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PieLIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

PRESENTED BY

Linton MasseySe ene aeSPANISH TOWNS
AND PEOPLEeee
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oa So; =

The Church of El Cristo de la Luz. Tol

edo ted in 922
Mohammedan mosqu

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ROBERT MEDILL MCBRIDE

WITH-PICTURES -BY
EDWARD C.CASWELL

NEW YORK
ROBERT M.MCBRIDE &° COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY

PUBLISHED, DECEMBER, 1925

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OR AMERICATO THE MEMORY
OF MY BROTHERFOREWORD

 
   

Vf T is curious and a little pathetic sometimes
that the sentimental valuations which we
place on countries we have not visited
should so often be entirely without
warrant. Thus, to the untraveled,

 

 

France is a glorified cabaret, Russia
a continual snow scene, Italy a land
devoted exclusively to vineyards anc
street singers, and Spain a place

   
  
 

   
   

oe pea ES ; :
KALA SS $ where one passes to a daily bull fight

 

1 tell
, RAY DS

SG
ay et ff through streets lined with balconies
be (y on ce ae aan a aT eal

C « ( f occupied by dashing and beautiful

1 1

{ y “A

Tear | e >) hy t ec 4 mamta |

Ove! LEE Cal ans anda WIANTLILLAS,

sefioritas, each with a rose tuckec
color and romance! One finds little enough of them in the
Spain of to-day.

The truth is that the average person who does not know
Spain at first hand has, as a rule, drawn an unconscious con-
ception of the country from cigar-box labels, Spanish shawls,
displayed in shop windows at home, and the vagaries of the
usual musical comedy. And the stage Spaniard is just as un-
true to type as the stage American or the stage Englishman.
The strange compulsion that this preconceived mental pic-

[ vii ]FOREWORD

ture engenders shows itself even in many of those who have
been to Spain and who have returned to write of what they
have seen—or have thought they saw. In the course of
my Spanish reading I have pored through many volumes,
and in many instances I have found a species of rhapsody
that painted a country glowing with life and color, sparkling
with romance, and glittering with an exotic grandeur that
was as enticing as it was unreal. Spain has a beauty of its
own, but it is not the beauty that is too often accredited to
it by the overzealous. Depicted as it actually is, Spain has
no more need of literary pyrotechnics than the proverbial
lily has of gilt. It is well able to stand on its own merits,
but it is unfair to expect it to exhibit the alien merits ascribed
to it by those who are more fatuous than accurate in their
observation. Rose-colored glasses are all very well in their
way, but they do not make for clear vision.

After leaving the rolling coastal districts of the Can-
tabrian Mountains to the north, where there is verdure in
plenty, one finds to the south, east and west a country stark,
arid and defiant. There is color, yes, but it is a raw color
with little of the softness that one finds in the Italian land-
scape, for example. There is something of the quality of
the Painted Desert and the Western prairies about it, and,
like the desert and prairie, it has the virtues of its faults. If
it is stark it is also majestic; if it is hard and arid it has a
grandeur that these qualities beget. One does not demand
that an armored knight be dressed in the silks of the courtier
nor does one desire that the severity of Norman architecture
be tempered with Gothic pinnacles. Neither can one ask
either softness or prettiness of Spain, for not only will they
not be forthcoming, but it would be very regrettable if they
were substituted for the Spain of reality. The tinkling of
a mandolin and the strumming of a guitar can be very

[ viii |FOREWORD

pleasant, but they lack the clarion quality of a trumpet.
Indeed, they are not comparable.

There is only an echo left to-day of the golden trumpets
of old Spain, for modern Spain is a land of echoes and
shadows. The old glory has departed, but the ancient dig-
nity remains. The barren plains and stark hillsides furnish
a fitting background for cities that once were great, and
whose greatness to-day lies only in a living memory. Once
Spain was. Perhaps one day Spain will be again. For the
present it is enough that she has the rugged grandeur of
her past on which to base the promise of her future.

In conclusion, I wish especially to thank (and I am sure
the reader will share my gratitude) the artist, Edward C.
Caswell, whose work has done so much to enrich these pages.
My own debt to Mr. Caswell is double for I owe him thanks
not only as an artist, but as a traveling companion. And
I feel sure that if I have erred at all in throwing the, some-
times, harsh light of reality on a romantic subject, Mr.
Caswell’s pictures and sketches will go far in giving my
work a warranted correction.

R. M. McB.ayes

   

GHE CONTENTS

   
  
   
  
   
   
   
   
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
   

 

CHAPTER PAGE
I ACROSS THE BORDER TO SAN SEBASTIAN . I
II BURGOS, THE CATHEDRAL CITY | : II
III AN ANCIENT CENTER OF LEARNING : 2
IV THE HILLTOP CITY OF SEGOVIA 45
V ACROSS COUNTRY TO AVILA . a7
VI MADRID. ; 69
VII MODERN GLADIATORS OF SPAIN . 83
VIII THE CRUMBLING MAJESTY OF TOLEDO I0O
IX THE ANCIENT MECCA OF THE WEST. - 16
X THECITY OF THEGIRALDA . : 132
XI BY BUS FROM CADIZ TO ALGECIRAS : <7 NSO
XII TANGIER AND GIBRALTAR—A STUDY IN CON-
TRASTS: | | | 7 159
XIII A CITY ON APRECIPICE . 1. n80

XIV OVER THE TUMBLING MOUNTAINS TO MALAGA 189

XV GRANADA, THE GLORY OF THE MOORS : 196
XVI THROUGH ARAGON TO SARAGOSSA . 1208
XVII THE CHIEF CITY OF THE CATALANS . 221
XVIII VALENCIA, THE MOORISH PARADISE 2 ot

[ xi ]The Church of El Cristo de la Luz, Toledo, erected in 922
as a Mohammedan mosque . : . Frontispiece
FACING PAGE

The cathedral at Burgos viewed from the sloping hillside 24

Looking toward the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca, the finest

arcaded square in Spain : : 32
The towers and roof tops of the lower city, Segovia. 40
A street that becomes a stairway in Segovia. : : 48
The Puerta de Santa Teresa in the grim wall of Avila . 64

The Puerta del Sol, or Gate of the Sun, the hub of Madrid 80
A dramatic moment in the bull ring 3 96
A map of Spain . ; : - 112

The Bell Tower rising from the garden wall of the ancient

mosque, now the cathedral, at Cordova 120
A patio of Seville . : , . 4326
Looking through an archway to the market at Seville. 144
Along the quay at Cadiz, an ancient Pheenician port , 152
In the old Moorish quarter of Tangier. 168

The bridge spanning the gorge between old and new Ronda _ 184
[ xiii |THE ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

A corner of the harbor of Malaga looking toward the ca-
thedral and ancient citadel 7 192

The Alhambra from the neighboring hill of the Albaicin. 200

Looking toward the marketplace in Valencia past a corner
of the Lonja de la Seda ; : 240SPANISH TOWNS
AND PEOPLEI. ACROSS THE BORDER
TO SAN SEBASTIAN

ahi. you enter Spain from the north, and if

you come overnight from Paris, San Sebas-
tian will offer you your first glimpse of
Spanish life. It is not, however, the typi-
cal life of Spain, and if the reason 1m-
pelling you to visit the country 1s a quest
Y for the unusual and picturesque, and not
) merely a desire for conventional
amusement with the fashionable peo-
ple of the country, you are not apt to
linger long in this smartest of seaside
resorts. Still, for all that, it isa good
starting place for a tour of the penin-
_ sula, for it is always amusing in any
country to see how the “other half” lives, and it is often
a pleasant experience to enter a land of romance through
portals hewn in conventional form so that the contrasts later
on will be the more vivid.

Even before you reach the shimmering sands of Biscay’s
beautiful spa your twentieth-century sensibilities will have
been aroused to the echoes of the past. No sooner have you
crossed the border than the curtain rises on the Spain that

Lr]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

changes only with the centuries. Towns with Castilian sil-
houettes clamber up the hillsides, and oxen move dreamily
along the furrows of the fields drawing primitive wooden
plows of a design which was old when Ferdinand and Isa-
bella drove the Moors out of Spain.

Indeed, at the seat of customs, where your baggage is
examined and chalked by officials clad in impressive military
uniforms resplendent in color, and adorned with patent-
leather hats and a dazzling display of swords and firearms,
you will be conscious of the exotic quality of your coming
travels. Articles of apparel and the more conventional
things to be found in a modern suit case do not, it appears,
excite the suspicion of these impressive guardians of the
frontier. But if you possess articles concealed within wrap-
pings that are unfamiliar to the restricted vision of the
inspector you are bound to have an apprehensive time
of it.

The artist, my traveling companion, had no difficulty
whatever. He carried what might be termed a very frank
suit case. ‘That is to say, in common with most members
of his fraternity, order had little consideration in his scheme
of packing. Chaos was rampant and, to the inspector,
the interior presented a very dull enterprise. Combs and
brushes, socks, ties, shoes, pencils and brushes, rubbing
elbows in happy confusion, contained little to intrigue
the highly imaginative mind of the border guardian.
This motley array of innocuous merchandise was quickly
passed. Alongside, the baggage of a feminine fellow
traveler, among whose more daintily packed valises was
found an unopened parcel which proved, upon diligent
inquiry, to be a bottle of dark glass concealing a mysterious
liquid, caused the examiner a compensating ripple of excite-
ment.

But this was a mere commonplace compared to the excite-

[2]SAN SEBASTIAN

ment caused by my own modest suit case. Neatness has
ever been with me a consuming virtue and I harbored a
superb conviction that my methodically arranged bag would
Gnd instant commendation and would secure my release long
before the officials had sorted out and card-indexed the
artist’s miscellany. But here I had deceived myself. For,
had I not in open view a carefully wrapped package of
camera films and was not each roll concealed in a bright
yellow, cylindrical box? In all the years I have practiced
amateur photography it had never occurred to me how
closely a roll of films resembled a stick of nitroglycerine!
With the unerring attraction of a magnet for steel filings
the inspector’s roving eyes were drawn to the innocent parcel
and off came the wrappings. A dozen sticks of dynamite
—perhaps! Or maybe some other forbidden articles. With
splendid insouciance and disdain, and to show what I thought
of the danger and value of the contents, I tore open one
of the little yellow cylinders and exposed to all beholders
the spool of ruby-clad films. Did this magnificent gesture
of courage and contempt for values impress my fascinated
audience of one, who regarded me and my ridiculous antics
as a snake which fixes its beady eyes on the toad that it
has marked for its own? Not at all! Seizing one of the
offending cylinders, and volubly expressing his suspicions
in official Castilian, he made a hasty examination and then
without further ceremony dashed off to report the case to
his superior officer who may have been, for all I knew, the
commander of His Majesty’s forces. My ultimate status
I was confident of, but in the meantime was I to suffer
fine, duty, confiscation or only delay at the hands of this
Spanish cavalier; and was the artist, with his disheveled
suit case now inscribed with the magic hieroglyph that is
bestowed with such splendid abandon by customs inspectors
the world over, to see me toppled from my high estate?

L321SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 
  
 
 
 

Fortune was with me. The major-domo of the customs had
evidently seen these little yellow boxes before, and my in-
spector soon reappeared, somewhat crestfallen, concealing
his self-consciousness by quickly stuffing my things back and
without further examination chalking my bag.

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Emerging from the ordeal of the customs, we sought
the station restaurant and there enjoyed our first Spanish
lunch which consisted of interminable courses of food, well
but strangely seasoned, and quite different both in flavoring
and in delicacy from the cuisine of France or of that at
home.

You have to be a good trencherman really to enjoy the
meals of Spain. They are long-drawn-out affairs, exceed-
ingly utilitarian, and devoid of the frills and dainty morsels

[4]SAN SEBASTIAN

that tempt the jaded appetite. Invented, probably, at the
time when Spain was breeding a hardy race of mariners
and adventurers, it was of such food that her daring ex-
plorers were made. Except for a bit of pastry or an ice
at the end of the meal, and the invariable fruit that follows,
sweets are practically absent from the menu. It abounds

 

 

Fe .
‘an sehastiag
SP ase

instead in meats, of which there are always two courses,
spaghetti or a vegetable, preferably beans, well saturated
with oil and served as a separate course, and the inevitable
tortilla, or eggs in a form other than omelette. Eggs you
can always count upon. Indeed, so thoroughly intrenched
is the egg as a component part of lunch and dinner that the
hens of the country, should they organize and strike, coulc
wreck the gastronomic structure of the nation. The hens
of Spain have never grasped their power.

sa

ae.— _ ——

 

 

 

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Lunch being at an end, we mounted the local train with
its picturesque coaches of antiquated design and rattled off
on our way to San Sebastian through a pretty rolling country
studded with farms and time-scarred villages perched on the
hillsides, a pleasant introductory journey to a country that
holds many surprises in the strongly contrasting character of
its vast interior.

It is very difficult to write of San Sebastian because, in
its essence, it bears a close resemblance to all the other sea-
shore watering places of Europe and presents, apart from
its distinctive natural surroundings, few aspects of individu-
ality. It has its beach and its casino where the life of the -
resort centers and, in season, thanks to the liberal patronage
and enthusiasm of the King of Spain for the sport of sail-
ing, its yacht races. Besides these attractions, possessed for
the most part by other Continental spas, it has, in common
with all well-populated cities of Spain, its bull ring which
distinguishes it from Biarritz just over the border in France.
But San Sebastian is par excellence the principal watering
place of Spain and, if you have any desire to see the Spanish
aristocracy at play, you must make it a visit in summer when
it becomes the Mecca of the inhabitants of the sun-baked
interior. The fact that Lafayette sailed from this port to
the United States when the young colonies were fighting for
their liberty is perhaps of less importance to the foreign
visitor than that San Sebastian is the summering place of
the royal family, and that here the King and his court repair
during August and September to escape the torrid heat of
the capital. Here gather the pleasure seekers from every
part of the country and here, in many instances, the officials
of great commercial companies live and maintain their sum-
mer offices, until the rays of the sun in the interior and in the
south are tempered by the advance of autumn.

There is a natural beauty about San Sebastian that relieves

[6]SAN SEBASTIAN

it of the flat monotony that is characteristic of so many sea-
shore places. It is really a diminutive inlet of the vast
Bay of Biscay, the entrance guarded by bold rock-seamed
headlands which on the maps are dignified as mountains.
At this point on the shore the sea has broken through the
rocky bluffs of the coast and has fashioned, seemingly by
intent, a2 sand-fringed harbor to serve as a playground for
the parched inhabitants of the peninsula.

The harbor of San Sebastian, hardly a mile in diameter,
is called La Concha, and it is well named, for it is very like
a shell glistening by the sea. The rim of the nearly land-
locked harbor sweeps in an almost perfect circle beginning
with the rugged promontories on either hand and softening
down to a broad band of yellow sand not much more than
half a mile in length. Along this fringe of sand 1s a
promenade, the Paseo de la Concha, arched over by rows
of tamarisk trees, whose branches weave a canopy overhead.
This promenade terminates in a large public garden with
flower beds, palms and walks where people stroll, and nurse-
maids with flaring white coifs sit and sew and gossip, paying
scant attention to their charges who play about in the fashion
of children the world over. This garden is never deserted,
for it serves as a plaza for the turreted casino which graces
one end and as a thoroughfare to the imposing kursaal
near by, the two lodestones that in the late afternoon and
evening draw the pleasure-seeking visitors. The central
part of the Paseo de la Concha fringing the beach is lined
with hotels, giving way at one end to private villas. On
the heights, at the western end, is the summer home of the
King—the Palacio de Miramar, a comfortable and unpre-
tentious structure, built thirty or forty years ago. Below
the promenade, the sandy beach is liberally supplied with
gaily striped bathing machines mounted on solid wheels,
and on sunny days the sands are covered with tents and

LvSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

awnings under which, protected from the blazing glare of
the summer sun, the holiday seekers enjoy the sea and
sand and air while the bathers and paddlers disport them-
selves in the sparkling waters.

It is a paradise for the children who swarm on the sands
and even on the adjacent thoroughfares in bewildering num-
bers, bathing and paddling and romping. One of the favor-
ite amusements of the boys is to play at bull fighting and

ui

 

trad ( (orerl]

you will see them at their imitation toros all through Spain.
One of the boys impersonates the bull while another plays
the part of the matador, flashing his coat over the head
and body of the infuriated bull, alias the other small boy,
as he charges his tormentor just as the real matador plays
the bull with his scarlet cloak. The other boys in the game
play the part of the capeadores and banderilleros and keep
the energetic animals from goring imaginary horses and
picadores. I have never seen any decisive outcome of these
games of make believe, but presumably the bull comes to an
inglorious end and yields up his life, as is inevitable in a
real contest. Then, doubtless, a new bull is introduced in

[8]SAN SEBASTIAN

the ring until each boy has had a chance to demonstrate
his prowess as a skillful matador or his ferocity as a mad-
dened toro.

It is very gay on the sea front during the late morning
hours when fashionable San Sebastian comes down to bathe.
People disappear into the bathing machines and emerge
shortly, clad in bathing suits that are far from being the
fashion in the resorts of countries to the north. The men
enjoy the freedom of one-piece suits, but the women de-
murely array themselves in costumes with ample skirts, and
stockings, such as was the style with us many years ago.
If the tide is well out and the bathing boxes are away from
the water’s edge, the bathers, whether from modesty or pro-
tection, envelop themselves in robes or sheets which are
shed on racks at the water’s edge and recovered when the
bath is done. In the late afternoon people repair to the
casino for tea and dancing, and in the evening the gaming
rooms of the ursaal are thronged with the same people
dining, dancing and engaging in roulette, boule, trente et
guarante and other games of chance. The evening pastimes
get under way rather late, for dinner is nowhere served
before eight-thirty and in the very fashionable places no one
dines before nine or ten. Presumably because he takes his
afternoon siesta, the Spaniard shifts along his daytime
schedule and goes to bed late. Throughout all Spain, even
in the smaller towns, dinner in the hotels is rarely obtainable
before eight-thirty, thus making necessary a peculiar adjust-
ment of time and activity on the part of the energetic visitor
who is unaccustomed to the habit of an afternoon nap, 2
habit to which it is difficult to adapt oneself in a short stay.
Luncheon is generally served at one-thirty or two. The
lateness of the dining hour, whatever may be its drawbacks,
provides at least a long afternoon for indulging in the art
of sight-seeing if that is the object of your journey in Spain.

Lo]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

For all its reputation as the greatest watering place of
Spain and one of the most fashionable seaside resorts of
Europe, San Sebastian is relatively small. It boasts of
paved streets and fine avenues of business buildings, street-
car lines and a splendid promenade along the open sea
front, hewn out of the rocky cliffs, and it is said to have
a population of thirty thousand people, but in spite of all
this the extent of the beach is small and, when compared
with Atlantic City, Brighton, Nice or Ostend, it must surely
take second rank if mere size is to be considered.IT. BURGOS,
THE CATHEDRAL CITY

QP F you are energetic enough to rise before your
neighbors and catch the early train you will be
delivered at Burgos at midday, but the transition
is infinitely greater than this space of time seems
to portend. For in this journey you pass from
the well-watered, green-clad landscape
of the coast to the vast, waterless upland
plain of the interior. There, in old Cas-
tile, you are more than half a mile above
the sea and in the midst of sun-baked
stretches of grain lands.

Albert B. Osborne has an excellent de-
scription of this province in his Finding
the Worthwhile in Europe:

 

 

 

“The train is running through a desert, drenched in an

intense sunshine that pours down, white and dazzling, from
a sky of hard, enamel blue. No trees anywhere, but on the
horizon, incredibly distinct, are naked cliffs, carven grotesquely
as from sand, their summits of vivid white, while shades of
pansy purple lie along their base and up the deep gashes cut
by passing cloudbursts. Here and there the surface of the
desert is blurred by some small town whose adobe buildings
are of the color of the sands, a town that more clearly defines
itself as the train comes near. “The shadows have that distinct

[or |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

blue quality you so often see in paintings on the walls of gal-
leries, but so seldom find in nature. Illy defined roads iead
from these villages to the station, always a mile or more away;
here, in broad-brimmed hats and rusty clothes a few men
lounge in the shade, and mules stand with drooping heads
awaiting their riders when the train has passed. No trees,
no vines, no grass, no flowers anywhere, only a vast range of
country of uniform dull yellow overlaid with the blue
shadows, the lavender shades on the distant mountains, and
the arch of the opaque sky of burning blue.

“This is Castile, a vast and desert plateau lifted far above

the level of the sea.”

If you have not traveled on the peninsula before you will
begin to realize that Spain is not altogether the country of
our romantic imagination—a fruitful land of exotic verdure,
of mellow sunshine, of gardens, flowers, music and softly
glowing nights. Except for the fringe of coast in the north,
bordering the Bay of Biscay, where rain is fairly abundant,
Spain is a parched, waterless country comparable to Wyo-
ming, New Mexico or Southern California. It blossoms like
a rose to be sure, but only through the process of irrigation.
The interior, for the most part, is a vast rolling table-land
where immense stretches of grain are harvested. In the sub-
tropical south olives, oranges, pomegranates and grapes re-
place the abundant grain raised in the less hospitable north.
In the east there is desert and sand and choking dust, where
agriculture is carried on under great difficulties, but along
the tawny rivers the desert soil renders its rich tribute in
fruit and other produce.

We were abundantly warned that summer travel in Spain
was utterly devoid of comfort, that indeed it was almost
impossible because of its excessive heat, its habitual un-
cleanliness and annoying insects. If, however, we insisted
on exposing ourselves to these discomforts we were advised
at least not to expose ourselves to the sun, to follow the

[eraBURGOS

example of the natives and sleep or rest during the mid-
day hours. Yet we wanted to visit Spain when everyone
was living out of doors; when the harvest was in full swing
and the farmers were winnowing their grain or at work in
the olive orchards, vineyards and orange groves; when the
shepherds were tending their herds, the country folk selling
fruit in the market places and the entire rural population
were engaged in various summer pursuits. Midsummer,
moreover, best suited our time and we knew there would
be fewer tourists.

So we went, in complete disregard of all advice. And
not a single one of these dire predictions was fulfilled!
Many times in that August journey we laughed over the
forebodings of our friends and at the guide books that are
vehement in their warnings of withering heat in this town
or that. The temperature, of course, was high, but the
heat was dry and in the shade it was usually cool. The
summer sun was blisteringly hot, but the air was never op-
pressive with humidity. The nights were usually cool for,
mark you, except for those bordering the Mediterranean, the
cities are perched at altitudes that insure relief from the heat
of the day. Burgos is situated at 2,785 feet, Salamanca at
2,650, Segovia at 3,280, Avila at 3,715, Madrid at 2,130,
Toledo at 1,735, and Granada at 2,195. There may be
summers, to be sure, when even these heights are not suffi-
cient to mitigate the torrid rays of the sun.

Coming by rail into Burgos, you are in the city almost
before you know it. There are no suburbs by way of warn-
ing, no straggling rows of houses and factories, clinging to
the outskirts of the town, no street-car lines reaching out
to dependent communities. Like nearly all the cities of the
Spanish plain and desert, Burgos is huddled together, with-
drawn from the plain that surrounds it, seemingly altogether
self-sufficient. The magic of the name of Burgos is due,

[xeSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of course, to the glory of its cathedral, which is considered
to be one of the finest Gothic churches in all Spain. But
Burgos has a personality apart from its mighty church and
is worth knowing for its other attractions—for its multi-
tudinous life, for the great panoramic views from its castle
hills, for its typical streets and houses so characteristic of
northern Spain.

The stations are almost invariably outside the cities, be-
cause every old town was perched on its hill and settled
within its walls before steam was discovered. The hotels,
in accommodating fashion, have their buses awaiting the
trains, but if you let them take your baggage and set out
afoot you have, as you approach the massed contours of the
city, the sensation of a discoverer.

At Burgos the walk is a short one along a tree-arched
roadway, thickly carpeted with dust. Suddenly, at the end,
it enters a plaza by the river bank planted with a miniature
forest of giant poplars and sycamores whose canopied
branches defy the sun. A refreshing place is this tree-arched
promenade, bordered on one side by a group of convent
buildings partly screened by trees, though the dust is heavy
underfoot and has even spread a thick veneer on tree trunks
and leaves. On the other side lies the river, a dangerous
stream when on rare occasions the rains descend and flood
its narrow banks, but now an extremely docile and chastened
rivulet, threading its slender way among the stones at the
bottom, in places almost lost to sight as it endeavors to
hide from the pitiless glare of the sun. On the opposite
bank is the solid phalanx of the city.

But even now your dusty walk is already rewarded, for
there, in the river bed, kneeling by an elongated pool that
parallels the walled and poplar-lined bank, are scores of
housewives vigorously scrubbing their weekly washing, as
primitive in method as it is picturesque. Ihroughout the

[14]BURGOS

Spanish countryside you see constant repetitions of this en-
gaging procedure. Every stream that is adjacent to a town
has its daily quota of vigorous laundresses who line its banks
during every daylight hour. Frequently the women make
their pilgrimages to remote springs and watercourses, com-
ing from neighboring communities and distant haciendas,
the bulging panniers of their burros laden with the house-
hold linen. Running water in the house is a luxury quite
unknown to the poorer folk of the smaller cities and towns,
being reserved for the well-to-do who inhabit modern or
modernized dwellings. To this fact, however deplorable
it may be from the standpoint of cleanliness and economy
of effort, is attributable one of the picturesque phases of
Spanish life. While water 1s usually not of local origin,
‘t is abundant in the distant hills, and from this source it
is piped into the towns, streaming forth in abundance from
street fountains which are placed at frequent intervals
throughout the various communities. To these streams of
living water, their earthen jugs gracefully balanced on hip
and shoulder, flock the women and children in constant pro-
cession. And these fountains, sometimes a mere spigot, but
more often a finely sculptured basin, are the social centers
for the feminine townsfolk who linger and chat over the
affairs of their daily lives. Here, to the music of flowing
waters, they retail the doings of their families, the petty
gossip of the neighborhood, and, judging by their curiosity
in regarding the stranger, discuss the diverting advent of
visitors who so frankly and unblushingly show delighted
interest in their commonplaces.

Presently you come to a bridge across the river and there
before you, on the opposite side, looms a huge, medieval
stone gateway elaborately adorned with turrets and sculp-
tured figures. Back of it, its pinnacled lantern and lacy
spires silhouetted against the blue of the sky, stands the

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glory of this ancient capital, her matchless cathedral. It is
precisely the entrance to a city of romance that you would
expect to find ina fairy tale.

[16]BURGOS

Even before this enchantment lures you across the bridge,
your eyes will be irresistibly drawn to the crowds that re-
volve about the sculptured fountain under the trees by the
river promenade where, issuing from the mouths of two

lions of grotesque mien, are streams of
cooling water, while alongside is a
stone trough for the refreshment of
animals. This is by no means the only
fountain in Burgos nor is it even the
only one in that part of the city, but
the constant stream of women and chil-
dren bearing water jars, the steady pro-
cession of men and boys leading horses,
mules and donkeys to drink, and the
inexhaustible supply of small boys who use it as an adjunct
to their play might very well lead to that assumption.

Over the adjoining bridge moves the ceaseless traffic that
will delight the eyes of those folk who are accustomed only
to the more conventional types of the western world. For
Spain’s principal motive power is the mule and donkey, and
her goods are transported in panniers slung from the backs
of these long-suffering animals and also in two-wheeled,
covered carts; there is, in fact, hardly a four-wheeled wagon
in the peninsula. Diminutive donkeys draw absurdly big
loads, and without saddle or bridle carry their masters, who

[axaSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

sit far aft, their legs flaring out on either side in grotesque
fashion. The carts are hooded over with a basket frame
covered with painted canvas, affording protection both from
the blistering heat of the summer sun and from the chill
of the winter winds, and the carts are drawn by mules singly,
in pairs, or three and sometimes four hitched up in tandem
fashion. Carts lumber along, drawn by plodding oxen
which seem so admirably suited to the temperament of these
leisurely folk, and men and women, loads neatly balanced
on their heads, move with the procession.

It is all very picturesque; we are seeing a country where
tradition is stronger than progress, where the mania for
speed is greeted with contempt, where the flattening process
of modern uniformity has received no hospitality and has
not destroyed the traditional and characteristic customs of
a system that belongs both to the people and to the soil.

The artist would go no further. He must make an im-
medjate sketch of this much frequented fountain by the
bridge. Having learned in San Sebastian the omnipresence
of the small boy, he selected a spot on the stone coping
‘nconvenient for intimate spectators, and confidently took
out his drawing materials. If he had rubbed an Aladdin’s
lamp and demanded of the genie an immediate plague of
boys, they couldn’t have assembled with greater rapidity
and glee. If you have never traveled in Spain you cannot
know the innate curiosity of the Spanish, men, women and
children, particularly the latter, and, too, their extraordinary
desire, again especially of the children, to be photographed.
Joined by some of their elders, they invaded the coping,
balanced themselves on the balustrade and pressed so close,
in following the artist’s pencil movements, that it became
impossible to proceed. At this juncture I, with my camera,
moved off a few yards and made a great pretense of focus-
ing the instrument. A general rush to me ensued, the chil-

[18]BURGOS

dren crowding up to the very lens, vying with each other
to be the first in the scene, while I snapped the imaginary
picture. By and by a policeman appeared. Seizing as an
excuse the maintenance of order, he took up a position by
the artist’s side and watched the development of the draw-
ing with equal curiosity. Order and peace triumphed, and
the arm of the law was amused and vindicated.

The Puerta de Santa Maria, the “Gateway of Saint Mary,”
which affords the chief entry to the main part of the town,
is, as I have said, a fitting gate for a medieval city. The
walls with which it was doubtless once flanked have long
since given way to lofty dwellings, but the gate itself you
will find a very satisfying structure, if you are on a hunt
for the romantic atmosphere of the past. In the reign of
Charles V, in the sixteenth century, Burgos joined the
Comuneros who opposed the centralization of authority in
United Spain, and it was to appease the displeasure of
Charles that this arch was erected by the offending city,
during the fifteen years following the laying of its founda-
tion in 1536.

Through this gate you make your way, and emerging on
a stone-paved plaza the Cathedral rises before you in all
its sculptured beauty, not altogether satisfying to me, how-
ever, because of the irregularity of its exterior. Much of
Burgos is built on a hill, but this seems small excuse for
the Cathedral’s builders to have placed this splendid edifice
against the sharply rising hillside where its splendor is so
effectually obscured. Perhaps in earlier times the houses
that now crowd upon three sides of the Cathedral were
somewhat less neighborly. At any rate it 1s necessary to
mount the hill and look down over the Cathedral’s lofty
spires and sculptured towers if you are to get an adequate
impression of its massive bulk.

To me, at least, the cathedrals of Spain are one of the

[19 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

country’s lesser attractions, for they do not possess the dig-
nified simplicity of exterior line, the lofty splendor, the 1m-
pressive length and transcendent majesty that character-
ize the English and French churches. The Spanish have
ever had little genius for architecture. In the Middle Ages,
when the countries of the north were building great houses
of worship through native designers and craftsmen, the
Spanish were in constant conflict with the Moors and, later,
were engaged in discovery and exploration in the new
world. This lack of interest, or of genius in building, led
to the importation of architects from France, Germany and
England who became responsible for most of the notable
churches in the kingdom. Thus, architectural art was not,
so to speak, indigenous to the soil, and because of this fact
Spain’s greatest buildings were inferior to those where native
art flourished. The interiors of the Spanish cathedrals are
even less satisfying, to me, than the exteriors. The walls
and chapels are cluttered up with many tawdry figures, dec-
orations and commonplace pictures; the nave as a rule is
relatively short, and almost invariably the choir is placed
in its center, thus partitioning the interior, and quite de-
stroying the sense of spaciousness and grace that 1s present
when the choir is placed at the end of the nave and the
interior is left unobstructed. Can anyone, after standing
in Lincoln or Durham or Rouen, where the very majesty
of their vast interiors, with their great vaulted ceilings and
solemn vistas along forests of mighty columns brings a
sob to the throat, find complete satisfaction in cathedrals
that are so entirely lacking in these qualities? Should not a
cathedral, to be wholly successful, express in the glory of
its conception and grandeur the very majesty of God? No,
Spain is not the place to go on a hunt for really great eccle-
siastical edifices.

Now, when I have said this, I have said the very worst

[ 20]BURGOS

about the churches of Spain, for many of them possess dis-
tinct interest and are well worth seeing.

Burgos Cathedral is a fine example of pure Gothic and
is considered to be one of the country’s most notable edifices.
The honor of its conception, and the credit for a great part
of its glory, as reflected in the purity of its Gothic, must
go to an English prelate, Bishop Maurice, who was brought
to Burgos by Ferdinand III. But the honor of the very
picturesque outline, along with the refinements of ornamen-
tation, must be shared by the Bishop with Meister Hans of
Cologne, a German, who, two centuries later, added some
of the Cathedral’s most distinguishing characteristics. The
exquisite spires of lacy texture, the stately octagonal lan-
tern, the splendid rose window, the many projecting chapels
of Huse proportions, which convey the impression of a group
of buildings rather than of a single structure, the diffusion
of light within, the magnificent iron grills, the tombs, and
the superbly graceful golden stairway, leading from one
of the aisles to a door opening from the street in the hill-
side above, are not to be regarded lightly.

In this ancient town, which was founded in the ninth cen-
tury and was once the capital of Old Castile, there 1s much
to see besides the cathedral. There are a host of churches,
denoting the city’s one-time size and importance, and clerics
abound, as indeed they do throughout the length and
breadth of Spain, clad in long, black-skirted habits, that
seem peculiarly ill-suited to the summer climate, and flat-
crowned, broad-brimmed, stiff hats that, in spite of their
appearance of discomfort, seem to be worn with becoming
serenity. The fact is, if a single habit must be worn
throughout the year it had better be one adapted to the
cold, for Burgos enjoys no very happy reputation for
weather. For three or four months the torrid winds from
the south blow over the plains, and the inhabitants, in con-

[21]eS pean

 

 

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

sequence, are baked to a turn, but during the rest of the

year the penetrating breath of the north descends from the

mountains and brings rare discomfort to the unhappy Ppop-

ulation whose homes are devoid of heat. Neuve meses de
invierno, tres de infierno: “Nine months of winter, three of

hell” is the current saying, and it describes the climate ex-
pressively, if not with fine exactness. At any rate, the
summer visitor finds a dryness in the air, notwithstanding
the extreme heat of the sun, and a relief in the evenings
which can be deliciously cool, due to the altitude that makes
of this city and its neighbors a better summer resort than
many more northerly towns at sea level, where the humidity
and the uniformity of heat, night and day, are so much
more oppressive. From all I can learn about the winter
climate there, I would much rather visit Burgos in summer
than in winter, for the cold weather so persists that snow
has been known to fall in its streets as late as May and even,
on rare occasions, in June. And this has its significance to
the pampered traveler when he realizes that the artificial
heat of many of the hotels is inadequately conveyed by most
pathetic little radiators.

The houses of the well-to-do bear testimony to this fact,
for a large percentage of them are equipped with a sun-
catching device that takes the form of a projecting glass
window, rather resembling a conservatory. Here, on chilly
days, the worthy inhabitants sun themselves and trap for
their living-quarters such heat as the sun’s rays afford. A
vista along the more modern streets of the city is character-
ized by long rows of conservatory windows on either hand,
many of which are adorned with plants and flowers.

Burgos is famous for having once been the capital, even if
for but a short time, of the ancient kingdom of Leon and.
Old Castile, but among the Spanish people its fame rests
more securely on the fact that it was the home of the Cid, the

[ 22]BURGOS

national hero and one of the most romantic figures in the
history of their country. Assembling the historical facts
and legends surrounding this mighty man of valor, we find
him during the early part of his career, in the eleventh
century, fighting the sworn enemies of his country, the
Moors. Subduing seven of these great Saracenic chieftains
in a single battle, he compelled their allegiance and earned
the titlke—whether bestowed on him by his foes or self-
assumed is not clear—of Cid, from the Arabic suffix el Cid,
from Sidi or Said, meaning “lord.” So powerful did he be-
come in his native land that, when Sancho the king died
and his death bore evidence of resulting from other than nat-
ural causes, the Cid was able to compel Sancho’s brother,
Alfonso IV, before his succession to the throne, to swear
that he was not the murderer. The church of Santa Agueda,
an aisleless Gothic edifice hard by the Cathedral and not
far from the site of the Cid’s palace, is the shrine in which
the oath was administered. Three times it is said to have
been taken by the docile Alfonso—first before the cross at
the portal, then by the bolt of the door (preserved for the
edification of modern tourists), and lastly on the high altar.
Whether the king possessed a tender conscience or whether
he feared that subsequent events might cause him embar-
rassment it is not certain, but he hesitated to declare himself
until a knight exclaimed: “Take the oath and fear naught;
never was a king found guilty of perjury or a pope ex-
communicated.” This seemed like good logic and a com-
forting reminder of his safe position, and His Majesty took
the oath forthwith. After this, the Cid, whose real name
was Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, the suffix taken from the village
of Bivar, near Burgos, where he was born in 1026, adven-
tured far, hewing his way by valorous deeds, sometimes with
the infidels though oftener against them, until he made
himself master of Valencia, where he maintained his position

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

as Governor until his death in 1099. Legend, ballad and
folklore are not always to be commended for accuracy, but
so that you may know the Cid was all that history claims
for him, you may view his remains, and those of his wife,
into the bargain, in a glass-covered coffin in the town hall.

Faring forth in Burgos on an expedition of discovery, you
come across an old arcaded square, an assortment of ven-
erable churches, ruins of crumbling arches and walls, and
several medieval palaces, plain of exterior but with splen-
didly sculptured patios, noble stairways and finely propor-
tioned rooms, which give one an idea of the luxury of the
ancient noblesse of Spain. That these stately houses have
sunk far from their former high estate is pathetically evi-
dent, especially in the instance of two of the most notable
which, impressed for service as storehouses and working
quarters, are in a state of tragic decrepitude.

My bodyguard in Burgos consisted of a small boy of ten
or twelve years who attached himself to us as we were wan-
dering about the cathedral square. In every Spanish city
a score of urchins insist on being your guide and are never
abashed in the slightest degree when they discover that you
don’t speak their language nor they yours, accepting the sit-
uation with superb confidence and a brazen assurance that
you will welcome their chattering and attentions. In most
instances they prove to be an unmitigated nuisance and have
to be driven off, but this particular little fellow had such
a winning smile and proved so likeable that, after ignoring
him for a time, I accepted him as my companion, if not my
cicerone, and he tirelessly walked around with me, gravely
pointing out the places of interest and ignoring the calls
of some of his intimates to play, as well as the jibes of
others, who regarded the foreigner with no great favor.
When finally we returned to the artist, who was sketching
the Cathedral from the hillside, the youngster proved our

[ 24 ]g hillside.

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valiant champion for, when one or two of the inevitable
spectators among the younger set proved unruly, he cuffed
them roundly and stoned them as they made off. He came
to accept us as his patrons and his special charges, and his
self-satisfaction was complete.

It is a vast panorama of town and plain that you get from
the summit of the great hill towering above Burgos. Cap-
ping the eminence, in a position of magnificent defense, are
the ruins of a castle fortress of great antiquity, the strong-
hold of the doughty Fernan Gonzalez, Count of Castile,
who flourished in the tenth century and strove to maintain
the independence of the Kingdom of Leon. Afterwards
it became the residence of the Castilian kings. In this his-
toric castle the Cid was married to Ximena in 1074, and
Edward I of England to Eleanor of Castile in 1254; here
Peter the Cruel was born, and in a much later time, Welling-
ton, at the head of an English army, was successfully checked
by the French.

Below you lies the town, dominated by the spires of its
cathedral, a checkerboard of zigzag streets and red tiled
roofs, and winding through its heart like a gigantic ser-
pent, the bed of the Arlanzon with its tree-decked prome-
nades. In the distance, north, east, south and west, stretches
the undulating, almost treeless plain of northern Castile.
Roads wind sinuously across the sun-baked plain, as white
as marble against their yellow and brown background.
Fringed by parallel rows of poplars and sycamores, these
sharply defined highways can be followed by the eye for
miles until they are lost in the dipping of the receding
prairie. To the north, the distant mountains rise dimly
through the haze of desert heat. Lesser hills, in tints of
warm brown, are seen to the east. The horizon, stretching
out to infinity over the undulating plain, is like the rim
of a gigantic saucer. In the near distance, farmers and

[25]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

their families are at work in the sun-parched fields, winnow-
ing the grain on threshing floors, the mules and oxen
treading their ceaseless rounds with tireless regularity.
Their cries to the animals carry audibly across the expanse
of clear upland air, reaching you like an echo. Everywhere
you look are brilliant yellows and warm browns, except for
the long straight rows of trees fringing the ribboned high-
ways. But the late afternoon sun, viewing his handiwork
in parched fields and dried watercourses, catches the cloud-
flecked western sky, and with an alchemist’s cunning, trans-
forms it into blues, purples and molten gold, gorgeous in
their brilliant coloring. Then, not content with painting this
celestial canvas, as he sinks below the neighboring hill in
the late afternoon he lights up the towers, belfries and
spires of his terrestrial empire with a rich yellow light, as
full of substance and color as the ochre on a painter’s palette.

In the evening hours, the men and maids of Burgos
throng the tree-lined promenade on the river bank, enjoy-
ing the night-cooled air, observing and being observed.
There is a military garrison here and the soldiers, reveling
in their evening leave, repair to this happy hunting ground,
strolling, laughing and flirting outrageously and unblush-
ingly with the girls who have the temerity to walk there,
unchaperoned. To be sure, it is not the aristocracy that
frequents this evening rendezvous. If it were, there would
be, of course, no such indiscriminate behavior. The people
who do, however, are as informal in their relation to each
other as a similar crowd would be in Hyde Park on a holi-
day, or the Boulevards of Paris on Bastile Day or in New
York on election night.SEN

 

 

  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

ll. AN ANCIENT CENTER
OF LEARNING

F' all the buses in various states of decrepi-
tude that are found in the Iberian penin-
sula, none can compete in the condition
of dilapidation with the one that serves
the patrons of the best hotel in Vallado-
lid. And when I say the best hotel, I
use that adjective in a purely relative
sense. Upon the arrival of our train,
we entered this bus late at night, without
foreknowledge, the dusk of the evening
obscuring the visible blemishes of its ex-
terior as well as the obvious disintegration
of its working parts, and it was not until
we were well under way, among the ruts
and cobblestones of the Valladolidan streets, that we realized
our imminent danger of foundering in the silent darkness
that brooded over us. Timbers creaked in a terrifying way,
seams appeared to open, the cargo shifted, windows rattled
in a deafening manner, as we lurched about like a ship
lashed by a northerly gale. Finally, however, after thread-
ing many dangerous channels bordered by lightless build-
ings, we cast anchor before the modest doorway that gave

[27]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

entrance to our hotel. Stating our needs in French, for
English is relatively little understood in the interior of
Spain, we were shown to our cheerless room, well above
the roofs of the buildings across the way.

The rooms in Spanish hotels, except those of the de luxe
hostelries in the larger cities, are old-fashioned and are fur-
nished with an austere utilitarianism that conflicts with one’s
ideas of twentieth-century comfort. The floors are usually
bare, their complete nudity being relieved merely by a
diminutive mat or two. The chairs are of the simplest
design, discouraging to the lounger; brass or unadorned
wooden beds, a bureau or table of antiquated style, devoid
of embellishment, and a washstand, such as we knew in the
nineties, go to make up the ensemble. Running water is
almost unknown, and the size of the water pitchers in the
rooms, along with the paucity of bathrooms, are eloquent
testimony to the indifference of the people of the country
in the matter of bathing. Towels are allotted, one to a
guest, with faithful precision, though it is only fair to say
that we never found a chambermaid who refused to bring
us extra towels when we asked for them or who wouldn’t
bring us additional rations of water upon our demanding
mucho agua. And, in the matter of water, we found that
in the entire Spanish language there are no more priceless
words than agua fria and agua caliente, depending upon
whether you want it cold or warm. In defense of this ex-
treme simplicity of hotel accommodation, it may be said
with justice that in a hot climate, such plain and unadorned
furnishing contributes to good sanitation and hygiene, and
on this score alone the hotel keepers may well be excused
for not providing more luxurious furnishing and decora-
tion.

