Things Seen in Spain — Chapter 3, Town Life in Spain, Part 2

The stranger will now be ready to understand the special atmosphere of Seville, for it is this frank acceptance of joy as the gold thread of life which gives the southern city its charm.

It is not shadowed with memory like sleeping Cordova, nor is it overburdened with heroic monuments like Toledo; there are no ruins such as give sadness to Granada; it is still a living city whose blood is pulsing with the joy of life lived in the sunshine.

The buildings for which the city is famous all have this aspect of joy—the Moorish Tower of Gold; the Alcázar, with its flower-crowded gardens; the Giralda Tower, which is so old, and yet in its glittering whiteness looks so new.

There is a joyousness in these buildings that I have never seen in the buildings of any other city.

Then, Seville is alive commercially, and from its wharves among the orange-trees which line the banks of its rivers vessels carry away its wine, its oil, and its oranges.

Seville has no rival among the cities of Spain.

The old saying is still true: “To him whom God loves He gives a home in Seville.

” In Seville you are happy without seeking to be so, and when the stranger has learnt this he has learnt the secret of the _Sevillanos_.

Seville has the aspect of a city given up to a holiday humour; and if I wished to describe the special quality of her happy people, I should say that they understood perfectly the difficult art of loafing.

You must be happy to loaf successfully; that is why Northern people find it so difficult.

But not even the Venetians loaf as well as the _Sevillanos_.

Go to the Calle de las Sierpes, that narrow, animated street, the centre of Seville’s joyous life; it is different from other streets; its gay shops, with the double row of irregular, close-drawn windows that make a sinuous line of light—certainly it is like a serpent.

All day and far into the night people saunter up and down its pavements or sit in one of the many _cafés_, which are always filled with crowds of unoccupied persons.

You will seem to be watching a stage play.

It is here that you will see best the _majos_, or dandies of Seville; in springtime there is sure to be a _matador_ strolling about in splendid costume, and women in _mantillas_ saunter to and fro with their slow, graceful walk.

In the _cafés_ you will have an opportunity of studying the typical Andalusian.

He wears a short coat and very tight trousers of a light colour, and a felt hat with a broad, flat brim.

He is always clean-shaven, and his hair is cut very short.

These men are often handsome, and have a striking expression of strength; the faces, dignified and always humorous, often resemble a comic actor.

They are an affectionate and friendly company, and their conversation echoes with a deafening buzz.

Notice the way in which they smoke their cigarettes, and at intervals drink their _refrescos_ or sip from their small glasses of _aguardiente_.

Their enjoyment is so Spanish, so epicurean.

And women in the street fan themselves in the same way.

All these people are happy in the frank acceptance of life as it is.

Inside the shops, which have doors wide open to the street, groups of women sit to buy fans and _mantillas_.

Making purchases is a delightful game, in which all Spanish women excel.

They smile, and chatter, and use their fans, bargaining with delicious grace, while the salesman, cigarette in hand, shrugs his shoulders and gesticulates.

“But the _mantilla_ is dear, señor.

” He throws out his hands in protest.

“No, señorita; I am giving it away at ten _pesetas_.

” “Is the quality good?

” and she raises her eyebrows in bewitching incredulity.

“As good as God’s blessing.

” And with mutual smiles and salutations the purchase is made.

[Picture: Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada] It is in the Paseo de las Delicias—the name will tell you of the beauty of this park, with its orange-groves, hedges of blue aloes, and all manner of tropical trees and flowers—that the ladies of Seville drive and promenade each afternoon.

The _majos_ cast languishing glances upon them as they walk to and fro, and compliments are given: “Oh, Jesus, what an air!

” “Happy is the mother that bore thee!

” “Your eyes are as runaway stars that would rather shine in your face than in the heavens!

” The _Sevillanas_ smile and chatter together; this play of love is a part of the accustomed homage which is their due.

There is a fascination about Spanish women not easy to define.

Many of them are not beautiful, but they are always graceful, and they all walk beautifully.

Then, most of them have the soft, expressive eyes which the East has bequeathed to Spain.

There is a quality and certain finish about them which is unique; each one looks as if she understood that she was a woman, and was very glad that this was so.

Perhaps this is why they are so attractive; this is the reason, too, why the old women are so good-humoured, smiling, and gay.

The indefinite unquietness that so often characterizes English and American women is entirely absent.

These Spanish señoras, for their happiness, have kept the pagan content.

