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SUN AND SHADOW IN SPAIN

SUN AND SHADOW IN SPAIN

BY MAUD HOWE AUTHOR OF “ROMA BEATA,” “TWO IN ITALY,” ETC.

WITH PICTURES FROM PHOTOGRAPHS AND ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR

BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1908

_Copyright_, 1908, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved_

Published November, 1908

The Tudor Press BOSTON, U. S. A.

To ISABEL ANDERSON THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

_CHILD’S PLAY_

_On the silver sands of First Beach in the Island of Rhode Island, children were at play digging foundations, raising fortifications, laying out the parks and streets of a city. They worked long and hard; time was short, and the tide was coming in. Each wave, as it hissed and broke upon the beach, sent its thin line of foam a little nearer the brave outer wall of the town. Then came the inevitable inundation; the children shrieked with glee as the city wall crumbled, the church steeple toppled down, the courthouse collapsed. When nothing of the thriving sand city remained, save its trees and flowers,--floating bunches of red and green seaweed--the children, tired with much digging, sat down and looked across the water._

_“What is over there?” asked the youngest, pointing an uncertain finger to the East._

_“That is the Atlantic Ocean,” answered the eldest, “the nearest land is the coast of Spain.”_

_“When I grow up I shall go there,” said the youngest, “to see what Spain is like.”_

_After many years the child sailed across the Atlantic from the New World to the Old, passed between the Pillars of Hercules, through the “southern entrance of the ocean,” and landed on the Rock of Gibraltar. Sitting there by the lighthouse of Europa Point, and looking back across the waste of waters, the child had a vision of the city on the sands. This Rock, this last spur of Europe, how many sand cities has it seen washed away by the tides of time? The Calpe of the Phœnicians, the Jebel al Tarac of the Arabs, the Gibraltar of the Spaniards. Where Queen Adelaide’s lighthouse now sends its ray of light out into the darkness, the famous shrine of the Virgen de Europa once stood. Here, once upon a time, Jupiter, in the shape of a milk-white bull, plunged into the sea with the lovely Europa on his back, and swam with her to Crete, where she became the mother of Minos, whose ruined palace has just been discovered in that wonderful island of Crete. The land, more steadfast than the sea, keeps in its breast some of the things men prize most. In the palace of Minos they found a small, finely modeled, gold figure of a man with a bull’s head, cast in memory of the son of Jupiter and the lovely Europa._

_As the stars pricked out from the blue, the child perceived they were the stars she knew at home, and that the constellation of Taurus was visible,--Taurus, the bull, still the animal of worship and of sacrifice in the Peninsula._

_“When I have seen what Spain is like, I will tell the other children about it,” said the child; then she took out the guidebook and opened the map._

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE THORN IN SPAIN’S SIDE 1

II. A SIBYL OF RONDA 27

III. THE WHITE VEIL 58

IV. THE BLACK VEIL 82

V. SEVILLE FAIR 109

VI. A HOUSE IN SEVILLE 136

VII. CORDOVA 166

VIII. GRANADA 195

IX. TANGIERS 217

X. MADRID 251

XI. THE PRADO 279

XII. CARNIVAL 300

XIII. TOLEDO 315

XIV. THE BRIDE COMES 343

XV. THE KING’S WEDDING 364

XVI. WEDDING GUESTS 373

XVII. HASTA OTRA VISTA 393

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE ARAB QUARTER, TANGIERS. COLORED FRONTISPIECE

PAGE

OUR LADY OF O., SEVILLE 58

SEVILLE CATHEDRAL 64

ENTRANCE TO COURT OF ORANGES, SEVILLE 68

THE SCULPTOR MARTINEZ MONTANES 72 In the Prado Museum.

PORTRAIT OF MONTANES’ SON 72 In the Prado Museum.

PORTRAIT OF PHILIP II. _Coello_ 85 In the possession of John Elliott.

PORTRAIT OF VELASQUEZ, BY HIMSELF. DETAIL OF “LAS MENINAS” 96 In the Prado Museum.