It seemed but a moment when the jangling of bells awak-
ened us from a well-earned slumber. The hands of the
[ 28 ]VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

clock pointed to six, and we waited with patience for the
clamor to cease. But there was no ceasing. Bewildered
at first by the endless sound, we soon discovered them to be
the church and monastic bells of the city proclaiming, with
becoming elation, the advent of a saint’s day. When one
set of chimes silenced itself, another took up the refrain.
Our room being in an upper floor and on a level with the
rooftops of the city, we were favored with the full melody.
Six o’clock was, we agreed, an unfair hour for the church
bells to raise their voices, even in the exuberance of devotion,
and at that moment we felt that we knew the reason why
France suppressed her holy orders!

Valladolid, a corruption of the Arabic, Medinat al Walid,
meaning “Town of the Governor,” 1s a considerable city, with
every aspect of commercial activity. Perhaps this accounts
for its relative dullness to those who are seeking the his-
torical and picturesque. The capital of the Spanish Empire
in the sixteenth century, under Philip II and Philip III,
it was the home of Gil Blas and the place in which he prac-
ticed medicine; for three years the residence of Cervantes;
the city in which was solemnized the marriage of Ferdi-
nand and Isabella, in 1469; and the place where Colum-
bus, broken in spirit, died, in 1506. For all that, Valladolid
is hardly worth a visit, for beyond an undistinguished cathe-
dral, a few old churches and public buildings, and an occa-
sional vista of medieval aspect, there is nothing to repay
the visitor. Her greatest treasure, the house in which
Columbus breathed his last, is gone. We looked for it
earnestly; our map showed its location and we read its de-
scription in our guide book, but find it we could not. In
our best, though exceedingly limited, Spanish, we inquired
from passers-by for its situation—a tradesman first, who
said something that was quite unintelligible to us and pointed
toward the museum on the plaza near by. Our next victim

[29]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

was a prosperous-looking merchant who, likewise, in inde-
cipherable phrases, vouchsafed information, and, with his
index finger, indicated a direction in which we seemed con-
stantly to be headed as we circled about the enchanted
ground. Finally, a postman appeared, and we felt that by
virtue of his office he was the logical guide. We failed to
comprehend even his verbal directions, but his outstretched
arm, pointing eloquently toward the museum, seemed to
confirm an opinion at which we were rapidly arriving:
namely, that the house must have been removed bodily from
its site and set up in the museum for safekeeping. Since
the museum had not opened for the day, and as our train
was leaving shortly, we contented ourselves with going over
and gazing at a section of plaster wall that adorned the
site indicated on our map. It was not until later that we
discovered the whole naked truth. Only a few years ALO,
and since our guide book was written, the Columbus house
was torn down without ceremony to make room for the en-
largement of a convent yard! What a crime against pos-
terity, the wanton destruction of a building of priceless his-
toric association that had stood for four centuries! If for
no other reason than for this assault on a treasure of world
significance, although the early morning bells must always
remain a serious count in the indictment, I should shake
the dust of Valladolid from my feet forever.

Salamanca, Spain’s historic university city, is somewhat
off the main railroad route north and south, and for that
reason is less visited than any other of the important cities
of Spain. Without question, it is one of the most picturesque
and unspoiled cities in all the peninsula, one of the richest
in historic buildings and one of the most vivid in native
life. At Medina del Campo, a junction on the main line
not far south of Valladolid, you change for the railroad
running into Portugal. On this line, an hour or two away,

[ 30 ]VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

in the former kingdom of Leon, now the province of that
name, lies this city, once the capital of the principality.

It is quite generally conceded that the foreign visitor
cannot travel third class on the Spanish railroads without
great discomfort. The peasants and working folk crowd
into the cheerless wooden coaches, which are far from be-

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ing models of sanitation, dispose themselves on the bare
wooden benches with gay abandon, along with their numer-
ous boxes, baskets and progeny, open up parcels of food and
make themselves quite at home, giving little heed to the
pressing problems of their neighbors in the crowded com-
partments. The seats are hard and the windows narrow,
and the air is redolent of tightly packed humanity. Going
down to Salamanca, however, we discovered that the third-
class passengers were unquestionably having the best time

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of it. While we, in coaches of superior class, were effectu-
ally enclosed in narrow windowed compartments of the
type of all Continental carriages, and were feeling the heat
of the day with undue severity, the butchers and bakers and
candlestick makers were disporting themselves in brand-
new open coaches with slat seats, resembling the summer
cars on American street railways. Open to the wind and
sun of the rolling prairie, they were cool and clean, and
gave the sensation of travel across country in an open motor
car. After this discovery, we were not long in changing
our places, a maneuver puzzling to the conductor, since we
were holding tickets for superior accommodations.

On the return journey, a day or two later, we purchased
third-class tickets in the hope that the new open coaches of
the previous journey, or proper substitutes for them, would
be on active duty. Not only did they accommodatingly
appear, but the same conductor was in charge. He smiled
in recognition when he came to punch our tickets and ex-
claimed, “Ha! you prefer this to the other class, don’t
your” thereby establishing an entente cordiale.

This pleasant fifty-mile journey across the boundless plain
not only afforded us a moving panorama of the rolling, tree-
less country, stretching away to the distant horizon on the
north, and to the dimly outlined Sierra de Gratta on the
south, but gave us an opportunity to study at close range
the peasant types of the district. Our fellow travelers were
the robust people of the towns and country round about, men
in blouses, long smocks and corduroy trousers, women hat-
less or adorned with scarfs tied down over their heads in the
fashion of a bonnet, or with shirt waists and skirts of colored
materials, but of a conventional pattern.

Across the aisle reposed a man typical of the peasant type,
intent on reading, a rare occupation in Spain. A finely set-up
fellow he was, clad in corduroy, gay striped socks and

[ 32 ]Looking toward the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca, the finest arcaded

square in Spain.VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

canvas slippers which were secured to his ankles with leather
thongs. He presented to the artist a priceless opportunity
and the chance was seized eagerly as the sketcher concealed
his movements in order to avoid a self-conscious subject and
a gallery of spectators among the passengers. To the
friendly conductor we revealed the secret; then followed

 

discovery by the subject himself, who was not only greatly
pleased at the compliment paid him, but filled with satis-
faction at the accuracy and fancy of the artist’s handiwork.
Later, we learned that our willing model was a cattleman,
the keeper of a bull in the box car. The animal was bound.
for Burgos to fight in the ring next day. Alas! poor brute,
it was his last day on earth. We had just occupied a
room in the hotel, situated across the hall from that ten-
anted by a matador who had slain many of the brothers of

L323SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

this bull. In passing the open door we could see his re-
splendent costume, like those we ourselves had once worn
at home at a fancy dress ball, draped over the back of a
chair, a fragile and artificial attire for so bloodthirsty an
undertaking as despatching maddened toros. The matador
himself seemed equally unsuited to so hazardous a task, for,
far from being a figure of powerful build and impressive
stature, he was short, slender and of modest bearing. Many
times on the stage at home have I seen a far more effective
toreador in appearance.

The artist, in his innocence, quite wrecked the discipline
of the train officials, for the conductor and guard became
so enthralled in his labors that they neglected their duties
most shamefully. Oblivious to all else, they allowed the
train to roll into the stations without announcement. Then,
shaken into consciousness by a sudden stop, they would tear
their fascinated gaze away from the picture and dash off
to do what was expected of them. The train crew, however,
was not alone in its admiration of the artist’s handiwork.
Soldiers and other passengers gathered around, and reveled
in the excitement. It was thrilling enough merely to see a
foreigner, but to find one who was an artist raised these
simple folk to the seventh heaven of delight. The more
we traveled through Spain, the more were we impressed
with the extraordinary curiosity of the people. The artist,
wherever he worked with his sketch book, was always sur-
rounded by a fascinated throng in which children predomi-
nated. In these uninvited audiences, the little folk would
soon become unruly, but there was usually to be found a
champion of the artist, who rebuked the boisterous and kept
them from pressing too close.

Of all the cities in Spain, none has retained its medieval
aspect more completely than Salamanca. And, certainly, no
town in the entire country is so lacking in self-consciousness

[ 34]VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

or lives more completely aloof from modernism than this
venerable city. At the same time, it possesses all the ele-
ments that give it every excuse for having conscious pride.

Salamanca has age, for it was important enough in the
third century B.c. to attract the attention of Hannibal, who
captured it in 217. Afterwards, it became a city of the

 

Roman province of Lusitania. Salamanca has culture, for
its university has always been one of the greatest in Eu-
rope. Founded by Alphonso IX, in whose reign north-
ern Spain was freed from Moorish rule, as a result of the
victory at Tolosa in 1212, it was subsequently enlarged, so
that in the heyday of its glory in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, ten thousand students, from all over the civilized
world, were enrolled in its twenty-five colleges. In 1254
Pope Alexander IV placed it on a par with the three great

[35]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

seats of learning at Bologna, Paris and Oxford. So many
of the nobility sought learning there that four colleges were
reserved for their exclusive use. Philip II, a contempo-
rary of Elizabeth of England, founded one college exclu-
sively for Irish students, a slap, it was said, at that Protestant
queen whose subjects might thus gain education under Cath-
olic auspices. Indeed, even after all these centuries, Irish
students may still be found there. Salamanca has charm,
for it possesses the finest public square in Spain, an im-
pressive number of interesting buildings, dating from the
time of its greatest eminence, and a leisurely street life that
abounds in primitive and picturesque quality.

The city’s center is the finely proportioned Plaza Mayor,
the “Grand Place,” a splendid quadrangle of tall arcaded
buildings of the eighteenth century. Cafés and shops line
the colonnades and here, in the late morning and at the
close of the afternoon, the townsfolk come to take their ease,
away from the glare of the sun, sipping their coffee and
apéritifs, as with indolent delight they watch the endless
traffic that passes through the archways and across the square.
In the evening it becomes the favorite rendezvous for
promenaders. In the center of the plaza is a bandstand,
and, clustered around it, benches for the wayfarers. The
band plays only on special occasions, but whether it plays
or not the loungers are there in liberal numbers, as soon
as the sun sinks behind the adjoining buildings. Here, in
earlier times, as in the case of the principal squares in other
Spanish cities, the bull fights were held, and here, at one
period in the nation’s history, the flames of the Inquisition
took their tragic toll.

Passing through the eastern portico of the square, you
come to the market place. Surrounding a vast, covered
building are broad thoroughfares, appropriated by the
market folk who, because of preference, economy or lack

[ 36]VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

of room inside the covered market, prefer to exhibit their
wares under the open sky and within the arcades of the
flanking buildings. In all Spain there is no market place
that surpasses this one in the movement of its picturesque
traffic and in the activity of its traders. The three markets
possessing the greatest interest I should set down as those
of Salamanca, Cordova and Seville, the first two character-
ized by the most kaleidoscopic movement of life, as well
as its more primitive phases. To this market, in the early
morning hours, streams the traffic from the surrounding
country; covered carts with circular canopies, like miniature
prairie schooners, drawn by single mules or by two or three
in tandem; diminutive donkeys, balanced by wicker or
hempen panniers, bearing incredible loads of produce, their
burdens frequently augmented by master or mistress, both
mules and horses plodding soberly along, with backs piled
high; small donkeys hitched to lumbering open carts; men,
women and children, staggering under the weight of baskets
and bundles, headed for the market or homeward bound;
donkeys and mules, nozzles thrust in great feed bags
tied up to their eyes, vigorously munching or standing con-
tentedly idle, dreaming with the same happy inertia that
is characteristic of their masters. This is the life that pul-
sates about the market; a cinematograph of color and mo-
tion, constantly changing, quickly shifting, ever strange; a
picture of the transportation methods and trading habits of
a century ago. Within the market building is a babel of
sound; men and women crying their wares, customers
shrewdly bargaining and jostling each other in the narrow
aisles. Here are the vendors of fruit and vegetables, fish
and meat, perishable provender that must be sold quickly
or lost. Without, strewn on the ground under the arcades
of the surrounding buildings, are the articles of more per-
manent stuff—pottery, kitchenware, and household goods of

[a7 |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

every sort, presided over by folk who seem much less con-
cerned over selling their wares. A market place, this, in
which to idle and photograph the unceasing procession; a
market in which, should one be commercially inclined,
to buy the peaches and grapes of the northern country,
with their delicious muscatel flavor, unrivaled by any in

Spain.

 

Salamanca’s lack of self-consciousness lies to a great ex-
tent in her charming disorder. She has done little or noth-
ing to assemble in studied array her wealth of splendid
monuments that have descended the stairway of time, pro-
claiming the glory of her zenith in the distant past. It hes
to some extent, also, in her seeming indifference to the
traveler, for she makes no pretense whatever in receiving

[ 38 ]— . eee Ey eee Pee ey 4
NR ae I eR RN ig eh pil mesa

   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

him. A town s0 rich in intellectual heritage and in historic
glory might be expected to provide more modern hotels
than those that now cater to the visitor. Her buildings,
uncatalogued, so to speak, many of them in a state of happy
semi-neglect, are far from being on dress parade, but, on
the contrary, seem, in their Old World setting, unconscious
of their attraction, unspoiled members of an architectural
aristocracy, existing, as they have for centuries, for the use
and delectation of the people of the community. The irreg-
ularity of the streets, and the haphazard setting of the build-
ings are at variance with all sense of modern precision, and
you feel conscious that time has wrought little change in the
soul of Salamanca.

There is a pleasant harmony, too, in the color of the city.
The materials that went into the construction of the vener-
able buildings of Salamanca—cathedrals, university, con-
vents, churches—were all of the same light sandstone, the
color of the desert sand, and the dominant tone is a soft
reddish brown. The native stone of this color, which has
been generally used in the north of Spain, may detract
from the solemnity and grandeur of the cathedrals and other
great edifices, but what is sacrificed in majesty is gained in
friendly warmth and in the endowment of a personality that
is essentially Spanish.

The cathedrals Vieja and Nueva, the “Old” and the
“New,” are imposing edifices of ancient lineage. The old
cathedral, founded about the year 1100, by Count Raymond
of Burgundy, is a massive structure with walls like a fortress,
ten feet through, a glory of the Transition or Spanish Gothic
style. Rising from the Plaza del Colegio Viejo in stately
splendor, its most distinguishing characteristic is its mag-
nificent lantern, in the form of an octagonal tower, adorned
with arcades and turrets, an architectural feature that will
strike a familiar note to every visitor from New England,

[ 39 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

for this splendid dome is the prototype of the tower of
Trinity Church, Boston.

A few years after Columbus made his great voyage of
discovery, in 1509 to be exact, the foundations of the new
cathedral were laid. We read of it in our guide book.
There were minute instructions for finding it. The location
of it seemed almost identical with that of the old cathedral,
but our efforts to discover it were in vain. We followed
directions, studied the map, peered around corners, scanned
the sky line, examined the details of the old cathedral before
us, which was the only one in sight, thinking that it might
after all be the new, but we were completely baffled. Scent-
ing a mystery, but concluding, in any event, that the guide
was wrong or that, like Columbus’ house at Valladolid, the
new cathedral had been torn down, we gave up the search
for the night. Next morning, armed with guide book and
endowed with clear minds, we renewed vigorously our search
for the missing new cathedral. At last we found it, serenely
attached to the old cathedral, apparently having been moved
to its new site since the guide book was written! Certainly,
this close attachment of the one cathedral for the other, was
not made clear. The new cathedral, two centuries in build-
ing, is somewhat marred by its variety of architectural styles,
but, in company with the other, there being no visible division
between the two, an edifice of magnificent proportions con-
fronts the beholder.

Flanking another side of the square is the university,
dating from the thirteenth century, an institution that ele-
vated Salamanca to her rank as one of the greatest educa-
tional centers of Europe. To the savants of this great seat
of learning Columbus, a guest of Fray Diego de Deza, in
the Dominican monastery hard by, presented his theories,
asking for their support in having his data brought before
the Spanish monarchs, but they turned a deaf ear to his

[ 40 ]and roof tops of the lower city, Segovia.VALLADOLID AND SALAMANCA

pleas. It was due in no small measure, however, to the
support of the learned Brother Diego de Deza, always
Columbus’ loyal friend and supporter, that he was encour-
aged to continue his efforts to convince Ferdinand and Isa-
bella of the practicability of his scheme.

Since this volume has no pretense of being a guide book,
there is no place in it for a detailed description of the many
attractions of Salamanca—its churches and other ecclesiasti-
cal buildings, its immense Roman bridge over the broad but
shallow Tormes, that in summer is hardly more than a feeble
brook, its ancient palaces with their galleried patios, its
variety of buildings which are scattered informally about
the circumscribed city, without any unified plan and seem-
ingly of no particular consequence, of the number of tiny,
ever-flowing fountains, to which women come to fill their
earthen jars and to gossip. There is much to see, and it
can be seen quickly, for the city is relatively small, but there
is a spell that the city casts that will make you invoke the
manana of the Spaniards when you come to consider your
departure.

We left Salamanca in state, negotiating the distance be-
tween hotel and station in an early example of that well-
known and ubiquitous motor car made in Detroit, accompa-
nied by a personal bodyguard who occupied a place of im-
portance beside the chauffeur on the front seat. This body-
guard attached himself to us one evening, shortly after our
arrival in the city, and he was a brown-eyed boy of ten. He
spied us that evening as we were sitting in front of the hotel
on the little square, waiting for the summons to dinner
which so rarely comes in Spain before nine o’clock. Looking
us over, he essayed a question in Spanish that brought him
no satisfactory response in kind. After that he was not long
in deciding that we were Americanos and, since we were,
that we must be interested in antiguedades. With commend-

[ 41 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

able directness and promptitude, he insisted upon making an
appointment to meet us the following morning at ten and
conduct us to a proper shop. The next morning at nine-
forty I emerged from the hotel to the little flower-enlivened
square in front, expecting that my young cicerone would
miss his opportunity, but just as I was slipping off down
the street, I saw him detach himself from a taxi, evidently
his favorite playground, and dash over to meet me. Would
I go to the antiguedades now? I first wanted to go to the
Plaza Mayor and then to the market place, so he joined me,
keeping up a desultory fire of questions and comments which
I, with my limited Spanish, could answer only by an ejac-
ulation here and there. At last we went to the shop with
the antiguedades, a house flanking one side of the market
place, the ground floor given over to selling some sort of dry
goods. The antiques were upstairs in the apartment of the
owner, in a room set aside for the purpose. Here I found
some beautiful embroidered shawls, various articles of fur-
niture, and some other treasures that bore the mark of time.
Having an insufficient supply of pesetas on hand, I went
off, accompanied by my diminutive guide, to cash a travelers’
check. But there was a fiesta that day, and the banks were
closed. Undismayed, my little friend suggested that we try
the patron of the hotel. We found the proprietor at his
desk, but he was short of pesetas and so was unable to solve
our financial problem. For the first time, my young adviser
was nonplussed. I showed my purse, which contained but
a meager supply of pesetas and a number of American
ereenbacks. I suggested the possibility of American money
in our dilemma and he seized on the idea. Off he raced to
the good woman of the antiques, who was not at all loath
to take this sort of currency, for the fame of the dollar had
spread even to out-of-the-way Spain. In fact, she was so
well satisfied that she insisted on quoting me in dollars for

[ 42 ]

shan te atitsar d (Oised

lieageer F~

the articles that I priced. And so, after the rate of exchange
was decided upon, the purchases were made, to the extreme

[43 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

satisfaction of my youthful guide. In payment for his serv-
ices, I handed him two pesetas, which seemed an ample
compensation for his trouble, especially as he probably col-
lected a gratuity from the shopkeeper as well. But this he
refused, gravely handing back the money. His price was
three pesetas, and his dignity and sense of justice would
permit him to take no less. [am not sure that he knew that
in an hour or less we were making our departure, but he
declined the money as I parted with him at the door of the
hotel, whither I went to pack my baggage. Should we see
him again? We had crowded our time so closely that the
bus had left for the station. The order was given for a
taxi and it proved to be the one that had its stand in the
little walled square before the hotel. As we emerged with
our baggage, the taxi drew up, and there, on the front seat
beside the driver, in an attitude of complete ease and assur-
ance, was our little brown-eyed friend, grave in his dignity.
And so we rode to the station. As we disembarked on our
arrival there, I paid the driver, and then handed three
pesetas to our youthful conductor and shook hands with him.
Smiling all over, his air of warm camaraderie returned, and
he proclaimed himself an Americano forthwith.IV. THE HILLTOP CITY
OF SEGOVIA

 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  

S you approach Segovia by train from Medina
del Campo, the junction to the northwest, the
view you get of the distant city is one of the
most remarkable in all Spain. The railroad
traverses an endless expanse of undulating
country, half plain and half desert, a
counterpart of the American Southwest.
While you are yet in the immensities of
the wilderness, suddenly, on your left,
across the sun-baked earth, there appears,
rising sheer out of the desert, the out-
lines of a gigantic mass of buildings, elevated
1 far above the surrounding country. This titanic
ts silhouette bears a striking resemblance to a

mighty ship at sea, as it rises among the billows
of the plain, the sharply rising cliff, crowned by the medieval
alcazar, like a figurehead, forming the bow, and the tower-
ing cathedral, with its gables, turrets and domes, the
masted superstructure. From this distant point, before the
train describes the great loop that it makes in its approach
to Segovia, one sees that there are no tree-lined avenues
leading to the city, no straggling suburbs, and no intro-
ductory houses in the environs. Segovia detaches itself

[45 |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

from the plain, and silhouettes itself against the sky and
the distant mountains, as sharply as a vessel looms out of
the ocean waste. ‘Then, as the train pursues its vast de-
tour to escape the deep arroyos that intervene, you lose sight
of the city, until once more it comes into view, this time
at close range, and from another point of the compass, and
reveals itself. But that fleeting glimpse across the desert
of an enchanted city, rising out of an uninhabited plain,
will always remain with you as characteristic of Segovia
alone.

For medieval flavor, for mellow beauty, for prospects
that charm, for enchanting vistas, and for its sense of
sprightliness, there is no lovelier city in Spain than Segovia.
It is old, but it is orderly; it is isolated, but it never conveys
a sense of loneliness; it is not large, but it always seems
ample, partly, perhaps, because of the unusual expansive-
ness of its views. It has, on its crowded hilltop, no parks or
boulevards, though there are graceful walks, tree-bordered
walls, tiny squares and an omnipresent sense of beauty.
And the views over the rolling plain and the encircling
rivers that insure a fringe of verdure in the golden wilder-
ness, of red roofs and crumbling masonry in the lower town,
and of the extraordinary Roman aqueduct that strides
through the city like a Colossus, all set Segovia as a city
apart. It has no counterpart in Spain, or for that matter,
in all Europe.

If you should have the good fortune to arrive at Segovia,
as we did, during the early evening hours, when the Service
of the Candles was being celebrated, you would probably be
inclined to signify your thanks by burning a taper before
the altar of the Goddess of Fortune. From the causeway,
ascending the hill to the upper city—in reality a street that
like a winding staircase skirts the edge of the rising grade,
in places permitting an extensive view of the lower town

[ 46 ]SEGOVIA

and plain—we heard the roll of drums and the penetrating
notes of an instrument that sounded precisely like the skirl
of a bagpipe. Looking off over the parapet, in the rapidly
gathering gloom, we distinguished a throng of people and
the bobbing of many candles in the narrow plaza that sur-
rounded a church. It was the day of a fiesta, and a celebra-
ton in honor of its saint was in progress. Setting out for
the center of activity, we stood, before long, with the wor-
shippers and spectators, engrossed in the ceremonies, but not
before we had made our way through the press of holiday
makers in an adjacent square, where booths had been set
up and red fire was proclaiming the spirit of the carnival.
An infinitely greater throng, ‘t must be admitted, than that
‘n attendance at the religious ceremony near by, was here
enjoying the worldly side of a spiritual festival.

But we gained the church plaza just as the participants,
who had formed in pairs at one side of the chapel, were
marching, lighted candles in hand, in solemn procession
around the building, to enter the church by the opposite
door. Drawing up the rear, and borne on the shoulders
of a company of men, was a statue of the Virgin of almost
heroic size, dressed in garments of silk and lace, and seated
‘na chair on an elaborately adorned platform. Within the
church, reposing on benches and standing at attention, the
people lined both sides of the interior, those bearing candles
coming to rest and forming an aisle to the altar, the flicker-
ing flames of the hand-borne torches shedding a mellow
light in the gloom, illumining the faces of the worshippers
and glinting on the tinsel and gold of both statue and or-
namentation. Following the last of the candle-bearers, came
the statue of the Virgin, its entry a signal for the devout
to drop on their knees in worshipful silence, while it was
borne to the side of the altar and there placed at rest.

It was an impressive spectacle, the dancing candles in

[ 47 |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the dusk outside, the mellow glow within, the kneeling
throng before a deity that lived in the effigy before them,
a ceremony out of the past, embodying the spirit of the
Middle Ages, typifying the simple faith of the Spanish
townsfolk and peasants, and a really suitable introduction
to a city that 1s as venerable and picturesque as this very
Service of the Candles.

Like the biblical town of the proverb, Segovia is a city
set on a hill which cannot be hid—a city that rises in swell-
ing terraces to reach its climax in the conical towers and
monolithic campanile of the enormous cathedral. Its site,
a commanding eminence in the middle of a great plain, has
been occupied from the beginning of time, ever since men
first came to inhabit the Iberian peninsula. The Iberians,
the earliest inhabitants, of which a mere remnant, the
Basques, remains in the north, built a town here and erected
a series of fortifications, the foundations of which served for
those constructed later by the Romans which, restored in
the eleventh and twelfth centuries, are standing to-day.
These ramparts, strengthened by semicircular towers and
pierced with ancient gateways, rise in some places to frown-
ing heights, but unlike those at Avila and Carcassonne, they
are not continuous in their flaunting enfoldment of the city.
In some places, the precipitous sides of the hill form natural
links in the fortifications, and elsewhere, the walls parallel
the rising ground and are almost hidden from view. But,
here and there, where the ramparts are visible, they present
to the observer a grim picture of the military defenses of
the Middle Ages.

Segovia, as small as it is, has two focal centers, the Plaza
del Azoquejo which is situated at the entrance to the upper
town and city proper, and the Plaza de la Constitucién, which
sprawls in the heart of the city above. Through the former
pulsates the busy life of the city and its environs, and over

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A street that becomes a stairway 1n degovla.SEGOVIA

it strides the mighty Roman aqueduct, for two thousand
years a silent witness to the changing peoples and civiliza-
tions that have swept under its arches—Romans, Visigoths,
Moors and finally the triumphant Spaniards who, after many
centuries of domination, reclaimed their country from the
Mohammedan invaders. Here, in this plaza, the market 1s
held, and to it comes from farm and factory a steady stream
of mule and donkey traffic, while through it pass up the
sharply ascending street all those who would do business
in the commercial center above. In the morning hours it
is a kaleidoscope of movement, for an endless flow of folk
from the villages of the plain passes over its pavement;
those whose stock in trade makes carts unnecessary, riding in
state with all appearance of comfort, perched on the backs
of their plodding mules and burros. The several lines of
cross-country buses make this plaza their depot of arrival and
departure, and from their crowded interiors and their com-
modious roofs emerge people, bundles, boxes and crates
destined for market and shop. In all of Spain there is no
more entertaining center of traffic than this, for while the
market itself is far from being equal in size and activity
to that in many other cities, the people who pass this way,
clad in the distinctive garb of northern Spain, are among
the most engaging to be found anywhere.

Soaring above this square, in the miniature valley formed
by the town on one side and the rising ground opposite, are
the galleried arches of the Roman aqueduct, a gigantic con-
duit which still carries water from the distant hills, as it
has done for a score of centuries. It is a noble monument
to those indefatigable builders of ancient Rome, graceful in
line and so staunch in construction that although erected
without cement or mortar its immense granite blocks have
remained in place from the time of Augustus Cesar until
now. It spans the valley in one gigantic stride, a half mile

[49]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

long, and for a part of the distance it consists of a double
arcade, one tier of arches surmounting the other, a hundred

[50]SEGOVIA

and nineteen in all, reaching, in places, a height of nearly one
hundred feet above the level of the valley floor. No other
city of Spain has so fine a monument of the Roman era or
one that marks the sky line with such a striking and stu-
pendous object of interest.

For all its importance as the gateway to the city, the
Plaza del Azoquejo is surpassed in comeliness and, indeed,
in importance by the Plaza de la Constitucién, which is
situated in the geometrical center of the upper town. Its
leadership as the civic center 1s proclaimed by the buildings
that flank its sides, and its maturity 1s attested by the arcaded
houses that encircle its treeless expanse. Here is the Ayun-
tamiento, or “Town Hall,” with its clock and pair of squat
minareted towers, here is the sixteenth-century church of
San Miguel, of Gothic design, and here, as the piéce de
résistance, rises the cathedral, a vast edifice of warm browns
and soft yellows, mounting in swelling cadences from its
flanking chapels to a crescendo in flaunting cupola and tower.
Adrift, in the surface of the plaza, is a covered stand, the
rendezvous of a band that, on occasions, regales an appre-
ciative populace and, adjacent to it, under the arcade, flour-
‘ches a café that in late afternoon and evening extends its
dominions out into the square where its patrons sit at leisure
around little tables, sipping their coffee and wine under the
vivid blue dome of the cloudless sky. On days when the
fair is held, this square, which is usually the ultimate in
decorum and quietude, is transformed by booths of com-
merce and temples of amusement into a pleasure ground
where the townsfolk and peasants in their distinctive Cas-
tilian garb come, both to make merry and to worship in the
cathedral close at hand.

Radiating from the Plaza de la Constitucién, are a num-
ber of narrow streets that flow down the slowly receding hill-
side, joining others that follow the contour of the circum-

[51]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

scribed city or wander off at right angles at their own sweet
will, some of them eventually becoming stairways in order
to accommodate the pedestrian in negotiating the sharply de-
scending grade. These arteries of travel are walled by tile-
roofed and balconied houses that have witnessed many gen-
erations of passers-by, and, in their twistings, form miniature
plazas, and odd corners delight the eye and quicken the
sense of romance. Along these narrow, canyon-like streets
are to be found occasional factories, not the kind that we
know, but workshops, occupying single rooms on the ground
floors of ancient stone houses. Without windows in the
rear, they resemble caves or storerooms rather than working
quarters, but, with their little groups of workmen, they
are ehamicteneec of the way much of the manufaceiree 6 iS
still carried on in Spain. The condition of industry there
is still medieval in character; big scale production has for
the most part made little progress. Indeed, in the smaller
cities, the visitor is never conscious of an industrial fabric,
for the eye rarely encounters a factory with smoking chim-
neys or a grim procession of workmen. In cities like
Segovia, production is carried on by hand, in little holes in
the wall, and its presence is never suspected unless you peer
into the gloomy interiors, beyond the open doors, where you
hear the beat of the hammer or the sound of the whirling
lathe.

There are churches aplenty, too, that had their birth
in the Middle Ages. Those structures of gray and somber
aspect that elsewhere are so characteristic of that cheerless
day are absent here. Instead, the churches, of red and yellow
sandstone, have an air of vivacity and some, with open arcades
and colonnades, are most alluring in their note of welcome.

The cathedral, which possesses this same gaiety of de-
meanor, was begun in 1525, from designs of Juan Gil de
Ontafion and his son, and follows the plan of the Cathedral

lisoalSEGOVIA

Nueva, at Salamanca, of which the de Ontafons were also
the architects. The cathedral is a fine example of its type,
and is characterized by the radiance of its interior lighting,
for which its splendid late Gothic stained-glass windows are
responsible, and also by the beauty of its Gothic cloisters.

The commanding alcazar, situated majestically on the
prow of the Segovian ship, is that feature which, more than
anything else, emphasizes the striking quality of the mag-
nificent silhouette seen from across the plain. The short
stretch of road that connects it with the cathedral possesses
an Old World charm and a spirit more typical of romantic
Spain than almost any other vista that I know. On one side
of the way runs a parapet of stone, at a level with the leafy
tops of trees growing from the precipitous cliff below. On
the other is a wall, high and mellow with age, enclosing
gardens belonging to pleasant villas which face the other
way, on a street well within the town. Over this wall clam-
ber vines, vagrants from the gardens within, and above it
appear luxuriant bushes and trees, whose leaves seem black
in contrast to the gleaming wall and the road of dazzling
white dust. Straight across the forested gorge, which the
road avoids by describing a loop, looms the castellated
alcazar, a perfect picture of an old Castilian stronghold.
Covered carts drawn by mules in tandem, and donkeys with
laden panniers in care of their masters, appear and quickly
pass out of sight around the bend in the road, which is only
an occasional thoroughfare. And over it all, out of a
perfect azure sky, pour the unfaltering rays of the summer
sun, bathing the shimmering landscape in their genial heat.

The alcazar, a Spanish word meaning “castle,” is a splen-
did piece of stage setting. Its dizzy situation, on the very
edge of the rocky precipice, is theatrical to a degree. Here,
at the prow of the cliff, elevated far above the converging
rivers below, the original castle was built by Alfonso the

lisaSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Wise, four centuries before Columbus discovered the New
World. Three centuries later it was almost entirely re-
newed, and candor forces me to say that to-day, as a genuine
feudal castle, it is an arrant fraud, for in the middle of the
last century it was destroyed by fire, and only the two
great towers remain from the earlier building.

The restoration, however, was carried out with fine ex-
actness, and the flavor of medievalism is rampant, even if

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the new brick that was used in the reconstruction has not yet
been thoroughly mellowed by time. When you stand before
its towering walls, forget the absence of crumbling masonry,
forget that the castle has fallen from its high estate and is
now but a repository for military archives. Think only of
its early glory under its founder, who was the first to as-
sume the title, Emperor of Spain, and whose reign found
the Moors at the beginning of their slow retreat, that
culminated four centuries later in their total expulsion from
Spanish soil. Think of its massive strength and of its
great magnificence of interior under Charles V and Philip
II who, in this stronghold, were able to defy the Com-

[54]SEGOVIA

uneros, and in whose reign the Spanish Empire with its con-
quests in the New World, its possessions in North Africa and
its dominance of the Netherlands, attained its greatest terri-
torial extent.

Peer out through the balcony arch, from its dizzy height
above the plain below, where, it is said, the nurse of the baby
Peter, in a moment of abstraction, released her hold on her
infant charge who fell and was dashed to death on the cliffs
underneath, leaving the nurse, in terror and remorse, to fling
herself from the balcony 2 few moments later. Stand in
the castle yard and gaze out over the parapet at the rolling,
sun-baked, treeless plain, that stretches to infinity; at the
ancient churches, the monastery ruins and occasional houses
nearer at hand, which stray out from the broad alameda
along the winding road that is well defined against the desert
background; at the alameda itself, under the walls of the
town, hundreds of feet below, whose thick clusters of trees
almost conceal the narrow rivers that in their deep arroyos
converge at the prow of the cliff—all basking in the shim-
mering heat of the sun. Then turn and look back at the city,
across the ravine that borders one side of the road as, like
a place of enchantment, it rises, dome-like, dominated by
the tower and turrets of its massive cathedral. And then,
if you are endowed with wisdom, you will make your way
down the road at the far end of the town, follow the alameda
along the river bank, and finally come to a halt under the
stupendous cliff that, capped by its great military chateau,
rises with majestic greatness into unbelievable heights.

Early one morning as I strolled along the short, broad
promenade that, elevated above the valley below, fringes
the western edge of the town, I witnessed a scene that so
satisfied my idea of Spanish life and romance I must record
it here.

As I slowly made my way, there approached, with emi-

[55]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

nent leisure, a masculine and two feminine figures. One of
the women walked in advance. A few paces in the rear, far
enough to be out of ear-shot, came the other two, a young
girl, and, close by her side, a cadet in his regimentals, his
hat in hand, in meticulous politeness. Slowly they ap-
proached, the two young people in earnest conversation,
quite oblivious to their surroundings. Presently, they came
to a side street and there, as the duenna turned and continued
on the way, the lovers paused and conversed eagerly for a
few brief moments, for this marked the end of their tryst.
Then while he, all engrossed, seemed determined in the
intensity of his feelings to hold her a few precious moments
longer, she left him. Standing with his hat still in his hand,
intent only on one thing, he gazed sadly after her until she
must long since have disappeared, then with a sigh he put
his hat on his head and walked slowly away, the picture of
utter dejection. The combination of the duenna, stalking
silently in front, the meeting between the lovers—a minute
stolen while the girl was on her way to school, perhaps—
and the unabashed intensity of the dejection that overcame
the man at parting gave me a sudden realization of the
exotic quality of the life about me. The incident was so
unashamedly romantic and so typical of Spain.V. ACROSS COUNTRY
TO AVILA

T the junction of Medina del Campo, the rail-
road splits into two branches, converging again
into one line a short distance before Madrid
is reached, thus forming an elongated oval.
On one of these branches lies the venerable
Segovia and on the other is the walled
city of Avila. In order to reach one of
these cities from the other by rail it is
necessary to take a train to one of the junc-
tions of the two branches, at either end of
the oval, and wait for a connecting train
along the other branch. This is by no means
a rapid process, and is not regarded with
favor even by the leisurely people of the
district. So, from the Plaza del Azoquejo, under the soar-
ing Aqueduct, or El Puente, as it is called in local circles,
a motor stage leaves for Avila daily, as, indeed, stages leave
for other points not accessible by train. This bus is a great
time saver, and what is really of greater importance, it is
a means for the wayfarer to see, at intimate range, the
country and village life away from the railroad.
It was with some eagerness, therefore, that we were early
on hand to secure good seats for our first motor trip through

[57SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the Spanish hinterland. As we waited for the diligence,
which had no more respect for promptness of departure than
the trains on the highways of steel, we amused ourselves by
taking photographs of the idlers who stood about chatting,
or, seated on tiny donkeys, passed the time of day with
others, similarly mounted or on foot. Differing quite de-
cidedly from the men clad in the usual attire of Old Castile,
which consists of a little flat tam, short black smock and
broad silk belt, was an old fellow dressed in the vintage of
a past generation—knee breeches, shoes adorned with
buckles, waistcoat of clerical cut, short jacket and broad-
brimmed, high-crowned felt hat. He struck a note of such
singularity that my photographic marksmanship was im-
mediately attracted but, averse to facing the camera, he
managed to conceal himself behind his neighbors when-
ever it was leveled in his direction. Finally, pretending to
be engrossed in another direction, I managed to throw him
off his guard and, in the middle of an absorbing gossip with
two countrymen who were perched astride their somnolent
donkeys, I caught him unawares. Turning around, he
looked squarely into my lens, and I snapped the shutter,
much to his chagrin, and to the amusement of the bystand-
ers, who had been keeping an eye on my hitherto futile
efforts.

At last, the travel-stained diligence rolled into the square,
and we were not long in clambering up its side to preémpt
the seat on its uncovered top, where we might, in company
with the freight and baggage, enjoy an unobstructed view of
the passing panorama of hamlet and plain. The prospect
offered great allurement, but we had failed to give proper
consideration to the time-worn condition of the bus itself,
to the rutted road over which we were to travel, or to the
sparsity of traffic which offered continual enticement for
speed, or yet, even, to the velocity of the wind that blew

[58]ACROSS COUNTRY TO AVILA

vigorously and without hindrance across the level prairie.
And so, but a brief time had elapsed before it was borne in
upon us that we had embarked upon a journey that offered
far more genuine excitement than any chute or serpentine
roller coaster that ever dispensed thrills to a neurotic public.
We had taken our seats on the single low bench across the
top that, in its countless journeys across the country, had
been wrenched out of shape and had, in the bargain, lost
one or two strategic slats from its not too comfortable seat,
and rolled decorously out of the city. Before we had been
many minutes on the open road the vehicle, which seemed
to us alarmingly top-heavy, was swaying and rolling along
the dusty, wind-swept highway in a terrifying manner, and
we were frantically grasping the end of the bench, with our
feet braced against the foot rail, in a gallant attempt to
remain on board. It was none too comfortable, and was
even fraught with danger, once we relaxed our vigil, but
the sheer excitement of the ride intrigued us. We never
knew how the passengers below us fared, but as they were
screened from the wind and nearer the groaning vehicle’s
center of gravity, we were willing to believe that, if they
were the recipients of less fresh air and entrancing views,
they enjoyed a passage of greater tranquillity.

In spite of its manifold discomforts, this journey across
the almost treeless plain was an experience we would not
have missed, even at a greater sacrifice of comfort. The
vast stretch of country over which we made our way was
given over to the cultivation of grain, and as far as the
eye could reach, in every direction, there were limitless
stretches of plain, covered with the stubble of harvested
wheat, and reaches of desert which, because of its waterless
character, furnished scant pasturage for cattle and, in places,
supported nothing but sparsely growing weeds. At long
intervals as we proceeded on our journey, tiny villages ap-

[59]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

peared, and at these we stopped to discharge or to take on
passengers and mail or a small amount of freight.

It was a veritable painted panorama through which we
passed—the golden plains and ochre desert, bathed in tor-
rents of sunlight, solitary figures on the inevitable donkeys,
moving along the endless ribboned highways, little villages
of plaster and adobe houses with dominating churches, ris-
ing abruptly out of the almost forsaken countryside.

Each hamlet had its threshing floor, a flat expanse of
field at the edge of the village, where patient donkeys and
dreamy oxen were engaged in dragging sledges over the
yellow grain stalks, just as they did in far-off Bible days.
Winnowing was done in an equally primitive fashion;
the wheat was tossed in the air, the wind, with automatic
skill, carrying the chaff away. As we passed through many
of these villages, the air, driven by the strong wind from the
plain, was filled with clouds of flying chaff.

At last, through the wind-swept and rock-littered plain,
we came to a tree-bordered road, indicative of civilization,
and, finally, to the towering walls of Avila. Once one of the
most flourishing cities of Spain, and for three centuries a
prize fought for by Moors and Christians, and alternately
possessed by each, to-day it basks in the middle of the vast,
arid plain of Castile, half asleep, shrunken in size, its
ancient glory entirely departed, seemingly content to have
once captured the commercial imagination of a nation and
the envy of contending armies. Even yet, it is the capital
of a province and the see of a bishop, but such distinction is
not taken seriously by present-day Avila. Its real emi-
nence lies in its being one of the finest walled towns in the
world, one of the few of the countless fortified places in
the Middle Ages that has preserved, almost completely 1n-
tact, its ring of massive fortifications. Certainly, nothing
exactly like it exists in all of Spain, and it has its counter-

[ 60 JACROSS COUNTRY TO AVILA

part only in such cities of Europe as Carcassonne and Aigues
Mortes. For a full mile and a half these mighty granite
ramparts, fourteen feet thick, encircle the city set on her
lofty ridge, their eighty-six towers, with battlemented para-
pets and nine bastioned gates, little affected by the passing
of more than eight centuries. Erected in 1090-1099, co-
incident, practically, with the Norman Conquest of England,
they rise from the edge of the hillside, grim and overbear-
ing, just as though they still afforded protection to the en-
circled town. So high are they that, from without, they
completely obscure the town, the massive bulk of the cathe-
dral alone being visible. If you have any wish to see a
typical walled city of the Middle Ages, then, by all means,
make the journey to Avila.

When you have seen the titanic ramparts of Avila, and
its fortress-like cathedral which forms a part of them, you
will have to be content, for, much as your imagination
would be titillated by winding streets and galleried houses,
you will not see them. Instead, you will find, in the limited
area of the town, streets that are straight and houses, for
the most part, of unyielding granite, as austere as the defiant
walls. Carcassonne, with all the magnificence of its walls,
is precisely the same. Rothenburg, in Bavaria, of all the
cities of the Continent, is the only complete picture of the
Middle Ages that I know, where mellow old walls and streets
of gabled houses present from every aspect an almost perfect
setting-forth of the past. In Carcassonne and in Rothen-
burg, however, you will not witness a traffic that moves in
the primitive fashion of bygone centuries. You will hardly
see, mounting the hill and passing through great, bastioned
gates, as you will at Avila, two-wheeled, covered carts
drawn by mule trains, or donkeys hung with bulging pan-
niers, or grown folk, with flapping legs, perched on the backs
of diminutive burros, looking exactly as they did, probably,

[61]ee

 

creme ca .