[Picture: A group of workers in a “patio” at Seville] Much of what is characteristic of the home life of the Sevillians may be gathered from the arrangement of their houses.

They are all—the houses of the poor as well as those of the rich citizens—built around the _patio_, or shaded court, where palms, myrtles, pomegranates, and jasmines grow, and the singing of caged birds mingles with the sound of the playing fountains.

Into this _patio_ all the windows of the house open and the rooms lead.

The doors are of open ironwork—no two doors are alike—and often, even in the small houses, the grating is of exquisite workmanship.

One door, which also has an open _reja_, or grating, leads into the street.

It is in these _patios_ that the Sevillians spend their lives, and this throwing open of their homes to the gaze of all who pass in the streets is exactly characteristic of this simple, happy people.

Every afternoon and evening the youth of the family laugh and sing and dance to the rattle of the castanets.

It is against the _rejas_ that the lovers stand at night and sing their serenades, and so persistent is their patience that they have gained the title of “iron-eaters.

” All Andalusians are musical; even the beggar thrums his guitar, which he will not part with for bread; to him music is a necessity, and bread a luxury with which he can dispense.

The Andalusian’s leisure is a perpetual source of delight.

What impresses the serious foreigner, who is so fortunate as to become an inmate of a Sevillian home, is the mirth and courtesy of the family, who all seem to enjoy endless leisure.

Spanish households have a pleasantness quite their own.

The men are never preoccupied with business; smoking cigarettes, they will pass hours chattering to the women of the family, who spend the greater part of the day working their beautiful embroideries.

Few books are read, and talking is the chief occupation.

No people can talk like the Spaniards, and the excitement is so spontaneous that often the conversation is carried on far into the night.

The slightest incident gains a poetic vividness from their dramatic telling.

Cigarette-smoking and talking are the only indulgences which the Sevillians carry to excess.

In their home life there is a love of visiting and a love of receiving visitors.

_Tertulias_, or parties, are frequent.

But a Spanish party differs materially from an English, in so far as there are no refreshments—if we except the glasses of pure water and plate of _azucarillos_ to sweeten the water, which are placed upon a side-table.

This is an instance of the sobriety of the Sevillians.

The guests dance and sing and talk incessantly, and are perfectly satisfied to enjoy themselves without eating.

The Spaniards are good hosts; the exquisite politeness which is natural to them, even to those of the very lowest classes, causes them to lay themselves out to entertain; boredom would seem to be unknown to the native host and hostess.

They make a pleasure of the slightest social intercourse.

I recall one occasion in Seville, when I asked permission to enter the house of a poor woman in the Macarena quarter, in order that my artist friend might make a drawing from her balcony of a building of which a satisfactory view could not be obtained in the street.

“My house is yours, señoras; make whatsoever use of it you will,” was her answer to my request.

And during the hours that my friend was at work she put aside her occupations—she was a _planchadora_, and was ironing with her assistants on our entrance—and gave herself up solely to help and entertain us.

A _refresco_ was brought to us; _calientes_, the twisted doughnuts which are made in every Andalusian house, were fried for us.

Nor would she consent to receive the payment which we, with our foreign stupidity, offered to her on our departure.

No, the kindly, cheery woman did not understand payment for hospitality.

But it is during the days of festival at Easter and the _Feria_ that the fine hospitality of the Sevillians is seen at its best.

The houses are filled to overflowing, and hospitality is taxed to a degree that only the most perfect courtesy and good-nature could endure.

Every corner is received with a chorus of welcome, and embraced like a brother.

Beds are surrendered, even sofas are given up, and as fresh strangers arrive, unable to gain accommodation in the crowded inns, mattresses, pillows, and rugs are brought out of cupboards, and beds are made upon the floor.

All the members of the family, and even the tired servants, who are always joyously ready to help, sit up, because there is literally _nowhere_ for them to sleep.

The difficulty of obtaining provisions in these seasons of festivity is very great: the butcher cannot provide meat; even bread is hard to buy.

But the señora of the house is never troubled; she tells you her woes, and then goes smiling to fry _calientes_ and prepare other delicacies for the refreshment of her guests.

The constant Spanish courtesy never fails, and the foreigner who happily chances among this crowded joyous party can but wonder.

[Picture: “Las Planchadoras” (laundresses) at work, Seville] CHAPTER IV—TOWN LIFE IN SPAIN (_continued_)