PORTRAIT OF HIS WIFE. _Velasquez_ 96 In the Prado Museum.

THE GIRALDA, SEVILLE 107

BULL-FIGHTERS 122

SPANISH GYPSIES 122

ST. JOSEPH AND THE INFANT JESUS. _Murillo_ 164 In the Provincial Museum, Seville.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. _Murillo_ 164 In the Cathedral, Seville.

THE MOSQUE, CORDOVA 167

THE MOSQUE, CORDOVA 188

LA PUERTA DEL SOL, TOLEDO 188

GATE OF JUSTICE, ALHAMBRA. In color 195

COURT OF LIONS, THE ALHAMBRA 196

GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE, GRANADA 196

WINDOW, TOWER OF THE CAPTIVE, ALHAMBRA 199

GYPSIES OF GRANADA 203

LA PUERTO DEL VINO, GRANADA 207

A COURT OF THE ALHAMBRA 207

RETABLO, CARVED IN HIGH AND LOW RELIEF. _Roldan_ 211

MOORISH COLUMNS IN THE ALHAMBRA 214

TANGIERS. In color 218

STREET IN TANGIERS 226

SPANISH PEASANTS 232

ALI AND ZULEIKA 232

DETAIL FROM “THE MAIDS OF HONOR.” _Velasquez_ 259 In the Prado Museum.

DETAIL FROM “THE SURRENDER OF BREDA.” _Velasquez_ 279 In the Prado Museum.

THE TIPPLERS. _Velasquez_ 282 In the Prado Museum.

THE DUKE OF OLIVARES. _Velasquez_ 285 In the Prado Museum.

VENUS AND CUPID. _Velasquez_ 288 National Museum.

DON BALTASAR CARLOS. _Velasquez_ 291 In the Prado Museum.

DETAIL FROM “MOSES.” _Murillo_ 300 In the Prado Museum.

DETAIL FROM “MOSES.” _Murillo_ 308 In the Prado Museum.

TOLEDO BY MOONLIGHT. In color 326

DETAIL FROM “THE BURIAL OF COUNT ORGAZ.” _Greco_ 341

VILLEGAS IN HIS STUDIO 376

THE SPINNERS. _Velasquez_ 379 In the Prado Museum.

THE DOGARESSA. _Villegas_ 394 In the possession of Mrs. Larz Anderson.

THE DEATH OF THE MATADOR. _Villegas_ 398 In the possession of the artist.

IMPERIO. _Villegas_ 408 In the possession of Miss Dorothy Whitney.

SUN AND SHADOW IN SPAIN

I

THE THORN IN SPAIN’S SIDE

If you will look at the general map of Spain and Portugal, you will see that the outlines of the Peninsula suggest the head of a man--a broad, square head, with a high forehead and plenty of room for a large brain. The profile, lying sharply cut on the blue Atlantic, shows a crest of disordered hair, a slightly swelling forehead, a long, sensitive, aristocratic nose with a sharply cut nostril, firm lips set close together, a fine chin tapering to a small pointed beard, a slight fulness under the chin; the throat, set well back and surrounded by a blue collar--the Straits of Gibraltar--joins the head to the shoulders--the continent of Africa. The more you look at the face, the more certain you become that it is a familiar one, that it is the face of one you hold dear, till at last complete recognition flashes upon you; it is the face of Don Quixote de la Mancha! Look again; it is a face such as Velasquez painted, not once, but many times; it is the typical Spanish face, proud, high-bred, reserved.

So you need not land alone and unwelcomed upon the shore of fabled Hispagna, now looming dim and blue upon the horizon, now growing distinct and green. Two great spirits, Cervantes and Velasquez, come to meet you! Their hands are stretched out to you; if you so elect, they will walk with you in all your wanderings, and with their help you shall know Spain.

