched our legs somewhat, we would scramble in again, slightly crushing the children and their mother, for we could not reach our seats except by crawling on all fours under the elliptical arch formed by the tilted roof of the galera. By dint of crossing quagmires and ravines, and making short cuts over fields, we lost our way. Our mayoral, in the hope of coming into the right road again, still went on, as if he was perfectly aware where he was going, for corsarios and guides will never own that they have lost themselves till they are reduced to extremities, and have taken you five or six leagues out of the right direction. I must, in justice, say, however, that nothing could be easier than to lose oneself on this fabulous road, which was scarcely marked out, and intersected every moment by deep ravines. At length we found ourselves in the midst of large fields, dotted here and there by olive-trees, with misshapen, dwarfish trunks, and frightful forms, without the slightest signs of a human habitation or a living being. Since the morning, we had met only one half-naked muchacho driving before him, in a cloud of dust, half-a-dozen black pigs. Night set in, and, to augment our misfortunes, there was no moon, so that we had nothing but the uncertain light of the stars to guide us.

The mayoral left his seat every instant to feel the ground with his hands, in the hopes of finding some rut or wheelmark which might direct him to the right road, but all his efforts were in vain, and, greatly against his inclination, he was under the necessity of informing us that he had lost his way, and did not know where he was: he could not understand it; he had made the journey twenty times, and would have undertaken to go to Cordova with his eyes shut. All this appeared rather suspicious, and the idea then struck us that we were, perhaps, purposely brought there in order to be attacked and plundered. Our situation was not an agreeable one, even supposing this were not the case; we were benighted in a remote spot, far from all human help, in a country which enjoys the reputation of concealing more robbers than all the other provinces of Spain united. These reflections doubtlessly suggested themselves also to the minds of the engineer and his friend, the former associate of Jose Maria, who, of course, was not a bad judge in such matters, for they silently loaded their own carbines with ball, and performed the same operation on two others that were placed inside the galera; they then handed us one apiece without uttering a syllable, a mode of proceeding that was exceedingly eloquent. The mayoral was thus left without arms, and, even had he been in collusion with the brigands, was reduced to a state of helplessness. However, after wandering about at hazard, during two or three hours, we perceived a light glittering like a glow-worm under the branches, at a long distance from us. We immediately adopted it as our polar star, and started off towards it in as direct a line as possible, at the risk of being overturned every moment. Sometimes a rise in the ground would conceal it from our eyes, and all nature seemed to be extinguished. Suddenly it would again appear, and our hopes returned with it. At last we arrived sufficiently near a farm-house to distinguish the windows, which was the sky in which our star was shining under the form of a copper lamp. A number of the peculiar wagons drawn by oxen, and of agricultural instruments, scattered here and there, completely restored our confidence, for we were not, at first, sure that we had not fallen into some den of thieves, some posada de barrateros. The dogs, having smelt us out, began barking furiously, so that the whole farm was soon in a state of commotion. The peasants came out with their muskets in their hands to discover the cause of this nocturnal alarm, and having satisfied themselves that we were honest travellers who had lost our way, politely invited us to enter and rest ourselves in the farm.