 

 
 
 
  
 
  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE
when Columbus, possibly in like fashion, followed Ferdi-

nand and Isabella across Spain.
Adjoining two of the main gates of the city, portals of
enormous proportions, is an irregular cobbled square and on

 

 

one side, directly opposite the modest hotel which has
achieved the reputation of being the city’s best, probably be-
cause it has no serious rival, rises the massive Gothic Ca-
thedral of San Salvador. More military in aspect than
[ 62 |ACROSS COUNTRY TO AVILA

ecclesiastical, it was begun in 1091, after the Christians,
under Alvar Garcia of Navarre, had finally wrested the city
from its Moorish conquerors. Its two strong towers and
immense semicircular apse, crowned with a battlemented
parapet, intersect the walls of the town and form a part of
them. This Cathedral has much the appearance of a fortress
and, lest this note of defiance should be lost on the ofttimes
covetous visitor of yesteryear, two sculptured stone lions are
chained at each side of the entrance. And, as if these vicious
beasts were not terrifying enough, the main portal has an
additional guard of two wild men, macebearers extraor-
dinary, carved in solid granite. Nothing could express with
greater conviction the spirit of the time, when the Church
was a church militant, than this masterful edifice. In its
solemnity and uncompromising sternness of demeanor, it
stands in vivid contrast to the great majority of the cathe-
drals of Spain, which are so marked by color and lightness of
design.

In a city whose stalwart fortifications indicated so elo-
quently the need of protection, you would naturally think
that all the ancient churches and treasured shrines would be
enfolded within the safe precincts of its protecting walls.
But that, curiously enough, is not what you find at Avila,
for the city sprawled beyond the ancient gates in earlier times
as it does to-day. And so, almost within the shadow of
the turreted ramparts, are a number of venerable churches,
dating from the early days of the town, which are pictur-
esque and glorified by legend but which, with a single ex-
ception, contain little of interest to the traveler. This excep-
tion is the Dominican Monastery of Saint Tomas which lies
a few minutes’ walk away, cradled by the dusty plain below,
for the singular church of the Monastery, an aisleless Gothic
structure, gives hospitality to one of the most touching
monuments in Spain. In the center of the transept, in soli-

[ 63 ]ee — _ =

 

 

 

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

tary state, lies sleeping, Prince Juan, the only son of the
“Catholic Kings,” whose untimely death occurred in 1497.
No greater calamity could have befallen the proud Ferdi-
nand and Isabella, who had triumphantly driven the Moors
from their last stronghold in Spain, whose treasures had
made possible the discovery of the New World, and the
glory of whose empire was seemingly to be without end,
than the tragic loss of their only son and the heir to the
kingdom. At this very monastery he had received his edu-
cation, companioned by boys who represented the flower of
the young manhood of Spain. At Burgos he had been mar-
ried, while yet very young, to the daughter of Emperor
Maximilian, and the homage of half the world was at his
feet, but before a month had passed he was stricken with
an illness and died. Ferdinand, rushing to the scene, reached
his bedside in time for the end, but Isabella, coming with less
expedition, arrived too late. Bowed with grief, they laid
their son to rest in the little church at the Dominican monas-
tery that they had founded, and commissioned Domenico
Fancelli, a Florentine sculptor of note, to carve in purest
marble a fitting monument in memory of their dead. This
exquisitely wrought memorial has survived the centuries,
and you can gaze on its beauty to-day, as the royal parents
of the prince were frequently wont to do, from the choir
above, mourning the loss which was so irreparable. The
figure of the young prince, carved in flawless marble, lying
on a sculptured sarcophagus, is characterized by much grace
and nobility of feature, and the monument is, in spite of its
time-worn condition, marked by a noble simplicity and
purity of style. It was the skilled hands of this same
sculptor of Florence that executed the marble tomb of
Ferdinand and Isabella, in the cathedral’s royal chapel at
Granada. Within this monastery lies, also, the remains of
all that is mortal of the notorious Torquemada, Spain’s re-

[ 64 JLek 1h iy
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Teresa in the grim wall of Avila.

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lentless Inquisitor General. His is no tomb of glory, but
merely an unadorned tablet of slate, set in the floor, a just

 

e eet eri
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retribution for his wanton acts, that is, if a denial of all
outward semblance of earthly glory carries with it the meas-

[ 65 ]a — a

 

 

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE
ure of disapproval that is still felt by a horrified world. It

is recorded that occasional visitors to the monastery, in a
senseless animosity, treated the grave with such disrespect
that it is no longer to be seen by the public, except by special
intercession with the monks.

Like most Spanish cities, Avila possesses a “Grand Place”
—the Plaza Mayor de la Constituci6n—hemmed by the cus-
tomary arcaded buildings. But this square is not of imposing
proportions, and has an air of neglect, as though it had long
since been superseded by another center of civic activity.
And so, indeed, it has, for just without the principal gate, 1s
the Mercado Grande, or “Great Market,” which is the
focal point of present-day Avila. A large open square,
adorned with grass and trees, it is graced on one side by
arcaded buildings and on another by the twelfth century
church of San Pedro. It is less somber here than in the more
ancient Plaza, for there are no towering walls to cast shadows
and to obstruct distant views, save those at one end, where,
toward the setting sun, the Puerta del Alcazar raises its
two mighty crenelated towers and supports a flying parapet
that spans the gateway.

The townsfolk are attracted to the square when the day’s
work is done, and you find them, loitering with every ap-
pearance of content, in the cool evening air. Shops with
modest windows hide themselves under the arcade and afford
a certain interest for those passing an idle hour and taking
the air. The interior fittings of these emporiums are as
primitive as their window displays are plain, and business
is carried on with as little complication of equipment as
seems possible to a people who take no anxious thought for
the morrow. Let us consider, for example, the instance of
a barber shop which should, by every rule of efficiency, be
well lighted, in order that the hair of the patrons may be
shorn with a nice precision. To the worthy tonsorial artists

[ 66 JACROSS COUNTRY TO AVILA

of Avila, however, lighting equipment is of secondary im-
portance, as may be observed on any evening when dusk
spreads its mantle on a certain modest shop in the arcaded
row of the Mercado Grande. Instead of enjoying a flood of
electric light when the daylight fades, a single lamp, sufh-
cient merely to dispel the gloom, responds to the switch, and
as the barber reaches the lower stretches of his victim’s
head, surfaces shaded from the overhead light, a small boy
‘s summoned who lights a flickering candle and stands pa-
tiently, though with indifferent attention, like an altar boy
at service, illuminating with the feeble rays the operator’s
sphere of action. Discovering this primitive scene, the
artist insisted on making a halt and sketching it. We were,
however, soon discovered at our nefarious task, and although
we concealed the nature of our purpose, our seeming curi-
osity in peering through the window was enough to cause
the occupants to draw the shade.

Shortly after dark, the inhabitants of the walled city
desert the streets, encouraged, no doubt, by such absence of
‘Ilumination as characterizes the shops, and seek their night’s
repose. The utter quiet that then attacks the city 1s con-
ducive to a similar retreat on the part of the visitor. Our
little hotel, situated across the cobbled square, directly oppo-
site the Cathedral, presented an aspect of desertion, after the
rather late dinner. In spite of the cheerless character of our
room we sought its comforts, feeble, but for its beds, and
quickly retired. The moon gleamed out of a sky of deep
blue, bathing the cathedral, the walls of the town and the
forsaken streets, in its silver radiance, the deep shadows of
the buildings accentuating the evening brilliance.

But, we found before long that there was a fictitious
quality about the nightly solitude, and that the almost pene-
trating calm served only to accentuate the unaccustomed
noises of the night. We were just drifting off to slumber

Lornoer rE i EE

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

    
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

when the plaintive call of the sereno came to our ears, as this
more or less vigilant watchman of the night made one of his
periodic rounds, chanting the time, as though the soundly
sleeping citizens were waiting eagerly to be informed of the
safety of the city. “One o’clock and all is serene!”, came
the cadence of his words. Evidently, the state of serenity is
that which usually obtains in the Spanish night, for the offi-
cial title of the night-watch indicates as much. After the
sereno’s first visitation, the gleam of his lantern and his
plaintive cry no longer penetrated our consciousness but
when, a little after four in the morning, two commodious
motor buses made night hideous with their racing engines
and excited passengers, we were quickly aroused. They
backed up to the curb at the door of the hotel, and for fif-
teen minutes they, their crew and their passengers, made as
great a hubbub as was possible, without rebuke from any-
one in the neighborhood. And when, twenty minutes after
their departure, we were once more dropping off into ob-
livion, a horse-drawn stage rattled along the cobbled street
and drew up under our window, bringing with it a chatter-
ing mob, we felt that the sereno should have intervened to
spare our outraged feelings, but instead of producing the
expected serenity, he merely reported, most mendaciously,
of course, that it existed. We could draw no other con-
clusion but that the Avileses having, as is their custom, eaten
heartily during the day and being by nature composed and
indifferent to externals, were entirely oblivious to such
minor disturbances of the peace, while we from the Far
West, of Nordic blood, with sensitive nerves and habitually
uneasy minds, must pay the price of our high-tensioned civi-
lization.VI. MADRID

se T is only seventy miles from Avila to Madrid, but

the route traverses the Sierra de Guadarrama,
one of the three mountain chains by which Avila
is hedged, and the journey is one of several
| hours. Avila lies on an elevated plateau in
the foothills of this Sierra, nearly four thou-
sand feet above sea level, and being thus
cut off from the warm southerly winds,
though exposed to the chilly currents from
the north, its climate is admittedly severe,
except in the summer season.

In its descent from the summit of the
Guadarramas to the capital city, the railroad
passes the Escorial, the pantheon of the
Spanish kings. It had been a moot question with us for
days whether we should stop and visit the vast series of
buildings that compose the monastery in which, like Eng-
land’s Westminster Abbey, lie sleeping all the kings of
Spain, save two, from Charles V to the present day. There
is a strong diversity of opinion about the intrinsic interest
of this vast pile. Some authorities declare it to be a most
impressive sight, while others insist that from no point of
view, except that of inspecting a few musty tombs of roy-

[ 69 ]Peery SEL ~~ Ee

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

alty, is it worth a wayfarer’s time. To us it savored of a
museum, and since we preferred to take our exercise 1n ways
other than rambling through museum corridors, we gave a
sympathetic ear to what the discriminating Osborne says in
his Finding the Worthwhile in Europe, “the Escorial 1s
as dreary as Versailles.” And so we were content to view
its pointed spires and massive proportions from the rail-
way carriage, and to see our train pull out from the station
after its brief stop without qualms of conscience and devoid
of misgivings. As our train drew away and sped on towards
Madrid, we watched the immense palace, which rises out
of the brown mountainside, standing forth in bold relief,
as it alternately appeared in full view and then disappeared
behind the undulations of the hills, until the train, making
a great curve, finally rounded the shoulder of the mountain
ridge and the Escorial was lost to view. In an hour or two,
over the barren, sun-drenched plain, our train drew into the
Estacion del Norte, within sight of Alfonso’s palace.

Either you like Madrid or you don’t. There are no half
measures. Some people admire its sprightliness, applaud the
enterprise of its citizens in fashioning an imposing city in a
naked wilderness, enjoy the leisurely air that characterizes
its life, and, by way of variety, take pleasure in its striking
contrast to all the other cities of the nation. Others, on the
contrary, condemn it out of hand, stressing its unattractive
environment, emphasizing the inclemency of its climate, dis-
daining its imitation—in the construction of its modern sec-
tions—of Paris and Brussels, and its lack of distinctly Cas-
tilian flavor.

I confess to having been agreeably disappointed in Ma-
drid. There is something attractive in the contrasts of a
desert city; its situation in the middle of a cheerless plain 1s
certainly no less alluring than that of most other northerly
Spanish cities; its imitation, if there be any of the more

[70]MADRID

magnificent capitals to the north, while regrettably not in
the Spanish tradition, is, with the exception of some inartistic
statuary in the public squares and many flamboyant business
buildings in the rococo style, in general good taste and
strongly conducive to the comfort and happiness of its in-
habitants. Instead of a city of level monotony, of decayed
buildings, of streets in disarray with a general appearance
of slovenliness, all of which characterized the city in earlier
times, if historians are to be taken seriously, we found a de-
licghtful modern city, by no means entirely flat and cheer-
less, with an ancient quarter, possessing the atmosphere of
earlier days, with fine wide streets and imposing buildings,
for the most part touched by lightness and grace, tree-lined
squares and promenades, luxurious hotels, and a condition of
scrupulous cleanliness that would assuredly do credit to a
capital city anywhere in the world.

Madrid, youngest of Spanish cities, became the capital of
the nation because its situation contributed to a king’s health,
and because its relatively modern character was disassociated
from the jealousies that would undoubtedly have arisen had
there been chosen the principal city of one of the ancient king-
doms that became a constituent part of the modern empire.
Centrality was another factor, for Madrid is in the almost
exact geographical center of the peninsula. It was gloomy
and pious Philip II, builder of the Escorial, who in 1560
declared Madrid the capital of the united empire. It was
his father, Charles V, who, in search of health, visited
Madrid, which at that time stood in a tree-clad countryside.

The arid and waterless upland plain that now surrounds
the city was not always devoid of verdure and moisture.
A writer of the sixteenth century describes Madrid as
having large adjacent forests that afforded game aplenty
in stag, boar and bear. Two centuries later, an English-
man, writing in 1780, deplored the bleak and dismal char-

[eralae ee ~—

 

 

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

acter of the country surrounding the capital, and com-
plained especially of its lack of trees “to which the Castilians
have an intense dislike from a false notion that they increase
the number of birds to eat up their grain, forgetting not only
that in their climate the shade and shelter of the foliage are
required, but also that without them they have no means
of securing moisture and preserving it after dews and
rains.”

It is curious that, even to-day, the Castilian farmer is an
enemy to bird life. Throughout this great central plateau,
trees that would afford shelter to the birds are a rarity.
Indeed, in the province of La Mancha, the scene of Don
Quixote’s adventures, there are wide stretches of country
which are entirely devoid of trees, so that many of the local
inhabitants live and die without even having seen anything
taller than ashrub. This total lack of verdure is responsible
in a measure for the entire absence of moisture in the soil.
Irrigation is practiced extensively, and with this assistance
the productivity of the land abundantly rewards the laborer.
In the more favored districts a strange condition of the soil
is responsible for the growth of vast areas of grain which,
because of their extent, could not be watered by artificial
means. In these the scanty rainfall is quickly absorbed by
the parched earth, but, fortunately, a less porous subsoil
prevents its ultimate escape. Through a process of slow
evaporation the water, thus held below the surface, furnishes
moisture to the growing crops. By reason of this strange
phenomenon, the growing wheat and rye, springing out of a
soil that has every appearance of aridity, draw sufficient
moisture from the subsurface to reach a fine maturity.

Madrid, the younger brother of all the capital cities in
the ancient Spanish realm, conjures up the idea of a thor-
oughly modern metropolis. But its youth is a relative thing,
for we first hear of it as far back as the tenth century, when,

i 72\IMADRID

as a Moorish fortified settlement under the name of Mad-
jrit, it occupied the elevated mesa, commanding the ap-
proach from the plain where, to-day, the royal palace
stands. Toward the end of the eleventh century, it fell to
the conquering Christians and its Mohammedan mosque be-
came a Christian church. The successive kings of Castile en-
dowed the growing community with broad rights of self-
government and many special privileges, and paved the way
for the present-day metropolis. The Spaniards, then as
now, were not readily susceptible to change, and it took the
city a long time to attain a substantial size. In 1560, when
by official decree it was designated the capital of the united
kingdom, it had but twenty-five thousand inhabitants. Even
its enthronement as the seat of government failed to give
substantial impetus to an era of greater civic distinction, and
it remained for a long time the meanest and dirtiest capital
of Europe. The government itself was largely to blame
for this state of affairs. When the court first established its
residence in Madrid, regulations were promulgated which
required the owners of large houses to furnish lodging for
courtiers and nobility. The Madrilefios, as a result, were
careful to build rhemselves homes of distinctly ungenerous
proportions. In this respect, the ancient citizens of Madrid
resembled the latter day Koreans who, until recent years,
have lived in the meanest sort of hovels, even though pos-
sessed of substantial wealth, in order that the cupidity of the
taxgatherer might not be aroused. The display of pros-
perity in each instance invited an unpleasant financial re-
sponsibility.

The coming of the Bourbons in the eighteenth century,
and the building of the vast royal palace, ushered in a period
of better things. Joseph Bonaparte, during his brief tenure
as emperor, gave added impetus to the creation of a finer
city. To-day, in its wide streets and tree-shaded boulevards,

[73]oe eee x=

 

 

  
   
  
  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

it has the aspect of a miniature Paris or Brussels. In this
respect it 1s unlike all the other cities of Spain.

The Madrid of the Castilians lies in its ancient quarter
where crooked thoroughfares, little, quaintly fashioned
squares and cascades of red tiled roofs create many vistas
to charm the eye. In summer, these narrow streets are en-

   
 
 

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livened by a population that makes generous use of them.
Donkeys with ladened panniers, and mule-drawn carts, rub
shoulders, or more properly speaking, axles, with American
taxicabs and with horse-drawn vehicles more familiar to the
western world. As in other parts of Madrid, cafés abound,
in summer serving their patrons on the sidewalks, and often-
times in the streets as well. Here, as elsewhere in Spain,
the café proprietors regard the streets as their private prop-
erty, and never seem to have the slightest hesitancy in setting

[74]MADRID

their tables where their leisurely patrons may enjoy their
coffee and wine in the comfort of the open air. Indeed, the
cafés are by no means the only offenders who encroach on
the public domain. The itinerant sellers of fruit, of vege-
tables, and of merchandise are arch offenders in this respect,
thereby adding, it may be said, to the ease and low cost of
living, and what is perhaps of less consequence, to the pic-
turesqueness of life for the traveler. The daily morning
market overflows its enclosure, and the side streets become a
mart of trade. The enterprising market folk set up shops
wherever their fancy leads. In the late summer you will
not have to walk far to buy your supply of luscious melons,
for you will find them piled in great heaps in the streets
and squares of any part of the city.

At no time are the public thoroughfares so thoroughly
preémpted by private interests as during a fiesta. Fun-mak-
ing equipment is strewn everywhere, the less portable prop-
erty occupying generous portions of the sidewalks and streets.
In the evenings during the period of the festivals, which
occur with frequency, the streets and squares of the district
are miniature Coney Islands. Some of the streets are lav-
ishly decorated with paper streamers and bunting, others
are enlivened by solid rows of “attractions”—tferris wheels,
merry-go-rounds, shooting galleries, ring tosses, crockery-
breaking galleries, lottery sellers, sweetmeat vendors, pur-
veyors of fruit, doughnut makers and such other enter-
prises as a carnival of this sort brings to life. The dough-
nut sellers, corresponding to their American “hot dog”
brethren, are in abundance, working vigorously over their
caldrons of boiling fat in which their product, squeezed
into enticing shapes through funnel-like contrivances, sizzles
and exudes odors that are alluring to the Spanish nostril.
While the crowds last, their business is brisk and they are
hard put to it in supplying the demand. We often wished

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

to sample this rich, oil-soaked tidbit, which is so dear to the
palate of the Spanish hoi-polloi, but the exceeding informal-
ity of its preparation and the frank revelation of its ingredi-
ents were more than our pampered appetites could overcome.
Surging throngs pack the thoroughfares to the exclusion of
wheeled traffic, and all the concessionnaires, from the highest
to the lowest, enjoy a business that any land office might
envy. Midnight is at hand before humanity, and its pockets,
are exhausted and the crowds, rapidly disintegrating, make
for home.

Here also, in the ancient quarter, is held the rag-market,
one of the largest of its kind in the world. This curious
mart of trade attains its greatest magnitude on Sundays, but
on any day of the week it forms an extraordinary display
and is a scene of remarkable activity where, with gay aban-
don, almost everything under the sun is sold. Block after
block of improvised stalls is set up and in them, and in
permanent shops, adjacent, is gathered the flotsam and jet-
sam of a city’s cast-off material, not to say the discarded prop-
erty of the entire surrounding country. Merely decide what
you want to buy, and then seek it out. Can you find it in
this abridged catalogue of stock on hand? Furniture, de-
crepit with age and freshly varnished from the factory;
boots, shoes, sandals and bits of leather, new and second-
hand; leather goods for the householder and traveler, much
worn and otherwise; articles of clothing suitable, with
apology, for every member of the family; hardware with
a luster and also coated with rust; old rubber tires and
fragments thereof; antiques that breed suspicion, and some
that are of good ancestry, if you admire their form and
happen to want them; iron grill work—but why enumerate
more! You will even find a watchmaker busy at his tem-
porary stand, cleaning and repairing timepieces in the open
street with nothing overhead but the sky.

[76]MADRID

In the early morning hours, the rag market is a place
of intense industry for the buyer, the seller taking his ease
behind his more or less decrepit pile of merchandise, for
he has small need of the art of salesmanship in disposing
of goods whose values speak so eloquently for themselves.
As the morning advances, trading slackens and then dwindles
altogether, and the street merchants are not slow, as the
rays of the sun increase in intensity, to seek refuge under
the awnings of their stalls and in the shade of the buildings,
and to find solace in slumber. By one o’clock you will
encounter men stretched out on the sidewalks and even in
the open streets, where they are wide and the traffic is light,
sound asleep.

Taking a siesta is far from being a mere figure of speech
in Madrid or anywhere in Spain, for that matter. In sum-
mer, at two o’clock, shutters are put in place and business
is suspended until four o’clock, and in many instances until
four-thirty. The banks close their doors from two until
four, reopening for an hour before suspending operations
for the day. Upon resuming business, the shops remain
open until seven-thirty and eight. These business hours
necessitate late dining and here, as elsewhere, as I have
pointed out before, the dinner hour is never before eight-
thirty or nine. During the midday period, when commerce
ceases and business has given way to repose, the streets have
a deserted, Sunday appearance. Business, you see, waits
upon comfort and, indeed, is a slave to it. In England and
America things are sadly different.

It will probably occasion some surprise to the summer
visitor that, as in tropical countries, the people of northern
Spain are not clad in linen and duck, but wear, instead, the
conventional woolen garments and frequently the felt hats
of people in northerly latitudes. Here, once more, we are

misled by the Spain of our imagination. While Madrid is
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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

excessively hot in midsummer, few people are aware that,
resting as it does on the extensive mountain-hemmed plateau
of New Castile, its altitude is more than twenty-one hun-
dred feet above sea level and its nights, in consequence, are
usually cool. Travelers who know only the Madrid of
spring and summer do not realize that the mean temperature
of the city in January is but forty degrees, and that the
thermometer in winter sometimes drops to ten above zero.
The climate is a treacherous one, indicated clearly by the
daily summer temperature, which has a range of more than
thirty degrees. The midsummer sun pours down with torrid
vehemence out of a cloudless sky, but the air is entirely free
from moisture, and the heat is felt less than in a temperature
twenty degrees lower where the atmosphere is saturated with
humidity.

The rapid changes and extreme variations of climate have
given Madrid no enviable reputation, even among its own
citizens. “El aire de Madrid es tan sutil, que mata a um
hombre y no apaga a un candil” is a saying current in the
capital, namely, that its air is treacherous enough to kill a
man though it will not blow out a candle! Another proverb
warns the citizen to wait for May fortieth before laying
aside his cloak!

The Puerta del Sol, or “Gate of the Sun,” so named
from an ancient gateway that once commanded a view of
the rising sun, is the center of the city’s civic life and the
most animated plaza in Madrid. From it, the streets radiate
as from a hub, leading on the one hand to the old quarter
and beyond to the king’s palace, and on the other, to the
modern city, to the promenades and the park. At any time
of the day except in the early afternoon when Madrid
sleeps and takes its ease, the Puerta del Sol, as befits its
position as the commercial and geographical center of the
city, is the scene of an animated movement of people and

[78 ]MADRID

traffic. Its boundaries are pierced by ten streets or mote,
and are graced by hotels, cafés, shops, business buildings
and government offices. Lines of electric street cars make
it their point of convergence, and people on shopping tours
or on business errands are more than likely to pass over
its pavements in the course of their affairs. The wider
thoroughfares of the newer city, dropping down an easy
slope to the Prado and other splendid paseos, have every
attribute of modernity. Their fashionable shops, imposing
office buildings, clubs of marked splendor and up-to-date
hotels are worthy of a capital city. In the famous tree-
studded Prado and its sister promenades are focused the
city’s magnificence, for here, within a short compass, are
spacious squares, fountains, monuments, museums, govern-
ment buildings, botanical gardens, and palaces of the noble
and the rich. Adjacent is a park, once the palace grounds
of the early kings, embellished by a lake and flamboyant
statuary and with labyrinths of trees resembling those in the
Bois de Boulogne of Paris, perhaps in imitation of those
famous woods. Beyond this park, some distance away, 1S
the bull ring where, on Sundays and holidays, the national
sport is attended and applauded by thousands of people.
At the opposite side of the city is the vast palace of the
king, resting in lordly fashion on the edge of the plateau,
overlooking its own terraced gardens and the Manzanares,
a river of such meager proportions that a witty French-
woman of the court of Philip 11 was led to exclaim to
the king, apropos of a magnificent bridge with which he
had spanned it, “Why, Your Majesty, don’t you either buy
a river or sell your bridge?” Beyond the river stretches
the immensity of the treeless desert, and in the far distance
rise the foothills of the Sierra de Guadarrama, softened by
distance and altitude to shades of warm brown, laid over
with deep shadows of blue and lavender. As beautiful

[79]ee

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

as they are and as pleasing to the eye, these mountains
are responsible, in great part, for the climatic woes of the
Madrilefios, for, rising to the north and west, they, with
other mountains nearer the coast, intercept the moist north-
West winds in summer, while in winter their snow-clad sum-
mits intensify the storms and chill the winds that blow
from the north.

There is nothing duller than descriptions of museums and
I shall make no attempt to try the reader’s patience, which,
I doubt not, has already been stretched. But even the most
impatient reader will not hold it against me if I make
mention of the Prado Museum, which is justly regarded
as one of the very great art galleries of the world. Situated
near at hand, on the Paseo del Prado—everything is quickly
reached in Madrid—it is accessible enough to attract even
the traveler who has only a casual interest in art. Here,
in this museum, is the world’s greatest collection of Spanish
native art, and also a magnificent group of the schools of
Italy and the Netherlands. Its incomparable collection of
Velasquez contains sixty paintings of this supreme colorist,
among them probably all of his greatest works; Murillo
is represented by as many examples, and canvases by Ribera,
El Greco, and Goya bring each their own distinction.

It is curious that this superb collection of old masters
should have come into being by the sheerest accident. When
Ferdinand VII married for the second time, a Spanish
Consul who had long served in France sugeested that, in
preparation for his bride, the palace be refurnished and
refurbished with French materials and new, figured wall-
papers. To this the king gave ear and, forthwith, the con-
tents of the palace, paintings and furnishings, were carted
away and a complete renovation effected. After a few years,
two art-loving members of the nobility became concerned for
the safety and condition of the priceless works of art which
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the hub of Madrid.MADRID

had been carelessly stored, and suggested to the queen that
a part of them, at least, be moved to the Prado, recently
built to be a natural history museum. To this the queen
assented, and even contributed monthly a small sum of
money for the maintenance of these treasures. The exhi-
bition met with such instant favor, particularly on the part
of foreign art lovers, that the King, whose reign was marked
by all too few achievements of lasting importance, saw a
chance of adding luster to the crown, and ordered the rest
of the collection installed, donating from his purse a monthly
sum sufficient to care for the display. Thus the public came
into the possession of all the treasures in the royal house-
hold, save those in the Escorial, that had been brought to-
gether by the Spanish monarchs since the time of Charles V.

If the streets of present-day Madrid are orderly, one
wonders whether it is due to the leisurely and peaceable
character of the people or to the impressively clad constab-
ulary that keeps the peace. The police of the city appear
to take life with the same calm as the populace itself, but
they are arrayed with such strict conformity to military
regulations that one hesitates to accost them even to ask for
information. What the distinction is between those who
wear helmets and those who have caps with leather peaks
is not clear to the visitor, but in each instance their uniforms
are supplemented by Sam Browne belts, clanking swords,
and revolvers displayed in businesslike holsters. ‘They are,
in appearance at least, fitting custodians of the public safety
in a capital city, possessing the pomp both of government
and royalty.

Life in Madrid, after all, is not essentially different from
life in any other large city, in the externals at any rate.
There is little of the primitive in custom and environment
that one finds in many of the older and smaller com-
munities, The things that are most exotic are, perhaps,

[ 81]ak ed Pa SE <A a4

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the midday suspension of business, the prevalence of the
bull fight, as casually regarded there as is baseball in Amer-
ica, or football in England, and the general sale of the
national lotteries.

Throughout all of Spain the lottery is sold like any other
commodity. In Madrid the lottery seller 1s omnipresent.
Coupons are offered for sale in stalls that are devoted
almost entirely to the purpose; they can be bought in many
shops dealing in tobacco, stationery and the like; they are
in the hands of hawkers who call them out, as newsboys
cry their latest extras, and in no popular restaurant can
you go that you are not invited to buy a number or a string
of them. In the cafés, the proprietor or maitre d’hdtel
circulates among the tables, chatting with his patrons and
offering them chances on the latest issue. The prices are
low and sales, in consequence, are frequent. The lottery
is a well-established and highly regarded institution.

The leisure of the restaurants is impressive to the people
of the north. Lunching and dining are things to be enjoyed,
and you will look everywhere in vain for a “quick lunch”
room. The food is served without haste and is partaken
of with equal deliberation, lubricated with a bottle of wine.
Whether or not the Spaniard eats too heartily, it cannot be
said that he drinks with anything but the greatest modera-
tion. And, speaking of the restaurants, the open and un-
blushing use of the toothpick, for long so discredited else-
where in polite circles, was one habit of the Spaniards to
which we were unable to accustom ourselves. In the best
restaurants and apparently in the first families, the tooth-
pick has never lost caste, but on the contrary, is in great
favor and is used without so much as a raised napkin to hide
its ministrations.VII. MODERN GLADIATORS
OF SPAIN

N Sunday and holiday afternoons, all roads
of the capital lead to the bull ring. By
four o’clock a very perceptible movement
of traffic sets towards the eastern quarter
of the city, where the Plaza de Toros is
situated. Motor cars, taxicabs, and horse-
drawn vehicles hurry along with their
holiday-making occupants; the street cars
bound in that direction are crowded with pas-
sengers, and in the air is the note of suppressed
gaiety. The streets that converge at the bull

ring are filled with pedestrians, hurrying to

reach the arena and find their seats before

the bugle summons the foreros to action.
There is much turmoil, as people and vehicles pour into the
plaza on which the huge amphitheater is situated, and the
traffic policeman, mounted on a spirited charger, is trying,
with feverish activity, to keep order from becoming chaos.
It is an orderly throng, however, and in its general aspect
might be that entering a baseball game at home. The men
are wearing the clothes of London and New York and the
women follow the style of their sisters elsewhere, a work-a-
day sort of crowd, undistinguished by broad-brimmed som-

[ 83 ]See to ae 4 a

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

breros, embroidered shawls or filmy mantillas, a disappoint-
ment, of course, to the first-time visitor, who has drawn his
picture of Spain from cigar-box labels and painted fans. It
is just a multitude of everyday folk attending a professional
sport and desiring to be amused on a holiday afternoon.

If you have acted the part of wisdom, you will have
purchased your seats in advance at the ticket office in the
center of the city, and will have paid, too, the supplement
demanded for seats on the shady side of the ring. The
difference between sombra and sol, if the season be summer,
marks the difference between the enjoyment of comfort in
the shade and the distress of broiling in the sun. Besides
that, if you sit in the shade, you will find yourself facing
the entrance of the toreros and the egress of the bull from
his pen, and, as a still further advantage, you are close to
the picadores, who are stationed within the shadow of the
westerly tier of seats, and whose encounter thus takes place
at your very feet. Hence, you will find that the extra fee,
which is almost negligible, yields rich dividends in comfort
and in ease.

Within the entrance, the stream of eager humanity is
diverted into a hundred channels which lead, without con-
fusion in the admirably arranged coliseum, to the various
sections of seats that rise tier upon tier. In a few moments
you emerge from the corridor that is designated on your
ticket and in the blaze of the afternoon sun the immense
amphitheater with its thousands of eager spectators is before
you.

This assemblage, in itself, is a notable sight. Near by,
in his enclosure, 1s the presiding official, accompanied per-
haps by distinguished guests; below are the boxes surround-
ing the ring, occupied by the aristocracy and by those of the
proletariat who can afford to pay for them; opposite, in-
distinguishable in the crowded tiers, is a band that dispenses

[ 84 ]THE BULE BIGHT

popular airs; and in the seats closely packed together, sit
fourteen thousand spectators, awaiting the signal for the
gate of the arena to swing open and admit the procession
of foreros, participants in the afternoon’s proceedings.
Among the spectators in this vast concourse, there are many
women and a sprinkling of children, but for the most part,
as at a ball game at home, the men are in the great majority.

There is much activity to enliven the waiting moments.
Attendants are busy renting cushions, at fifty centimos each,
to mitigate the unyielding character of the stone seats, and
selling bottles of thirst-quenching beverages that correspond
to “ginger pop” overseas. In some bull rings packages of
candy are sold from the floor of the arena itself and de-
livered through the air by the dexterous vendors. The
money is tossed by the purchaser down to the feet of the
seller, who stands in the ring, and in return, the parcel of
dulce is hurled with unerring precision into the hands of the
customer, engulfed in the densely packed seats, at whatever
distance he happens to be.

The center of the arena is a circular plot of golden sand.
Surrounding it runs a barrier which rises to a height of five
feet and furnishes protection to the spectators, although it
is not high enough to prevent a torero from scaling it and
dropping to safety on the other side, should he be too hotly
pursued by the maddened bull. This method of escape,
while far from being dignified, is resorted to with consider-
able frequency.

Finally a trumpet sounds, the ring is cleared of its human
impedimenta, and the crowd, a silence overtaking it, waits
in expectancy for the inauguration of the afternoon’s events.
A moment later the doors of the arena swing open and to
the martial strains of the band there enters, with measured
tread, a procession of gorgeously arrayed figures, the actors
in the drama of the afternoon. Swinging along with grace-

[85]siemens sg

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

ful step, they cross the center of the ring, pause, render
fealty to the presiding official and then pass in review, a
gay cavalcade, their costumes sparkling in the afternoon sun,
seemingly too gay and fragile for the grim business of the
day and better fitted for a historical pageant than for a
march of death. At the head of the procession ride the
alguaciles, the marshals of the ring, clad in somber black
velvet, relieved by white neck ruffs and plumed hats. Fol-
lowing, on foot, are the three matadores, the principal actors
of the drama, arrayed in cocked hats, jackets and knee
breeches of satin, richly overlaid with golden embroidery,
pink stockings and pumps adorned with bows of ribbons.
On their arms are carried cloaks of shimmering satin. Im-
mediately in the rear is the cuvadrilla or troupe of each, com-
posed of capeadores and banderilleros, clothed in like
fashion, except for the embroidery, which is of silver instead
of gold. Next in line come the picadores mounted on
decrepit, spiritless horses, their flat-brimmed, cockaded som-
breros held by chin straps, like trench helmets in appear-
ance, and long, skin-tight breeches in striking contrast to
the costumes of the others. Drawing up the rear are three
horses abreast, driven by cholos, the handy men of the
ring. Their harness is enlivened by bells and colored tas-
sels and they draw the tackle for removing the dead animals
after each encounter. The delicate costumes of satin, poorly
adapted as they seem for the business in hand, have a certain
appropriateness for the men who wear them, because these
knights of the ring are slight of figure and graceful of
movement and posture, and are as light on their feet as a
femme de ballet.

To the alguaciles the president tosses the key of the toril,
the pen in which the bull is imprisoned, and in which he has
been confined for many hours without light and food, in
order that his mood may be properly belligerent.

[ 86 ]THE BULL BIGHT

The drama of the Corrida de Toros consists of three acts
—the bull’s reception by the capeadores and his subsequent
charge of the mounted picadores, the planting of the Jan-
derillas in the neck of the infuriated beast, and finally the
coup de grace administered by the sword of the espada or
matador.

The procession being at an end and the cavalcade retiring,
the mounted picadores take their stand against the western
barrier, motionless within the shade, where they are not so
easily descried by the bull when first he enters the arena.
In the sunny sector of the ring, opposite the door of the zoril,
are stationed the capeadores, whose duty it is to receive the
first onslaught of the bull, exhibit their skill and daring
in baiting him with their scarlet capes, and take the edge
off his impetuosity by the encouragement of many furious
rushes at the red cloaks waved so tantalizingly before his
eyes.

At the blare of a second trumpet the spectators, in a
silence that is actually oppressive, rivet their eyes on the
door of the toril. The stage is set. In the twinkling of
an eye, the door swings open and the bull appears, utterly
confident, trotting into the arena in the dazzling glare of
the sun and sand, and into the presence of the thousands
of onlookers whose emotion is now expressed in an audible
wave of sound. As the bull leaves his pen he receives, in
the soft tissue of his shoulder, a barbed dart, bearing the
plume of his breeder, but to this indignity he seems to
pay little attention, so engrossing a scene is spread before
his eyes. Sometimes, bewildered by the amazing and unex-
pected spectacle that confronts him, the confused animal
pauses for a moment to take stock of the situation, but more
frequently he espies, without an instant’s hesitation, the
gorgeously arrayed creatures flaunting a color that he hates,
and flinging his head in the air he dashes across the shim-

[ 87 ]ee —

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

mering sand bent on the annihilation of his adversaries. In
a moment of time he is upon the nearest, his head lowered
for the toss. At this breathless instant the capeador steps
nimbly aside, and the bull rushes past with furious mo-
mentum, his horns encountering nothing more substantial
than a fragment of red satin. He comes to a sudden halt,
and shows his astonishment at the result by an instant’s
deliberation. But the hated crimson reappears in the hands
of others, who taunt him with it. Again and again he
charges madly, always with the same bewildering result.
This play goes on for some minutes, the skill of the toreros
and their feats of daring in playing the bull being greeted
with ripples of applause. On occasions, the capeador re-
ceives the charge with his back to the bull; at other times
he holds out his cape while in a kneeling posture, maneuvers
that are received with loudly expressed satisfaction on the
part of the observers.

When this play has gone on long enough, the bull is lured
into the vicinity of the mounted picadores. Somewhat
wearied and much perplexed, he regards the horse and its
rider, which come slowly out to meet him, with a certain
natural suspicion. Having lost much of his impetuosity and
confidence, he hesitates to attack an object that may be as
elusive as the living and ever assertive scarlet which never
succumbs to his attacks, and that, in the same mysterious
way, may prove more formidable. But the rider, advancing
on his spiritless nag and waving his long pike menacingly,
rouses the bull to action. Lowering his head, he charges,
with a sickening shock, squarely into the side of the un-
fortunate and unresisting horse, who, with his eye that is
nearest the bull tightly bandaged, is quite unaware of the
impending disaster. At the moment of impact, the picador
drives his long spear squarely into the shoulder of the bull,
in order to madden him, to withstand his force, and, if pos-
[ 88 ]THE BULL FIGHT

sible, to remain mounted. The shock is terrific. Sometimes
the horse is picked up clear off the ground, carried for
some yards, and tossed with his rider, flat on his side, a
tribute to the magnificent strength of the bull. At other
times the pitiful nag is overthrown, gored by the cruel
horns, and half eviscerated, while at still others he is bowled
over uninjured, struggling in frantic bewilderment to his
feet, to enact the tragedy once more. In order to distract
the attention of the infuriated bull from his fallen quarry,
and to prevent him from goring the picador as well, the
capeadores wave their cloaks before his eyes and lead him
off once more to charge their elusive red scarfs, instead of
permitting him to follow up his advantage.

When the horse is merely hurled to the ground, suffering
nothing but bruises and shock or perhaps an inconsequential
goring, the cholos scamper forward and in shameless fash-
ion flog the unwilling and bewildered animal to his feet,
while the picador, having extricated himself from the ruins,
remounts, in readiness once more to encounter the attack
of the bull when the capeadores lead him again into the
vicinity. One would think that the horse, nerves unstrung
and stricken with terror at the unwonted shock, would act
like a mad thing, and would gallop away in a frenzy to
escape from the unknown horror. But instead, struggling
to his feet and quivering with fear, he shows an apparent
indifference to the whole business, and, in blind obedience,
allows himself to be led by his master into the same pre-
carious situation. It is as though he were under the influence
of a drug, as undoubtedly he is. And so, once more, he
goes forth unwittingly to meet the foe, and once more
he is brutally attacked. If, in this second encounter, he is
only slightly injured, he is led away and lives to fight an-
other day. But if he is fatally gored and struggles in
hopeless agony the cholos rush forward and dispatch him

[ 89 ]sa ears PI AS ei
ger

 

   
    
      

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

instantly by sinking a poniard into his brain. It is not un-
common, indeed it is of frequent o¢currence, to see a horse,

 

 

his entrails hanging from a gash in his side, being led from
the ring. After this event, another picador, seated on his

[90 ]THE BULL FIGHT

decrepit steed, heretofore kept in the background, rides for-
ward, and a like encounter with the bull ensues.

It will readily be seen that the part of the picador and
his horse in the affray is a negative one. He never really
fights: he merely defends. He is just a make-believe war-
rior, protected by armor concealed under his costume. His
part in the battle has degenerated into a trick which has, as
its consummation, his ability to remain on his horse, or when
thrown, to save himself from serious injury.

Now comes the second act of the drama. This is the play
of the banderilleros, whose part it is to drive pairs of be-
ribboned darts into the shoulder of the charging bull. This
is undoubtedly the most graceful, and, except for the final
sword thrust, the feat of greatest skill in the entire per-
formance.

Following the encounter with the second of his mounted
adversaries, the bull is taken in hand by the tireless
capeadores, and is, in turn, released to the banderillero who,
slight and supple of figure, and armed with his danderillas
some two feet or more in length, has taken his place in
the center of the arena. The bull, even more tired by now,
regards his new antagonist with caution, and oftentimes
with indifference. The banderillero, inviting attack, rises
on his toes, stamps his foot, and tauntingly shakes his darts
in open defiance. Finally, no longer in doubt about the
hostile intent of the enemy, the bull hurls himself to the
assault. Poised on his toes, and motionless, with the ban-
derillas raised to strike, the torero awaits the avalanche. As
the bull is upon him, head lowered for the toss, with infinite
grace and consummate skill, he drives home the shafts of
steel, and lightly steps aside as the lumbering beast thun-
ders past. Nothing could be more deft. Even the dis-
approving spectator from overseas, who has recoiled from
the exhibition of brutality that has gone before, is com-

[or |Dene a PO Ra a a

 

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

pelled, by admiration for the sheer skill of the play, to join
in the applause that follows! The ubiquitous capeadores
are on hand, as usual, to distract the attention of the bull,
while another Janderillero goes forth to show his skill and
intrepidity. This episode is thrice enacted, until six darts
project from the shoulder of the quarry, and the flanks of
the baited animal are stained with streams of crimson.

Now follows the swerta de matar or final act in the battle
of the ring. At a signal from the president, the matador,
who hitherto has been only a spectator, advances in front
of the presidential box and, sword and muleta in hand, bows
in fealty, dedicating the death of the bull. The matador,
too, is slender of figure, clad in a tight-fitting, embroid-
ered costume of shimmering satin, and from the back of
his head hangs the coleta or knot of braided hair, the mark
of the matador which is never removed until his death or
retirement from the ring.