Gibraltar, a lion couchant, head on paws, fronts the sea. Cross the bay from Algeciras, the lion rears its head--a lion no longer--the pillar of the coast of Europe, blue at first, then purple; when you are close in its shadow you look up at a grim gray mountain towering above you. It greets you like an old friend. You have known it under many names; first as Calpe under its first master, Hercules, for that glorious old fellow, the first “Great African Traveler,” was here. Wishing to show other travelers who should come after that the “inner seas,” where it was safe to sail, ended here, he took up a mountain and tore it in two to make the bounds; half he set down in Africa, on the south, half in Europe, on the north. These are the Columns of Hercules; the African column is Abyle; the European, Calpe.

“_Ne plus ultra_,” said Hercules, as he wrapped his lion’s skin about him and set sail for Libya to call on Atlas. Every time you write the sign for the dollar ($) you draw the Columns of Hercules and the scroll for his parting words, “_Ne plus ultra._”

Carthage was here! The poor Carthaginians built a tower on Calpe, to watch for the dreaded Roman galleys sweeping down from Ostia, while in Rome’s senate implacable Cato thundered his eternal “_Delenda est Carthago._” Of course the Romans were here,--it is impossible to escape them; wherever you travel in Europe or Africa you are always meeting those grave ghosts!

Tarik was here; he and his Berbers, sailing over from Morocco, landed on Calpe, and built a magnificent castle fortress to protect their retreat and keep open the way back to Africa. Moors and Berbers made a long stay in Europe; they held the Rock seven hundred years, until Moor and Mahomet were driven out by Ferdinand and Isabel,--a service Spain holds the Christian world has too soon forgotten. A pitiful flying remnant of the Moors of Granada took ship at Gibraltar and sailed back to Morocco, leaving behind them the imperishable Legacy of the Moor, taking with them the keys of their houses in that lost paradise, Granada. Since Tarik landed, the Rock has stood fourteen sieges, has passed from master to master, but this is still the Hill of Tarik (Jebel Tarik), though we pronounce it Gibraltar.

So, coming after Hercules, Carthage, Rome, Tarik, we are here! We landed at night. As we passed down the steamer’s companionway to the tug, the _Kaiser_ roared a hoarse farewell, her screw beat the “inner sea” to a white lather. From the upper deck a girl’s handkerchief fluttered, a man’s voice cried “Good luck!” Two thousand Italian steerage passengers, the menace and amusement of the voyage, chaffed and laughed at us from the lower deck. For nine days the steamer _Kaiser_, sailing on even keel, had been all our world; a creature-comfortable world, with only too much beef, beer, and skittles.

“There are no boats but the German--except a few of the English--fit to cross the Atlantic,” a fat Hanoverian drummer said at dinner, that last evening on board; “Germans and English are the only sailors.”

Don Jaime, the Andalusian, who sat opposite, looked at him.

“_Claro_,” he assented, graciously, in Spanish, “but--do you happen to know how many Germans and English Columbus had with him on his caravel?”

The Hanoverian only grunted, like the pig he was.

The tug sheered away; we looked up from our dancing cockle-shell to the _Kaiser_, looming vast above us, shutting out the stars. The glare of her lights, the throb of her engines were still the all-important facts of the universe, until--a long finger of light stretched out from Tarik’s Hill and touched us.

“You see?” said a voice in the dark beside us, “the searchlight! Gibraltar never sleeps.”

The searchlight faded, the tender turned her nose to shore. The _Kaiser_, a little floating bit of Germany, was left behind; before us towered England, a mighty Rock hung from peak to base with chains of diamond lights. The tender drew alongside the Old Mole. At the gate a young English sergeant in a smart uniform looked us over.

“Are you a British subject, sir?” he said to J., the first man ashore. J. said he was.

“Pass in, sir,” said the sergeant; then to me: “British subject, marm?”

“I am an American----” I began.

“One shilling, if you please, marm; after gunfire only subjects may enter Gibraltar without----”

“That is to say,” I explained, “I am the wife of this gentleman; _you_ may consider me a--a British sub----”

“Very good, marm, certainly,” murmured the sergeant, consolingly; “pass in.”

“So an American birthright is only worth one shilling?” J. jeered, and the international incident was closed, for the moment.

We slept at the Hotel Cecil, a comfortable house, with Spanish waiters and Hispano-Anglo fare. At breakfast we made the acquaintance of a pretty young officer, who wore his watch in a leather bracelet on his wrist. He laughed at our impatience to have done with tea and marmalade and be off to see the sights.

“Not much to see in Gib,” he said, “a beastly place! There’s the Trafalgar Cemetery, if you care for that sort of thing. See that old chap with the beard? If you want a guide he’s the best. He’s lying in wait for you, a real Rock Scorpion; don’t let him sting you on the ‘tips.’ He’s a native; must have come into the world before the law forbidding aliens to be born in Gibraltar.”

We thought that law must be hard to enforce. He said it was, but that there was so little living room on the Rock “they” were very strict about it. All ladies, except the wives of British subjects, must cross over to the main land before the birth of their children. Spain, he said, liked the law, because in the old days it had sometimes happened that sons of Spaniards born on the Rock had refused to serve in the Spanish army, claiming to be British subjects.

We asked how long strangers might stay in Gibraltar. He said that generally speaking they might stay as long as they wished. The hotel proprietor would get us the necessary permit; it might be extended for ten days. The Governor, Sir George White (he who was in command in Ladysmith when the garrison was relieved), was very exact about such matters.

Again commending us to Old Scorp, our friend with the watch bracelet left us, and we went out “for to admire and to see.” We avoided Old Scorp, a little gray creeping man with shabby European clothes, but he saluted us with the air of one who bides his time.

First we explored the North Town, crouching at the Rock’s base. Waterport Street, the main artery of trade, lies at the lowest level, the town rising in a series of terraces two hundred feet above. Houses, churches, hospitals, barracks, stables, all built of a uniform gray limestone, seem to have been honeycombed out of the Rock. The names at the street corners have a bold British military flavor; Prince Edward’s Ramp, Bomb House Lane, Devil’s Gap Steps, Victualling House Lane, Ragged Staff Stairs. The shops are small and stuffy, with stale meagre wares; the high-sounding names over their doors, Moorish, Spanish, Jewish names, such as Alcantara, Barabiche, Vallerinos, Montegriffos, show in whose hands the trade of Gibraltar has fallen. There are many names beginning with Ben, such as Beneluz and Beneliel. I believe that all the “Bens” are of Moorish descent: I have known a good many such, their dark, impenetrable eyes, their skilful hands, the frequent touch of genius they show, are a part of the Moor’s Legacy.

It was still early morning; the sky was a vault of blue fire, the air was keen with the salt and seaweed of the Mediterranean. The orange trees in the garden of the old Franciscan convent--now the Governor’s house--were covered with fruit and blossoms; there was a sound of bugles, the tramp of a regiment in Commercial Square; the soft cracked bells of the old cathedral clanged the hour; from far away, where the gunners were at practice, came the deep boom of cannon. Color, life, movement all around us! This was no time to dream, to remember, to entertain ghosts; breathless we looked through the kaleidoscope to-day at the gay little pieces flickering with the pulse of time!

North Town has the most variegated population in Europe; to match it one must cross the Straits to Tangiers. A British officer passed on a small milk-white stallion; an Ethiopian, with gold earrings, and a beauty line gashed on either cheek; a pair of sharp-eyed Jewish children, books under arm, on their way to school; an Andalusian widow, draped like a Tanagra figurine with soft dusky veils hanging to her shoe; another officer of higher rank, a blond man with a face like a mask, who gave us one quick challenge of the eye as he went his way--and I was aware that I was a guest, while he was at home, a master in his own house. He was followed by two ladies, his British wife and daughter, all fresh and shining with soap and energy. Both were Saxons, with hair like spun gold and calm blue eyes; they wore London clothes, and drove an English cob in an Irish jaunting car. They were at home, too, and looked as if the earth belonged to them. There were many soldiers loafing in twos and threes, marching in files, walking singly--all with a jauntiness, a buoyancy, that no other mere mortal men possess. Some of them--oh, joy!--wore real uniforms with red coats; dull clod-colored khaki is good enough for war, in peace there is no excuse for it.