The muleta, or crimson cape, hung over a rod, and the
keen blade of steel, are the weapons used in the final en-
counter. The matador plays with the bull in the fashion
of a capeador, flashing the red scarf before his eyes in provo-
cation, and at the charge, passing it over his horns and back
in successive feints. Receiving the charge with his back
turned, and momentarily grasping the horns of the bull,
are the signals for repeated applause from every part of
the ring. With stupid insistence, the bull continues his
efforts to annihilate the fluttering red cloth and to ignore
the real enemy who holds it. A glimmer of intelligence
on the part of the slow-witted brute and, with a slight turn,
he could impale his offender and toss him senseless over the
barrier. In one of these encounters at Madrid, we were
commenting on the completeness with which the bull was
held at the mercy of his assailants. The matador was play-
ing the tired but fighting animal, his safety, apparently,
[ 92]DOS sy a mae to cE ie Soe oe Aan svat eaecorsael deemte i

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

THE BULL FIGHT

never even threatened, when, like a flash, either through his
carelessness or through a sudden change in the bull’s tactics,
the maddened animal flung his head in the air just as he
reached the cape, and caught the unprepared matador on
his horns, flinging him to the ground. ‘The unexpected
had happened! The ever-vigilant capeadores lured off the
beast with their scarlet capes as the matador sprang to his
feet. Tearing open his jacket, he searched for evidences
of his wound, and having reassured himself, flung his hand
aloft, signifying to the breathless spectators his escape from
serious injury. A stretcher bore him off the field, neverthe-
less, for treatment in the infirmary which is a part of every
bull ring. Usually a chapel also is attached to the arena,
where these butchers of the ring prepare for their coming
encounters by invoking the blessings of the saints on the
business at hand! Later in the evening, we learned that
the injured man was only slightly wounded and that his
recovery would be immediate.

Finally, after the bull has been played in this fashion, the
president, from his box, signals for the coup de grace, and
the matador, flinging aside his muleta, proceeds to undertake
the most difficult and precise feat in the whole enterprise.
Maneuvering the bull into position, he extends his sword
at the level of his eyes, in careful aim, for his blade must
penetrate the heart of the animal through a space between
the shoulder blades scarcely three inches wide. In another
mad rush, the bull hurls himself forward, not at a bit of
red satin this time, but directly at his adversary, who stands
awaiting him with his motionless sword in his outstretched
hand. On the bull rushes to his doom, literally impaling
himself on the keen, slender blade of his enemy. If the
thrust of the matador is marked by unusual skill, the sword
buries itself to the hilt, and the mighty animal stops in his
tracks. The end has come. As his life’s blood gushes forth,

[93]i eed a

 

En a aa AL RE

   

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

he slowly backs away a few paces, and without even a quiver,
rolls over lifeless on the arena floor. Such a feat of skill
as a mortal thrust at the first attempt meets with unqualified
favor, and the cheering of the spectators is deafening. A
popular matador, before a demonstrative throng, such as is
found in Barcelona, for example, will be compelled to make
a circuit of the entire ring, bowing repeatedly in acknowl-
edgment of the ovation of cheers, hand claps and the flutter
of thousands of handkerchiefs. Not content with this vocal
and mechanical demonstration, straw hats are scaled into
the ring by the delirious crowd, to fall in a shower around
the espada. ‘These hats the idol of the moment begins to
throw back to his admirers in a most democratic manner
until, so numerous do they become, he proceeds on his
way, leaving the cholos to retrieve the headgear and toss
them back over the barrier.

Unhappily, the sword does not always find its mark so
unerringly, and repeated thrusts are sometimes necessary
before the work of the matador is done. Frequently, in the
first attempts, the sword penetrates the animal’s shoulder
or neck only slightly and the hunted beast trots about the
ring with the blade projecting upward, until it works itself
out and falls to the ground. With another sword, the
matador fares forth in a fresh attempt, the omnipresent
capeadores hovering about to draw off the bull if the effort
is unsuccessful or if the bull unexpectedly attacks his foe.
Whether through the ineptness of the matador or through
the wavering charges of the bull, I have seen the sword miss
its mark over and over again, until the matador was half
dead from fatigue and the bull, tottering on his feet, cov-
ered with crimson gashes, utterly cowed and devoid of fight,
and completely at bay, had just enough strength remaining
to keep off the human devils that clustered about him. The
condition of the bull was so pitiable that the crowded gal-

[94]THE BULL FIGHT

leries, in rapidly swelling volume, demanded the sparing of
his life. After each unsuccessful thrust the clamor grew
more vociferous. Men excitedly jumped to their feet and
gesticulated in the direction of the president’s box. But the
request was hopeless on the face of it, for no animal, gashed
and tortured as this bull was, could possibly survive. No
intervention taking place, the play went on until the sword
at last found its mark and ended the misery of the harassed
animal.

With the dispatch of the bull, a trumpet sounds and a
team of three horses, with jingling bells, dashes into the
ring. Ropes are quickly adjusted and the animals that
lie slain are dragged off at full speed, to the triumphal
strains of the band. With buckets of sand, the cholos ob-
literate the crimson stains on the arena floor and hastily re-
tire, and the stage is ready for another encounter. In such
manner six bulls are successively fought during the after-
noon, the precise order of the first combat being pursued
without deviation. There is the same daring cape play in
each conflict, the same senseless and disgusting goring 0
horses, the same intrepid feats of the danderilleros and, in
climax, the inevitable death of the bull.

After the final event of the afternoon, or evening, for
each battle consumes some twenty minutes so that it is nearer
seven o’clock than six before the curtain is at last rung down,
the spectators stream over the arena through the gates of the
barrier, the boys and younger men in a race for the paper
beribboned darts that have been shaken out of the bulls and
which are lying about the ground. These trophies of the
ring are highly prized by these youthful “fans” of the arena.
Some of those who are first on the sand scamper at full
speed for the lifeless body of the vanquished bull and clam-
bering on top of it, are drawn off with it in triumph, seated

in state.
[95]ST AS Re Ee ee a J

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

While we of Anglo-Saxon tradition can see little justifica-
tion for a sport that seems to have only merciless cruelty to
recommend it, and which is marked by a brutality that shocks
the visitor, there are certain aspects of the game, for all its
inhuman qualities, that lift it out of the purely brutal. It
calls for steady nerves, alertness of mind, and intrepidit
of action, and it is characterized by feats of skill that gain
the admiration of the beholder and that would evoke the
applause of even the most meticulous of sportsmen, were
they associated with a pastime less obviously cruel. The
audience, it must be confessed, seems more interested in the
display of skill and in acts of daring than in the actual kill.
They follow each play of the battle with rapt attention, ap-
plauding exploits of nerve, and showing their disapproval
of cowardice or maladroitness by hisses and catcalls. The
sympathy is usually with the torero, for the bull seems emi-
nently able to take care of himself, which, of course, is
true only in a degree, although the animal actually appears
to enjoy the sport, until his energy has gone, and his fight-
ing spirit has been dissipated by the gruelling strain of the
contest. he bull never has a chance for his life, however,
and in the final moments of the battle, when, completely
at bay, and harassed at close range by his unrelenting foes,
he expends his rapidly failing strength in futile efforts to
gore a piece of scarlet satin, he is a tragic creature.

It 1s the horses, poor forlorn hacks as they are, that gain
the sympathy of the spectator. As they walk with spiritless
step into the arena, bestridden by their alert riders, emaci-
ated, more than often lame and stiff of joint, so listless that
they act like automatons in the hands of their masters, they
present sorry spectacles. And when their réle in the en-
counter develops, and they are seen to have no part in the
alfair except as targets for the cruel horns of the bull, and
to have no possible avenue of escape from fearful punish-

[ 96]he bull ring.

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THE BULL BIGHE

ment, their place in the order of events seems a senselessly
cruel one indeed. The disgust of the visitor, at this display
of inhumanity, is somewhat mitigated by the utter decrepi-
tude of the beasts, and their seeming indifference to punish-
ment. One can only assume that they are under a strong
sedative and are not wholly conscious of their pain. The
foreigner goes to the bull ring prepared to be shocked and
is both shocked and horrified by a field of honor that be-
comes a shambles. The element of brutality 1n human
nature, that bestial call of the blood, may respond, in the
first encounter, to the excitement and sheer novelty of the
affair. But sitting through an afternoon of successive fights
that are entirely repetitive, save in the fine nuances of the
art, the spectacle becomes excessively wearying.

Is the bull fight losing ground in Spain? I very much
doubt it. Perhaps the better element in society is less de-
voted to it than formerly, but certainly the presence of bull
rings in every city, the regularity of the corridas and the
avidity with which immense throngs attend them during the
long season, from early spring until autumn, leaves one
very much in doubt as to the waning interest in the pastime.

The bull fight is deeply ingrained in the Spaniard’s con-
ception of sport, and the centuries have hallowed it, for it
is a pastime of long tradition. Originally established to
increase proficiency in the handling of arms of war, and to
celebrate festal occasions, it remained a prerogative of the
aristocracy up to the sixteenth century. In those days,
tournaments and bull fights were held in the principal square,
the buildings of which were arcaded and provided with bal-
conies. In most of the cities these squares remain, almost
unchanged, to-day. In earlier times, the mounted warriors
met the bulls with a lance as their only weapon. In those
less one-sided combats, the chances for the contenders were
more evenly divided, and frequently the bulls took heavy

[97]ee

  

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

toll. It is recorded that in some of the ancient tournaments
a half dozen knights, or more, lost their lives during a single

 

fiesta. Later, evolution took place in the character of the
sport, culminating, in 1749, in the erection of a great bull

L 98 ]PERE famine le areca cree BR nbs ap eh la ain et ai ta aaa meta

tHE; BULLE FIGEE

ring in Madrid, with professional toreros as the sole par-
ticipants, and the contests, once the pastime of chivalry, de-
generated into public enterprises for profit.

Having no knowledge of sport, and little interest in active
outdoor life, the Spaniard gratifies his desire for entertain-
ment in the traditional sport of the country. The bull fight
is to Spain exactly what baseball is to America or football
to England.re oz i ann

 

 

 

 

VII. THE CRUMBLING MAJESTY
OF TOLEDO

 

EMINISCENT of Segovia, Toledo, in the
fashion of its sister city of Castile, balances
itself on a rocky eminence in the middle of
a vast arid plain with a river of the desert
at its feet. But its environment is less hos-
pitable than that of those other cities, for all
about it is the absence of habitation, and the
dust, crumbling rock, and drought-stricken
soil of desolation—an extraordinary situa-
tion for a city that maintained itself as a
great metropolis, a center of culture, re-
ligion, and government for many centuries
under changing civilizations.

The early evening train from Madrid
carries you to Toledo after dark, and, in a spirit of adventur-
ous anticipation as of approaching something strange and
exotic, you enter the city. As is usual in Spain, the railroad
station is removed from the town and the drive along the
dust-blanketed road, around the shoulder of the hill, across
the Moorish bridge that spans the deep chasm of the river,
and up the precipitous slopes of the now shrunken metropo-
lis, leaves impressions that do not fade. The desert sky, a
[ 100 ]TOLEDO

deep blue, is spangled with a myriad of luminous stars that
hang low in the clear upland air, and as you slowly make
your way up the winding causeway, the scene which unfolds
at your feet as the straggling outskirts of the town drop
below you with their twinkling lights, duplicates the canopy
of the heavens. You have the impression of ascending
in midair and being enveloped in the evening sky.

If Toledo has been described to you as a dead or dying
city, crumbling to dust in its splendid isolation, you will
wonder at the lively traffic that accompanies you from the
station, on foot and donkey back, in carriage and motor.
The air vibrates with the sound of the moving life that toils
up the perpendicular grade, an activity that, later, you find
characterizes the daylight hours as well. At last, a final
turn of the serpentine road brings you into the principal
square which, paradoxically, is triangular in shape, and pro-
ceeding across it, your bus enters a tiny lane to draw up
almost immediately in a miniature plaza before the door
of your hotel. The hotels of Spain have been much
maligned, and this hotel at Toledo helps to prove the falsity
of much that has been said of them. It is built after the
order of an old palace, and in spite of its relative modernity
it strikes a harmonious note that is quite gratifying to the
sense of age that you expect to envelop everything in a city
that knows nothing new. It has a central court, which is
ample in size; its dining-room is almost imposing, and if
its furnishings are marked by an extreme simplicity that
approaches poverty, what does it matter? For, situated on
the pinnacle of the city, at the edge of the slope overlook-
ing the road and the houses that fall away in cascades below,
it offers you views of enchantment from your chamber win-
dow that are hardly equalled outside of fairy tales. It
your windows face the east, they will command a view of
the golden desert, over the city walls and roof tops below,

fi romee Pe SALLE IB 8

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

that is as far-reaching as the prospect from an aeroplane.
Nothing could be lovelier than this vast expanse of shim-
mering plain in the cool sparkling air of the early morning,
glorified into a canvas of color-harmonies by the rays of
yellow sunlight; and when the blanket of night envelops
the silent world beyond, the twinkling lights of the houses
clustered at the foot of the hill, and the bull ring, a gigantic
bowl of incandescence under its flood of electric light, it is
like a place where fairies dwell. If there could be any
monotony 1n this prospect over the distant plain, there as-
suredly is none in the extraordinary scene on the flat roof-
tops immediately below. For the worthy people who occupy
the buildings vie with their brethren of the country in the
enjoyment of the advantages of suburban life in their strictly
urban surroundings. Established as places of recreation and
utility, the convenient roofs afford sanctuary for the pets of
the household, furnish excellent drying yards for the family
laundry, and offer airy retreats for the barnyard fowl. The
poultry runs are, of course, limited in extent, but the un-
exacting fowls seem content in their exalted situation, and
presumably render generous payment for the family’s care
by contributing eggs, and, occasionally, even their lives to
their master’s table.

Toledo is an anachronism. Content in the middle of vast
solitude, it sits in crumbling majesty, apart from modern
life, aloof from progress, a resounding echo of the Middle
Ages. The vitality that gives it life amid the ruins of its
past, reflects an age greater than that statement indicates.
Livy mentions it as Toletum, and the Romans gained pos-
session of it in 192 B.c. Later, the Visigoths, sweeping
across the peninsula, dispossessed the Romans and made it
their capital in 567. Iwenty years after that, their pagan
king embraced Catholicism, and Toledo was not only es-
tablished as the religious center of the peninsula, a position

[ 102 |TOLEDO

that it has since held, century after century, but its clergy
‘ntrenched themselves in the political life of the country,
so as to remain, to this day, a dominant factor. Ihe ram-
parts that still partly encircle the city rest on foundations
that were laid by the Visigothic king, Wamba, in the seventh
century. A century and a half after the coming of the
Goths, the Moorish hosts began their triumphal sweep
through the Iberian peninsula, overwhelmed Toledo in 712,
and, for four hundred years, the city became one of the
important Saracenic strongholds of Spain. At last, the Span-
jards, destined to become the dominant race, arose to re-
claim their own. Emboldened by their successes against
their Moorish masters in the north, the victorious Spanish
army, under the command of the Cid, finally entered the
city in 1085, after a struggle of several years, and two years
later, Alfonso VI transferred his royal residence from
Burgos. Truly is Toledo an imperial city.

For all its isolation in the desolate Castilian plain, what
a regal situation the city enjoys! It reposes on a gigantic
mass of granite, out of the seared and tortured sides of
which spring the walls and town, both of which are almost
completely encircled by the river Tagus, its tawny waters
flowing through a deep gorge, having, by their ceaseless
work of countless centuries, created a moat of vast propor-
tions. Only on one side is the city unprotected by the river
and here the declivity to the plain is exceedingly steep.

By daylight, the bridge you have crossed the night before
reveals itself in all its medieval character. The Puerta
de Alcantara it is called, a name derived obviously from
the Arabic al kantara meaning “bridge.” Although it is of
Moorish origin, it was reconstructed by Alfonso the Learned
in 1258, and in the two centuries that followed, the sculp-
tured stone gateway at one end and the battlemented tower
at the other were added. It is a story-book entrance to a

[ 103 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

city that glows with the romance of the past. Over this
bridge, which spans the deep chasm of the river, flows a
never-ceasing stream of commerce, borne in covered carts,
on donkey back, and in humble vehicles propelled by human
motor power. Sometimes it is vigorous in volume, and
again, when the midday sun is hot, and thought is given to
less energetic affairs than labor and trade, it trickles across
but grudgingly. At any time of day, however, the visitor,
taking up his vigil beneath the grateful shade of the cas-
tellated tower, will be rewarded by a pageant of traffic as
picturesque and primitive as the bridge itself.

On the opposite side of the city, connecting the dusty,
shelving town and the arid, desolate hillside across the
stream, is another bridge, the Puerta de St. Martin, which
spans the gorge of the river in five graceful arches. While
considerably longer, it is, in essential features, the counter-
part of the other, battlemented gateways and all, a survival
of the thirteenth century, and over it also moves the enter-
taining trafic from the countryside. On the shoulder of the
hill near by, commanding a magnificent view of the fertile
vega fringing the river, which flows into oblivion in the
distance of the plain, is the site of the palace of Roderick,
the “Last of the Goths.” Directly below, on the river bank,
is the Bafio de la Cava, the scene of an incident, if the story
be true, that held mighty consequences for the destiny of
Spain. Here it was that King Roderick, one hot summer
evening, espied some handmaidens of his court bathing in
the cool waters of the Tagus. Among them was Florinda,
daughter of Count Julian la Cava, who was at that moment
in northern Africa, leading the army of the Goths against
the Moors, who were then threatening the Gothic domina-
tion of Spain. Florinda, beautiful of face and graceful of
figure, so stirred the passion of the king that he was seized
with a mad desire to possess her. Forgetting kingly honor

[ 104 ]TOLEDO

and chivalry, he betrayed the confidence of his trusted lieu-
tenant, who was fighting his battles across the Mediterranean
and who had entrusted his daughter to the care of his mon-
arch. When word of the king’s perfidy reached Count
Julian, he was beside himself with anger and swore to take
revenge, not only upon his king, but upon the very scenes
of his dishonor. Meeting the Sultan under a flag of truce,
he related the tragic story of the affair and offered to betray
his country into the hands of its enemy. Sympathizing with
Julian, and little loath to take advantage of the fortuitous
circumstances that might enable him to accomplish his scheme
of conquest, the Sultan placed him at the head of the Moor-
ish hosts and sent him forth on his desperate errand. Cross-
ing the strait, the Saracen army with Count Julian at its
head, met the forces of Roderick, not far from Cadiz, and
vanquished them, and the Visigothic mastery of Spain was
at an end forever.

But it is over the Alcantara Bridge that you will enter
Toledo, and you will mount the hill by the winding high-
way that parallels the ancient walls of Visigoth and Moor,
coming presently to the towered Puerta del Sol, built in the
Moorish style, beneath whose portals visitors to the city have
passed for more than eight centuries. If, instead of con-
tinuing on the road which takes you to the principal square
of the town, you pass, instead, through this venerable gate,
you will find yourself in front of one of the greatest archi-
tectural treasures in Toledo, although, because of its mod-
esty in shrinking into the walls that flank its doors, you will
miss it entirely if you are not all attention. It is the oldest
building in Toledo, the church of El Cristo de la Luz, a
miniature house of worship only twenty feet square, which
was once a mosque, and for that matter, still possesses all
the physical characteristics of one. It was built in 922, when
the Mohammedans were in undisputed control of the city,

[ 105 ]See

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

and its Moorish architecture remains almost unchanged to
this day. The manner in which this church acquired its
Christian name, “The Christ of the Light,” is an interesting
one. Tradition relates that when, in 1085, the city fell to
the besieging Spaniards, the redoubtable Cid, seated on his
snow-white charger, entered the city at the head of the army
of Alfonso VI. Upon reaching this mosque, the intelligent
horse, governed by spiritual insight, no doubt, dropped on
his knees and refused to go any further. Dismounting, the
Cid ordered an immediate investigation to be made, which,
when the wall was opened, revealed in a concealed niche
an ancient crucifix, before which there still burned a lamp
of the ancient Visigothic church that had once stood on the
spot, a flame that, most miraculously, had been burning all
through the centuries. Accordingly, the mass of victory
was celebrated there and the Mohammedan mosque became
a Christian church. With blundering stupidity the Spanish
Christians despoiled this exquisite bit of oriental workman-
ship by adding an apse to accommodate an altar. Happily,
the delicate workmanship of the interior was otherwise
left unaltered, and the visitor can see the mosque almost
as it was a thousand years ago.

Returning through the Puerta del Sol, and continuing
up the ascending highway, you come finally to the city’s
principal square, the focus of its life. The Plaza de
Zocodover, which derives its name from the Arabic suk,
or “market,” has a flavor of informality, almost of privacy,
and is flanked on its triangular sides by ancient plaster
houses with balconies and awninged windows, and, true to
its name, 1s given over to a dry goods fair in the morning
hours. Booths are set up by the enterprising merchants
and in these temporary structures almost everything wear-
able is sold. Shops and cafés occupy the ground floors of
the flanking houses, and receive generous patronage from
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the crowds of people who frequent the market. By mid-
day, the Toledans consider some respite due them, and the

[ 107 |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

cafés on the shady side of the square, overcrowding the
sidewalk, extend their operations out into the plaza to the
limit of the protecting shadows. From that time on, until
late into the evening, a leisurely yet animated throng of
people takes possession of the square, strolling about its
meager boundaries, standing around in groups, discussing
the topics of the day, and sitting at ease before their glasses
of wine, observing the changing procession.

At this juncture, I discover in my note book the follow-
ing entry under Toledo: “Many boys and beggar pests!”
Such a notation might truthfully be made of almost any
city in Spain, for children, with insatiable curiosity, swarm
everywhere, and the lazy and aged and infirm, whose num-
bers are legion, continually seek alms. Toledo harbors a
large and enterprising population of juvenile and indigent
freebooters. There must be a species of traveler which
pays tribute to these annoyances, either out of pity or for
freedom from importunity, for otherwise there would be
fewer and less persistent members of the guild. Our guide
book, fortifying the traveler against all eventualities, sug-
gested the use of the word anda in dealing with the im-
portunate, the English equivalent of “go away!” This, and
the word vamos, which we borrowed from the vocabulary
of an exasperated native, we flung at the boys that beset
us, occasionally with such vehemence that either they would
retire from the field quite abashed or, with gay abandon,
mimic our explosive ejaculations.

Toledo abounded not only in seekers after alms who
craved our help in their support, but also in guides, of a
tender age principally, who insisted on placing their services
at our disposal. The Plaza de Zocodover harbored many
aspirants to the position of cicerone, who would issue forth
and pounce upon us, whenever we entered its confines. And
when, in the narrow streets of the busy district, we at-
[ 108 |TOLEDO

tempted the use of the camera, the children sprang up as
if by magic, and swarmed in front of the lens, eager for
a place in the sun. Before such attacks, entreaty was of no
avail. We were obliged to resort to subterfuge. Making
a pretense of taking a picture in one direction, all the chil-
dren would scamper in front of the camera, when, sud-
denly, we would swing about and snap the shutter at the
scene we really wanted to take, free from the mob of posing
juveniles. Great was the chagrin of the children when
they realized the deception we had practiced.

The outward desolation of Toledo, a crumbling, half-
deserted city built on ground resembling an inferno, slowly
dying in its immense bareness of plain, under the pitiless

lare of a sun that shines from a cloudless sky, as of a
skeleton bleaching in the forgotten sands of a desert, 1s
not borne out in its interior life. In the height of its glory,
under Moorish culture and trade, and during the residency
of the kings of Castile, Toledo boasted a population of
two hundred thousand souls. To-day, it cannot muster
more than one-tenth of that number, yet its streets are
bustling with people. And in these streets which intersect
the undulating surface of the hilltop, is betrayed its oriental
character, for they are extraordinarily crooked, and, for the
most part, like deep canyons, flanked by towering walls,
so narrow that two vehicles cannot pass, and the donkeys,
with bulging panniers, leave little enough room for the
pedestrian. In no other city in Europe, perhaps, are the
streets so narrow and the buildings so high, and certainly
in no metropolis of the Occident is it more difficult for the
stranger to find his way about. Narrow streets and tower-
ing houses shut off the distant vistas with their familiar
landmarks silhouetted against the sky, which enable the
wayfarer to set his course. In oriental fashion, also, the
tall buildings of the older sections present almost window-

[ 109 JSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

less surfaces to the streets, and frequently their entrances
are defended by great iron-studded doors. It is within the
patio that the life of the occupants centers, and the privacy
of this interior court is reserved for the family. Here are
rugs, easy-chairs, divans and growing plants where, shaded
from the sun, the members of the household can enjoy their
leisure. In the provincial cities of southern Spain, little at-
tention has been paid to exterior grandeur, and the visitor
little suspects the beauty and luxury that conceals itself
behind the inhospitable walls that face the streets.
The deep ravines of the city’s thoroughfares are not
without their value. They serve, indeed, a twofold pur-
pose, affording protection from the penetrating winter
winds, and intercepting, with their soaring walls, the merci-
less heat and glare of the summer sun. Much deference js
everywhere shown to the midday sun, for it burns hotly.
The shady side of the streets is in demand, and well before
the sun reaches its zenith the inhabitants protect their doors
and windows with sheets of coarse material, improvised
awnings, that shut out the blistering rays. At two o’clock,
the shops close for lunch and the afternoon siesta, reopen-
ing at four. Of the few shops that remain open, the en-
trances are hung with the customary awnings, the merchants
preferring the semi-darkness of the interior and the absence
of fresh air to the glare of the blinding light and the heated
atmosphere of the streets. Hotel rooms are tightly shut-
tered, and restaurants serve their patrons in the midst of a
benevolent gloom. Fortunately, the intensity of the heat
is mitigated by its complete freedom from moisture, and
the elevation of the city insures relief in the night hours.
The Spaniard has acquired the happy faculty of seeking
the shade at midday, and of moving with leisure at all
times, his simple safeguards against discomfort.
As might be expected of a city that for centuries has

[110]TOLEDO

been a center of ecclesiastical power, Toledo abounds in
churches that date from the lustrous time of its zenith.
The area of the city, circumscribed by the confines of her
hilltop situation, 1s relatively small. From one end to the
other is a walk of only ten or fifteen minutes, but from any
point in the town it is possible to reach a churchly edifice in
two minutes. With a population of two hundred thousand
people, divided among Christians, Mohammedans, and Jews,
these churches were doubtless needed and were well patron-
ized, although to-day, many of them stand for no utili-
tarian purpose, but merely as symbols of the strong re-
ligious impulse of times past, and as a tribute to the archi-
tectural genius of that age. These temples of religion give
to Toledo an architectural significance that is unique, for
they are strongly marked by oriental influence, and pro-
claim the city’s Moorish tradition. For nearly four centu-
ries, the Moors occupied and governed Toledo, embellish-
ing it with the exquisite grace of their art. Their culture
was the only culture in Spain at the time, and they loved
beauty as they loved their religion, seeking to express it
in intricate traceries of geometrical pattern, for their re-
ligion forbade them to portray life. It is remarkable that,
so restricted in artistic expression, they managed, with their
delicate traceries, to create such gems of grace. They were
a tolerant people, too, for they permitted their Christian
subjects to worship as they chose, in all the ceremony and
panoply of their Catholic ritual. We are told that in mat-
ters which concerned only themselves they even suffered
the Christians to be governed by their own laws and to be
answerable only to their own judges. It is fortunate that
the Spaniards, when once more they gained possession of
Toledo, showed an equal tolerance in allowing the Moslems
to remain. For the Moors, with their architectural genius,
gave of their talents to their Christian conquerors, who were

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

quite without creative imagination in art, and in the two

or three succeeding centuries there were erected the Jewish

Synagogues and Christian churches that remain to-day, still

preserving, in spite of later alterations, their Moorish char-

acter. Ihe synagogues stand in the old Jewish quarter,
one founded in the twelfth century, and the other begun
in 1360 by Samuel Levi, the rich Jewish treasurer of Pedro
the Cruel, afterwards beheaded by his monarch. In those
days, Toledo had a considerable Jewish population, a part
of which, it is claimed, even antedated the Romans. These
ancient Jews were refugees from Jerusalem at the time of
its destruction by Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian hosts,
and they fled to the Biblical Tarshish, which, according to
tradition, is modern Spain.
The cathedral, alone, is free from Moorish influence, and
it stands in its Gothic purity, almost like a protest against
the exotic oriental art of all the other public buildings of
the city. Its foundations were laid in 1227, by Ferdinand
III, from the designs of a foreign architect whose national-
ity is obscure because his name, Petrus Petri, has come down
to us only in Latin form. It is a noble structure that was
more than two hundred and fifty years in building, with
an interior embellished with ancient stained glass, a mul-
titude of sculptured figures, altars, screens, crucifixes, pic-
tures and other ornaments, and enjoyed by a constant stream
of worshippers who kneel on the cold stone flagging, telling
their beads, and showing, during their orisons, much curiosity
in the strangers who stroll about the vast interior.

There is one chapel in this great edifice that is unique in
Europe, for in that shrine, a daily mass is said after the
ancient Visigothic and Mozarabic ritual. This service is a
survival of the worship of the original Visigothic inhabitants
of the city, many of whom, though they adopted the speech
of their Saracen conquerors, still held to their Christian

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faith. This service of the Mozarabs, or “half Arabs,” as
they were called, differs substantially from the Roman rit-
ual. It is a product of the very earliest Christian times,
antedating even the liturgy of the Roman church.

So great had Toledo waxed, in the four centuries that
followed the wresting of the city, by Alfonso VI, from the
Saracen interlopers, that Ferdinand and Isabella considered
it a regal city, and founded a convent there, on the heights
above the Puente de St. Martin, which was to be their burial
place. The foundations were laid in 1476, but, upon the
capture of Granada in 1492, a royal mausoleum was estab-
lished there, and Toledo lost the honor of being the final
resting place of the “Catholic Kings.” But the church still
remains perched on the shoulder of the city, far above the
river, and still bears the arms and initials of its founders,
F-Y, for Ferdinand and Ysabel. The exterior walls are
hung with strange and grim embellishments. Scores of
chains have been suspended there for centuries, shackles
that were removed from Christian prisoners held in Moor-
ish dungeons.

Toledo’s past has been glorified by much more than her
Moorish art and her royal patronage. Cervantes lived
there, and his house, just off the Plaza de Zocodover, is
still standing. El Greco occupied the former residence of
the Jewish treasurer of Pedro the Cruel, and one of his
ereatest masterpieces is hanging in the cathedral near by.
And, as the ecclesiastical center of Spain, Toledo was the
residence of a long line of Archbishops, who were its real
rulers, and who were even a power in the temporal affairs
of the nation, second only to the king himself. Their
names, Fonsecas, Rodrigos, Mendozas, Ximinez, and many
others, have come down in the pages of history identified
with art, science, public works, military operations, and with
many of the momentous political events of the nation.

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Cardinal Mendoza was one of the leading figures in the
victorious campaign of Ferdinand and Isabella against
Granada, and upon the death of the “Catholic Kings,”
Cardinal Ximinez took over the reigns of government,
maintaining his authority through his control of the army.

So Toledo, the desert city, basking in the dust of her
centuries, contemplates with satisfaction her achievements
of the past, and rests securely on her laurels. Like a ven-
erable dowager, she sits in haughty disregard of the world
that moves forward, clothed in the raiment of her glory.
For the garments she still wears are the symbols of her
accomplishments—her ancient walls, medieval gateways,
colossal alcazar, magnificent cathedral, time-worn churches,
and wandering streets of towering houses.

But if Toledo remains aloof from the world that seems,
to her, so distant, her inhabitants betray an active interest
in each other and in trade. A fair and a fiesta, that were
in progress when we made our visit, bore rich evidence of
the truth of this statement. Without the Cambron gate,
near the site of the castle of the ill-fated Roderick, and
under the trees along the dusty road that skirts the ancient
walls, were pens of cows and pigs and sheep, awaiting the
critical gaze of the buyer. But trading was slow, for the
country folk seemed greatly to prefer the more social
features of the enterprise. Constantly arriving and depart-
ing on donkey back, they gathered along the roadside by
hundreds, squatting on the rocks and grass in the grateful
shade of the giant trees that fringed the way, and gossiped
to their hearts’ content. Donkeys by the score, tied to every
convenient object, dreamed in happy complacence, awaiting
the pleasure of their masters. Down the slope from the
Puerta del Sol, in another part of the town, in the tree-
planted acres of the Paseo de Madrid, to be exact, a car-
nival was in progress for the amusement, evidently, of the

[114]TOLEDO

people who came to the fair with serious intent. Here were
rows of booths, having on sale cooling drinks and cooked
food, and other stalls devoted to the usual pastimes of an
amusement park, patronized by a constant stream of towns-
folk and visitors.

But, lest we should be permitted to depart with the mem-
ory of Toledo as a city where progress was entirely a
stranger, a demonstration took place that gave illuminating
evidence of her partial emancipation from the past. Pur-
suing our way through the quiet canyons of the streets one
day, we were aroused by the frantic honking of many horns.
Approaching us from the rear was a thoroughly modern
cavalcade that might have been touring the streets of De-
troit; it was nothing less, in fact, than a string of shining
“flivvers,” gleaming immaculately in the noonday sun, bear-
ing placards that announced the new models of the maker
and accompanied by so much noise that people rushed to the
windows to learn the cause of the disturbance. Past us they
made their way, as we took to the side of the narrow thor-
oughfare, and almost in a moment they were lost to view
around the curve of the street, their horns still calling the
drowsy inhabitants to admire their streamline bodies and
their mighty engines!

As we made our last journey through Toledo’s principal
street, up from the cathedral where many people were en-
gaged in prayer, we were reminded once more of the de-
votional character of the city’s townsfolk. For, side by
side, were humble shops bearing the names of the proprie-
tors, “Jesus Echevarria” and “Angel Garces.” Still, such
names are not confined to the “Spanish Rome,” for in
Segovia we had come across a shop bearing the sign “Jesus
Garcia, Barber.”

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S77 N Andalusia at last! We have dropped overnight
from Toledo, nearly two thousand feet above the
sea, to Cordova on the Guadalquivir River,
scarcely three hundred feet in altitude. lene
we are in the real south of Spain where the sun
is more torrid; where the people are swarthy and
volatile, dressing with greater picturesque-
ness of attire, and arraying their mules and
burros in bright-colored harness; where
every house has its patio of growing plants
or of tiny courts adorned with potted
flowers; and where life generally seems
leisurely and full of happiness. Here, in
the country which the conquering Arabs
named E] Andalus, or “Western Land,” the mixtures of
the oriental and occidental strains are evident, for seven
centuries of Moorish occupancy, with its Saracen popula-
tion from North Africa and Arabia, have left their mark
on the inhabitants. In contrast to the proud and decor-
ous Castilian, the Andalusian is mercurial and Vivacious,
and has a highly imaginative mind. The dances and
music of Andalusia imprison the very soul of the Orient, and

[ 116 ]CORDOVA

even the dialect is strongly tinctured with Arabic, especially
in that part of the vocabulary that relates to agriculture.
It is Andalusia that breeds the warriors of the bull ring,
for nearly all the toreros are natives of this province, and

   

    

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the very bulls which they combat are bred on Andalusian

ranches.

We left Toledo in the early afternoon, alighting at
Aranjuez, there to catch the southern night express, which
leaves late in the evening. Faring forth from the station

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

to find entertainment during the waiting hours, we emerged
into a broad avenue, canopied by rows of stately trees.
Pursuing our way, we came to the end of this short boule-
vard, and at the edge of an immense plaza, flanked by a
miniature forest, there burst into view a royal chateau, built
after the manner of the French. The scene might truly
have been in France, so much did it resemble, in environ-
ment and design, a palace of that country. Aranjuez, we
discovered, has been a summering place of Spanish royalty
since the Middle Ages; it was one of the favorite haunts
of Isabella, and, for centuries, successive kings of Spain used
it as a place of summer residence, building palace after
palace, as the preceding ones were destroyed. The present
chateau, which stands on flat ground, adjacent to the village
but quite apart from it, was erected in the middle of the
eighteenth century. Our way to the falacio real was
thickly carpeted with dust, the immense elms and plane
trees along the road keeping their verdure only by the grace
of the life-giving water flowing in irrigation ditches at their
feet. There was, we thought, nothing especially distin-
guished in the chateau itself, but, after the blinding glare
of the yellow plain and the heat of the drought-stricken
countryside, nothing could be more grateful than the cool,
deep shade of the forested gardens. The music of flowing
water, babbling down the rapids of the Tagus River, and
rippling along the canals and irrigation ditches of the tiny
forest, was a balm to our parched throats and fevered skins.
That the royal family of Spain has not, for a century, made
use of this palace for anything more than transient visits,
is no doubt because the ease and rapidity of modern trans-
portation enable them to reach cooler and more distant
places that offer more diversion and excitement than is found
in this isolated retreat in the desert.
It was after an all-night journey over the dusty plains
[118 ]CORDOVA

that, at six in the morning, we arrived at Cordova. Instead
of the blistering heat that we had been warned against, the
air was deliciously cool and fresh, almost chilly in fact, and
after the delight of cold water and fresh garments, we
emerged from our chamber to the breakfast room, with great
open windows looking out on the tree- and flower-adorned
patio. And there we had our repast, the early morning sun
striking through the trees and dappling the stone-flagged
garden and walls that enclosed us with soft and cooling
shadows. Forgotten were the sun-smitten landscapes of
yesterday, and the tiresome, grimy pilgrimage of the night.
Even the broad, arid, dusty street outside our door, and
the sun beating down on its unsheltered pavements were
regarded with benevolent eyes in the rare freshness of our
surroundings. That the pen can paint a picture which will set
imagination going far beyond the bounds of reality is mant-
fest, for the reader may conjure up a charming hotel, in
mission design, of long and rambling lines, embellished
with rare and luxurious furnishings, bordering a palm-
fringed and flowered patio, a scene such as one beholds on
the screen of the motion picture. Our hotel at Cordova,
in spite of its extreme modernity, was nothing of the sort.
It was a very plain and inartistic stone building, three stories
in height, situated on a broad, barren thoroughfare, and its
furnishing was simple to the point of cheapness, in its brass
beds, uncarpeted floors and factory-built chairs of reed and
oak. Even the garden adjoining, which was not, strictly
speaking, a patio, was far from being a labyrinth of luxuriant
plants and a place of enchantment, but for all that, the mere
shadow of these romantic figments made it a paradise to us
on that particular morning. It might be expected that Spain,
with all her glory of climate and her architectural heritage,
would build her hotels in the traditional style of the country.
Perhaps she does, in places remote from the traveled lanes,

[119]epee iT ee

  

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

but nowhere in the frequented ways do you find any hos-
telries (and I know I am shattering illusions when I say
this,) that begin to compare in charm and atmosphere with
the beautiful hotels of California which took their inspira-
tion from the palaces of old Spain.

In situation and aspect, Cordova offers as striking a con-
trast to Toledo as can be imagined. Toledo is perched on
the summit of a hill, and is characterized by narrow, irreg-
ular streets and towering houses. Cordova, on the other
hand, rests on a level foundation by the river bank, and
is marked by broader thoroughfares and low whitewashed
buildings. Yet, for centuries, both were cities of the Moors
and each of them shows well-defined traces of oriental in-
fluence.

Cordova, the ancient Mecca of the West, is unquestion-
ably one of the most picturesque of all Spanish cities. Be-
yond its priceless treasure, the vast, columned mosque, it
has retained, it is true, few monuments of the past. It 1s
a city of no magnificence of proportions, of no splendor of
setting. Its general appearance is one, almost, of meanness,
merely a low-built city, lying flat and dusty by the Guadal-
quivir, a river which is like a snake, winding lazily along
in the desert. Neither has it the air of a metropolis, for all
its fifty thousand people, and the recollection of a magnifi-
cent past. Rather has it the earmarks of a provincial city,
almost, without an aristocracy, a simple town of peasants and
shopkeepers. Yet, notwithstanding all these things, it has
a strange and compelling atmosphere, as of a place that has
quite disregarded the passing of time. Its quiet streets of
whitewashed houses, wandering here and there, without
direction, bear a distinct flavor of the Orient; there are vistas
that delight the eye, and corners and tiny plazas that en-
chant one; the graceful street fountains are centers for
children and housewives, who come to fill their earthen jars,

[ 120 ]‘The Bell Tower rising from the garden wall of the ancient

mosque, now the cathedral, at Cordova.CORDOVA

and, coursing through these streets, are streams of towns-
folk and peasantry from the neighboring country, who take
their uncomfortable ease mounted on gaily adorned beasts
of burden. In the entire city there is hardly a modern
building.

The cathedral, formerly the great mosque of Islam, 1s,
of course, Cordova’s piéce de résistance, for of all the re-

 

ligious edifices left by Spain’s Moorish conquerors there
is nothing to compare, either in size or in splendor, with
this marvelous shrine. The Mesjid al-Jami’a or “Chief
Mosque” of the ancient Moors, was planned to be the prin-
cipal seat of worship of the faithful in Spain, and was in-
tended to rival the great Kaaba at Mecca, diverting to
Cordova the stream of pilgrims who sought holiness in the
city of cities. The eventual glory of the mosque was, of
course, the accomplishment of many generations. The orig-
inal sanctuary, founded in 785, was a modest affair, but

[ 121 |sid ee LL a ERE STS 4

   

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

as the Moorish dominion in Spain increased, and the city
grew in size and importance, this was added to by caliph
after caliph until, in 990, the temple was complete. The
mosque at Cordova was then one of the two greatest
mosques in Islam, second only to that at Mecca.

During this period of its zenith, Cordova held the proud
position of the capital of the western Moslem world. To
the Omayyad dynasty belongs the credit for the develop-
ment of Cordova’s greatness, chiefly because of the vision
of its founder, Sultan Abd-er-Rahman I, who escaped the
massacre of his family at Damascus, in 750. Establishing
his sovereignty at Cordova, in 756, he proclaimed himself
independent of the eastern caliphate. As the center of
Moorish dominion in Spain, the city grew in population,
in wealth, and in culture until, we are told, a million people
made up its citizenry; three hundred mosques catered to
their spiritual needs; nine hundred baths made easy their
ablutions, and nine hundred inns gave hospitality to the
faithful who made pilgrimage to the holy city from every
corner of the Mohammedan domain. While Europe was
brooding in the ignorance and intolerance of the Dark Ages,
Cordova was a brilliant seat of art and science, of learning
and luxury, and students came to it from all parts of the
western world. Of all the luxurious palaces, stately tem-
ples of worship, and public buildings dating from this period
of Cordova’s greatness, only the great mosque remains, but
that is enough to give splendor to any city. Upon the cap-
ture of Cordova by Ferdinand, in 1236, following five hun-
dred years of Arab dominion, the Moorish population was
banished, and the decline of the city under its new Castilian
masters was rapid.

The exterior walls of the huge mosque, which cover an
immense expanse, with their sturdy buttresses and battle-
mented tops, are grim and forbidding, as is always true of
[ 122 ]CORDOVA

ancient Saracen architecture, which never sought outer ex-
pression, but reserved its splendor for the guest within its
gates. Through the Court of Oranges, you enter the splen-
did tabernacle, and there, in the calm of the patio, you get
your first impression of harmony and beauty. Here, in
this enclosure, flanked by its colonnades and sentineled by
its soaring Christian tower, are rows of palms and orange
trees with plashing fountains, where formerly the Mos-
lems made their ablutions, but where now, the women of
the neighborhood come and fill their earthen jars, never
neglecting their opportunity for gossip. It is a place of
infinite repose, this spacious court, which has shut out the
turmoil of the world with its enclosing walls, and made
beautiful its restful precincts with trees of golden fruit
and with fountains of living water—a fit entry, indeed,
to a temple of worship. It was the intention of the ancient
architects of the mosque to make these rows of symmetrical
trees, flanking the original nineteen arched gateways to the
shrine, a continuation, as it were, of the columns within,
and so produce a gracious harmony between nature and the
art of the temple. But the real glory is inside the sanctuary,
Where a multitude of columns of marble, jasper and por-
phyry stretch away, seemingly to infinity, and give the be-
holder the impression of looking through a forest. Origi-
nally, there were nearly a thousand of these eraceful col-
umns, of which more than eight hundred and fifty remain,
and they are reputed to have been brought from Carthage,
from the Roman temples in Southern France, from Chris-
tian churches in Spain, and from buildings even more re-
mote, but it is likely that most of them were taken from
Andalusian quarries. The vaulted ceiling of flaming color,
resembling, in its essence, the rich hangings of an Arab
tent, the exquisite mosaics, the rare marble carvings, and
the mihrabs, or prayer niches, graced by superb shell vault-

praSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

ing and gorgeous mosaic walls with Arabic inscriptions, are
without parallel in the West. Nearly three hundred chan-
deliers and more than seven thousand lamps are said to have
hung from the canopied ceiling, diffusing a light in which
the interior of the building shone like a jeweled casket.
Only a short time elapsed after the capture of Cordova,
before the mosque of the ancient Moslems became a Chris-
tian church. At first, the changes made in the edifice to
accommodate the Christian ritual were relatively slight, but
the hostility to the Reformation brought an intensified zeal
for the full ceremony of the Catholic liturgy. Thus, in
1523, there was begun the construction of a Renaissance
choir, with chapel and transept, which was placed squarely
in the center of the mosque, rising high above the rest of
the building. In these ill-conceived operations, sixty-three
of the columns were removed, and the marvelous perspec-
tive of the shrine, which had intrigued the fancy of gen-
erations of the faithful, was forever marred. The town
council of Cordova pleaded in vain against the desecration
of so superb a creation of art, and threatened with death
anyone taking part in the operation. But permission to
make the alterations was finally obtained from Charles V,
who seems to have had a positive genius for obtruding the
clumsy art of his time in the midst of the delicate traceries
of the Moors. For it was this same vain and stupid mon-
arch who spoiled the harmony of the Alhambra enclosure
at Granada, by erecting in its center his hideous and never-
completed palace. Charles lived to regret his ill-advised
action, however, for on visiting Cordova in 1526, and in-
specting the new additions, he exclaimed, “You have built
what you, or others, might have built anywhere, but you
have destroyed something that was unique in the entire
world.” But the building, really, is not destroyed, for, in
ensemble, you see the mosque as it served the followers

[ 124 ]CORDOVA

of Mohammed in the remote days of the Caliphs, and you
will always feel that this incomparable monument of Arab
culture was worth your visit to Cordova, even though you
may not share with me my enthusiasm for the picturesque
character of the venerable city itself.

Subsequent to its golden age of Arab supremacy, Cor-
dova’s place in history has not been an important one. It
did, however, play its part, although a minor one, in the
Columbian drama. For it was in Cordova that Columbus
had his first interview with the Spanish Crown. It came
at a time when Ferdinand and Isabella were vigorously
prosecuting their war against the Moors, and were, even
then, assembling their forces to lay siege to Malaga. The
city was in martial array, and its streets echoed with the
tramp of armed men. All the chivalry of Spain was as-
sembled, and eager crusaders, besides, from England, France,
and other Christian lands, their imagination fired by the
holy war against the Saracen unbelievers, were there.

It was an unpropitious time to present a scheme that
seemed so fantastic, and which would entail such great ex-
pense, and the Spanish monarchs referred its consideration
to the men of learning who were gathered there at the court.
In the midst of such stirring times, the speculations of so
obvious a dreamer had small place, too, in the minds of the
populace, and they tapped their foreheads in derision at
the man who was to defy all theories of geography and
embark on the preposterous task of reaching a given point
on the earth’s surface by sailing in the opposite direction.

Through the influence of Diego de Deza, tutor of Prince
Juan, the young crown prince, a staunch friend and sup-
porter of the future discoverer, Columbus was maintained
in Cordova as a member of the royal household, and there
he waited with restless mind, until his sovereigns could give
further consideration to his theories, which they promised

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

to do, “when circumstances permitted.” ‘During these years
of patient waiting, Columbus had married again, his wife
coming from an excellent family, and here his second son,
Ferdinand, a half-brother of Diego, was born. Columbus
may not have been a hero to his own valet, but at least
he was not without honor in his own household, for his
wife’s brother, Pedro de Arana, became so much impressed
by the logic and practicability of his scheme of exploration
that, in 1492, he joined the great voyage of discovery as
commander of one of the caravels.

The midsummer sun is hot in Cordova and, as in Toledo,
the inhabitants fight it with the simple resources at their
command. As it rises toward its zenith, the merchants of
the shopping district stretch burlap and canvas over the
streets from roof to roof, so that their shops may have
protection from the midday glare, and their customers may
enjoy a welcome measure of comfort. By two o’clock the
thoroughfares are deserted, the places of business are closed
and shuttered, and the city becomes a lifeless shell. Only
in the cafés is there evidence of life. Lunch and the siesta,
to which the town has betaken itself, are matters of great
leisure, and even at six o’clock activity has not been entirely
resumed.

It is in the early morning hours that the Cordobeses
pursue their duties, and you will find at the market a
greater display of energy than you would have thought
possible among these leisure-loving Andalusians. Of all
the market places in Spain, none can rival in setting, and
certainly none can surpass in movement, the one at Cor-
dova. It is flanked on four sides by arcaded buildings, or
more properly speaking, with one arcaded building, entered
by arched gateways at either end. In earlier times, it was
a hollow square, in which tournaments and bull fights were
held, and from the balconies above the arcades and from

[ 126 ]CORDOVA

within the recesses of the windows, the aristocracy were wont
to view the spectacles. It takes little imagination to re-

 

create the scenes of those days, when the sevoritas, made
bewitching by shawl, mantilla and fan, and the dons, ar-

[x27]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

rayed in their quaint Andalusian dress, watched the pro-
ceedings with indolence, and then applauded the victors with
a vivacity not found in the cooler blooded people of the
north.

But beauty must serve utility, and to-day, in the center
of this historic square, has been erected a covered market,
and the aristocracy of the city no longer have their homes
in the tasteful, arcaded row that surrounds it. For times
have changed, and the people of fortune have long since
moved to patioed houses in the more fashionable section of
the town, while the plebeians have moved in to take their
place. This fact is plainly evident, for the modern tenants
hang their laundry over the balconies where, once, dainty
senoritas cast glances at passing gallants. The building that
occupies the center of the plaza has long since proved in-
adequate for the needs of the community, and the market
folk crowd the arcades and press into use another covered
market which adjoins it, facing a tiny square with a foun-
tain 1n its center.

You reach this mercado down a steep, curving street full
of the flavor of the orient, and descending with you comes
the oddest assortment of two- and four-footed folk that
you have probably ever seen. There are men, women, and
children, in a wide range of costume, some of them perched
atop bulging panniers of produce, on donkeys that seem
incapable of bearing their load, but which, nevertheless,
plod solemnly on without apparent effort or protest; herds
of goats driven by their keepers; mule trains of three and
four animals, hitched, tandem fashion, to great wagons of
merchandise; women on foot, balancing baskets on both
arms; donkeys fitted out in brilliantly colored harness,
carrying on their backs two and sometimes three children,
and a multitude of folk who stroll along, seemingly without
any serious purpose. Under the arcades of the square are
[ 128 ]CORDOVA

improvised shops of pottery and kitchenware, spread in
display over the pavement, and here and there, between
the heaps of merchandise, are shoemakers at work, singly

 

and in groups, turning out their finished product, while
cobblers are seated at work before boxes of leather scraps,
old and new, devoting themselves to the reclamation of dis-
abled footgear. Why such an astonishing number of shoe-

[ 129 ]Te Re EE

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

makers should grace the market of Cordova it is difficult
to say, but for centuries the city has been famous for its
leather and must, even yet, retain a reputation and facility
for working it. During all the morning hours, this extraor-
dinary movement of the market folk continues, and in the
focus of this ancient trading center you see a vivid cross
section of the people of the Andalusian countryside.

Adjoining the market are narrow streets of tiny shops
that, in their stall-like character, possess an Eastern quality.
Beyond these, to the south, is the edge of the city, ending
abruptly at the parapet of the road, paralleling the wide
river bed which, at this time of the year, is mostly bare
rock, for the Sierra Morena, on whose distant slopes the
river rises, is denuded of its snows and furnishes inadequate
moisture for a robust, self-respecting stream. Over this
river, hard by the mosque, stretches a Moorish bridge, built
on Roman foundations, which spans the current in sixteen
graceful arches, and just below it, knee deep in the stream,
stand some old Moorish water wheels. From this bridge, a
vast country of sun-scorched acres rolls out to meet the sky,
and looking toward the city, the golden pile of the mosque
and its towering belfry silhouette themselves strikingly
against the background of the Sierra de Cordoba.

The curiosity of the people over the movements of the
stranger is unbounded in Cordova, as it is in the north, in
spite of the greater number of visitors from overseas who
visit the southern province. They never tire of watching
the operation of the camera, and assemble, as if by magic,
In pressing groups, to inspect the work of the artist. Chil-
dren, as in every Spanish community, abound here, and
evidence the liveliest desire to become a part of every pic-
ture that is taken by the camera or recorded in the sketch
book. You have only to point a camera, and they dart be-
fore the lens. The older folk, too, have the same ex-

[ 130 ]ee

 

     
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
    

CORDOVA

traordinary wish to appear in a picture which they will never
see, and they will go to endless trouble to gratify this
desire.

We shall always remember Cordova as a leisurely,
friendly town, low, open and rambling, free from the in-
trusion of high buildings, and contemptuous of modern in-
dustrial life where people toil in factories and are slaves to
the clock. The life of Cordova moves slowly along, as it
has for centuries past, and the people seem content in the
quiet happiness of their gleaming, white houses and open
courts. Every house has its patio, whether it be the im-
posing home of the rich, with its spacious court of palms,
flowers and fountains, or the modest, outdoor retreat of the
poor, enlivened by its simple display of potted plants. And
there the children play, and their parents take their ease,
untroubled by the turmoil of the outside world.X THE CITY
OF THE GIRALDA

EVILLE is inevitably approached with a keen
sense of expectancy, in fanciful anticipation
of a city redolent with romance, for is it
not the storied city of Andalusia, the fairest
flower of the Spanish garden? Whether
or not it will fulfil that expectancy, it is
dificult to say, for certainly it has much

ger... to live up to, and imagination usually
SEE ae outruns the bounds of reality. But this
at least is true—Seville is unlike any
other city of Spain. It has a personality
[Xf of its own. It is simply—Seville.

To both Cordova and Toledo it offers
a striking contrast. It is a city, they are
provincial towns. It cannot be compared even to Madrid
or Barcelona, though they are all metropoli in the fullest
sense of the word. For the Spanish capital and the chief
commercial city are both pretentious and cosmopolitan, and
might almost be cities of another commonwealth. Seville
could be in no other state. It is distinctively Spanish.

Seville is cast on generous lines. It is no medieval
stronghold, nestling on a hilltop and circumscribed by ancient
walls, though at one time in its history it was defended

[132]SEVILLE

by battlemented ramparts that were ten miles in circum-
ference, and were strengthened by more than one hun-
dred and sixty towers, fragments of which remain to-
day. Instead, it rests on a broad, flat plain by the river
Guadalquivir, the Wdad-al-Kebir or “Great River,” of
the Arabs and with its relatively low buildings, its occa-
sional broad thoroughfares, its alamedas, its little tree-clad
squares and large public gardens, it has an air of spacious
elegance not possessed by the smaller towns. Of all the
cities of Spain none has an air of greater luxury and more
prosperous leisure. It disdains pretense; there is not a single
building, apart from its splendid architectural treasures of
the past, and not an individual civic feature, whether it be
a street, park, or monument, that is a conscious challenge
to wealth and grandeur. Seville’s aristocracy has all the
modesty of the well born, and considers it unnecessary to
assert its position through outward display. Even the
patioed houses of the rich, with all their splendor of in-
terior and luxury of appointment, are concealed behind walls
of extreme simplicity which give not the slightest hint of
the magnificence within. But, in the rows of beautiful
houses, the luxurious courts of which you glimpse in pass-
ing, in the order of the streets, in the carriage of the people,
as well as in their calm and leisure, and in a hundred and
one subtle manifestations, you are conscious of being in a
city that has pride of ancestry and a full consciousness of
its noblesse oblige.

Seville has played no small part in the world’s art, litera-
ture, music, and discovery. It gave to art two illustrious
painters, Velasquez and Murillo, both of whom were born
there; a number of authors and dramatists, famous in the
annals of Spanish letters; it was the scene of several famous
operas, Bizet’s “Carmen,” Mozart’s “Don Juan” and
“Figaro,” and Rossini’s “Barber of Seville,” and during the

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Columbian epoch it was the Old World center for com-
merce with the new empire across the sea.

Long before these latter days of glory, Seville had been
a seat of government and culture, of no mean importance.
In 45 B.c., Cesar made it one of the headquarters of the
four judicial districts into which Hispania was divided. In-
deed, in Italica, but four or five miles from Seville, where
the ruins of an amphitheater and forum, along with other
public buildings, attest a city of ancient importance, three
Roman emperors were born—Trajan, Hadrian, and Theo-
dosius. In the fifth century, the Vandals and Goths, suc-
cessively, made Seville their capital, and it became the resi-
dence of the first Arab viceroy, Abd-el-Aziz, who, after
the capture of the city by his father in 712, married the
widow of Roderick, the last king of the Goths. During
the five centuries of Moorish domination, the city grew
to a population of four hundred thousand, and rivaled Cor-
dova in importance and magnificence. Then came the
Christians once more. In 1248, King Ferdinand III of
Castile—afterward sainted by the church—aided by Ibn
al-Ahmar, sultan of Granada, laid siege to the city, and
on one November day six months later, entered it as con-
queror, and again it became the residence of a Christian
king.

But, to people of the modern world, the ancient signifi-
cance of the city lies, not in its association with Roman
or Saracen, but with the discoveries that gave to the world
a new continent. On that memorable Palm Sunday, in 1493,
Columbus was formally received on his return from his
great voyage of discovery, and vast throngs assembled to bid
him welcome. Then, as now, Seville was a port, in spite
of its situation more than fifty miles from the sea. The
Guadalquivir, one of the two largest rivers of southern
Spain, is navigable for shipping of moderate draught, and

[134 ]SEVILLE

on any day, alongside of the city there can be seen steamers
and sailing craft from distant lands. It was in these waters
that multitudes of ships arrived from the newly discovered
countries across the sea, bearing their rich cargoes, departing
from them again for conquest and for trade; it was from
these waters, too, that Magellan set sail, with his hardy
crew, on his daring voyage to circumnavigate the globe.
The discovery of the Americas proved an epoch-making
event for Seville, for it was given the monopoly of the
trade of the new world, and was appointed the seat of the
Tribunal de las Indias. It was not long before it became
the principal port of Spain and a city of world importance,
a commercial preéminence that has, to be sure, long since
vanished.

The lion of Seville is, of course, the Christian cathedral,
distinguished by its incomparable Giralda. The Moorish
prayer tower, which rises in its majestic proportions sheer
from the ground at the side of the Cathedral, we first saw
through the length of a narrow street, which served to ac-
centuate its magnificent size. It struck a familiar note, for
it was the prototype of the famous tower of the old Madison
Square Garden in New York, only recently torn down,
which we had often seen, and which is always considered
to have been one of Stanford White’s finest architectural
achievements. But, having in our minds the more modest
proportions of the copy, we were not prepared for the 1m-
mensity of the Giralda, which soars with splendid majesty
into the blue, flaunting its belfried head far above its sur-
roundings and, indeed, well above the entire city. It 1s,
without question, one of the greatest Moorish monuments in
Spain and is representative of all that is best in Arabic art.
It was erected in 1184 as the minaret of the principal mosque
which occupied the spot on which the Cathedral now stands.
Its walls are eight feet in thickness and so well have they

[135 ]SSUES: Tl 4

Se

  

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

resisted the ravages of time, there is little evidence of wear.
The cupola, a Christian addition in the sixteenth century,
is surmounted by a bronze female figure representing Faith.
This immense figure, which was cast in 1568, is thirteen
feet high, weighs more than a ton, and acts as a giraldillo
or “weather vane,” giving the tower its name. In spite of
its size and weight, it responds readily to every changing
wind of the heavens, hardly a fitting gesture for so steadfast
a virtue as Faith!

We essayed the ascent to the top of the tower, a climb
made easy by a broad inclined plane of thirty-five sections,
winding within the tower. The view that greeted us when
we emerged at the top amply repaid us for the energy we
had expended. The entire city, stretching away in every
direction, lay at our feet. Directly beneath was the billowy
roof of the Cathedral, with its Gothic spires and sculptured
ornamentation, and, to one side, its beautiful Court of
Oranges. Across the plaza, in the beauty of its gardens,
was the ancient alcazar, which for centuries has been a
residence of the Spanish kings; and not far away was the
tawny Guadalquivir, Spain’s river of romance, enfolding
the city in its sinuous arms and disappearing in the 1mmen-
sity of the plain. At one hand, near its bank, was the bull
ring, its circular outline cutting the serrated housetops
and standing forth like a pool in a garden of flowers; at
the other hand, the immense Fabrica de Tabacos, a gigantic
building erected in 1757, covering more area than the
Cathedral with its Court of Oranges, and in which thou-
sands of Carmens find employment with much less romance,
if the truth be told, than that portrayed in Bizet’s opera.
And, surrounding them all, was a multitude of irregular
houses, gleaming in whitewashed splendor, that suggested
an oriental city rather than a metropolis of the Occi-
dent.

[ 136 ]°
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A patio of Seville.SEVILLE

As fortune would have it, our visit to the belfry was
made at half past five in the afternoon, timed, by chance,
to see the manipulation of the great bells of the Giralda,
the ringing of which is an experience of memorable interest.
These bells, you must understand, are not inanimate objects
to be treated impersonally; they are living personalities,
for have they not all been christened with holy oil and
provided with names? There is Santa Maria and San Juan,
and more colloquially, La Gorda, “The Fat,” and El Cantor,
“The Singer.” Their manipulation is not accomplished
through the cold process of machinery, but by the extraor-
dinary dexterity of the bellman. By means of a rope, which
is tossed with rhythmic precision, he engages the projecting
arms of the bells, swinging the huge masses of metal so
that they chant with resonant voices the measured liturgy
of the hour. The sound in the belfry is deafening, as metal
strikes on metal, but in the distant city below it blends into
a joyous melody.

Of the ancient mosque practically nothing remains save
the Giralda and the Court of Oranges, or, as it is called
in Spanish, Patio de los Naranjos. ‘This patio, graced by
orange trees and an ancient Moorish fountain, is really an
outer court to the Cathedral entrance, and gives a feeling
of repose as one enters the house of worship and realizes
the graceful thought that wove a garden into the fabric of
the cathedral. When the Christians, after a lapse of cen-
turies, regained possession of Seville, they contented them-
selves with consecrating the mosque, of which the Giralda
formed a part, and this served as their house of wor-
ship for a hundred and fifty years. When, under the
ravages of time, it fell into a state of disrepair, the chapter
ambitiously conceived the idea of erecting a church, “on
so magnificent a scale that it should be without a rival.”
Within a century it was begun and finished, a brief space

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of time as things went in medieval days, for the completion
of so vast a structure, and it stands to-day practically as it
was completed, in 1506. It is a majestic structure, the
largest Gothic church in Christendom, and while the ex-
terior suffers somewhat from over-elaboration, lacking the
solemn dignity of the great churches of Northern Europe,
its interior, enriched by seventy-five stained glass windows,
is regal in its magnitude. As is usual with the cathedrals
in Spain, the altar and choir occupy the center of the nave,
destroying the feeling of spaciousness, and interfering with
the enchanting perspectives that are found in churches else-
where.

This cathedral has a special significance, for it is the final
resting place of Columbus. In the south transept stands
the sarcophagus, supported by four allegorical figures in
bronze, representing the kingdoms of Castile, Aragon, Leon
and Navarre. This monument is of modern workmanship,
having been erected, as recently as 1892, in the cathedral
of Havana, where the body of the great navigator reposed
until the outcome of the Spanish-American war in 1898
made its resting place alien territory. The mortal remains
of Columbus seem to have been imbued with the restless
spirit of his soul, for in all these centuries, they have en-
joyed but little rest. First interred in Valladolid, where
he died in 1506, within a few years they were transferred
to the modest church of the Carthusian Monastery in Tri-
ana, now a pottery works, across the river from Seville
proper; then, thirty years later, in accordance with the last
wish of the discoverer, they were buried in Santo Domingo.
But Spain was destined to lose the colony in the new world
that held Columbus’s grave, and in 1796 the body was
transferred to the cathedral at Havana, only to be dispos-
sessed once more when Spain lost this final foothold in the
empire that her intrepid son had discovered. Indeed,

[ 138 ]SEVILLE

Columbus may still repose in the New World, for evidence
is not lacking that the casket containing the body of his son
Diego was removed, through error or trickery, in place of
that of his father, and thus the last wish of the Admiral
may, strangely enough, have been granted.

In the cathedral at Seville is also the tomb of Fernando
Colon, the learned and pious son of the discoverer, who
was born in Cordova, and who, after the death of his father,
traveled through Europe collecting the printed works of the
period. With these, added to his father’s invaluable col-
lection, he founded the library which, since then greatly
augmented, is a prized possession of the cathedral. Many
of the books in this collection relate to the discovery of
America, and there are manuscripts, too, written by Colum-
bus’s own hand. As a comment on the psychology and
fanaticism of the times, one of the most interesting of these
documents is the treatise, penned by Columbus himself while
in prison, on Biblical references concerning the existence of
the New World, written to pacify the bigoted and implaca-
ble leaders of the Inquisition. In the Archivo General de
Indias, housed in the historic Casa Lonja nearby, there is
a great collection of documents concerning the discovery
and governing of America, many of which bear the auto-
graphs of Pizarro, Cortes, Magellan, Balboa, and Amerigo
Vespucci.

Across the cobbled square is the far-famed alcazar, which
has been the residence of the Spanish sovereigns since the
time of Peter the Cruel, in the fourteenth century. De-
siened by Moresco architects, it might have been a creation
of the Moors themselves as, indeed, its predecessor was.
The earlier palace housed the caliphs, who lived there in
great magnificence, and their Christian successors after them,
until the advent of Peter. The alcazar, with its great elab-
oration of mosaics, arabesques and tiles of Arabic design,

[ 139 ]wa Lee CE eo NR a et sD

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

and its beautiful gardens of roses, magnolias and myrtles,
is an oriental palace not to be compared to the Alhambra
in beauty and splendor, yet characterized by much exquisite
workmanship and with an air of eastern luxury. It suited
the sensuous Peter to set himself amid such sumptuous sur-
roundings, and to dispense justice in the Patio de las Ban-
deras, or “Court of Banners,” which is shaded by symmetri-
cal rows of dark foliaged orange trees, and lies almost in the
shadow of the Giralda tower across the plaza. For Peter
prided himself on his justice, and though he earned the
title, El Cruel, he also is sometimes called El Justiciero,
or “The Judge.” Whether he comes by his title, “The
Cruel,” justly, or whether legend and tradition have contrib-
uted unduly to his crimes, certain it is that he has always been
regarded as one of the most picturesque and celebrated of
Spanish monarchs. Whether from a sense of justice, per-
verted or otherwise, he murdered his brother in one of the
courts of the palace, and on another occasion, did away
with his royal guest, Abu Said of Granada, in order to gain
possession of his jewels, is left to the imagination. A great
ruby, acquired through the violent demise of the Granadian
sultan, he unblushingly presented later to the Black Prince,
and it now appears in the British regalia. Peter’s greatest
passion was for the beautiful Maria de Padilla, for whom
he put aside a lawfully wedded wife, and although she was
not of royal birth she became his consort. For her enjoy-
ment he constructed a vaulted gallery in the alcazar, con-
taining an immense stone tank, and for his own pleasure
he provided windows in the ceiling of the bathing chamber
in order that he might view her at her ablutions. The evi-
dence of this you may see for yourself. Peter’s courtiers,
wishing to curry favor with their royal master, showed their
gallantry and devotion, it is said, bv drinking the water
afterwards.

[ 140 ]SEVILLE

When walking in the gardens of this palace, it is well to
keep on the alert, for at least one of the paths is equipped
with a durladores or “surprise water works,” which has the
jocose habit of spraying the unwary. Ihe more mischievous
of the guides consider it a fair and merry jest to turn on
the water when their charges are traversing this path and,
with the visitors present, enjoy the consternation that en-
sues when the jets of water are thrown across the path,
enveloping those engaged in negotiating it.

Passing out of the alcazar and through the grove of
orange trees in the Court of the Banners, you enter an arch-
way under the corner of the palace buildings from whose
darkened recesses you see, rising over the patio and its bat-
tlemented wall and framed by the arch, the towering out-
lines of the Giralda, silhouetted sharply against the glow-
ing sky. This gives access to a narrow lane which is laid
with tiles, and is bordered on one side by the sheer wall
of the flanking houses, and on the other by the rampart
of the alcazar, over which tumbles a profusion of vines.
Traversing this footway, you come to the public gardens
of the alcazar, clothed with luxuriant plants and flowers,
and, adjoining them, to the old Moorish quarter of the
city. This is the most picturesque part of Seville. Here,
where the Arabs built their houses close together for pro-
tection against the penetrating rays of the sun, the streets
are like lanes, in most instances so narrow that vehicles can-
not pass, and from many of which wheeled traffic is barred,
although the ubiquitous donkey, bearing panniers of mer-
chandise, is encountered everywhere. The houses that line
these streets had their genesis in the Orient. The white-
washed walls are dazzling in the glare of the brilliant sun.
Their balconies, their grilled iron windows and, occasion-
ally, their roofs, are ablaze with flowers and greenery.
Here and there, where the houses break away, palm trees

[141 ]LEI ET Pt SP EE SS

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

thrust their heads above the garden walls, and there is
every illusion of being in an Eastern country.

Of another sort is the main residential quarter. The
streets are wider and the houses are more characteristic of
Spain than of the Moors. Their chief glory is in the patioed
houses of the wealthy, and in no other city are they so
magnificent or so numerous. Stretching in rows along the
streets, with facades which are of simple and unpretending
aspect, these houses, in reality, are the embodiment of lux-
ury. In their essence they are, of course, oriental, for the
patio is a direct descendant of the court of the Moors, and
after all, these houses are not radically different from the
less pretentious houses of the old Mohammedan quarter.
A vestibule leading to a splendid, grilled iron gate which
marks the entrance, gives access to a tile-paved arcade or
cloister. Adjoining this entry, and enclosed within the
cloister, is the patio, usually paved with marble and open
to the sky, and here are fountains and palms and growing
things. From the arcade, a wide staircase leads to the upper
floor, the glass-covered galleries of which overlook the
court, and provide the winter dwelling of the family. The
patio and the rooms opening from it, which depend upon
it for their light and air, are really the summer headquarters
of the household. Along the sides of this court are rugs,
divans and comfortable chairs, and here the family spends
its leisure hours. In the middle of the day, an awning
screens the patio against the glare and heat of the sun, and
the interior, with its tinkling fountain, growing plants and
somber lighting is a haven of pure delight. At night, the
court is soft and shadowy in the glow of colored lamps.
Privacy is the keynote of Spanish family life and the patio
serves it with distinction. The open-hearted hospitality of
the English and American home is unknown in Spain. Out-
side of relatives, and the most intimate friends, few people

[a427SEVILLE

are ever admitted to the inner circle of the family life. So
here, in their patios, they have open air and freedom and
that abundant measure of privacy that is so dear to their
hearts.

The huge emporiums of retail trade, which in northern
countries would serve a city of a hundred and fifty thousand
people, are quite absent here. The shops are of modest size,
for the Andalusian preserves his traditional method of trad-
ing, and seems to regard without favor great aggregations
of merchandise or the multiple or chain-store idea. The
principal street of the shopping district is the Calle de las
Sierpes, the “Street of the Serpents,” so called from the
serpents displayed on the sign of a tavern, and it is unlike
any other shopping street in the Occident. Although it is
fully as wide as many of the streets of old Seville, it really
‘5 more of an arcade than an open street, for wheeled traffic
‘s not admitted. Along this footway are situated the best
shops, the smartest clubs, and the most popular cafés in
Seville, their doors opening in an intimate fashion as from
a private thoroughfare. Here converges the commercial
life of the city and, as befits its importance, throngs of
people use it by day and make it their favorite promenade
at night. At midday, awnings of burlap or canvas are
stretched over the street from roof to roof, making it a
covered way and more than ever like an arcade, bringing
comfort to the pedestrian as well as to the merchant. In
the passing procession are intent business men, women shop-
pers, provincial folk from adjoining towns, rustics from
the country, and errand boys, of whom there seem to be
legion. Out on the sidewalk, men lounge in easy chairs in
front of their clubs, and people sit in the cafés, leisurely
observing the moving panorama. By far the majority of
women have adopted the styles dictated by Paris. A very
few, however, are seen still wearing the mantilla, an adorn-

[143 ]oe Pee:

 

 

 

 

  

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

ment which is an evolution of the Moorish veil, modified
as it came down the ages. By two o'clock the gilded, be-
peopled thoroughfare becomes a desert, for the shops have
called a halt on business, the merchants and their customers
having retired for an unhurried lunch and siesta, and it is
four o’clock or later before the pavements once more re-
sound to the tread of the multitude.

If you would see the people at a different sort of shop-
ping, you must follow the Calle de las Sierpes to the end,
and then turn sharply to the right. This will bring you,
within a few minutes, to the market place. In Seville, a
green grocer would find himself in difficult times for, as in
other Spanish cities, the supplies for the family table are
drawn entirely from the market. In the early morning
hours, all Seville repairs to the great mercado and there,
from the immense stocks of meats, vegetables and fruits
brought in and displayed by the country folk, the house-
wives, armed with baskets and market bags, lay in the day’s
supplies. In this huge emporium of eatables are alluring
heaps of golden melons, delicately textured peaches, grapes
like wax, pears, plums, oranges and other fruits, indigenous
to the fecund soil, and stocks of vegetables in endless vari-
ety. Save for the permanent stalls, and the sections under
roof, the market is open to the heavens, generally as blue
as the dome of a mosque.

The artist ventured a drawing of the animated market
scene, and found a point of vantage in one of the open
passageways. It was not many minutes, however, before
a crowd of shoppers and merchants were standing at his
elbow, three or four deep, entranced by the work of his
crayon. he late comers, eager to participate in the ex-
citement, but unable to see over the press, had no hesitancy
in reaching over and pulling down the drawing tablet, quite
oblivious to the interruption of his work, A friendly police-

[144 ]ee

SOGal.

Lon

Bers gaa
oy By ee, x
rh >. \ ia ‘De :

!

Looking through an archway to the market at Seville.SEVILLE

man soon appeared on the scene, and proved not only a
guardian of the law, but a curator of art, for when the
throng pressed too closely, he ordered them away, and they
stood not on the order of their going.

The mercado, despite its enormous area, 1s not great
enough to accommodate all the produce merchants who

 

come to it, and they overflow into the adjoining streets.
A narrow plaza is given over to a grape market, where huge
baskets of flawless muscatels and grapes as green as glacial
water are spread on counters that groan under their weight.
There are buyers aplenty, though, and the heaps of luscious
fruit melt away like ice under a tropical sun.

Beyond the grape sellers, the produce market becomes a

[145 ]EO Ne SIT SS a GE ISI

  

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

mart for household wares, preémpting a narrow street that
is hardly more than a footway, where dealers in pottery,
baskets, and household goods exhibit their stocks. This, in
turn, gives way to a rag market, in which all manner of
new and second-hand goods are offered for sale, at prices
that tempt the traveler to outbuy his carrying facilities.
The distance from one end of this series of markets to the
other cannot total much less than half a mile.

There is much more in Seville that will intrigue the vis-
itor. Not far from the cathedral, on the bank of the
Guadalquivir, is the Torre del Oro, which originally was
a tower of the early Moorish alcazar, erected in 1220 by
Sid Abw’lAla, governor of the city. It received its name,
“The Golden Tower,” from the Arabs, because of its gleam-
ing azulejos which glowed like molten gold in the rays of
the sun. In later days its name, although no less fanciful,
became more accurate, for Peter the Cruel used it as a
treasure house—and a prison as well. In still later times,
it reached its greatest glory, for it was the repository of
much of the gold from the new world which flowed into
the city in the wake of the Conquistadores. The Torre del
Oro marks the head of navigation for large craft, and in
the river, off its gleaming sides, most of the sea-going ships
anchor. Probably within its very shadow, Columbus was
received by the assembled Sevillafios on his return from
the unknown, and perhaps from its bulwarks, Magellan
rowed out to his caravel, beginning his long voyage of en-
circling the globe.

And, speaking of Columbus, there is an ancient palace
in Seville, the Casa de Pilatos, which is the property of the
Duke of Medinaceli, whose ancestor befriended Columbus
in valiant fashion during this trying period. So interested
did he become in the Columbian theory that, for a year,
Columbus was entertained as a guest at his house, while

[ 146 ]SEVILLE

waiting for a favorable hearing by the Spanish Crown.
During this time, Columbus supervised the construction of
three caravels, the keels of which were laid in the yards of
his host, but before they were completed, word came from
their majesties that they wished to give further considera-
tion to the matter, before the work was carried through.
The Casa de Pilatos, which was erected not long after the
discovery of America from designs of Moresco architects,
is a curious, yet effective, combination of Moorish, Gothic
and Renaissance. Because one of the early members of the
ducal line, the Marquis de Tarifa, had made a journey to
Jerusalem, there grew the belief that the palace was a
replica of Pilate’s house in that city, hence its name.

To the art lover, the Andalusian capital will be beloved
because of its association with Velasquez and Murillo. In
the fourteenth-century church of San Pedro, in Seville,
Velasquez was baptized, on June 10, 1599, as a marble
tablet in the edifice sets forth, and in another part of the
town—the old Moorish quarter, to be exact—Murillo’s
house still remains, and the visitor is shown the room in
which the great religious painter died, on April 3, 1682.
Seville is rich in Spanish art, especially 1n canvasses by
Murillo, which are found in the Cathedral and in the Mu-
seum, as well as in other buildings. In the Cathedral hangs
his famous St. Anthony of Padua’s Vision of The Holy
Child, from which, one day in November, 1874, the kneel-
ing figure of St. Anthony was surreptitiously cut from the
canvas. For several months the mystery of this startling
act of vandalism remained unsolved until, in the following
February, the missing section was recovered in New York,
whither it had been spirited. Fortunately its replacement
was possible, and the painting has been so skilfully restored
as to defy detection by any but an expert.

In the museum, also, hangs another of Murillo’s mas-

[147 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

terpieces, famous not only for its technique, but also for
the genius displayed in its production. The cook of a
Capuchin monastery, in which for a time Murillo sojourned,
on the eve of his departure begged the master to paint him
a picture, however modest, as a memento of his stay. Mu-
rillo’s belongings were packed, his canvases and materials
wrapped up in readiness for his departure. On an impulse,
he ordered a napkin brought to him and there, on the im-
provised canvas, painted a Virgin and Child, and presented
it to his monkish admirer. The colors were laid on so thin
that the texture of the linen is hardly concealed, but the
picture has extraordinary technique and beauty. Because of
the circumstances surrounding its conception and execution,
it is known as the Virgin de la Servilleta, or “Virgin of the
Napkin.”

As usual, we found a long line of people assembled at
the ticket office when we went to the station to make our
departure for Cadiz. In Spain, the ticket offices are tightly
shut until shortly before train time, and a long queue is
generally the result. Without a ticket, it is difficult to pass
the guard at the train entrance, besides which, on Spanish
railways, if you buy your ticket on the train you are assessed
double fare, and there is no refund! If, too, a train hap-
pens to be filled, no more tickets are sold, and you must,
perforce, wait for the next one. The standard of practice,
evidently, is based on the sterling idea of “comfort first.”
As I was standing in line, waiting to purchase our tickets, a
stranger from overseas approached and asked me for a
temporary loan of fifty pesetas to be returned on the train.
Such is the freemasonry of travelers that I willingly handed
it over. He was accompanied by friends, and later, as I
joined them in their compartment, I found them to be

officers of an American training ship which was anchored
in the harbor of Cadiz.

[ 148 ]SEVIEEE

As our train rolled out of Seville, and the towering
Giralda grew smaller and smaller, until it became a mere
speck in the distance, a Spanish fellow traveler regaled us
with stories of Seville’s terrifying heat, of the insufferable
days and nights of summer, and the listlessness and apathy
of the people, whereas our experience had been quite the
contrary. We had been reveling in a temperature that
brought no discomfort, and in those August days the citi-
zens had seemed to be imbued with quite enough energy to
suit the time and the place. The intrinsic loveliness of
Seville will be sufficient to commend it to you, and you
will sense the happiness of being the guest of a city content,
one conscious of its position as the aristocrat of Andalusian
cities.2 in ea EP 1. J

ae Pte

 

 

 

 

XI. BY BUS FROM CADIZ
TO ALGECIRAS

LAr principal hotel in Cadiz, fronting a
diminutive square in the heart of the
city, is a pleasant enough place in which
to stay, but—shades of the Moors!—
what a crime it perpetrates against ort-
ental art! Its lobby, its dining-saloon
and its lounging rooms have been liber-
ally, and perhaps expensively, adorned
with modern tiling, in the garish and un-
restrained art of the mid-Victorian or
perhaps, more truthfully, the mid-Al-
fonsan period, with every seeming 1n-
tent of making it the near relative of a
: Moorish palace. But its architect and
builder most lamentably failed in their effort, for the re-
semblance of this commonplace structure to its prototype
is as transparent as the wax figure of a celebrity, and in the
final analysis it resembles nothing quite so much as an aris-
tocratic barber shop or an exaggerated Turkish bath.
Because, in the dawn of civilization, it was the extreme
western limit of the known world, and because it was once
a Phoenician city of great maritime importance, the key to
the Biblical Tarshish, from whence came the gold and silver

[ 150 ]FROM CADIZ TO GIBRALTAR

and riches of Tyre, spoken of in glowing phrases by
Ezekiel the Prophet, we were impelled to pay a visit to
Cadiz. No city in western Europe has a history that ex-
tends in such unbroken majesty into the misty past. The
tin and silver of the Andalusian hinterland, the Tarshish,
to which every three years the vessels of Solomon came,
returning and “bringing gold, and silver, ivory and apes
and peacocks” found their outlet through the Phcenician
Gadir, or “Castle,” founded by the Tyrians about 1100 B.c.
Six centuries later, it became a part of the Carthaginian
domain and in it Hamilcar and Hannibal fitted out their
fleets and equipped their armies. After a lapse of time
the Romans gained possession and called it Gades. Deriv-
ing material prosperity from the mines and fertile valleys
of Andalusia, the wealth and luxury of its people increased,
and writers of the period speak in pleasing terms of its pro-
fusion of dancing girls and its matchless cuisine. Its fish
and preserved meats were famous in Athens three centuries
before Christ, and their celebrity was still undimmed five
centuries later in Rome. During this long period of an-
tiquity, Cadiz maintained its supremacy, but under the
Arabs, as Jezirat-Kadis, it seems to have suffered almost
total eclipse, disappearing for a time from the pages of
history. The Arabs were essentially agriculturists, and
maritime life was not within their scope. Its renaissance
came with the discovery of America, and the “silver fleets”
from the New World anchored in its roadstead, bringing
to the city silver, gold, and other rich cargoes from over-
seas. In spite of Admiral Drake’s raid on the shipping
in 1587, and the complete plunder of the city by Lord
Essex a few years later, leaving it on the brink of bank-
ruptcy, its maritime vitality and recuperative power were so
great that in the middle of the eighteenth century it pos-
sessed greater wealth than London.

[151]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

Swept away are the glories of antiquity, and of its former
greatness almost nothing tangible exists. For the traveler,
there is little to recommend a visit, save the enchanting view
over the tumbling roof-tops out to sea, a prospect as oriental
in essence as that of any city of the Arabs.

Cadiz, a circumscribed but busy metropolis, is situated at
the end of a long and very slender spit of land, jutting out
to sea, very much like the knob at the end of a long walking
stick. Running parallel to the mainland, this elongated
peninsula has created a harbor of magnificent proportions.
Owing to the limited area of the city, encompassed as it 1s
by the sea, the streets are narrow in the extreme, more than
often mere lanes, and the houses that hem them in are of
towering height; yet its promenade along the ocean cliffs,
its tree-adorned and flowered alameda, and its many tiny
squares, give the city a most pleasant air. Moored along
the granite quay fronting the harbor, are fishing boats and
working craft with picturesque lateen sails which, setting
out into the blue waters of the bay, become transmuted from
lowly instruments of commerce into golden argosies of
beauty. Cadiz is a summer resort, for it 1s swept by the
fresh salt air of the ocean and its numerous bathing beaches
within the town and along the shores of the adjacent main-
land, make it a place of sheer delight for the people from
the sun-parched interior of the country.

If the enchanting view to which I have alluded is the
lodestone which draws you to this venerable and out-of-the-
way port, you will at once ascertain the location of the
Torre del Vigia, the watch tower of Cadiz, where all the
incoming ships are signaled. Almost in the geographical
center of the town, you will find it thrusting its head a
hundred feet into the air, and it will be the means of your
mounting one hundred and fifty-one steps, for which privi-
lege you will pay a small fee to the keeper.

[152 |Along the quay at Cadiz, an ancient Phcenician port.FROM CADIZ TO GIBRALTAR

The view from the summit is remarkable, for you are
high above the housetops, and you look far out over the
waters to the distant horizon. Perhaps from this very site
the watchers bade godspeed to that illustrious citizen, Ponce
de Leon, the adventurous Marquis of Cadiz, as he set sail
on-his vain quest for the fountain of eternal youth in the
new paradise across the sea. Like a gleaming white shell
in a bed of sapphire, the city lies at your feet. The bal-
conied houses have been whitewashed with a lavish hand;
the city gleams with tropical brilliance, and the roof tops,
as in a city of the Arabs, are as irregular as a mass of
tumbled children’s blocks. Many of the houses are pro-
vided with miradores, or “watch towers,” from which to ob-
serve the shipping in the harbor, and the broad pageant
of the sea. The roofs are flat, serving as refreshing haunts
for lounging, and as general adjuncts of the household,
even to the keeping of chickens. Down below, close by,
is the market place, from which the cries of the vendors
rise up in waves of sound like the surging of the sea.
Beyond, in one direction, is the great bulk of the cathedral,
its immense mass dominating the town. In another direc-
tion is the secularized Capuchin convent, now, alas! an
insane asylum, the small church of which contains, as its
altar-piece and its only treasure, the last, and one of the
best, works of Murillo, the Betrothal of St. Catharine. It
was while painting this canvas that the great master fell
from his scaffold, mortally hurt. Encircling the city are
the ancient fortifications, and beyond these, the deep azure
of the sea, stretching away into infinity. If views of exotic
strangeness and splendor have a place in your life, this one
will fill your soul with satisfaction.

From Cadiz, we embarked in a motor bus, on our second
journey across the Spanish countryside, in order to save
ourselves the roundabout tour to Gibraltar by train and, at

LaseyaN e ein K HE

FILLET

  

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the same time, to enjoy an intimate view of the rural dis-
tricts of Andalusia, which border the southern Spanish sea-
coast. The advantages offered by first-class seats on the
bus were not entirely clear to us beforehand, but in a journey
occupying the entire afternoon and early evening we con-
cluded to take no chances. Our wisdom was rewarded be-
cause our well-upholstered seats were in the bow, as it were,
commanding the view ahead and, being limited, were free
from congestion, while the far less commodious and less
comfortable seats of the second class were astern, at times
becoming much overcrowded. Our road made its way along
the slender arm of land that connects Cadiz with the main-
land; then through a considerable city of rampant pink and
white houses, with grilled iron windows and balconies; and
from thence across the salt marshes of the salinas, where
huge mounds of salt lay along the canals and basins, the
crystal product of evaporation from the sea water, a striking
tribute to the saline strength of the water and the intensity
of the sun’s rays. After that we traversed the open country.
The road was rough, and the huge bus creaked and groaned
in so fearsome a manner that it seemed a miracle we held
together. The roar of the engine was terrific as we cata-
pulted over the little-used highway. Our course lay through
a rolling country, monotonously bare, consisting chiefly of
immense plains covered with yellow grass that afforded
pasturage for herds of cattle that were now and then seen.
Withal, it was a robust country. Here and there, vineyards
appeared, the ground covered with a brown loam, evidently
to prevent the escape of the scanty moisture imprisoned in
the soil. Patches of scrub forest, that seemed to grow with
difficulty in the baked earth, came into view, and the in-
consequential stream or two that we saw during the journey,
the only appearance of water in this arid wilderness, flowed
through seared meadows and in lifeless channels, whose

[154]FROM CADIZ TO GIBRALTAR

banks were quite devoid of verdure. Irrigation is resorted
to for crops that require constant moisture, and green patches
of truck gardens appear where artificial watering has been
employed. Attached to every plantation is an irrigation
well of the most primitive sort, consisting of a round stone
enclosure, out of which the water is drawn by an immense
wheel girdled with buckets. A mule or burro, securely
blindfolded, furnishes the motive power for this simple
mechanical contrivance. Hitched to a shaft, it treads its
monotonous round, turning the wheel that raises bucket after
bucket of water, which pours into a canal that, in turn,
spreads out into a network of narrow channels intersecting
the fields. This method of irrigation was employed by the
Moors and perhaps by the Visigoths before them, and it
seems likely to continue through the present civilization,
even to the end of time.

Our rural highway, which was lined at intervals with
dusty trees, led us through towns and villages that gleamed
like Cyclopean drifts of snow in the brilliant sun. The
eifect of these scrupulously whitewashed villages, squatting
in the dust of the plain, is clean and refreshing and un-
deniably picturesque, but in a country drenched with sun,
this penchant for white is strange, because at midday the
effect is blinding. Throughout this country, the houses,
whether grouped in hamlets or standing on isolated farms,
are clothed in immaculate white, all save the thatched huts
of herdsmen and gypsies, which are a dull and unalluring
brown. Mule trains, hitched to canvas-topped carts, and
heavily laden donkeys passed endlessly along the dusty high-
road, As usual, the burros were loaded to a greater degree
than their frail legs seemed to warrant, their master fre-
quently perched dizzily, but with perfect sang-froid, atop
their cargo, which was, in turn, stuffed into capacious pan-
niers. The cargoes were as diversified as they were large.

[155 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

By far the majority of them consisted of the produce of
the countryside, but one patient donkey was burdened with
stone, another supported a load of timber, a third carried
a calf which, with securely fettered legs, bore the indignity
with becoming fortitude and grace, and still another, chal-
lenging the prowess of the notorious camel, which suc-
cumbed only when a final straw was added to his load,
walked gravely along, surmounted not only by a moun-
tainous load of merchandise, but by a pair of full-grown
men besides!

Midway to our destination, in a tiny hamlet where a
grove of trees deriving its moisture from a brook that
cascaded down the hillside afforded a welcome change from
the glare of the plain, we came to a halt before a roadside
posada. Here, we tarried half an hour for rest and refresh-
ment. The exterior of the inn, which was low, square and
of unsullied whiteness, bore little evidence of comfort within,
but crossing its threshold out of the merciless glare of the
sun, which poured its rays out of a sky of clearest sapphire,
we stepped into the cool deep shade of a vine-covered patio,
dappled with light and shadow, and there, at our ease, had
coffee and cakes. Off the patio opened the kitchen and the
simple public rooms of the posada, the gallery of the second
floor giving communication to the bedrooms. Within this
cool and pleasant court, the sun and heat of the open road,
lurking outside the walls a few feet away, seemed many
miles distant.

Toward the late afternoon, we began our climb of the
coastal mountain chain, a rugged and austere range of hills
that cuts off the interior plains from the sea. Up and up
over the ever-ascending road we made our way until, gain-
ing the first elevated ridge, Gibraltar’s waters burst into
view with dramatic suddenness. The sun was setting over

[156 ]FROM CADIZ TO GIBRALTAR

the sea as we toiled along the sinuous road that wrapped
itself like a serpent around the barren mountains, skirting
deep declivities, rounding rugged shoulders of the range,
whence opened alluring panoramas of the Mediterranean
and the Atlantic, then heading inland along the ribbon of
the highway, where we were hidden from all prospect of
the somber waters. In this hide-and-seek with the sea, we
wondered whether we might be vouchsafed to witness the
final salute of the sun to the swiftly dying day. Fortune
was with us for, having left the rapidly sinking sphere
poised above the horizon, as we embarked on a long detour
around a beetling cliff, we emerged just in time to see the
dimming circle of gold pause for an instant at the edge
of the world, and then plunge with startling rapidity into the
leaden waters.

Finally, the summit of the sierra was reached, and as
gloom succeeded twilight, we coasted down the long trail
into Algeciras as, in the gathering darkness, the mighty
bulk of Gibraltar showed itself above the somber waters
of the bay, the lights of her city twinkling like a dance of
fireflies. Peasants, leading their donkeys or perched upon
their backs, came up the precipitous road, appearing like
magic out of the darkness, their calls to the animals audible
above the rattle of our engine. At last, a group of houses
appeared out of the gloom and in a moment more, to the
gritting of brakes, we came to a final halt at the edge of the
Bay of Algeciras, our journey ended. But there was a final
prospect awaiting us before we closed the chapter of the day.
It was the beauty of Gibraltar in the vast solitude of the
night. From the terrace of our hotel, we beheld it across
the waters of the bay, looming in titanic majesty against the
eastern sky. The stars shone out of cloudless heavens; the
milky way stretched across the firmament like a broad ribbon

brsSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of mist; the myriad lights from the terraced city vied with

the twinkling constellations overhead, bringing to mind the
song of the Psalmist:

“The heavens declare the glory of God
And the firmament showeth His handiwork.”

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A STUDY IN CONTRASTS

aa sun had not yet risen when we emerged
from our hotel and swung down the road
by the edge of the harbor at Algeciras,
on our way to the quay to catch our
steamer for Tangier. Opposite, across the
, still and leaden waters, loomed the mighty
bulk of Gibraltar, somber in the subdued
light of the early morning. Then, as
we were being rowed out to the
steamer by three stalwart oarsmen,
the sun’ rose behind Gibraltar, en-
circling the gigantic rock with an
aura of brilliant light and outlining
its ragged profile in vivid contrast
against the radiant eastern sky.

It is a pleasant sail out of the circular Bay of Gibraltar,
skirting the rugged Andalusian coast, past the huge mass
of the Sierra Bullones, the African Pillar of Hercules, which
you can descry in the distant haze; steaming in sight of
Tarifa, that lair of the early corsairs from which we, most
appropriately, get the modern word tariff; and then into the
open Strait of Gibraltar. After that comes a distant glimpse

[159]

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of the African headlands and, finally, the near view of the
gleaming white walls of Tangier, perched on her heights
by the sea. Mountains rim the coast, and the old town of
Tangier sprawls on a yellow bluff which, on one side, falls
away sharply to the sea, and on the other, drops off grad-
ually to the beach where a row of bathing boxes attest to
the habits of the European visitors. Leaving the city and
fringing the edge of the bay, the road, open, hot and dusty,
trails off through the distant desert to Fez. |

The steamers are met by open boats, manned by swarthy
sons of the desert, clad in baggy trousers and red fezzes, a
striking note of color against the Mediterranean blue. In
one of these open craft, we were rowed ashore by as pic-
turesque a crew as ever dipped oars into sea water, and at
the pier we landed full into the arms of a very large and
heavy Mussulman who inquired of us our destination.
Upon learning this, he represented himself as an important
factotum of the house, ordered our baggage to be taken in
hand by a more lowly being, and proceeded to give us per-
sonal escort to our hotel. Before we had reached the end
of the pier, he had introduced the subject of our sight-see-
ing, and by the time we had ascended the sharply rising
slope to the hotel, had made a broad survey of our needs
and had suggested himself as our guide and counselor. His
grandiloquence, in our eyes, was greatly tempered by his
insinuating manner, but his haughty bearing and assumed
importance made it difficult for us to decline an immediate
acceptance of his offer to guide us. His fee was to be one
pound a day, and the donkeys that were to bear us he would
furnish at seventy pesetas each, a sum double that asked
for his own services, a transaction on which no doubt he
expected to make a profit of one hundred per cent. He
retired with a haughty air when we explained that we
were not tourists in the ordinary sense of the word, and
[ 160 |TANGIER

that we doubted the need of help, but he was waiting for
us as we emerged from our rooms, a few minutes later, on
our way to make a preliminary survey of the city. It
seemed now that his brother would be willing to guide us,
for the afternoon and evening, for the paltry sum of fifteen
pesetas, less than half the sum which he asked for his own
august services. On this generous offer we reserved decision,
stating merely that we would return to lunch, and at that
time would be glad to consider his brother in the event of
our wishing a guide. ‘This temporizing was a mistake, as
we afterward found to our sorrow. We should have dealt
with this brigand and all his relatives with a firm hand.

In the two or three hours consumed by the steamer in
crossing the Mediterranean, you pass completely from the
West to the East, as if on a magic carpet. In spite of its
sprinkling of European houses, Tangier is an unspoiled city
of the Arabs, and its people are practically untouched by
European civilization. A part of the Moroccan state, its
government under the Sultan is a protectorate of the Great
Powers and under the joint control of Spain, France, and
England, who maintain their representatives in the city.
Spain has the active administration of affairs, and its cur-
rency is in general use, although that of the other countries
is legal tender, and the natives trade in coin of the Moroc-
can realm. In spite of the European influence of govern-
ment, and a considerable European population, chiefly Span-
ish, Tangier is more typically a city of the Arabs than any
other seaport on the north African coast. The native pop-
ulation, which comprises eighty per cent. of the total, is
divided almost equally between Mohammedans and Mo-
roccan Jews. The followers of the Prophet somewhat out-
number the Hebrews, but, in feature and dress, they are all
children of the Orient and it is difficult to distinguish be-
tween them.

[ 161 |2S ets RI ST ei

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

The main street of Tangier leads through the Bab el-
Mersa, or “Gate of the Port,” which is defended by batteries,
and peeriee a narrow and steeply sloping street, past the
Great Mosque with its soaring minaret of blue mosaic,
straight into the heart of the Orient. Opposite the beautiful
perl of the mosque, the solemn scribes, or notaries, arrayed
in turban and robe, squat cross-legged in their carpeted
stalls awaiting the custom of their fellows. Beyond this,
for a short distance, the street loses its distinctly oriental
character, as it pursues its way upward through the Small
Socco, a tiny, oval plaza termed by the Arabs Sikh ed-Dakhl,
the business focus of the town. This section of the way is
lined with shops and cafés, and through it passes a con-
stant stream of people of many races and religions. Still
continuing its way upward, the street finally reaches the
top, and passing through the west gate of the city wall,
opens into the market, which bursts into view as though a
curtain had been raised on a stage setting of the streets of
Bagdad. Nothing could be more strikingly Eastern than
this feverish Sunday fair of the Tangierians.

We had left the harbor of Algeciras at seven o’clock in
the morning, but as we entered this Great Socco, or “Outer
Market,” of Tangier, it was not yet ten, because North
African time is an hour slower than European reckoning,
and the trading was in full swing as it always is in the early
morning hours. The great market is held on Thursdays
and Sundays, and is patronized not only by the townsfolk,
but by the people from the countryside and desert as well,
who come to sell the fruits of their husbandry and labor and
to buy the multitude of articles—vegetable, animal and min-
eral—that such an exchange offers. The market place is a
great open plaza on the sloping hillside, hedged in partly
by low buildings of an impermanent character, irregularly
set, and in places, stretching out raggedly into the upper
[ 162 ]TANGIER

reaches of the town, here ascending a broad stairway that
leads to the charcoal mart in front of a Mohammedan
mosque, and there opening out into a road that runs its
palm-fringed way to the suburbs and open country.

On market days, this immense plaza becomes a seething
mass of oriental humanity every foot of which, save the
passageways, is occupied by the itinerant merchants of both
sexes who squat on the dusty ground before their trivial
hoards of merchandise or sit behind tiny stands of edibles.
Here are swarthy Arabs swathed in the enveloping bournous,
bearded Moorish merchants crowned by the stately turban,
Jews in caftan and fez, men of the Riff, Kabyles from the
Berber villages nearby, Soudanese, thick-lipped and black,
negro slaves from the interior and a great medley of the
nondescript wearing strange-looking garments, vivid turbans
and broad-brimmed hats of flexible straw. Their stocks are
modest, sometimes but a half dozen live chickens which, with
feet securely bound, resignedly stretch out in the hot dust
for the inspection of the buyer, a heap of flat loaves exposed
to the germs of the populace, a little pile of vegetables, a
few eggs, or perhaps a tiny pannier or two of grain. The
sellers of sweetmeats, huddled within the folds of their
voluminous dournouses, elevate their slender stocks on tiny
stands, above the dust of the highway, as a grudging conces-
sion, perhaps, to modern hygiene.

But victuals are not the only things that receive the atten-
tion of the traders. Elsewhere in the Socco there is cloth
for sale, and slippers and hardware and bottles and numer-
ous cast-off articles which, by themselves, constitute a sort
of rag market. Literally thousands of people flock through
the square on expeditions of purchase and sale. The people
jostle each other in great confusion, while, in the manner
of all Orientals, the sellers imperturbably sit behind their
wares, almost indifferent to the passing throng. Men push

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

their way through the crowd crying their wares, whether
they be rugs or chickens or water. The indefatigable water
sellers, bearing on their backs bulging goat skins of water,
and ringing their bells, make great haste, for their product
brings but little and many customers must be served if they
are to make enough profit to live. Asses, laden with pan-
niers of goods, are driven ruthlessly through the crowds,
their ebony masters crying shrilly for passageway. Dark-
skinned men, wrapped in a curious medley of oriental gar-
ments, perched dizzily on donkey-back, slowly make their
way along the lanes of the squatting merchants, ignored by
the preoccupied throngs who are unconsciously thrust aside.
The pulsating mass of intent buyers, and the less eager
sellers, haggle and gesticulate in tongues that are sibilant
and strange. Over it all, the sun beats down with tropical
vehemence, but the market folk, shrunken within the armor
of their heavy woolen dournouses, are content.

The broad stairway which leads from the market place
to a highway in the upper stretches of the town, is a con-
stantly frequented artery of communication for man and
beast. Ascending and descending, as in a moving panorama,
are people, donkeys and cattle. Patient asses are tethered
along its parapet and at its foot, waiting the pleasure of
their masters, who are buying or selling in the square below
or in the charcoal market above. The charcoal mart occupies
an enclosure in front of a mosque whose minaret soars above
the trees fringing the roadway. Men and their donkeys,
jostling each other, crowd the space within and bear away
heaping loads of the fuel. The wide thoroughfare lined
with waving palms, which stretches away to the suburbs of
the city and passes over the top of the hill, is a kaleidoscope
of motion. The overflow from the market below ranges
along its side and people loiter in the grateful shade of the
foliage. Here women wait for their husbands and spend

[ 164 ]TANGIER

the time in gossip—women with wide flaring trousers and
voluminous white shrouds, and women in enfolding gar-
ments of brilliantly striped material, the married of the
species closely veiled except for their eyes.

Here and there, at the edge of the market, groups of
men, enveloped in their Journouses, sit on the ground or
squat on their heels, in oriental fashion, and discuss their
affairs. Near by, a more active group, in robe and turban,
goes through the process of shoeing a horse in the most prim-
itive manner. Stalls flank the market and the lanes adjoin-
ing it. In them, every sort of article is sold, and in their
recesses, picturesque workmen sit cross-legged making shoes,
slippers and other articles. The market place overlooks the
town, and from it, the slender minarets of many mosques
silhouette themselves against the sky.

Here is the East indeed. Save for the occasional Euro-
pean in the stodgy dress of the West, the scene might be
one in Arabia or in a town of the Sahara. It is far more
vivid, colorful and dramatic than any stage setting.

It was after this visit to the market that we fell in with
Abdul. On our way to it, we were assailed on every hand
by robed and turbaned men, who craved the privilege of
being our guides, and even in the turmoil of the market
we were followed by aspirants for the post. As we were
returning from the market, and were walking down the
main street, Abdul spied us. We were engaged in a search
for camera films and a photographer’s shop, too, where we
could have a refractory shutter repaired. Abdul observed
our dilemma and speaking in excellent English, begged us to
follow him to a photographer’s studio near by. Then, leav-
ing us there, he set off with great energy to find a supply
of films of the desired size. After this display of energy
and enterprise, we accepted his services, which he proffered
for the afternoon for the absurdly small sum of two pesetas

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

which, afterwards, we liberally increased. And so we ar-
ranged to meet him after luncheon in front of the Great
Mosque. Abdul was a Moor, a perfect type, in white flow-
ing bournouse and turban, bearded face and bare slippered
feet. His father, it seemed, was a factotum at the Ameri-
can Consulate and, in meeting him later, he greeted us with
great cordiality and with a courtly grace and ceremony that
was eminently characteristic of the Orient.

Luncheon at the hotel was a picturesque affair, for though
the viands were Spanish, we were waited upon by Arabs in
fez and turban. And, in contrast to the practice in Spanish
cities, the wine and water were served chilled with cracked
ice, and ices were served at the end of the meal. Lunch
being over, we left our hotel, without having so much as
a glimpse of the officious gentleman of the morning or of his
brother either. Abdul awaited us at the appointed place,
and before setting out we proceeded to a near-by stall on
the principal street with the intention of making a purchase.
It was here that we were trapped, for, to our discomfiture,
there appeared, outside, the dreaded brother of our unctuous
emissary of the morning. In rising tones of anger, and in
his most fluent and vituperative Arabic, he denounced the
unsuspecting and innocent Abdul for poaching on his sacred
preserves, and condemned us for our deceit in not employing
him. He demanded that we discharge Abdul forthwith and
use his services instead, for had he not held himself in
readiness for us, and was he not otherwise deprived of em-
ployment? The abuse increased and the air was vibrant
with the verbal assaults of the two contenders for our favor.
A crowd quickly assembled to watch the development of
hostilities. The situation was tense, and it was necessary
that some action be taken without delay. In a discreet aside,
we advised Abdul to disappear, as though he were washing
his hands of the whole troublesome affair, but in twenty
[ 166 |TANGIER

minutes to meet us above the market place. Without a
moment’s query or hesitation he glided out of the stall and
made off in the opposite direction. The other belligerent

 

 

we disposed of in a few carefully chosen words. After
twenty minutes had elapsed, we came to the rendezvous
and there our cicerone awaited us. Abdul was ever courteous

[ 167 ]re Pte POEM LOH

   

 

 

 

  

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

and obliging, a pleasant companion, and we never regretted
retaining his services, even though we were obliged to do
it at the expense of a distressing altercation.

The interest of Tangier, as a city, lies in its native quarter,
which comprises most of the town. It is a maze of narrow
streets, or, more accurately, lanes and alleys, for they are
just wide enough to allow the passage of a laden ass, and
wheeled vehicles never attempt to enter. The lanes twist
and turn like a rabbit’s warren, sometimes making off at
right angles and, oftentimes, becoming tunnels under the
houses, clambering up slopes, transformed into stairways,
and descending into hollows where the balconies of the
houses overhang the footway. Above the roofs of these
houses rise the minarets of the mosques, flaunting their
azulejo towers like jeweled surfaces against the clear blue
of the sky. The white plaster houses are square, unadorned,
flat-roofed buildings, resembling nothing so much as houses
of blocks, and are broken by small, shuttered windows.
Little workshops line the ways where men, cross-legged,
accomplish their tasks without machinery, in the primitive
fashion of their forefathers. The shops, or stalls, are noth-
ing more than square boxes in the walls, and the merchants,
after removing their slippers from their stockingless feet,
clamber over the counters and drop inside. There, quiet,
imperturbable, sitting cross-legged or reclining on couches,
usually chatting impassively with friends, they wait for cus-
tomers to appear. The picture they make is precisely the
conventional one so often seen in photographs of oriental
bazaars. The merchants themselves, with bearded faces,
and fezzed or turbaned heads, are tall, stately fellows, of
distinguished bearing, quite different from the motley crowd
encountered in the plebeian precincts of the market place.
The schools, which are passed here and there along the
streets, are, like the shops, mere cubicles in the walls, and
[ 168 |53

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4

 

In the old Moorish quarter of ‘Tangier.TANGIER

in them, before the white-robed and turbaned teacher, the
picturesque children of the quarter sit cross-legged on the
ground, learning the precepts of the Koran. With tablets
before them, they intone their lessons, some of the more
mischievous swinging their bodies back and forth as they
repeat the verses of the day, making rhythmic play of a
serious study. From the platform of a neighboring min-
aret comes the call of the muezzin, and before its echoes
have died away, you see through the open door of the
mosque assemblies of the faithful, on bended knee and
with unshod feet, repeating their prayers to the Most High.

These canyon-like streets, whose cobbled surfaces the sun
rarely strikes, present a moving panorama of oriental activ-
ity. Here are white-robed Arabs, of immense dignity and
calm, with turbaned heads and slippered feet, who tread
the ways with stately grace; Jews in dark-colored gaberdines,
as swarthy and as solemn as the Moors themselves, stalk
unhurriedly by; boys at play, in smock and fez; women,
shrouded to the eyes in their white coverings, move silently
to and fro, like ghosts; little girls, dressed in close imita-
tion of their mothers; half-clad Soudanese and occasional
Bedouins, who flit by with furtive step; and negro water
sellers, dressed in tatters and shod in flat soles of leather
tied to their feet with thongs, bear immense goat skins of
water on their backs and walk rapidly along, ringing their
bells and crying to the housekeepers to buy “in the name of
Allah.” ‘These water sellers, bent with the weight of their
burdens, pass ceaselessly back and forth, never once pausing,
except to measure out water for the buyer, and immediately
resuming their rapid gait, as though they must not lose a
moment in their struggle to keep body and soul together.
For their supply they must walk to the harbor’s edge, and
for it, receive but a few centimos. No labor in Tangier
seems quite so exhausting as theirs, and none is prosecuted

[ 169 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

with such feverish haste. From goat skins, carried on the
backs of their fellows, are the principal streets of the city
watered.

At night, the Moorish quarter offers sensations that will
stimulate the imagination of the most jaded traveler. The
grey walls of the houses which hem in the narrow thorough-
fares almost obscure the sky overhead, and the little, square
shops, sunk in the recesses of the walls, are fitfully lighted
by flickering candles and tiny, faintly lustrous lamps, re-
vealing but dimly their occupants. Men of stalwart frame,
in the unaccustomed garb of the Orient, bear down upon
you in the gloom of the narrow, dimly-lighted passage-
ways; women in their enveloping robes, more ghostly than
ever, pass silently and eerily by, and as you turn the corners,
you come face to face with figures that meet you, only to
disappear silently into the dusk. If this maze of tortuous
alleys is difficult to negotiate by day, it presents an almost
insoluble problem at night when all the streets, with their
continuous wall of houses, are indistinguishable from the
others and, in their wanderings, twist and turn until all
sense of direction is lost. You might arrive at the edge
of the quarter any number of times, seeking a means of
egress, but its flanking wall or its curving streets, seemingly
like all the others, almost inevitably cause you, in despair,
to plunge back into the heart of the district where, be-
wildered, you try once more to escape from the labyrinth.
In our peregrinations, we traced and retraced our steps over
and over, until escape seemed hopeless. Finally, emerging
on the lane bordered by the city wall, which in the dusk,
bore every resemblance to a row of houses flanking another
street, and about to plunge once more into the sea of build-
ings, we were espied by a young Arab who had evidently
seen us trying once before, in our futile way, to find a way
out. Calling to us in understandable English, he directed

[170]TANGIER

our steps along the wall and we emerged, within a few
paces, at the very door of our hotel!

In company with Abdul, who marched with remarkable
facility and despatch in his heelless slippers, we set forth
to see the former palace of the sultan. Our way led out
to the suburbs, over a glaring and dusty road which runs

 

along the heights, stretching from the upper part of the
city. Traversing this hot and arid way under the broiling
sun, we reached our destination and found the palace behind
protecting walls, facing a much neglected garden and in a
state of sad disrepair. For some reason or other, it has
been abandoned as a place of residence, although it was built
little more than fifteen years ago. There was romance, we

[171 ]ees

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SE ae

 

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

thought, in the home of an Eastern potentate, with its
luxurious living quarters, apartments of state, courts and
royal harem. We had seen the alcazar at Seville, we were
soon to view the Alhambra, and our imagination was on
tiptoe. Abdul found the keeper in his tiny house within
the grounds and in his company, over a path running
through the weeds, we skirted the walls until the main
entrance was reached. Opening the door with a ponderous
key, the keeper bid us enter. We found ourselves in a
wide arcade, which opened out into the central court and
communicated with the adjoining rooms. Around this court,
the palace was built, each room having access to it. On this
floor were the public rooms and on the floor above were
the Sultan’s private apartments, opening on a balcony which
overlooked the patio. The end of the building, flanking
the narrow side of the court, was that containing the harem.
If the Sultan’s wives were many in number they must, per-
force, have occupied the same room, for the size of the
apartments admitted but two on this floor.

We had expected, of course, to find a palace of sumptuous
design, dazzling with oriental splendor, but what we actu-
ally saw was a building of heroic proportions, decorated
in so bizarre a fashion with cheap and meretricious tiles,
flimsy woodwork, and tasteless decoration as to seem quite
unworthy of its exalted station. The apartments, upstairs
and down, which were of immense size, with little variety
of decoration and arrangement, seemed forlorn in their un-
furnished condition and neglect, and they opened off the
court which, overgrown with weeds, was even more pathetic
in its forsaken state. If the modern sheik, in reality, is an
unwashed and unromantic figure, we were willing to declare
that the modern palace of a Moorish king is little better
than a military barracks.

The Levante was blowing all day before our departure,

LigeTANGIER

and it increased in velocity during the night. This wind
which, as its name implies, has its origin in the eastern
Mediterranean, piles down from the northeast, whipping
up a lively sea and sending clouds of sand and dust whirling
in the air on shore. In the morning, we watched the flag
pole on the dock for the signal that would indicate the move-
ment of the steamer for Gibraltar. Yellow and black pen-
nants indicate a bad wind, and the display of a solitary
yellow flag denotes the impossibility of sailing. Finally,
fifteen minutes before the schedule time, and just as we
had decided to embark on the cross-desert bus to spend
the day and night in Tetuan, three hours away, red and blue
signals were sent aloft and we knew that, in spite of the
elements, the boat was to sail. A heavy sea was running
in the harbor, and the closed launch which was to convey
the waiting passengers to the steamer in the roadstead was
bobbing at the dock like a cork in a tempest and tugging
boisterously at its moorings. To describe the rigors of that
memorable voyage through the tumbling waves, in a motor
boat which was hermetically sealed, and in the company
of a group of passengers who, it soon developed, had stout
hearts but sensitive stomachs, would make uninspiring read-
ing. Finally, by the grace of God and a good motor, we
reached the side of the waiting vessel and there, one by
one, as our frail craft rose and fell on the giant combers,
in danger every minute, or so it seemed to us, of being stove
in, We were grasped by powerful Arab arms and pulled over
the steamer rail. A few minutes later we greeted the arrival
of an open motor boat conveying a half dozen passengers
who had missed the regular ferry and had braved the sea
in their hired craft. We were amazed at their fortitude
and determination as they plowed through the tumbling
waves in their frail vessel, which every moment tossed
clouds of spray into the air to fall in showers over them.

7h |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

But they negotiated.the distance in safety and were hauled
over the gunwale drenched. to the skin. After this, in tow
of a tug, came an-open lighter, resembling a gigantic row
boat, which was laden with freight. It was manned. by
a red-fezzed and turbaned crew, and slithered from sea to
sea with the buoyancy ofa feather. We speculated on the
chances of the crew successfully transferring its bulky mer-
chandise to the hold of our vessel, but by means of a tackle
which was rigged on deck, and the tireless energy and pa-
tience of the Moorish longshoremen, the operation was per-
formed in safety.

If the sea within the harbor was unmindful of the com-
fort of the passengers, the lordly Mediterranean without
was no more considerate of its seafaring adventurers. The
steamer was relatively small, and it was handled without
gloves by the swiftly running waters. Because of the lim-
ited cabin room, and of the tonic effects of the air, all classes
of passengers remained on deck. But the treacherous sea,
that day, was no respecter of persons and it drenched, with
its flying masses of spray, plebeian and aristocrat, Occidental
and Oriental alike. Most of those who had acquitted them-
selves with honor during the boisterous trip through the
harbor succumbed to the ungraceful ravages of mal de mer
‘n this far more severe ordeal. It brought little comfort
for us to see a great ocean liner, bound for the Far East,
plowing through the waves, with hardly a semblance of
motion. Every passenger on board that day would have
declared that the sea encountered on that voyage would have
upset the composure of the most magnificent steamer.
When finally in mid-afternoon we steamed once more into
the harbor at Algeciras, under the protection of Gibraltar,
we were a happy, though far from vigorous, company.

Arriving at Gibraltar from Tangier is like witnessing a
shift of scene at the theater. From vivid, colorful Tangier,

[174]TANGIER

a glistening city of the Orient, you step into a gray, stolid
town of old England, and rub elbows with tall English-
men, swaggering Tommies, and women dressed in sports
clothes.

Having partaken of no lunch on our turbulent voyage,
and since we had come to the late afternoon, we suited our

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demands to the place and sought out a room for afternoon
tea. We found, on the principal street, a military recreation
building enclosing a graveled court and to the man behind
the counter we made inquiry whether he could serve us
with afternoon tea.

“Tf you don’t want ’igh tea, but just tea, bread and butter
and cikes I can fix you up,” he told us in his pure Cockney.

Assuring him that we were not insisting on high tea, but
that what he had to offer was quite acceptable, we fortified

[175]; Pie ue BS Ke SR ORT eRe eT Meee iy tas

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

ourselves with the typical fare of England, and set out to
see the city whose distant view was, by now, quite familiar
to us.

The British present is so vibrant in Gibraltar that the
past is, perforce, forgotten, and it is difficult to think of a
time when English guns, by the supreme might of their
power, did not guard this strategic “Key to the Mediterra-
nean.” Yet its very name is derived from that of a foreign
conqueror, Tarik ibn Zijad, who, at the head of a Moorish
force sent by the North African Viceroy of the Caliph of
Damascus, landed here in the year 711 to begin for Islam
the conquest of the Iberian peninsula. Subsequently, Tarik
constructed a fortress and castle on the impregnable rock,
the ruins of which stand to-day, and the stronghold became
known as Gebel al-T@rik or “hill of Tarik,” shortened long
since to its present name. In still earlier times, the Phcent-
cians had occupied the site and, from this pillar of their god
Hercules, sailed on trading expeditions to Britain and lands
farther north. For more than seven centuries, except dur-
ing the period of a few years, the Moors controlled the
mighty stronghold, which guarded their conquests to the
north. After them, for the space of two centuries and a
half, the Spaniards held control. During this period, took
place the expulsion of the Moors from Spain and, in 1610,
the Spanish Admiral, Don Juan de Mendoza, escorted across
the Mediterranean, from this very harbor, whence their
forefathers had begun their triumphal sweep, the remnant
of the vast population that once occupied the Spanish penin-
sula. It was during the war of the Spanish Succession in
1704 that the British flag was raised for the first time over
this, one of their greatest strategic strongholds. Overpower-
ing the ineffective Spanish garrison, in that year, they took
possession, and, shortly afterward, withstood a siege and
bombardment of six months by the combined forces of Spain

L176)TANGIER

and France, who attempted to dislodge them. But Britain’s
position was secure and, from that time on, in spite of later
sieges, it has never relinquished its hold. This long tenure
of occupancy has resulted in the typical British community
that flourishes in an alien land. For “Gib,” as the residents
call it, is essentially English, although in the section nearest
the harbor, where the city clambers up the sharply rising
slope and the narrow streets become stairways, it is unmis-
takably Spanish, with typical Spanish houses and typical
Spanish odors too. But the principal streets, that parallel
the harbor, and the rambling houses of the English resi-
dents, which stretch up and onward toward the southern
end of the rock, are equally and unmistakably British.

Gibraltar, with its thirty thousand people, is no incon-
siderable town. Cupped on the sloping side of rock front-
ing the Bay, it rises in terraces to a height of more than
two hundred and fifty feet above the sea. It is the side
of the rock facing the Mediterranean that slopes so precipi-
tously as to leave no room for habitation, save for tiny fish-
ing villages, which nestle on the slender ribbon of beach at
the foot of the declivity. Following the contour of the
rock, a narrow road winds its way along the base of the cliff
to these toy communities, with their fishing boats and nets
spread on gleaming white sand, fringed by the blue waters
of the tideless sea. But, on the inner side of the rock, which
faces the harbor, along its length of nearly three miles,
radiating from the closely built streets of the business sec-
tion, there are roads, parade grounds, public gardens, villas
and military works stretching away as far as the eye can
reach.

The military, as might be expected, dominates the town,
although the garrison itself comprises less than a quarter
of the city’s population. Soldiers are seen everywhere, and
the omnipresence of the war machine is always evident.

leaa nt SIS ee SE

  

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Spaniards make up the bulk of the resident population, and
they are supplemented by a heterogeneous horde from every
port along the shore of the Mediterranean. Alongside the
kilted Highlander stalks the turbaned Moor, and the Jew,
in his long gaberdine, trades with the English shopkeeper.
But the throngs of people who pass through the streets are
preéminently European, and the merchant or workman in
Eastern garb is conspicuous in the exotic dress of his country.
While commerce is subordinated to the business of war, the
erinding of the military machine is far from being the
city’s only industry. A lively trade is carried on with Spain
and Morocco, and the harbor is filled with the ships of all
nations, for Gibraltar is an important coaling station and
attracts thousands of ships during the course of the year.
By the time we were ready to shake the dust of Gibraltar
from our feet, evening had come and the ferry, which,
during the day, makes its infrequent trips across the five
miles of harbor to Algeciras, had stopped running. Since
we had not yet been inoculated with the spirit of the Span-
jard’s manana, we were determined to reach our destination
that evening at whatever expense of time and energy. It
was, therefore, necessary for us to make the not inconsider-
able drive over the road that skirts the harbor in order to
arrive there. Gibraltar is connected with the Spanish main-
land by a level, sandy isthmus a half mile wide, the central
band of which, less than half a mile in length, is neutral
ground between British soil and Spanish territory. From
this point it is, not from the sea, that you get the impressive
view of the Cyclopean rock which has been made so familiar
to the world through the advertising of a great commercial
establishment. The mighty shoulder of rock looms against
the sky like a titan’s stronghold, a striking symbol indeed,
of enduring strength and dependence. Numerous buses
traverse this district and on one of them we embarked

[178 ]TANGIER

with a large number of other folk, who were returning to
their homes across the line in Spain during this hour which
closed the business day. The frontier examination was a
perfunctory affair and from it we emerged into the frontier
city of La Linea de la Concepcién. Here in the plaza was
a waiting motor, but we disdained the driver’s price of fifty
pesetas and entered an open barouche, drawn by two spirited
horses, whose owner agreed to drive us to our hotel in
distant Algeciras for the sum of twenty pesetas. To the
cracking of the whip, we were off at a brisk trot, through
the darkness and cool of the night, traversing a road that
made its way through country and village, at times in view
of the harbor which we encircled and at others, screened
from it by intervening hills and shrubbery. Our pace never
slackened as we rolled along the unfamiliar highway, under
the luminous stars, through a country that seemed full of
mystery and that, in our imagination, was peopled by the
ghosts of its strange inhabitants of the distant past. Finally,
the lights of Algeciras came into view and, within the hour
and a half promised by our energetic driver, we dashed
with undiminished speed into the court of our hotel.

  

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XII. A CITY
ON A PRECIPICE

.NCE more we take to the road in Spain.
In the cloud and mist of the Levante
gale, we leave Algeciras for Ronda, over
the coastal serra, climbing up to an in-
land kingdom which the moist winds of
the Mediterranean cannot reach. The
distance is only sixty-six miles, but the
grade is steadily and sharply upward, and
when we have reached our destination,
on its extensive plateau, we shall be
nearly a half mile above the sea. To
make its dizzy ascent, the railway has
executed many engineering contortions.
Up the tumbling mountains, its locomo-
tive puffing like a driven monster, the train pushes its way
through a heavy covering of trees that find, in the southern
side of the mountains, an abundance of moisture wafted in
from the sea. There is more natural verdure here than
we have seen since leaving the watered hills of the northern
coast about San Sebastian. Upward we climb, through the
celebrated cork woods, piles of bark on every hand, and
thence through the rugged gorges of the Sierra de Ronda,
crossing and recrossing the tumbling Guadiaro, which threads
[ 180 ]RONDA

its wayward path through the chasms of the mountain’s pre-
cipitous slopes. We puff through tunnel after tunnel, fol-
lowing the circuitous ways of the river until, finally, leaving
the inhospitable crags, we emerge into a fertile plain, clothed
with groves of oranges, olives and almonds. Traversing
this smiling district, that has responded so exuberantly to the
touch of the husbandmen, our train describes a great loop
and, with a snort of satisfaction, arrives at the strange city
of Ronda.

Ronda is a picture town, so extraordinarily situated that
but few cities in the world can claim its equal. It reposes
on a small isolated plateau in the midst of a tremendous
landscape of orchards, and is cradled in the center of a vast
amphitheater of mountains that, in the distance, rise to a
height of more than a mile. The platform on which the
old town of Ronda is situated is like a promontory that
thrusts itself into the sea. The town is situated at the end
of this bold headland, which pushes its prow out into the
sea of orchards beneath, and its sides fall sheer into the
valley. Occupying the northern end of the plateau, there
is a “new” town which was founded by the “Catholic Kings”
in 1485, following the Moors’ dispossession of their eerie
stronghold. But the ancient metropolis, which knew Visi-
goth and Moor, and Roman before them, is detached from
this, and lies across a great chasm, spanned by a bridge where
the mountain of solid rock has been rent in twain by some
titanic cataclysm. Thus it is, that venerable Ronda reposes
on the inverted end of a gigantic cylinder of rock, with
a deep gorge on one side and sheer precipices or almost per-
pendicular slopes on the others, dropping to the floor of the
valley hundreds of feet below.

This seemingly impregnable stronghold fell to the Span-
iards after a siege of twenty days. The Saracens had over-
estimated the strength of their situation, and being greatly

[ 181 ]SST Pee Ceca eg

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

harassed elsewhere, had permitted their main forces to be
drawn off, to battle against their Christian enemies, leaving
but a small remnant of fighting men to garrison the city.
When their chief cohorts returned, they found the Spanish
hosts encompassing the city and so strongly entrenched that
they were unable to cut their way through to the relief of
their beleaguered brethren. From across the ravine, the
besieging army hurled flaming arrows into the city, pounding
it mercilessly with their engines of war, but it was not until
they had discovered the underground stairway through
which the city’s supply of water was brought from the river
below, and had securely walled it up, that the Moors aban-
doned hope and were forced to surrender.

At the bottom of the chasm, through the narrow, rock-
strewn gorge, tumbles the foaming Guadalevin, dropping
from its bed on one side of the town to the plain on the
other, making the final descent in a flying leap to its new
channel on the lower side. Across this chasm, joining the
old town with the new, stretches a bridge of extraordinary
altitude, springing from roots which are sunk in the solid
rock of the river bed three hundred feet below, a stalwart
and graceful viaduct that has stood the test of two hundred
years.

Ancient Ronda, perched on its empyrean knoll, was much
circumscribed. Not a foot of room was wasted for the
houses spring inward from the very edge of the precipice,
their gleaming white bastions and irregular, red tiled
roofs silhouetting themselves sharply against the sky. The
town is not large. In five minutes you could walk from
the lofty bridge at one end to the ruins of the Moorish
castle, which guards the steep ascent from the plain, on the
other. To cross it, from the towering cliff at one side to the
passage which skirts the declivity at the other, would take
somewhat less. In this limited area, the streets which are,

[ 182 |RONDA

properly speaking, glorified lanes wander without direction,
and their simple, red roofed plaster houses are unadorned,
and are picturesque only because of their orderless grouping
and their gleaming white walls, fresh from the painter’s
brush. In these houses of simple lines, and in the roughly
cobbled streets, there is the insistent suggestion of a Moorish
city.

In a little, tree-clad square, bearing the imposing title
Plaza de la Ciudad which, anglicized, would be “City
Square,” there rises the most singular edifice in the com-
munity. It is the church of Santa Maria la Mayor, which
once upon a time was a Mohammedan mosque, its belfry
then a prayer tower. Flanking the belfry is a timbered
veranda of primitive mien, from which doors and windows
open into the interior, giving to the church the appearance
of aninn. It may well be that, for convenience and econ-
omy, the priests and their acolytes are housed beneath the
ecclesiastical roof. Across the tree-clad square is a long,
whitewashed building, having the outward aspect of a con-
vent, and alongside of it is a point of vantage from which
to enjoy the broad panorama of mountain and valley. A
few steps from the bridge, on a street that drops sharply
down, stands the Casa del Rey Moro, or “House of the
Moorish King,” a name denoting that it may have had royal
occupants at one time. It is now a miniature museum and
after you have duly paid a fee for the privilege of entry the
attendant will insist on showing you its pathetic art treasures,
consisting of a few pieces of antique furniture, and other
objets dart, distributed about the several rooms. But that is
a waste of time, even if you understand the oration in Span-
ish that goes with the tour of inspection. The house is re-
markable, not for its contents, but for its terraced garden
at the edge of the rugged Tajo, from which you can look
down into the gloom of its abyss and hear the swish of

[ 183 ]Pa EES DEE TE SD

ee

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the rushing waters far below. Here is the underground
stairway of three hundred and sixty-five steps, once a secret
passage, which descends to the river, hewn out by the Moors
to protect their water supply in times of siege. It was the
discovery of this emergency way by the soldiers of Ferdi-
nand and Isabella which forced the surrender of the hard-
pressed defenders of the town.

The streets on this side of the bridge are almost deserted,
for the newer and much more populous quarter has a com-
plete monopoly of the trade and commercial activity. Save
at the few street fountains, frequented by women and chil-
dren, who come to fill their water jars and to gossip, there
is little movement. The diminutive town, it must be con-
fessed, is not unduly picturesque, although there are vistas
through venerable gateways and along the rambling streets
that redeem it from the commonplace. Ronda’s chief glory
is in its incomparable situation.

The new town across the bridge, new, of course, in a
relative sense, for its foundations were laid before America
was discovered, is a community of low plaster houses and
monotonous streets. The bull-ring, which stands near the
edge of the cliff, is undoubtedly its most striking feature.
Constructed of simple plaster, and pierced by gates and
windows devoid of the slightest ornamentation, its white-
washed exterior has a grace of proportion and an honest
beauty not possessed by any of the more modern and pre-
tentious arenas that we saw in other cities. The age of this
ring is something to conjure with. In all likelihood, it was
a Roman amphitheater in the days of the Czsars, and
eladiatorial contests were the progenitors of the bull fights
of these latter days. The seats encircling the ring, tier
upon tier, are of solid masonry and undoubtedly are the
handiwork of the indefatigable builders of Rome. It 1s
said that, after the contests, the ring’s harvest of dead ani-

[ 184 ]pes

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Lettie

orge between old and new Ronda.

The bridge spanning the g

an
ccRONDA

mals is tossed over the parapet near by, into the gorge six
hundred feet below, there to waste away under the all-

LD Roe 4a S Pan

pervading rays of the sun. We made no personal investiga-
tion of this, but I can well believe it to be true, for, as I

[ 185 ]i oe PET Pe SES J

 

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

was loitering on the viaduct one day, enjoying the views
from its aerial platform, I was suddenly enveloped in a
cloud of ashes that the breeze had whisked from the pail
of a woman who was disposing handily of the day’s rubbish.
That papers and other discarded matter find lodgment on
the jutting shoulders of the cliff below, does not seem to
worry, in the slightest, the complacent inhabitants. This
disregard of sanitation and tidiness, I am bound to say,
is typical of the easy-going citizens of the smaller cities of
Spain.

That the people of Ronda have some sense of the zsthetic,
however, is evident in the pleasant little alameda which
they have laid out at the edge of their lofty platform. It
is a refreshing spot, this tiny park, with its trees, shrubs
and benches, and a railed-in terrace, a sheer six hundred
feet in the air, from which there are lordly views of the
distant mountains, the winding river and the fertile vega.
Nowhere in Spain is there a prospect of greater allurement
than that from this lofty eminence. Through the vast
floor of the valley, far below, winds the slender thread of
the Guadalevin, pursuing its way peacefully, after its mad
tumble through the gorge of the Tajo and its plunge into
the meadow; along its banks, and as far as the eye can reach,
are olive orchards, vineyards and fruit plantations, that look
like dots on a figured map; scattered here and there, are
homes of the husbandmen, that seem like doll-houses in
the immense distance; and in the background rise the naked
sierra, which rim the horizon with their deep folds of soft
shadows, arid and treeless, but painted with broad splashes
of color: red, yellow and lavender, such as you find in
the desert mountains of the American Southwest.

Adjoining this park are the gardens of the hotel, and just
beyond them is the hostelry itself. You might search in
vain for a more lovely site, but the structure itself, erected

[ 186 ]RONDA

but a few years ago, would bring tears to the eyes of any-
one with a sense of the artistic and appropriate. It was built
by an English syndicate which owned, at the time of its con-
struction, the short railway traversing this region which has

since been incorporated into one of the principal Spanish

systems. We saw it first from the alameda, across the edge

  

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( =

]

of the cliff and over its terraced garden, and we gasped at its
blatant and grotesque inharmony. We had expected a low
and rambling inn of balconied windows and gracious patios,
but what we beheld was a stalwart edifice of stucco walls,
spacious veranda and green tiled roof, of such a vivid and
uncompromising shade as to defy all competition. A passa-
ble hotel, indeed, for a summer resort at home, but for a ro-
mantic city of Spain—! It was probably the supreme effort
of an architect whose horizon had been limited by Hamp-

[ 187 ]fe ee NS ey Ae ABA tai ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

stead and Highgate. Still, we had long since realized that
Ronda’s beauty lay not in its streets or in its buildings, but in
the transcendent glory of its situation. And, as I have said,
this hotel was endowed with an incomparable situation—and
was uncommonly comfortable into the bargain. Be that as
it may, its garden, fringing the edge of the clilf, is a place
of delight, and the sunsets from its flower-perfumed walks
should be, for their sheer loveliness, one of the reasons fora
journey to Spain. As the day draws to its close, the orchards
and vineyards in the deep valley below are bathed in deep,
soft shadow, and the sun, sinking behind the folds of the
distant mountains, throws its golden mantle over the old
town and the new, enthroned on their lofty heights. At
last, only the towers of the city are splashed in ocher, as
the sun drops into a seething furnace of fire. The blue of
the heavens gradually closes in on the retreating sun, and
the stars appear, one by one, and twinkle over the immense
void of the valley, as you sip your coffee on the terrace,
enfolded by the all-pervading silence of the night. It is
difficult to leave a spot of such magic enchantment, but the
morning hours bring the compensating lure of contrast. In
the clear upland air of the early day, you have your breakfast
on the hotel veranda; the tree-dotted valley is still in
shadow, but the distant hills, which the night before were
masses of shadowed color against the brilliance of the sky,
are heroic mountains of red and orange in the clear sunlight,
and the country glows in the vitality of a new day.AIV. OVER THE TUMBLING MOUNTAINS

 

TO MALAGA.

ROM Ronda, it is a jolly coast down

 

 

the mountains to Bobadilla, the junc-
tion for Malaga, through a country of
flourishing orange groves and olive
plantations. In contrast to the slow
and panting climb to Ronda, the train
rattles clamorously down its winding
pathway, and slides into the station to
the creaking of brakes and the call
of the trainmen.

Malaga lies on the coast, forty-three
miles to the south, and somewhat off
the main line of travel. The journey
is made, in part, through the gorges

of the mountains that encircle the Mediterranean port and,
in rugged splendor, is one of the most magnificent in Spain.
The line follows the course of the river, which cuts its way
through the wild gorge of the Hoyo de Chorro, crossing
lofty viaducts, worming its way along beetling ledges, and
passing through tunnel after tunnel cut in the solid rock of
the everlasting hills. In constructing this highway of steel,
the engineers have carried through the undertaking with

 

[ 189 ]epee eae < spxneteehc:

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

distinction, both in the efficiency they have given the line,
and in the fact that they have made it possible for the trav-
eler to view the grandeur of the scenery that is imprisoned
in these mountain fastnesses. Still following the river,
which gives abundant life to the valley through which it
flows to the sea, you emerge into a country of subtropical
exuberance passing through mile after mile of orange and
lemon groves, plantations of olives and almonds, orchards
of figs and pomegranates, and vineyards drenched with
golden sunshine. This smiling valley, flanked by its moun-
tain guardians, is one of the richest in Spain. Dotting the
way are the houses of the growers, which gleam with daz-
zling whiteness in the brilliance of the day. You stop at
wayside stations where women and children of the country-
side climb to the top of the station enclosures, or thrust their
hands through the openings, proffering for sale the luscious
fruit of the district. Impoverished in aspect, their eagerness
to sell betrays their need and you are prompted to buy as
much for the sake of charity as for the attractiveness of
their wares. The ubiquitous water seller, with his earthen
jars of cooling agua, 18 always on hand for here, as else-
where in Spain, drinking water is a commodity that is
trafficked in because it can be obtained only by dint of
labor and transport.

The station stops on Spanish railways are not the casual,
transitory affairs of Anglo-Saxon countries, but are attended
by the ceremony of time and the presence of many idle
spectators. A pause of a few leisurely minutes is given
to the most unimportant of depots, and this 1s much ex-
tended, in a spirit of friendship and good fellowship, if
the stop be made at a town even of modest proportions. It
is far from being a figure of speech that, in Spain, time is
an element that always waits on man. Usually, the impor-
tant stations are equipped with cantinas, where beverages

[ 190 JFROM RONDA TO MALAGA

of all kinds are dispensed, from the warm, sweetish limonade,
so much in favor, to the abundant wine of the country, sold
for a few centimos a glass. When the train comes to rest
there is a great rush for these centers of refreshment, as
well as for the counters that abound in fruit and pastry, and
the less decorative but more solid foods. The Spaniards’

 

chief form of recreation is in the gentle art of eating and
drinking, and they gratify their palates at every oppor-
tunity. While of bewildering frequency, their drinking is
done in great moderation, for a small glass of their favorite
beverage seems to satisfy their thirst, which comes easily in
a climate so continuously hot and dry, and in a country where
water is so relatively hard to obtain. It is surprising, even,
the number of men who drink limonade or other non-
alcoholic beverage in preference to wine.

At these wayside stations the third-class passengers alight,

[191 ]ore a ~ eA

  

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

weighted down with their huge baskets and bulging parcels
of every sort, oftentimes including live chickens and, as
frequently, many children, and a new lot of country folk,
equally encumbered, crowds into the cars to take their place.
Every station has a self-appointed reception committee of
picturesque loungers, who stand about in groups, absorbed
in the disgorging of the train. The rustics who compose
these fascinated groups, are oftentimes clad in a singularity
of dress peculiar to the region, and members of the Guard
Civil, arrayed in colorful blue uniforms and curious cocked
hats of patent leather, are usually on hand to enliven the
scene. Somnolent donkeys drowse by the platforms, and
dusty diligences await their human cargo. Decidedly, the
rural stations of Spain are far from being dreary.

The most striking view of Malaga is that seen from the
docks that lie in the center of the city’s waterfront. Look-
ing towards the town from this point of vantage, you com-
mand the immense basin of the orderly harbor, where ships
are loading their precious cargoes of fruit and wine; the
towering hill which, crowned by the ruins of its Moorish
castle, rises beyond; and on the left, the immense cathedral,
with its strange medley of Gothic and Classic, lifts its un-
finished towers. Between the harbor and these conspicuous
landmarks runs the splendid alameda, by far the city’s most
beautiful feature. It is a combined drive and promenade
which, in its modest length, is a veritable tunnel of verdure,
for its giant plane trees and stately palms meet high over-
head, forming a cover of impenetrable foliage. Under this
magnificent cover, and among the flower beds that embellish
its walks, the people stroll and sit in contented indolence.

Malaga conjured up in our minds a place of tropical ex-
uberance. Its comparative remoteness from the main lines
of travel led us to expect a town more typical cf old Spain,
with more primitive phases of native life, than we had seen

[ 192 ]toward the cathedral and ancient citadel.

S

a lookin J

(y
_
©

Mala

A corner of the harbor of

atte
FaFROM RONDA TO MALAGA

in the more traveled cities of the interior. Instead, we
found it to be one of the most modernized and, therefore,
one of the least interesting of the Spanish cities, hardly
worth, we thought, the detour to see it made necessary by
its somewhat out-of-the-way, though not by any means
remote, location. In common with its sister ports on the
Mediterranean, it has every evidence of commercial pros-
perity. The shops are large and well kept, and the short
business thoroughfares are crowded with people. In the
late afternoon, the cafés, lining the principal business streets,
are the rendezvous of prosperous-looking folk who sit in
the open, sip their wine and observe their fellow citizens
pass. The prosperity, so evident an attribute of the city, is
due to the port’s extensive shipping, its market for the rich
fruit-growing country to which it is tributary, and its sugar,
cotton and other mills.

Malaga is one of the oldest and most famous seaports
on the Mediterranean. Established by the ancient Phceni-
cians, they called their city Malaca, from malac, meaning
“to salt,” because of its importance as a depot of salt fish.
Later, it became a Roman city, and for a century and a
half was under the Visigoths. They, in turn, were suc-
ceeded by the Arabs, who conquered it in their sweep of
the peninsula in 711, and, regarding it an earthly paradise,
assigned the district to the Khund al Jordan, or “dwellers
to the east of the Jordan.” So great was its trade that,
from the middle of the thirteenth century until it was
captured by Ferdinand and Isabella, two centuries later, it
was one of the two chief seaports of the Moorish kingdom
of Granada. Under the Christians, its population and trade
diminished and it suffered almost total eclipse.

The ruins of the Alcazaba, the Moorish citadel, stand on
the shoulder of the hill adjoining the harbor, and occupy
the site of the earliest Phoenician settlement. Above this,

[ 193 ]ee a a” a

 

ri ne

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

on a mighty eminence which soars almost perpendicularly
above the city, and upon which its defenses have been situ-
ated since the thirteenth century, you get a marvelous pano-
rama of town, coast and sea. To your right, just below,
is flung the hill-girt city, in which more than a hundred
thousand people move and have their being. Immediately
underneath, as you look out to sea, reposes the huge sym-
metrical bull ring, like a Roman amphitheater, open to the
sky, but a lifeless shell without the heat of battle. You
look directly into it, as from an aeroplane, and its seats for
eleven thousand spectators appear as rings of decoration.
Beyond, lies the bathing beach, to which on holidays the
town repairs, and then, like a vast carpet of turquoise, the
Mediterranean stretches away to the African shore. If the
day be very clear, you can look over into Africa and see the
mountains near Cetua in Morocco. To the left, the winding
beach disappears in the distance, flanked all the way by the
coastal hills, which give gentle hospitality to attractive villas.
Due to the circle of mountains that forms a rampart to the
north, Malaga and its neighboring cities have the mildest
winter climate in Europe. So equable is it, that Malaga’s
imagination has been stimulated, and she has aspirations to
become, some day, an international wintering place that will
rival Nice. As you stand on this towering hill, by the side
of the city, where shepherds tend their goats, you can see
the makings of a magnificent Corniche Road, for the coast
line, graced by hills that rise to commanding heights, is a
counterpart of the Riviera, resplendent in the arid and
gorgeous coloring of the Mediterranean coast of France.
In a city which, in climate, offers much to the sojourner,
but to the traveler holds little of picturesque interest, its
market is well worth a visit, because of its lavish display of
grapes and products of the orchards. Early in the morning,
the fruit growers arrive with their huge baskets of sub-

[194 ]FROM RONDA TO MALAGA

tropical fruits, and not only crowd the market, but preémpt
the streets round about with their great piles of fruit from
the neighboring country. There are grapes of every hue,
in immense hampers, mountains of golden melons, an abun-
dance of ripe figs, skillfully packed to protect their delicate
texture, baskets of rosy-hued pomegranates, tables groaning
under the weight of velvety peaches and luscious pears, and
many other kinds of fruit yielded by the fertile soil. The
prices, of course, are absurdly low judged by the standards
of northern markets.

We should like to have spent a month in Malaga, idling
in the fragrant air by the blue Mediterranean, and eating
and drinking of the nectar and ambrosia of the Andalusian
Coast. But we were in search of the old and the picturesque,
and Granada waited for us just ahead. And so we lost no
time in shaking the dust of this fair coastal metropolis from
our feet.ee Da EE 5 ee |

 

 

 

XV. GRANADA
THE GLORY OF THE MOORS

NTHRONED on a spur of the high Sierra
Nevada sits Granada, the proud city of
the ancient Moorish kings. Approaching
it from the west, the way is through a
magnificent country of rolling mountains
and fertile vegas, through scores of
miles of orchards that extend to the
very gates of the city. As the train
A winds circuitously along the towering
=H) hills and mountain heights, spacious
" valleys, speckled with geometrical

rows of olive trees, unroll them-
x x selves, their foliage showing dark
7 green against the dun-colored soil.
In the immensity of the illimitable landscape a hundred
thousand trees spread themselves in unbroken ranks under
the shimmering heat of the sun, as regular in pattern and
in individual contour, as the painted wooden figures in a
toy orchard. One panorama of orchards succeeds another,
until it would seem that, in these boundless fields, the whole
world could eat its fill of succulent olives. Interspersed
throughout the country, are the gleaming white houses of

[ 196 JGRANADA

the haciendas, adding life and beauty to the picture. In
the north of Spain, as in France, the farmers have their
homes in the villages and go forth to their labor in the
fields, but here in the south the husbandmen live on the
genial soil.

Granada proper rests on sloping ground at the base of
two spurs of the foothills of the sierra, and consists of a
broad thoroughfare, the Gran via de Colon, a street of sub-
stantial business buildings which bears the name of the great
discoverer whose fortunes were so mightily influenced by
events connected with the city, many more streets lined
with shops, venerable churches, mostly devoid of interest,
diminutive plazas of ancient lineage, and tree-adorned paseos
and alamedas of more modern days. Occupying one of the
two mountain spurs on which the houses clamber down the
hillside and join themselves to the town below, is the pic-
turesque Albaicin, the old quarter of the Moorish aristoc-
racy. Crowning the other spur, across the wooded banks
of the Rio Darro, a narrow stream that takes its rise in the
snowy summits of the high sierra, rests the glory of the
caliphs and the treasured jewel of modern Spain, the in-
comparable Alhambra.

It is from the heights of the Albaicin, across the wooded
gorge, that you get the most comprehensive and striking
view of the vast enclosure of the Alhambra. You may be
disappointed in this distant prospect of the buildings them-
selves, because, in the grim plaster walls which mask ancient
fortifications of massive strength, there is little beauty save
that of virility. The towered and battlemented ramparts,
which are part of the palace itself, are plain to the point
of austerity and are unembellished by sculpture or orna-
mentation, so that, in the exterior aspect, there is not the
slightest betrayal of the surpassing splendor within. But
in the dramatic setting of the Alhambra, there can be

[ 197 ]iI Rn SE Te

 

 

  

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

no possible disappointment. Surmounting the crest of a
wooded ridge, the long series of buildings that forms the
palace and citadel, glinting with light, rises almost like a
phantom shape among the greenery, culminating in the Gen-
eralife, the summer palace of the kings. On a lofty ridge
at the edge of an intervening ravine, amid the deep foliage
of its gardens, the Generalife stands in isolation like a fairy
palace. Rising in the distant background are the naked,
towering heights of the Sierra Nevada, whose crests, during
most of the year, flaunt a heavy mantle of snow which
dwindles in summer to a few glistening ribbons.

The Alhambra, the name popularly applied to the palace
of the Moorish kings, really embraces the whole plateau
of the ridge upon which it is situated, and includes the
entire series of buildings and fortifications which comprised
the living quarters, the state apartments, and accommoda-
tions for the royal entourage and garrison of the caliphs.
The Alhambra hilltop, which is nearly a half mile long
and two hundred yards across, in Saracen times was com-
pletely encircled by massive ramparts strengthened by
towers, of which many still remain. The hill falls sharply
away on every side, forming a natural fortress which the
Moors, without vainglory, considered impregnable.

Thus, the vast enclosure of the Alhambra was not occupied.
entirely with the palace itself. At the prow of the hill rises
the Alcazaba or Citadel; between this and the palace is an
open space, a sort of miniature plaza; then stretches the
rambling structure of the palace, beyond which are the re-
mains of the living quarters of the courtiers and officials,
and other buildings connected with the Sultan’s household.
This miniature city within the walls was known by the Moors
as Medinat al-hamra, or “Red Town,” because of the color
of the buildings, which were constructed of a reddish stone
found in the vicinity.

[ 198 ]GRANADA

The building of the Alhambra, which extended over a cen-
tury and a half, was coincident with the growth and advanc-
ing culture of the flourishing kingdom of Granada. After
the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212, in which the
Christian army of Spanish and foreign crusaders routed the
Almohades, the Arab clan then in power at Granada, in-
ternal dissension developed in the Moorish kingdom, culmi-
nating in the revolt of the viceroys of the various provinces.
After a bitter contest, Mohammed ibn Yiasuf al-Ahmar,
of the tribe of Beni Nasr, finally emerged the dominant
contender for the control of Andalusia, and in 1238 suc-
ceeded in making himself ruler of the extensive kingdom
that embraced Granada, Malaga and Almeria. Two years
before this coup d’état, Ferdinand III had conquered Cor-
dova and pushed forward his dominion to Jaen, one of the
outposts of the Granadan Kingdom. Al-Ahmar, who had
taken the title of Mohammed I, thus deemed it expedient
to make peace with Ferdinand. This he promptly did, ac-
knowledging him as his suzerain, and even assisting him
later in his successful operations against the Mohammedan
power at Seville.

It was this dynasty of the Nasrides, founded by Mo-
hammed I, that maintained itself at Granada for nearly two
hundred and fifty years. To the Moors of Valencia, Cor-
dova, Seville, and other cities which had successively fallen
to the Christian power, Mohammed offered refuge in
Granada. He fostered trade and industry, built roads, con-
structed public works, and promoted agriculture. During
the next century and a half, the successive rulers of the
dynasty proved to be far-seeing princes, and to their influ-
ence was due in large measure the brilliancy of the Moorish
civilization in Spain—its flourishing agriculture and com-
merce, its advancement of science, its development of art and
architecture. The population of Granada, nurtured by pros-

[ 199 ]¥ = eee ae oon ee

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

perity and augmented by Arab populations expelled by the
Christians from conquered territory, grew to half a million
souls and became the richest and most powerful city in all
the peninsula.

With Mohammed I originated the conception of a palace
on the Alhambra hill. From time to time his successors
added to the modest beginnings of the original, but it was
not until Yusuf I came to the throne, a century later, that
the palace began to reach its later glory. Yusuf, and his
successor, Mohammed V, added the climactic Courts of the
Myrtles and of the Lions, and finished the creation of an
imperishable beauty. With them the palace was practically
complete.

Ascending the sharply rising Calle de Gomeres from the
center of the city, you pass through an old archway, framed
in a background of trees, and emerge into the heavily for-
ested slopes of the Alameda de la Alhambra, the park which
parallels the walls of the palace enclosure. The road con-
tinues to climb sharply upward and you walk under a heavy
canopy of foliage, in the middle of a forest, pillared with
majestic elms which have survived more than a century of
life. Along the roadside is a slender torrent, rushing down
its hillside channel, and elsewhere the wood is enlivened
by the murmur of flowing waters which, tapped from the
Darro, five miles above Granada, pursue their way in irri-
gating channels and bring life to the thickly planted trees.
When you are well toward the end of the alameda, you
diverge to the left and come to the Gate of Justice, erected
in 1348, a towered and embattled archway which gives
entrance to the Alhambra. Passing through this double
gate, where countless throngs of Moors have gone before,
you emerge on a tiny square at the gate of the Alcazaba,
the grim fortress of the Alhambra. To the right 1s the

[ 200 |n.

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TheGRANADA

obtrusive palace of Charles V, and beyond is the entrance
to the storied palace of the caliphs.

The ruined Alcazaba, which derives its name from the
Arabic al-kasaba, meaning “citadel,” occupies the prow of the
ridge, and from it rises the ancient Moorish watch tower,
which soars to lofty heights at the edge of the precipitous
hill. From its elevated platform there is a matchless pano-
rama, marvelous in its sweep of the surrounding country.
The network of the city lies immediately below. Beyond
spreads the disk-like vega, cupped by the naked range of
hills that encloses it. Santa Fé and other towns of historic
importance connected with the contending forces of Span-
iard and Moor, lie in the distance. At your right hand
rises the hill of the Albaicin, besprinkled with its medley
of oriental houses. Back of you stands the massive palace
of Charles V, adrift amid the modest buildings of the
caliphs, and farther up the slope, in a bower of foliage, is
the Generalife. And rising behind all, in a gigantic semi-
circle, are the enfolding mountains. No wonder the van-
quished Boabdil, the last of the Moorish sovereigns, as he
pursued his unhappy way turned and wept at leaving this
earthly paradise.

On the other side of the little central plaza glowers the
square bulk of Charles V’s amazing folly. It was Charles
who gave permission to the Cathedral Chapter at Cordova
to desecrate the priceless glory of the mosque by adding
a Renaissance choir, and afterward rebuked the men who
had asked permission to erect so obviously a disfiguring
addition. Yet this incredibly stupid monarch with criminal
deliberation razed to the ground a portion of the oriental
masterpiece of the Moors, in order to build, with tribute
paid by the Moors, an appendage that is not only hopelessly
out of tune with its surroundings, but strides into the delicate
[ 201 |

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

csae mea ec a

ete Fe eT a

   

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

creation of the Arabs like a Colossus eager to show his brutal
strength, overshadowing, as if by intent, something which
never pretended to be strong but which rejoiced only in its
delicacy.

Even as you enter the door of the palace, you get no
suggestion of regal splendor, for, like most buildings of
the Moors, it is plain and unadorned. It was a belief of the
Arabs that outward ostentation was distasteful to the Most
High, and that His displeasure would be visited upon those
who made a pretense of riches. And so, the exterior walls
are without display, serving only, by way of contrast, to
increase the poignant sense of beauty within.

In thinking of a building that is much renowned for its
splendor, our minds inevitably gain the impression of im-
mensity. A palace, for example, conjures up a place of
great magnificence of size. The palace of the Alhambra
can claim no preéminence because of its magnitude, and the
visitor who expects to find this quality will be disappointed.
It is not in its size that its splendor rests, but in the delicate
beauty of its rooms and courts, in the proportions of walls
and ceilings, in the exquisite grace of its windows, in the
slender perfection of its columns, in its multitude of vistas
that enchant the senses. The walls and ceilings represent
the supreme achievement in Moorish decoration. They bear
designs in the most minute geometrical patterns, and are
executed in superb colorings—delicate arabesques, brilliantly
colored azulejos, exquisite mosaics, honeycomb vaulting, and
fretworks in stucco that have all the quality of lace. In one
room alone, the honeycomb vaulting of the ceiling contains
no less than five thousand cells, each one differing from the
other, yet all blending into a perfect harmony. As in the
mosque at Cordova, here, in its essence, is the tent of the
Arab, the slender columns, like tent poles, supporting
vaulted ceilings, and the walls, resplendent in arabesque
[ 202 ]GRANADA

decoration, resembling the colorful rugs and draperies that
embellish the tent interiors. Woven throughout this mass
of intricate design, with frequent iteration, is the pious and
self-effacing motto originated by Mohammed I, triumphant
but meek, “Walé ghéliba il? Alléhta 4léa,? “There is no
conqueror but the Most High God.” And over the arches
and in the borders of the walls, are inscriptions extolling
the majesty and goodness of Allah and the achievements of
the kings, while here and there appear verses of hyperbolic
poetry. One of these inscriptions runs: “He who comes
to me tortured by thirst will find water pure and fresh,
sweet and unmixed. I am like the rainbow when it shines,
and the sun is my lord.” Considering the relative imper-
manency of the material used in all this mass of intricate
design, for it was executed for the most part in plaster and
wood, it is a miracle that, in a building without doors and
windows, the delicate traceries should have survived the
centuries.

In the marvelously beautiful Court of the Myrtles, with
its myrtle-fringed pool, reflecting columned arcade and forti-
fied tower; in the Court of the Lions, with its marble floor,
its justly celebrated fountain and its forest of slender white
columns, supporting arches and canopies, like carved ivory,
forming pavilions for rest within sight and sound of plash-
ing water; in the Hall of Justice, the council chambers, the
suite of delicately wrought apartments that constituted the
kings’ harem; in the Hall of the Ambassadors, which was
the state reception room and contained the throne; and in
the baths and other rooms is revealed all the voluptuous life
of the royal tenants of the palace. None of these rooms is
of heroic size. In the aggregate they cover a relatively
small area, but there is always a sense of spaciousness and
at every turn there is lyric beauty. For the most part,
the rooms of the palace open on the patios, and their erace-

[ 203 ]sib TTI SL ee, STE peod

   

 

  

 

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

fully wrought windows overlook the wooded gorge of the
Darro and the tumbled mass of whitewashed houses on the
hill of the Albaicin beyond. If every turn within the palace
has poetic loveliness, every view from the ajimezes or
“arched windows” is a vista of enchantment.

In the Hall of the Ambassadors assembled the last great
council of the Moors, summoned by Boabdil to consider the
surrender of Granada. Some years before, internal dissen-
sions had arisen among the Moorish factions, creating a sit-
uation that Ferdinand and Isabella had not scrupled to
utilize in order to accomplish the cherished purpose of their
lives—the final expulsion of the Moors from Spain. In
the main, it was the caliph, Abw’l-Hasan, who was respon-
sible for the final loss of the kingdom, for he partly dis-
membered it by resigning Malaga to his brother, and thus
weakened the whole Moorish power of resistance against
the common enemy. Later, he became infatuated with the
charm and beauty of a young Spanish slave, Isabel de Solis,
who embraced Islam under the name Zorayah, “Morning
Star,” and became the king’s favorite wife. ’Aisha, his first
wife, seeing that her influence over her husband had ceased,
grew alarmed, not only for her sons’ rights of succession
to the throne, but for their very lives. This palace intrigue
became more than a tempest in a teapot, because it involved
the allegiance of certain tribal factions within the kingdom,
some of whom openly sympathized with ’Aisha and seem
to have paid with their lives for their sympathy. In the
meantime, ’Aisha and her sons were confined in the palace,
but, taking advantage of the absence of Abu’l-Hasan, who
was endeavoring by force of arms to recover a city which
had been lost to the Spaniards a short time before, Aisha
lowered herself and her sons from a window in the tower
of the palace and escaped. Fleeing to a near-by city, she
immediately caused Boabdil, her eldest son, to be proclaimed

[ 204 ]GRANADA

king. After a short but decisive struggle, Boabdil, in 1482,
succeeded in dethroning his father, an enterprise in which
can be seen the hand of his lion-hearted mother. But
Boabdil was not strong enough for the task of saving the
kingdom, whose days were already numbered. After being
captured by the Spaniards twice within three years, in battles
waged in defense of some outlying towns of his realm, Boab-
dil, in an effort to save himself and his tottering throne,
pledged his personal neutrality to the Spanish, and the
Christian army advanced against Malaga and Almeria, which
were defended by his uncle. Upon their capitulation, Gra-
nada, alone of all the Moorish states, remained defiant.
Ferdinand and Isabella now demanded the evacuation of the
city, in fulfillment of an understanding with Boabdil at the
time of his defeat and capture. Realizing at last the immen-
sity of his tragedy, he gathered his famine-stricken forces
together in a final effort to ward off the inevitable. But
defense seemed useless, and late in 1491 Boabdil rode forth
to meet his conquerors, who came from their besieging camp
at the little town of Santa Fé, five miles distant.

Riding at the head of their victorious army was Ferdinand
and beside him, Isabella, mounted on her snow-white
charger, and they halted under the shadow of the red-hued
towers of the Alhambra. Surrounding their proud sov-
ereigns were gathered all the chivalry of Aragon, crusaders
from distant lands enrolled under the banner of the Cross,
and their victorious troops, veterans of earlier campaigns.
Here too were the Queen’s Castilian troops, who had fol-
lowed her in the capture of Baeza and in their frantic en-
thusiasm had shouted “Long live our King Isabel.” Out
from the castle on the heights, attended by a few of his
faithful followers, emerged the broken-hearted Boabdil,
whose ancestors had maintained the independence of Granada
for more than two centuries while one after another of the

[ 205 ]Pt “ST a

peer Sr

 

 

 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Moorish domains in Spain had fallen before the advance
of the Christian armies. Up to the waiting victors rode the
vanquished Boabdil who, with a heavy heart, tendered to
them the precious keys of the historic Alhambra, while the
troops shouted “Long live Kings Ferdinand and Isabel.”
And with this scene, the Moor was blotted out of Europe
forever.

At three o’clock on the afternoon of January second,
1492, Boabdil and his followers evacuated the city, march-
ing out of the Gate of the Seven Floors which, according
to the request of the overthrown sultan, was afterward
walled up, so that no others might pass that dishonored
way. As he made his way over the Sierra Nevada, Boabdil
turned, at a spot which history has called “The Last Sigh
of the Moor,” to gaze with tear-filled eyes at the fair city
and kingdom he had lost, but his mother, stern and uncom-
promising, mocked him with the words, “Weep not like a
woman for what you could not defend like a man.” As
Boabdil passed forth from the gate in the rear, the vic-
torious host entered by the Gate of Justice and from the
battlements were unfurled the crimson and gold of Spain,
while from the lofty platform of the watch tower gleamed
the silver cross of the Christians replacing the golden cres-
cent of Islam.

It was in the Hall of the Ambassadors, too, that the
“Catholic Kings,” a title recently earned by the capture of
Granada, received the waiting Columbus, who had followed
their Majesties from place to place, and had been promised
that when the last Moorish kingdom was taken his project
would receive careful attention. The Moorish dominion of
Spain was now at an end, and the Cross had supplanted the
Crescent. When, on top of this achievement, word came
that the Sultan of Egypt threatened to desecrate the Holy
Sepulcher, Columbus, inspired by zeal for his great scheme
[ 206 |GRANADA

of discovery, pressed home his advantage—how he would
not only open up great sources of wealth for the empire,
but that, through his instrumentality, Spain would be enabled
to carry the cross of Christ by a nearer route to the East,
thus more speedily winning the Holy Land. But, after
all these years, fate was to prove false, for the unreasonable
conditions imposed by Columbus made it prudent for the
sovereigns to decline his offer. Broken-hearted, he left their
presence, determined, without delay, to present his offer to
the King of France, whom his brother had already ap-
proached. But as, mounted on his donkey, he was betaking
himself away, on the old Roman bridge at Pinos, ten miles
from Granada, he was overtaken by the Queen’s courier,
mounted on a galloping steed, who informed him that their
Majesties had changed their minds and commanded him
to return. In the meantime, Isabel’s ingenious treasurer
had shown her how the money to finance the expedition
might be raised from the Aragon exchequer.

Not more than ten minutes? walk from the end of the
Alhambra enclosure, but considerably above it, on another
spur of the distant sierra, lies the Generalife, the summer
residence of the Moorish kings. It takes its name from
the Arabic Jennat al~Arif, meaning “Garden of the Archi-
tect,” named, evidently, for its original owner, the architect
of the Alhambra. In its essential characteristics it has much
in common with the buildings of the Alhambra, although it
never attains the glory of the palace. Porticoed and arcaded
buildings open off the principal court, which 1s graced by a
long, rectangular pool, bordered with myrtles, orange trees
and sweet-smelling plants. Above the palace are the cele-
brated gardens, little changed from the early days, which
with their terraces, grottoes, yews, clipped hedges, cypresses,
and water works show the intricate arboricultural features
that delighted the eyes of the Arabs. The love of these sons

[ 207 JSr a SOD =

 

 

 

 

 

 
   
  
  
  
  
  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

of the desert for cool and murmuring water as a feature
of their gardens and patios, is clearly evident in these de-
lightful grounds. Waters, brought down from the sierra,
were utilized in pools, fountains, miniature canals, and im-

 

petuous cascades. To the greater seclusion of this isolated
residence, with its higher altitude and magnificent view of
the Alhambra, the city, and the plain, the Moorish sovereigns
repaired in the heat of summer. A few minutes away were
the multitudinous activities of the city, yet here in the quiet
seclusion of the trees and gardens of their hillside retreat,
[ 208 ]GRANADA

the caliphs were far away from its life. The miradores
of the palace overlook the lightly wooded gorge of the
Darro, out of which climb the red roofed, whitewashed
houses of the town. There is nothing in Spain more beauti-
ful than the situation of this fairy villa with its alluring
prospects. It is just the kind of home that Aladdin might
have demanded of the genii of the lamp.

Of all the cities of Spain, none boasts a more picturesque
quarter than that which Granada possesses in its Albaicin,
occupying the twin ridge of the Alhambra hill. In the days
of the Moors, the homes of the wealthy and favored were
here, and it is likely that many of the houses which stand
there to-day were once occupied by followers of the Prophet.
It is certain, at least, that to-day this quarter of the city
is as picturesque as it was in those times—and very much
dirtier. In the poorer sections of their cities the Spaniards
give but scant attention to the process of sanitation, and the
streets are often offensive in their filth. The Albaicin
quarter in Granada is, unfortunately, no exception in this
respect.

At the upper end of the hill of the Albaicin is the famous
Gypsy community, the homes of which are burrowed in
the cliffs, fringing the road that trails off into the hills. The
lower stretches of the hill jut out, like a promontory, into
the sea of streets and houses of the lower city. Balconied
houses and garden walls, which appear to be fresh from
the whitewasher’s brush, line the irregular thoroughfares.
In places, these are too narrow for wheeled vehicles to pass,
although there is little inconvenience in this, because every-
thing moves on mule back. Indeed, wagons, could they be
admitted, would be at a disadvantage, because the streets,
dropping down the precipitous hillside, become staircases,
surfaced with tiny cobbles which, in all probability, are relics
of the days of the Saracen. Ancient residences, graced by

[ 209 Jen ~

  

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

patios and gardens which are glimpsed through the open
doorways, relics of better days, are set at angles to the
street; cypresses stand like sentinels above the gleaming
plaster walls with vines clambering over their parapets;
balconies are gay with flowers, and there are many enchant-
ing corners. Only the poverty of the inhabitants, the ex-
treme uncleanliness of the streets, and the multitude of beg-
ging children that infest them, detract from this quarter’s
perfection as an example of a medieval city.

In the morning hours, the arteries leading to the market
place down in the lower city pulsate with life. Donkeys,
ladened with panniers of bread, milk, water, and other mer-
chandise, pass along the narrow ways; women and children,
carrying market baskets; cutlery sharpeners, attracting atten-
tion to themselves by blowing tiny horns that sound like a
tuning instrument; and, most conspicuous of all, herds of
goats walking solemnly along, turning neither to the right
nor to the left, ready to be milked before the houses of
the customers, all form the procession. From earliest morn-
ing countless herds ply the Granada streets, so that there
seem to be as many goats as there are people. In all the
cities of Andalusia the goat is paramount, and its milk is
delivered on the hoof in this convenient fashion.

The market in Granada is a seething affair. From the
square it overflows into the adjacent streets, and washes up
against the side of the cathedral, which serves as a back-
ground for the stalls of the sellers. The air is charged
with the cries of the merchants, and buyers, intent in their
marketing, swarm around the booths. Men and women bear
away live chickens, slung over their arms, as casually as they
carry unwrapped bread.

Many time-worn churches and other public buildings
attest to the age, the religious devotion and the greatness
of Granada’s past. The chef d’auvre, however, is the cathe-

[ 210]GRANADA

dral, which was erected as a memorial to the conquest of
southern Spain and the annihilation of Moorish power. For
some years after the expulsion of the Mohammedans, their
principal mosque, which adjoined the site of the present
cathedral, was used for Christian worship, as, indeed, it con-
tinued to be used, in a subsidiary way, for nearly two cen-
turies. But it quickly proved inadequate for the chief seat
of Christian worship, and the cathedral was begun in 1523.
This imposing temple is considered to be the best Renaissance
building in Spain, but, notwithstanding its excellent plan,
here, as in the instance of other churches, it seemed to us
to lack the impressive solemnity that characterizes great
cathedrals elsewhere. This absence of majesty is partly
due to the plan of the building, which fails to create a sense
of immensity; to the warm, brown stone used in the walls,
which gives an air of lightness instead of solemnity; and
to the fact that, hedged closely about with houses, it cannot
be seen to advantage. But if its architecture did not make
it appear especially distinguished in our eyes, its interior
held a greater treasure than any other church in Spain.
For, in its Royal Chapel, the “Catholic Kings” were in-
terred, and their mausoleum was one of the most impres-
sive monuments connected with the early history of the
country that we had seen on our pilgrimage through the
peninsula. The Gothic chapel in which it rests was built
in 1506 as a burial chapel for Ferdinand and Isabella, but
it was subsequently enlarged by Charles V, because it was
considered to be “too small for so great glory.” The re-
cumbent figures on the imposing tomb, which stands in the
center of the chapel facing the altar, were carved in flawless
marble by Domenico Fancelli, the Florentine sculptor who
executed the tomb of Prince Juan, in Avila. Ferdinand
wears the order of St. George, and Isabella, the cross of
Santiago. In the vault below the monument, reached by a

| arr |SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

few steps from the floor of the chapel, are the simple,
leaden coffins, containing the mortal remains of the monarchs
who made so great a place for themselves in the world’s
history. Resting beside the caskets of the “Catholic Kings”
are those of Philip of Austria and his wife, the Infanta
Joanna, the father and mother of Charles V of Spain, who
succeeded Ferdinand to the throne. It was this coffin, con-
taining the body of Philip, that his demented wife was in
the habit of carrying about with her from place to place.
Standing before these crude caskets of somber lead, which
contained no semblance of adornment and which seemed
to strip away all habiliments of pomp and power from their
occupants, we felt a strange nearness to the events in Spanish
history which the Alhambra had dramatized so vividly for
us. Upstairs, in the sacristy, are the sword of Ferdinand,
worn perhaps in receiving the surrender of Boabdil, and
the crown and scepter of Isabella, which she is credited with
having pawned to raise the funds for the Columbian expedi-
tion of discovery.

Of all the glowing cities of Spain we departed from none
with so great regret as from Granada, the last meeting place
of Spaniard and Moor, where the exotic art of a Moorish
civilization is enshrined in a Latin city.ee a ac RN REAR EERIE TTT

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

XVL. THROUGH ARAGON
TO SARAGOSSA

ROM Granada it was our intention to travel
along the Mediterranean coast to Valencia, and
to make, thence, an inland detour to Saragossa,
ending our journey at Barcelona. We found,
however, that, in order to avoid a journey of

\% thirty-six or forty-eight hours, which it takes
ws to cover this relatively short distance, with
{ changes and prolonged waits in the midnight
R~Ss4 hours to boot, we must travel over two sides
AN of the triangle by catching the night express
fi € % for Madrid and completing the distance by a
through train next day. We could, of course,
Ht have made the tour by easy stages, but we were
. possessed of that impatience to reach our des-
tination that characterizes people of Anglo-
Saxon descent. It is a singular thing that no fast trains
traverse the natural and direct route along the coast. In-
deed, so far as we could learn, no fast communication be-
tween these points has ever been established and in Spain
that is a sufficient reason for maintaining the traditional
facilities of transit. We decided, therefore, to go over-
night to Madrid, and there catch the fast morning train
to Saragossa, thus reversing the order in which we should
visit the three cities.

 

[ 213 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

To connect with the Madrid express, it was necessary to
take the afternoon train from Granada, which was of the
more or less local variety, and change at the small junction
town of Baeza. In Spain, while the through service is good,
local trains, as I have already pointed out, jog along in the
most casual manner, enjoying their well-earned rests at the
stations, where there is always life and gossip and, fre-
quently, a cantina, and they have little objection to prolong-
ing their stay, at well-selected intervals, for any reason that
seems good to the gentlemen in charge of the enterprise.
Carrying out the custom, established by a sort of divine
right, the accommodation train on which we embarked—
very accommodating indeed—hastened not at all. The in-
evitable result was a tardiness which increased as we made
our deliberate way, and we arrived at Baeza late by the
comfortable margin of an hour and a half. We alighted
at the station confident, however, that, in the accommodating
fashion of our own train, the express would wait to receive
us, With open arms so to speak. But a few moments had
passed before we observed a knot of our late fellow pas-
sengers in hot pursuit of the station master—a group that,
with the lapse of time, increased almost to a mob. Dawn-
ing on our consciousness that something was wrong, we be-
took ourselves to one of the custodians of the station and
with our inadequate Spanish gleaned the information that
the express train had departed with uncompromising prompt-
ness, and that we should have to wait until two in the morn-
ing—a matter of four or five hours, until another made its
appearance. This unpleasant knowledge had, with amazing
swiftness, communicated itself to our erstwhile companions,
and it was the stark and naked truth of this discovery that
caused such profound wailing and gnashing of teeth, with
vociferous appeals to the station master for some manner

[214]THROUGH ARAGON TO SARAGOSSA

of relief from the intolerable situation. Securing no justice
whatever from the station tribunal, the disconcerted and
grumbling passengers assembled their baskets, baggage, and
numerous progeny, and departed for such hotels and fondas
as the town afforded, most of them in tow of emissaries
who, it was evident, had learned of the catastrophe and had
hurried to the station to tout the virtues of their respective
caravansaries and gather up the fruits of the windfall. A
mere handful remained with us to keep our midnight vigil
against the arrival of the next express, that departed at so
unseasonable an hour. Not until we mounted the later train
did we discover it to be a de luxe affair composed entirely
of first-class coaches and sleeping cars, and not until then
did we understand the dejection of our former fellow trav-
elers, who evidently had tickets for classes of accommodation
less distinguished and luxurious than first class, and who,
perhaps, were without money to pay the additional sup-
plement required.

Leaving Madrid in the early morning, you reach Sara-
gossa in the afternoon. Midway on the journey, your train
first traverses the upland plain of Castile, then ascends a
low, barren mountain range and, finally, drops down into the
desert and the river oases of Aragon. The Henares River
forms the eastern boundary of the great central plateau of
Castile and Aragon, its red clay banks rising steeply to the
plateau, which is dotted with olive groves and vineyards.
Farther on are large fields of grain. Then you enter a
region of desolate, red limestone hills, penetrated by many
tunnels, and climbing gradually to the Sierra Ministra. The
highest point reached by the railroad is in the Horna tunnel,
3,670 feet above sea level, whence you descend through a
picturesque rocky region to the valley of the Jalon River.
Even the waters of the Jalon are of a reddish hue. To the

poms)

nn UR rr eeSPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

left lies a great saline expanse of marl, dominated by the
Sierra de Moncayo. Then the railway turns southeast into
the valley of the Ebro, and thence to Saragossa.

Along the way are many towns and villages, most of
which take their ruddy, umbrous color from the soil of
which they are made. They crown the rocky heights, and
perch on knolls above the often precipitous river basin;
they are dun colored or red, dusty and crumbling, for the
most part devoid of verdure; they bask in the shimmering
heat of the desert sun; they are filled with the crumbling
ruins of the past, of Spaniard and Moor; they are rich in the
remains of buildings that marked the long struggle between
Christendom and Islam; and they are always picturesque
in their own individual way.

The journey is a dusty one, through a country that, in its
essence, is a desert, and the sun beats upon it mercilessly,
parching its treeless expanse and drenching its adobe villages.
Its moisture is so scanty, it used to be said of the Aragon
country that it was easier for the people to mix their mortar
with wine than with water, won by toil from the few in-
significant streams. Only in the strip of country along the
rivers has man won his fight against the climate and soil,
and in this ribbon of fertility, groves of olives, almonds,
and figs, with flourishing vineyards, give evidence of a pas-
toral life. For all that, the country is not monotonous, but
is one of great enchantment because of its many moods,
expressed in its constantly changing aspects and its exotic
character.

I turn to my note book, and find under the heading,
“Saragossa”—a blank! The aridity of this page expresses
with eloquence our impression of the historic capital city
of Aragon, which we found to be, in many ways, the most
disappointing city in Spain. We went to see it because
of its resounding echo down the long corridors of time.
[ 216 ]THROUGH ARAGON TO SARAGOSSA

Since the earliest days, it has been a place of importance in
the trade between the Pyrenees and Castile, situated, as it
is, at the central point of the Ebro River basin and at its
principal crossing. An ancient Iberian town, its importance
was quickly recognized by the Romans when they came to
possess the country, and Emperor Augustus designated it
Colonia Cxsar-Augusta, from a corruption of which the city

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gets its present name. Subsequently, it was under Visigoth
and Moor, and upon the expulsion of the Saracens in the
twelfth century, it became the capital of the Kingdom of
Aragon, which gave Isabella to Spain, and a queen to sit
on the English throne. Its heroic days, however, came in
the Spanish War of Liberation when, unfortified, in a siege
of sixty days, it resisted the army of France under four
marshals, succumbing finally to the ravages of hunger and
pestilence rather than to the devastation of the sword. In
this siege, its heroic defenders coined the current phrase,
guerra al cuchillo, “war to the knife.”

Pazee

 
 

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

 

The most picturesque thing in Saragossa (and, I was going
to say, almost the only one) is the view over the venerable
stone bridge of the fifteenth century which spans the Ebro
in seven graceful arches, and the city’s two cathedrals which
rise above it on the river bank, their domes and turrets,
Byzantine in aspect, silhouetted against the sky. The artist,
from a lack of inspiration in the meager beauty of the city,
refused to sketch any part of it. But at sunset, when the
arches of the bridge became, with their reflections, complete
circles in the still waters of the river, and the golden rays
of the sun tinted the slender towers and lighted up the
azulejo domes of the cathedrals, his depression vanished
and the beauty of the scene was recorded on his drawing
board.

Saragossa is distinguished in possessing two cathedrals,
one, La Seo, begun so long ago as 1119 and the other, the
product of the seventeenth century, which rise almost side
by side above the waters of the Ebro. The Cathedral of the
Virgin del Pilar, the “Virgin of the Pillar,” contains a
superb high, Gothic altar, fashioned in pure alabaster, but,
what is by far of greater import to the worshipper, a mag-
net that draws streams of pilgrims from afar, is its sacred
pillar, on which the Holy Virgin appeared to St. James one
twelfth of October, during his missionary journey through
Spain. This momentous relic stands enthroned in the chapel
of Our Lady of the Pillar, a temple within the cathedral,
of flawless marble and gilded bronze, with altars lighted
by silver lamps. Above one of the altars, and only partially
visible, the holy pillar is seen. Surmounting it is the wooden
image of the Virgin which gives the cathedral its name,
an incense-darkened figure dressed in jeweled magnificence,
which is held in greater veneration, and is credited with
more miraculous powers than almost any other in Spain.
This holy relic has an extensive wardrobe, and it is said
[ 218 ]THROUGH ARAGON TO SARAGOSSA

that when the priests change her garments, they shield their
eyes from her dazzling glory. Her shrine is always
thronged with worshippers, and because of her great holi-
ness, standing on her apostolic pillar, she is credited with
having given life to withered limbs, restored the sick to
health, and protected the city from disaster. The cathedral
has often been struck by lightning, we were told, but has
remained unscathed, and during the famous siege of the city
in Napoleonic times the shells from the French artillery fell
harmlessly on its roof, such was the beneficent influence of
the Virgin. The Virgin del Pilar has been the protecting
saint of Saragossa these many years. Her image rests in
every hut, and, wrought in silver and gold, hangs about the
neck of all her followers,

In the Audiencia, Saragossa possesses the former palace
of the noble family to which belonged Pope Benedict MTT
Who occupied the papal throne at Avignon in the days of
the popes of France, and the “Trovatore” of Verdi’s opera;
and in the Castillo de la Aljaferia, now a dreary military
barracks, it has the remains of a building that was once the
home of a Moorish sheikh, then the residence of the kings
of Aragon and the palace of the Inquisition, while in its
tower is reputed to be the dungeon of “I] Trovatore.”

A few ancient churches, and other minor buildings, make
up the rest of the city’s interest for the traveler. It is a
considerable place, in point of population, but we found it
commercial, almost devoid of picturesqueness, its modern
streets and business section dull, and its ancient quarter of
narrow thoroughfares and towering houses, drab and dreary.

There are two railway lines to Barcelona, and their trains
depart from separate stations. In verifying the precise
time of our train’s departure, the last thing before retiring,
We discovered that our tickets were not valid over the
route we had planned to take. The time-table, however,

L219]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

in the expert hands of the landlord, immediately disclosed
the important fact that, over the other line, another train
left in just twenty minutes which, much to our delight,
would land us at our destination early in the morning.
These unexpected discoveries necessitated a lightning change
of plan and a feverish packing of baggage. A porter was
hastily despatched for a vehicle and, as we emerged from
the hotel, in the wake of the landlord, having done our
packing and settled our account with a despatch that be-
wildered the employees, there was waiting an ancient
equipage, groomed to win the race forus. Into it we jumped
and, in a twinkling, we were bouncing over the cobbled street
in full flight for the depot. The train was almost sure
to be late, as indeed it afterward proved to be, but it was
essential that we arrive at the station before the scheduled
time of departure for, otherwise, we should not be allowed
to pass the barrier. At all important stations in Spain, the
doors to the train platforms are closed at the appointed
moment, after which no one may enter. We had but a
minute to spare when we clattered up to the station entrance,
but that was enough to justify our precipitate haste and the
anxiety of the chase. What mattered it to us if the train
were nearly an hour late! There was a cantina in the sta-
tion and to it we repaired, with many of the other calmly
waiting travelers, to refresh ourselves against the journey

ahead of us.XVI. THE CHIEF CITY
OF THE CATALANS

S journeys go, it is not any very great distance
from Saragossa, in ancient Aragon, to Barcelona,
in progressive Catalonia. It is, to be exact,
but a trifle more than two hundred and
twenty-five miles over the railway that
parallels the Pyrenees, which at times it
.. discloses, climbing over the low, coastal
ei range to the shores of the Mediterra-

 
 
  
 
   
 
  
 

vel aN,

We lA nean. Here, we are well to the north of
oe, f ,
<Q, Spain once more, for the Mediterranean

coast runs north and south. San Sebas-

tian, on the Bay of Biscay, rests at the ex-
treme western end of the Pyrenees, and Bar-
ti:  celona lies, roughly speaking, due east at the
other end. It is but a relatively short dis-

tance to the French border.

Half way between Saragossa and Barcelona we cross into
Catalonia, distinguished by sharp contrasts from the land of
the Aragonese, both in people and countryside. We leave
a kingdom of desert and mountain, of isolated towns, cling-
ing for sustenance to the oases of the river valleys, of people
superstitious and melancholy, cut off from the pulsating
[ 221 |ee et

 

 

 

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

world, to enter a state of productive soil and thriving sea-
ports, palpitating with industry and trade, of an energetic
folk possessing the practical imagination of those who rub
elbows with the world. Barcelona has been, since earliest
times, a great maritime city, a Mecca of traders from the
flourishing ports of the Mediterranean and, thus, the Iberian
blood of the Catalan is mixed with that of Greek and Roman,
Goth, Saracen and Frank. He is a keen trader, an enter-
prising business man. In common with the Basque of the
northeast, whose strain is unmixed Iberian and Gothic, he
energizes the commercial structure of Spanish life. He is,
in fact, the Yankee of Spain. He disdains the Spanish
language, which he disparagingly calls “Castilian,” and
clings to the Catalonian dialect, closely allied to the Proven-
cal, which is used in a great stretch of coastal district to the
north and south. Indeed, he rises superior to all his sur-
roundings!

On our overnight journey to the Catalonian capital, we
awoke before the sun was up and while the mists were still
wreathing the low mountain peaks in their feathery veils.
We had not yet come abreast of Montserrat, which is but
thirty miles inland from Barcelona, and we were still dis-
cussing the question of stopping off and ascending the holy
mountain, whose monastic occupants, in the Dark Ages, were
reputed to be the custodians of the Holy Grail. The peak
is readily negotiated by foot, by rack-and-pinion railway
or by motor car, but finally we decided against the ex-
cursion, in part because the morning was far too young for
comfort, and because the weather seemed unpropitious.
The final motivating reason, however, was that the mon-
astery, situated on the dizzy heights of Montserrat, the
“Serrated Mountain,” for all its magnificence of setting amid
the rugged peaks that rise from the Catalonian plain, sheer
into the blue, is no longer a great monastic institution, but
LagerBARCELONA

in these latter days is merely a school of ecclesiastical music
under the direction of only a score of monks. Furthermore,
its buildings are for the most part modern. We should
like to have seen the wooden figure of the Virgin, blackened
by incense and age, that so compelled the allegiance of
Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, that he aban-
doned his career as a warrior, hung his weapons beneath
the sacred image, and, henceforth, devoted his life to the
service of the Church, an effigy held in such veneration that,
to this day, it attracts the presence and adoration of scores
of thousands of pilgrims every year.

It is to the skilful and sanctified hands of St. Luke the
Apostle that the world is indebted for this holy relic for,
according to legend, it was he who fashioned it. But it is
to St. Peter that Montserrat is debtor, for he it was who
carried the image to Spain on one of his missionary journeys.
Hidden in a grotto in the mountainside, when the invasion
of the Moor brought Islam to Spain, this miraculous image
of the Virgin was rediscovered in 880 by shepherds, who
came upon it quite by accident, on the very spot on which
a sanctuary now stands. The shepherds attempted to bear
it away to a town nearby, but the figure refused to move
beyond a certain point in the road and there, in honor of
this miracle, the monastery was built by pious and believing
monks, and has grown with the centuries until, to-day, the
group of imposing buildings contains five thousand rooms
for the accommodation of visitors. In summer, these build-
ings are largely given over to the accommodation of the
poor of Barcelona, and a visit there gives abundant evidence
that La Santa Imagen works miracles of health on the im-
poverished, who come for rejuvenation to her mountain
sanctuary.

The Catalans are a progressive, commercial people, and
their greatest port is the most cosmopolitan city in Spain.

[2227et

 

 

 

 

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

Its broad, tree-planted boulevards, and its wide, residential
streets, fringed by handsome buildings and animated with
a multitudinous life, have much the appearance of Paris.
To Madrid, it has few points of resemblance. It lacks the
conscious air of the capital city. It seems less new and set.
Where Madrid has deliberately planned its greatness by
artificial means, and has every aspect of having been built
to order, Barcelona is free from pretense and appears to
have evolved without conscious effort. Like good wine, it
needs no bush, for is it not the greatest metropolis of Spain
and the nation’s chief commercial city? The enterprising
board of trade “make broad their phylacteries” and claim a
population of more than a million people, an estimate that
may be subject to some rectification on the part of the metic-
ulous. But that, of course, does not matter. It is sufficient
that Barcelona is an ample city, with a great population and
a maritime and industrial fabric that sets it apart from all
the cities of the peninsula. Its harbor is filled with ship-
ping; its docks are hives of activity; and in its outskirts there
rises a rampart of warehouses, machine shops, flour, cotton
and textile mills, dyeworks, chemical factories, and the like.
But these habiliments of modern industry, quite absent from
the other cities of Spain, are never obtrusive here. The city
is built on generous lines; the factories are far removed from
the haunts of the average citizen, and there is no sense of
oppressiveness.

Barcelona spreads itself on an ascending plain, cupped
within encircling hills upon the sides of which the houses
of the growing city clamber. On one hand is the harbor,
lively with shipping, through which passes a quarter of
Spain’s foreign commerce; on another, rising abruptly from
the sea, stands the Montjuich, an isolated ridge from whose
summit the Mediterranean spreads into a wide panorama
of azure, and the far-off peaks of the Pyrenees are like lazy

[ 224 ]BARCELONA

clouds on the horizon. A fortress occupies the eastern end,
but that, happily, has not interfered with the conversion of
the rest of the hill, graced by wooded slopes, into a park.
It is an exquisitely beautiful pleasure ground, created for
the exposition that is to be held there in 1927. This park
is no commonplace affair with lawns bespattered with trees
and conventional flower beds, but instead, its precipitous
slopes are covered with a luxuriance of richly foliaged
shrubs, guarded by cedars and yews, and graced with balus-
trades and pergolas that are embellished by potted plants,
so that it has much of the aspect of a terrace in the Italian
lake country. These pergolas, which, because of their con-
tour and setting, might be of great age and grace a private
garden, are covered with climbing vines, while ivy and
other plants sprawl over the parapets. Viewed from the
pergolas the city stretches out to the hills that encircle it,
beating against them as the waves of the sea wash upon
the shore. Back of the city rises Tibidabo, a greater hill
than Montjuich by far, rearing its head almost two thousand
feet above the sea. It is an easy journey to its heights,
first by tram and then, to the summit by cable railway, but
the view is so magnificent in composition and in extent that
it repays even an exhausting expedition on foot. Far below,
over the villas set snugly in their terraced gardens, and
over groves of figs and pomegranates that cluster on the hill
slopes, is the gridiron of the city, and stretching away from
it are scores of villages sprinkled over the coastal plain.
Beyond the gigantic checkerboard of streets and houses, lies
the harbor with its forest of masts, which seem but slender
lines from this eerie retreat, and in the distance, on the
shimmering waters of the Mediterranean, are tiny specks
like creeping snails, moving more slowly than the eye can
detect—in reality noble vessels forging valiantly through
the sea. The broad, blue, liquid highroad of the nations

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

seems illimitable. On clear days, the mountain spires of
the Balearic Islands, imprisoned in the waters, are faintly
visible. To the north are glimpses of the distant Pyrenees,
and westward, the needles of Montserrat pierce the sky.
The history of Barcelona is written on her map. A glance
at it will show the circumscribed boundaries of the ancient
city in the present majestic, tree-shaded boulevards that
replace the ancient walls. Within these boundaries are a
tangle of wandering streets, unlike the broad, uniform
thoroughfares that intersect the newer city that surrounds
them. Through the heart of old Barcelona, the Rambla
makes its way, cutting the city in twain from the harbor
side to the Catalufia Plaza, three-quarters of a mile distant.
With its spacious central promenade and its rows of plane
trees, it resembles the boulevards of Paris and, here and
there, like them, it changes its name as it proceeds on its
way. And, like them too, it is lined with shops and is
crowded with traffic, awheel and afoot. The greatest point
of dissimilarity with Paris, in fact, is in the policemen. In-
stead of the simple blue worn by the Parisian constabulary,
the policemen of Barcelona are gorgeously arrayed in badly
fitted, red-coated uniforms with military caps, and in ereen-
coated uniforms with helmets, supplemented by pistols and
swords. The broad central promenade is more than a haven
for pedestrians. In the morning, a section of it sometimes
known as the Rambla de las Flores, is given over to a flower
market, and in those hours it is ablaze with color, flaunting
blossoms of every shade and hue. Then, presto! —this
chameleon thoroughfare becomes the Rambla de Estudios,
where a lively bird market vies with the flower sellers ad-
joining for the trade of the pedestrian. A multitude of tiny
cages, imprisoning gaily feathered songsters, are set one upon
another and rise in towering ranks for the inspection of the
buyers, of which there seem to be no end. For the leisurely
[ 226 |BARCELONA

moving pedestrians, these great community houses of birds
flitting about their cages offer a delectable diversion, as iS
proved every day by the omnipresent groups of interested
spectators.

The Rambla, as effective as it is in size and in restlessly
moving throngs, is by no means the only shopping street
of importance. Branching from its lower reaches, diverge
narrow arteries like the Calle de Fernando Septimo and the
Calle de Escudillers which, though quite lacking 1n mag-
nificence, are lively business streets, and on them are situated
some of the most fashionable shops of the metropolis. As
in the other cities of Spain, the huge retail emporiums that
are so common in other countries seem absent here, the
Spaniard evidently preferring to deal in the unpretentious
shops of specialists, as in the medieval days of golden mem-
ory. In this old heart of the modern metropolis there 1s
little semblance of outward magnificence; there are few
buildings that flaunt their unseasoned grandeur. Only in
the newer districts, where the well-to-do have their homes,
is there any pretense of modernity and wealth.

At the bottom of the Rambla, where its throbbing pave-
ments join the Paseo de Colon, or “Columbus Promenade,”
the equally busy thoroughfare that fronts the harbor, rises
the lofty Columbus monument that soars two hundred feet
into the air. Surmounting the towering column rests a gilded
sphere, upon which there stands a colossal statue of the
great discoverer, facing the golden west and pointing with
outstretched arm toward the land that brought such a suc-
cessful realization of his dreams.

It was in Barcelona that the intrepid and triumphant
navigator was received by his royal sponsors on his return
from the momentous voyage in 1493. He had made the
long journey overland from Palos near the Portuguese
frontier, where he had landed, acclaimed along the way by

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

great throngs which once had tapped their foreheads in
derision. At the gates of Barcelona he was received by the
nobility of the realm and conducted to the presence of his
waiting sovereigns. In his entourage were his Indian com-
panions, bewildered by the strange glories of civilization,
and borne by his porters were the skins of unnamed animals,
the gorgeous plumage of tropical birds, the handicraft of
an unknown people, and precious metals and minerals, elo-
quent proofs indeed of the unexplored lands of the Indies.
The city was in gala array to do honor to the discoverer,
and his royal hosts, with a multitude of dignitaries, were
there to pay him homage. Ferdinand and Isabella received
him in the open plaza, under a gold-embroidered canopy
and, in signal honor, rose to greet the man who by his
learning, vision, and courage had extended their empire to
bounds beyond their fondest dreams. Columbus was in-
vested with the title of Lord High Admiral of the Indies
and of all lands that he might discover in the future; he
was permitted to select his own coat-of-arms, and the King
rode beside him in the street as a token of rare favor. In
material things, the services to the empire of the greatly
honored guest were no less signally recognized, for the
“Catholic Kings” caused a new contract to be drawn up and
ratified, confirming the conditional Letter of Privilege given
at Granada before his departure for the New World, and
granting rights far in excess of those embodied in that
agreement. This covenant, famous as the Barcelona Con-
tract, has only recently come to light after having disap-
peared for two centuries, and even now is almost unknown.
It is here given as it came from the hands of his royal
patrons:

“Don Fernando and Dofia Isabel, by the grace of God,
King and Queen of Castile, Leon, Aragon, Sicily, Toledo,
Valencia, Galicia, Mallorcas, Seville, Sardinia, Cordova, Cor-

[ 228 ]BARCELONA

sica, Murcia, Jaen, etc., . . . in order to reward and benefit
you, Christopher Columbus, honoring the great service that
you did and do us each day in the discovery and conquest of
the West Indies, heretofore unknown to us, do herewith gra-
ciously and gladly give you now and henceforth forever, for
you and your descendants, the title of Lord High Admiral of
the Indies and of lands conquered and discovered or that you
may conquer and discover in the future, with the same con-
ditions and prerogatives that Don Alonzo Enrique holds in
Castile, and there shall be paid you the rights of said Ad-
miralty and more, the eighth part of whatever said Indies may
yield, that you yourself and yours may be the ones to inherit
in your house the titles of Viceroy and Commander-General
of the before-mentioned Indies;—also, you paying one-eighth
of the cost, there shall be given you an eighth part of the
profits of the discovery expeditions as well as the eighth part
specified by us in our Carta de Privilegios given in the Vega
of Granada last year and by other seals and royal letters
patent, all of which we herewith confirm and make valid in
this document . . . given, written, and sealed in the noble
city of Barcelona on the eighteenth day of the month of
April, in the year of the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ,
one thousand four hundred and ninety-three.

“And I the King Fernando. And I the Queen Isabel.”

The wealth that would have come to Columbus and his
descendants had the terms of this contract, awarding him
one-eighth of all the spoils of the Americas, been fulfilled
staggers all imagination. That Columbus was treated shame-
fully and, impoverished and completely disillusioned, died
broken in spirit, is to the eternal disgrace of the wily Ferdi-
nand, who could make a contract, but who could not keep it.

The fourth centenary of the New World’s discovery in-
spired the belated erection of many monuments to the illus-
trious Genoese, but no city has outwardly more strikingly
enthroned the memory of his genius than Barcelona, for,
whether you come to it by land or by sea, the heroic figure

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

surmounting the golden sphere lifted high above the city,
stands forth like a guiding beacon. Only once have the
Barcelonians appeared to regret their action. At the end
of the Spanish-American war, when Spain suffered defeat
at the hands of her ungrateful progeny and was stripped
of the last fragment of her once mighty empire in the New
World, the indignant populace gathered a variety of un-
savory missiles and, in blind fury, pelted the unoffending
image of the navigator for having discovered a land that
in base ingratitude brought the anguish of defeat to its
patron country!

There are many historic structures in Barcelona, churches,
public buildings of state, and a lordly cathedral, but they
never seem a part of this thriving, bustling, commercial city
which, because of its overwhelming size and busy air, dwarfs
them into relative insignificance. Inevitably tainted, as you
are, by the rampant commercialism of the metropolis, you
go and view them in a spirit of compulsion, as though you
were looking at something artificial, at something born out
of due time. Let the decaying towns—Salamanca, Toledo,
Granada—glory in their venerable temples and crumbling
treasures of art and architecture! What else have they to
offer? Have they trade, population, and commercial sig-
nificance? Clearly, in the instance of Barcelona, her relics
of antiquity are mere incidentals, tucked away obscurely in a
corner of the widely spread city. Her main interest is
commerce, industry, and pleasure, and when you are her
guest you sense this spirit, so that you, too, have heart for
little else. You are content to ascend her lofty hills, stroll
on her boulevards, attend her bull fights, which are held in
two immense arenas, and enter into the life of her res-
taurants and cafés. Of Barcelona’s churches, none is more
historically engaging than the former chapel of the royal
palace, now the Provincial Museum, where Columbus at-

[ 230 ]BARCELONA

tended service with his royal hosts, and where his Indian
charges received the baptism of the Church. In its imme-
diate vicinity is the somber cathedral, standing on ground
once occupied by a Roman temple and, in later centuries,
a Mohammedan mosque. The exterior is so closely hemmed
in by the adjoining buildings that it is not altogether satisty-

 

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ing, but the interior is one of the most majestic in Spain.
Compared to the great cathedrals of Europe this Gothic
edifice, dating from the thirteenth century, is really not of
great proportions, but the lighting is so restrained and so
subtly distributed that an illusion of far greater immensity
has been created. ‘The church is dark, more somber perhaps
than any other in Spain, but that serves only to increase
the magnificence and mystery of the soaring arches of the
nave, the stately clustered columns that rise through the
shadows, and the dimly lighted chapels, and accentuates the

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

   
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

more the shafts of light which the incomparable stained
glass windows of the fifteenth century transmute into glow-
ing spectra of living color. The cloisters, too, are worthy
of all commendation, because of their fine proportions and
mellow dignity, and because of the row of chapels that flanks
their side. Enclosed within this superb Gothic arcade is a
moss-grown garden of palms and medlars, oranges, and
oleanders, deep with foliage, and on one side, a pool fed
by a fountain of falling water, whose musical cadences sound
refreshingly through the quadrangle. At the risk of dis-
turbing the sanctity of the holy precincts, a flock of geese
is here maintained, as a part of the chapter’s household.
The tale is told of a siege of the city, when all the de-
fenders slept save a flock of vagrant geese, which, by their
timely hissing, revealed the stealthy advance of the noc-
turnal enemy, and so, saved the city. Whether this flock
of snow-white fowl is kept in its churchly environment as
a tribute to those sagacious birds of history, or because
geese, until recent times, were employed in the practice of
augury, we did not know, but we voted that the contrast
in color and the animation about the pool that they brought
to the utter solemnity of the patio was a decided contribution
to the picturesqueness of the cloisters.

Our farewell to Barcelona was made from the bull ring.
Under a sun of tropical brilliance, twelve thousand people
crowded the arena and with intense enthusiasm cheered the
skill of the toreros. The amphitheater was a riot of color.
There were no embroidered shawls and few, if any, man-
tillas, but we faced the seats on the sunny side of the ring,
and the bright summer dresses of the women, with their
waving fans, and the vivid blue of the workingmen’s smocks,
were woven into a fabric of dazzling brightness. We had
witnessed the dispatch of four bulls, which had fought with

2 |

 

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a stupid but unwavering courage, with the odds all against
them, while the crowd, always alert for the acts of skill of
the toreros, had applauded every display of daring. Two
more animals were to try their strength against their in-
trepid foes, but their fate would be merely a repetition of
those that had gone before, and we thought the encounters
we had just witnessed furnished a sufficiently fitting climax
to our visit, and made our exit to catch the train that was
to bear us to other and less sanguinary scenes.a “msn

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   

  

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AVI. VALENCIA
THE MOORISH PARADISE

    
  
   
  

F came to Valencia along the coast by
overnight train from Barcelona, a long
side excursion, made necessary in or-
der to avoid the tedium of the local
trains direct from Granada. As we em-
barked on the evening express, I asked
my artist companion what, in his mind,
would distinguish Valencia from among
the various Spanish cities. ‘Havelock
Ellis says,” he replied, “that Valencia is
the home of beautiful women.” ‘That alone
seemed a logical reason for making a pil-
grimage there, and I at once dismissed from
my mind any further speculation. In the
morning, as our train drew into the depot and we prepared
to alight, there, standing on the platform directly below
us, scanning the train for the familiar face of a friend, stood
the most beautiful woman we had seen in the whole of
Spain—surely a fitting introduction to the city which the
ancient saying describes as, “a piece of heaven upon earth.”

It was a gay and pleasant place that we found in Valencia,
measuring up, perhaps, more than any other city of Spain,

[ 234 ]VALENCIA

to what we had always expected a Spanish city to be. Some
writers profess to see in it a town of markedly oriental aspect,
a heritage from its days of Moorish supremacy. It has many
narrow, irregular streets, to be sure, and rows of gleaming,
white buildings which hem them in, but such semblances of
Arab influence are more than offset by the wide boulevard
that encircles the city, replacing the ancient walls; the ample
homes of the prosperous Valencians; the alameda, with its
waving palms and protecting plane-trees; and the street
cafés, where the leisurely folk sit in the open, gossip over
an apéritif and dream away the hours. The city has no
magnificence of situation—the blue Mediterranean is more
than two miles away and the view of the distant mountains
is not in any way striking—and, too, its treasures from the
past are not particularly noteworthy, but it is possessed
of a certain restrained beauty, an air of gracious charm,
which make a visit to it almost an imperative part of a trip
through Spain. In certain outward aspects, and especially,
in the somewhat elusive quality of its life, its nearest counter-
part, perhaps, is Malaga, but Valencia has infinitely greater
beauty and charm, and architectural interest as well. Its
prosperous air, its letsured inhabitants, and the activity of
its principal streets, are quite reminiscent of Seville, by
which you will know that it is an aristocrat among its fellows.

This quality of leisure is far from being a figure of
speech. he midday suspension of business, common to all
Spanish communities, is a custom intrenched more strongly
here, perhaps, than elsewhere, and in the late afternoon,
the people stroll in the streets, while the sidewalk cafés
are crowded with idlers. After the lunch hour we sought
out a bank, wherein to cash a check, but found its doors
most inhospitably closed, and learned that at one o’clock the
banks close for the day! At the hotel, we fell in with
a Spanish business man whose headquarters were in Paris.

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

He proved to be the agent for some English and American
wares, and he was engaged in making a tour of the Spanish
merchants who handled his products. We told him of our
discovery, and expressed our opinion of the Spaniards’ un-
warranted lack of energy in the prosecution of their com-
mercial affairs, but he laughed at our protests and decried
our Anglo-Saxon energy.

“Took you,” he said, “I arrived here Saturday morning,
called on my agent and later returned to lunch with him.
Not once was business discussed, even though we might have
settled our affairs in ten minutes’ time. I must wait here
over the week-end and have further parleys with him. I
am to have coffee with him after lunch to-day,” (it was
then Monday noon) “and perhaps in a day or two we
shall get down to the discussion of the business in hand!”

“But isn’t this a great waste of time, and a serious 1m-
pediment to the transaction of business in Spain?” we de-
manded.

“Yes,” he replied, “but what can you do? You call
on your customer and exchange compliments. He inquires
how long you are to be in town. With a seeming disdain
of time, you tell him, a week, whereupon he asks you to
come and see him again in four or five days. He would
refuse to deal with you at once, as is done in England and
America, even though he is under not the slightest pressure
of other things. It is his way of doing business and he
will not accept yours.”

For many centuries the kingdom of Valencia has been
regarded as much favored of heaven, for its productive soil
has always stood as the very symbol of fertility. To the
Arabs, the city was known as Medinat-al, the “City of Fer-
tility,” and Medina-bii-tarab, the “City of Joy.” Except
for five bitter years, the Moors possessed it during the space
of five centuries, and regarded it as an earthly paradise.
[ 236 ]VALENCIA

During a brief interval in their long tenure, a sort of
interregnum, the city was taken and governed by that valiant
but boastful warrior, the Cid, who, after his triumphal
entry, wrote in vainglorious phrases to his wife Ximena:
“Behold the glorious country! See what a garden is here!
enjoy thou its beauties; revel in its delights; for I, the Cid,
Rodrigo Diaz, have made myself its mighty Lord and
Ruler.” And the defeated sultan, mounting the watch tower
of the city, wept over the fate of so fair a kingdom in the
hands of the barbarians. But the tenure of the Cid was
of short duration for, within five years’ time, the Arabs were
encompassing the city and its ruler lay dying. And, when
he had passed, and his stout-hearted wife had tried in vain
to defend the city against the Saracen hosts encamped against
it, according to ballad and legend, she took the lifeless
body of her husband, arrayed it in regal attire, seated it
upright on his famous war horse Babieca, and with it and
the treasure of the city, rode unhindered through the ranks
of the astonished and terrified Arab army.

To the district round about, the smiling country of the
old kingdom, now the province, of Valencia, is the town
indebted for a part, at least, of its fame as an earthly para-
dise. Though rain seldom falls, the land enjoys a rare
fertility. The rivers and streams descending from the
mountains are diverted into reservoirs and canals, and are
made to water the thirsty plain at will. Immense stretches
of grain, interspersed by groves of orange, almond, apricot
and other fruits, cover the exuberant Auerta, and the skilled
growers, rotating the crops, enjoy a great variety of produce.
The climate is marvelously mild; only twice in the nine-
teenth century did snow fall, and the weather aids, in valiant
fashion, the work of the husbandmen. To the Arabs are
the modern tillers of the soil indebted, for their scheme of
irrigation. Master cultivators, nowhere were the Moors

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

more thoroughly wedded to the soil, and intrenched in civi-
lization, than here. When Jaime I of Aragon made his per-
manent conquest of the kingdom of Valencia in 1238, the
inhabitants consisted chiefly of full-blooded Arabs, and a
mixed population, commonly known as Mozarabs, who were
Christian in religion, but who had so thoroughly assimilated
the Moorish language and customs that it was necessary for
the Bible to be translated into Arabic for their use. As late
as the beginning of the seventeenth century, a large Moorish
population remained, but this remnant, numbering two hun-
dred thousand, who nominally professed Christianity and
were known as Moriscoes, suffered expulsion in 1609.

Of those distant Moorish days, few customs remain in
the modern city, but an interesting one persists and is con-
nected with the soil. Every Thursday morning, in front
of the “Gateway of the Apostles” in the Plaza de la Consti-
tuci6n, there assembles the “Tribunal of the Waters,” an
elected body of farmers and peasants, which has in its charge
the irrigation of the extensive Auerta of Valencia, that ex-
uberant paradise surrounding the city. It is the most demo-
cratic of assemblies, for the proceedings are verbal and are
without expense to the litigants. Its decisions are equally
autocratic, for against them there is no appeal. When the
cases have been argued in the public square, the tribunal con-
ducts its deliberation in open session, and immediately ren-
| ders its decision. The complainants and the accused are thus
| satisfied that their case has been considered with fairness.
| The guilty receive no water for their fields, until they have
made restitution to the court through the overseers. The

proceedings were held by the Moors on Thursday, because
| that was their old-time market day, and the day has re-
2 mained unchanged through the centuries. And notwith-
standing the sweeping political changes that have taken place
in Spain during these countless generations, this court has

[ 238 ]VALENCIA

retained its democratic simplicity. In this primitive assem-
bly, however, there is much that is indicative of the tradi-
tions of the people, for Spain is the most socially democratic
country in the world. What aristocracy of social life can
there be in a land in which every man, regardless of his
station, from the mere fact of his being a Spaniard, con-
siders himself a peer among all men?

 

The most famous landmark in Valencia is the Gothic
cathedral, conspicuous by the huge but symmetrical bell-
tower that graces it. Founded in 1262, and completed a
century and a half later, it stands on the site of an ancient
mosque, and is notable for its beautiful rose windows and
its splendid octagonal lantern. Connected with it by a fly-
ing stone bridge which spans the street, is the Chapel of
Nuestra Sefiora de los Desamparados, a curious oval struc-

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SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

ture, Byzantine in interior aspect, and entered from the street
by doorways on opposite sides. Over the high altar, which
confronts the worshipper at short range, for the almost cir-
cular edifice is small, stands a much revered Sagrada Imagen,
a carved statue of the Virgin, dating from 1410, and a pic-
ture of the Virgin distributing gifts to the desamparados,
or “foundlings,” of a brotherhood. The doors give directly
into the chapel and, entering, you almost stumble on the
devout, kneeling in prayer on the marble floor. Here, at
any time of the day, you will find groups of worshippers,
Who might almost be praying in public, because the chapel,
in contrast to the usual place of worship, is well lighted and
affords no privacy whatever, and coming from the much
frequented square outside, you are projected into the very
midst of those within. The entrance of visitors, obviously
foreign, rivets the notice of the ever curious folk who are
assembled at prayer, and they give scant attention to their
orisons, so long as there are strangers to arouse their interest.
Throughout Spain, at any hour of the day, you will find in
the churches and cathedrals, groups of men and women on
their knees at their devotions. They are constantly coming
and going, sometimes spending only a few minutes before
the shrine of the day’s devotion. ‘The women, of course,
are in the great majority, and since many of them are of
the poorer classes and go without hats, they are careful to
cover their heads with their handkerchiefs before entering
the sanctuary, obeying Paul’s in junction “that every woman
that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dis-
honoreth her head.” In one cathedral, a group of women,
having among them a young girl who had failed to respect
the rule of the church concerning this practice, were quickly
intercepted as they crossed the floor, by a keen-eyed sacristan
who demanded of the offender that she immediately provide
her head with covering. A handkerchief was quickly pro-

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Looking toward the marketplace in Valencia past a corner of
the Lonja de la Seda.VALENCIA

duced and they were allowed to proceed on their way.
Such groups of men and women, constantly on their knees
before the shrines and images of the Spanish churches, fur-
nish illuminating proof of the deeply religious character of
the people.

The portly Miguelete, or “bell tower,” of the cathedral,
is as typical a landmark of Valencia as is the Moorish Giralda
of Seville or the Roman Aqueduct of Segovia. You ascend
it by a winding staircase of stone, emerging at the top, high
above your surroundings. Your nearest neighbor is the his-
toric bell, called the Miguelete, the strokes of which are
made by a hammer from the outside, and not by a clapper.
As with the bell in the Alhambra’s watch tower at Granada,
the strokes of the Miguelete regulate the opening and shut-
ting of the irrigation channels in the cultivated plain about
Valencia. The view from this elevated platform is a striking
one. The tilled and watered acres of the vast Valencian
huerta roll away to the distant mountains. Below are the
flat roof tops of the gleaming white city, many of them sur-
mounted by pigeon lofts, as irregular as those of an Eastern
metropolis. These are punctuated, here and there, by the
steeples, towers, and tiled domes of the churches, and of
the cathedral itself directly beneath. The crenelated towers
of the two venerable gates of the city, with their watchman’s
galleries and Gothic tracery, situated on opposite sides of
the town, are as fine as any you will see in Spain. They are
the final remnants of the walls that encircled Valencia, until,
a generation or two ago, its citizens decided for modern con-
venience as against medieval atmosphere, and razed the ob-
solete fortifications to the ground, converting the broad
foundations into wide boulevards. The Plaza de Toros, one
of the largest, if not the very largest, bull rings in Spain,
having a seating capacity of seventeen thousand spectators,
lies, an empty bowl of gigantic proportions, over beyond
[ 241 ]ne ee

 

  

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

the railway station at the edge of the city. The River Turia
flows by the city and, from where you stand, it is close at
hand, but candor forces the admission that most of the time
it is really not a river, but only a broad and shallow bed,
wherein the garrison is in the habit of drilling.

As befits a city of Valencia’s size and importance, being
the third city in Spain, there is an air of metropolitan ac-
tivity about the business streets, and the well-appointed shops
display a wide variety of goods. Great retail establishments
are absent here, the needs of the inhabitants being supplied,
in typical fashion, by the shops of specialists. To delight
the feminine heart, there are tiny emporiums purveying the
gorgeous embroidered shawls and mantillas of yesterday,
donned but seldom now, except during fiestas, while the
windows of other establishments are filled with fans of every
shade and texture, from inexpensive paper with highly col-
pred pictures, to costly silk, decorated by hand. The one
article of traditional Spanish dress that is still in common
use, is the fan, and nowhere is there exhibited so great a
display as in Valencia. The fan is the constant companion
of womankind in Spain. Possessing a wardrobe of them,
she suits them to the occasion, and is never without one in
her hand. Women of high and low degree ply the fan as
they stroll through the streets or sit, waiting for customers,
in the market place. It is always wielded with infinite grace,
whether used to bring relief from the heat or merely to
adorn the wearer. The shop windows of the Spanish
towns are curiously uninteresting, more so, almost, than
those of any country in Europe. The reason, of course, 1s
that Spain is essentially an agricultural nation, and 1s de-
ficient in native handicraft and manufacture, relying on
import for practically everything used in dress and furnish-
ing. Only the fan shops, of which there are legion, and
the lace and shawl dealers, of which there seem to be rela-

[ 242 ]VALENCIA

tively few, savor sufficiently of local handicraft or are sut-
ficiently characteristic of the country to be worthy of notice.

From the principal shopping streets a maze of narrow
and irregular lanes leads to the market place. It is worth
visiting, for it savors more of medieval atmosphere than
almost any other in Spain. The architectural brilliance
that characterizes its outlines is largely due to two or three
venerable buildings of striking beauty which adorn its sides,
and make of its long and narrow contour one of the most
picturesque plazas in the city. Here tournaments and fes-
tivals were once held, and in it, executions took place, as
an example, no doubt, to the populace. Here too, it is re-
corded, the Cid, whose residence, the Moorish alcazar,
overlooked the square, burned at the stake Ahmed Ibn Juhat,
for his refusal to reveal the hiding place of King Yahya’s
treasure. The building that gives the Plaza del Mercado its
principal distinction is the Lonja de la Seda, or “Silk Ex-
change,” which stands on the spot occupied by the ancient
alcazar. It is an exquisite Gothic structure, erected in 1482,
and in its delicate brilliance is like the beautifully wrought
casket of a rare and costly jewel. Its sheer elegance of out-
line and its extreme delicacy make it stand out in my mind
as one of the very finest of the architectural treasures of
Spain. I would rather own this gem of the fifteenth century,
I think, than any other Gothic building in Spain. Perhaps
the fact that it is still in daily use, as the exchange of the
city, and thus enjoys the advantage of being seen as a living
thing, is what gives it special significance. Encircling the
upper portion of the interior walls, in imperishable letters
of bronze, runs a Latin inscription which proclaims the
laudable dictum that the merchant who cheats not and re-
frains from usury will surely inherit eternal life, a new
handwriting on the wall, so clearly written that it could not
escape the attention of the most myopic trader.

[ 243 |i a

 

   

SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

On the opposite side of the market is Los Santos Juanes,
a baroque church of the fourteenth century, which is devoid
of special architectural distinction but which, with its flaunt-
ing facade, brings to the plaza still more of the atmosphere
of bygone days.

In the morning hours of the market, this narrow, longi-
tudinal plaza brims over with animated traders. Along the
footways and in the open street, the market folk erect their
temporary stalls and stretch their awnings overhead for pro-
tection from the sun. Girdling the square, the stands of
the merchants stretch in continuous ranks, awning meeting
awning, so that the pulsating throngs walk under an arcade,
as it were, and bargain for their needs in comfort. Only
the center of the plaza is open, and there is just room
for the jostling crowds to pass. In this market an infinite
variety of goods is displayed, ranging from cauliflower to
crockery. Everything is sold on the cash-and-carry plan,
and there are few profits from producer to purchaser, a
condition which serves to keep down the cost of living.
The scene along this slender and animated plaza, flanked
by houses and public buildings of hoary age, which glow
with ancient splendor, might be one of earlier times, but
for the modern garb of the market folk. Here and there,
sauntering among the booths or waiting on customers, are
seen occasional men and women dressed in the costume of
their ancestors, but the vast majority of the people are
arrayed in the fashion, though not the latest, of the twentieth
century.

In the church of Corpus Christi, attached to the Colegio
del Patriarca, is held, every Friday morning throughout
the year, the impressive service of the Miserere. To the
Colegio women are admitted not at all, but to the chapel
they may come if they do not wear hats. The chapel is
in deep shadow to-day, for the dome, through which the

[244 ]VALENCIA

only daylight enters, is shrouded. Ribalta’s “Last Supper”
hangs beside the high altar. High mass has just been sung
to old and haunting music, and now, before the altar, kneels
the assembly that is to take its silent part in the strange
and dramatic ceremony that follows. The women are
dressed in black, and on their heads they wear only mantillas.
Every knee is bent as, from the choir, with infinite pathos,
come the plaintive notes of the Miserere. Riubalta’s master-
piece slowly descends and disappears from view, and where
it had hung a purple veil appears. Then, as if by an un-
earthly hand, this veil is drawn aside, revealing one of
lighter hue; next, a curtain of gray is seen, and that, in
turn, gives way to one of black. Not a rustle invades the
silence. Suddenly, the black curtain is torn asunder, as the
veil of the Temple that was rent in twain, and on an incense-
blackened crucifix there bursts into view the figure of the
dying Savior. The music stops; a murmur runs through
the worshippers, breaking the vibrant hush, and the people,
silenced by this moving spectacle, pass into the sunlit streets.

That night we left Valencia en route for Paris and home.
As we sped along the coast, on our way up through Barcelona
to the frontier, our trip through Spain unrolled before me
in a long series of moving pictures. I realized that, coming
into Spain through the north, as we did, the country seemed
to us to have put its best foot forward. The climax in medi-
eval color and primitive life had come first and the second
portion of our journey, save for the few striking monu-
ments of the past found in the more traveled south, had
not held the exotic interest that we had expected, although
it is only fair to say that the keen edge of our expectancy
by that time may have been dulled. But in any case there
are few disappointments to be found. At its best Spain gives
something infinitely worth having, and something that it
alone is capable of giving, a severe beauty, a rugged gran-

[245 ]SPANISH TOWNS AND PEOPLE

deur, a noble austerity that cannot be surpassed. It has no
littleness, nothing of the rococo—delightful in its place but
difficult to live with—; but it has in their stead that continual
restraint that is inseparable from dignity, and that fine repose
that is compatible only with the consciousness of tradition.
And the primitive aspects of its urban and rural life are a
constant stimulus to the fancy.

Forty-eight hours later we were in Paris and here we
parted, the artist going to Switzerland and I to London.
I had expected that the fog and smoke of that dingy and
ever charming city would obscure the white walls of Castile
and the red glamour of Granada, but I found that they were
with me always. I knew then that Spain had passed from
the day of militant conquest to that of conquest by means of
a power and an atmosphere that it had taken long centuries
to bring to full maturity. The Armada has passed into his-
tory; the Inquisition is a memory; Spanish fleets and Span-
ish colonies are to be found to-day chiefly within the pages
of dusty books, but they have all made their contribution,
all have left their mark. And that contribution is inde-
structible, that mark ineffaceable. Spain is a magic land
where yesterday and to-day meet and mingle in harmony,
defying time. It was so I found it, and it will be so that
I shall find it when I return.PLEASE RETURN TO
ALDERMAN LIBRARY

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