The dash of winter in the air that was as the elixir of life to the English, making their horses prance, their cheeks glow, their eyes sparkle, affected the other inhabitants differently; the Spaniards looked pale, the Moors ashen. We met Don Jaime, black sombrero pulled over the eyes, black capa thrown over the shoulder, toga-fashion, muffling mouth and chin and showing an amber plush lining. The Don uncovered with a noble gesture, but we did not stop to speak to him, he was in such evident terror of taking cold. There were frigid tears in the almond eyes of Mr. Pohoomull as he stood at the door of the Indo-Persian Bazaar inviting us to enter. Though he wore a lovely gray embroidered cashmere cap and a Persian lamb coat, his teeth chattered. We lingered somewhat, beguiled by his Benares trays, Burmese silver, Persian carpets, ivory elephants, and were only saved from bankruptcy by the vision of a figure in the street, more truly Oriental than anything in Mr. Pohoomull’s shop. A tall, bronzed Moor in a green turban, a pink kaftan, yellow slippers, and a big hairy brown _sulham_, drawn over his head and falling to his knees, walked slowly down the middle of the road, driving before him with a rod as long as himself a flock of green and bronze turkeys. We followed to the Moorish market, where he entered into discussion with another Morisco in a white _sulham_ and red morocco slippers, presumably touching the price of turkeys. As an excuse to linger near, we bought pistachio nuts in a fresh lettuce leaf, dates from the desert on their yellow stalks, golden apples of Hesperides--they called them tangerines--with dark, glossy leaves. The market was noisy with the bickering of poultry, pigeons, and netted quails in wicker baskets. In the English market on the other side of the way, we bought for half a _peseta_ violets, roses, and splendid Tyrian purple bourganvillia. The flower sellers, a group of withered women sitting on the ground, looked like the Fates. The fish market was a picture. The fish of the Mediterranean seem brighter colored than other fish. Like wet jewels the red mullet, like silver the turbot, like many-colored enamels the big variegated conger eels the Romans liked so well. Gibraltar, which produces nothing, is splendidly victualled. The beef comes from Morocco, the vegetables from Spain, the fruit from every Mediterranean port. At the fruit stalls were bunches of Spanish grapes, long, purple, white, hanging thick overhead, a background for Barbary baskets filled with citrons, persimmons, cocoanuts, apples, and pears. In the foreground were heaps of black olives and smooth green melons, the latter a cross between watermelon and cantaloupe. The Spaniards know how to keep them fresh half the winter. The vegetable stalls were quite as handsome in their way, the color used skillfully in broad masses. Deep chrome gourds, violet eggplant, a long cane basket of vermilion tomatoes and gray-green artichokes; the beauty of color so enthralled us that we were not quick enough in making way for a majestic British matron, followed by a neat Spanish maid. The lady must have been at least a colonel’s wife--if such go to market--for she looked through us, without seeing us, as if we had been so much glass. To make amends, the little servant gave us soft welcoming glances, but we felt abashed and went sadly away. As we left the market, we saw our young officer of the watch bracelet sniffing at the carcass of a mighty new-killed pig--then we knew that he was of the “commissariat.”

Outside the market we met the turkey-herd again; he had sold no turkeys, but added a pair of white ones to his flock. As we stood admiring him, Patsy joined us, kodak in hand.

“I must snap that Moor,” he said; “please stand before me. If he sees me he will be frightened and think I mean to do him a mischief.” Patsy adjusted his camera; he was on the point of turning the button when a policeman interfered:

“Beg pardon, sir, it’s against the rules to photograph the fortifications.”

“But I wasn’t,” Patsy explained. “I was only taking a shot at that old boy with the turkeys.”

The man pointed to the bastion behind the Moor; it would certainly have come within the kodak’s focus. We tried to comfort Patsy by reminding him that Gibraltar was a fortress, that we were here on sufferance; but he was much chagrined and kept repeating that he was not a spy. At that moment of discomfiture we heard a voice, deep as an organ note, behind us, rumbling out the words: