The Story of Seville

CHAPTER XIII

'To have seen real doñas with comb and mantle, real caballeros with cloak and cigar, real Spanish barbers lathering out of brass basins, and to have heard guitars upon the balconies.' – Thackeray, Cornhill to Cairo.

'MANY monuments, fine religious processions, splendid bull fights, and not much business,' was the pithy description of modern Seville given to me by an intelligent Basque señora, living in the Province of Santander. The picture is a good one. As to the monuments, we have seen that the city abounds with them. But it is not only the historic buildings, associated with the Romans, Goths, Berbers and Almohades, that lend the fascination of antiquity to Seville. The Andalusian features, the manners, the speech, the domestic habits, the music, songs and dances of the people remind us hourly, while in the city, of the Seville of a thousand years ago.

A spell of Orientalism, strange and seductive, comes upon the stranger, as he sits on the marble benches under the palms in the Plaza de San Fernando, watching the olive-skinned chicos at their evening pastime of mimic bull-fighting, or dancing, with quaint, slow movement of the feet and much swaying of the body, to a semi-barbaric accompaniment of clapping hands and a low chanting. The gaunt mules, with their Arabesque wool trappings and panniers, that pass slowly by, the water-sellers in their white garments and hemp-soled shoes, and the women with their black lace mantillas, which must surely be a survival of the Mohammedan veil, all serve to impress one with their suggestion of Moorish influence.

Electric lights and electric tramcars scarcely mar the charming illusions of the Oriental and the mediæval in the Seville of to-day. The tokens of modernity are subservient; they do not jar continually as in Madrid, perhaps the most commonplace of Spanish cities. In Seville you cannot forget the Moriscoes, and the part they played in the making of the city, the memories of Christopher Columbus, the art of Velazquez and Murillo, the romances of Cervantes, and the traditions of the Mother Church of Christendom. Every step causes reflection upon the past. You are carried back to the Middle Ages from the ringing of matin bells till the midnight cry of the watchman.

The costume of the Sevillian caballero– and remember that every man in Spain is a cavalier – has suffered, no doubt, in picturesqueness since the time of Don Quixote. But there is a real grace and a romantic charm in the winter capa, flung upon the shoulders, with one of its plenteous folds muffling the mouth, and another thrown back to show the gorgeous lining of amber, green, or crimson. One looks for the point of a scabbard, containing a good Toledan blade, below the cloak. It is not there, though the practice of carrying weapons still survives everywhere in the Peninsula.

Once only have I seen the sword carried by a civilian in Spain. Travelling from Córdova to Toledo by rail, I had as companion a young man who had provided himself with a cutlass and a revolver, in case of assault by robbers. The sword was thrust through the straps of his bag. Revolvers are frequently worn on a belt under the coat, and most of the working class carry the navaja, a knife with a long blade, a sharp edge, and a keen point.

There is, however, no need for the traveller to provide himself with a six-shooter or a dagger; indeed, the revolver hung at the head of the bed, as I have seen it in a Seville hotel, is not only superfluous, but the mere possession of arms is apt to cause surmises as to the valuables carried by the armed stranger, and may lead to the pilfering of his portmanteau.

The custom of going about armed is just one of those mediæval usages that still prevail in spite of the suppression of brigandage and the protection of the railway trains and stations by the vigilant, well-trained and courteous Civil Guards. Spaniards are conservative; they cling to practices that are no longer necessary, and the carrying of knives and pistols is one of those quixotic characteristics of the race, which will probably survive for several generations. As a matter of fact, the stranger in Seville is as safe, to say the least, as he is in London. The species Hooligan is unknown in Spain, though, of course, there are thieves in the country as in every other quarter of Christendom throughout the globe. The navaja is never worn and used ostentatiously. It is the weapon of the criminal population and the disreputable, and it is too often drawn in street broils and for vendetta purposes.

It is not necessary that I should caution the visitor against wandering alone, after dark, in the low streets of the city, nor warn him that it is risky to engage professional guides, who are not well known for honesty, and recommended by one of the proprietors of the better-class hotels. I do not wish to alarm the timid traveller. One should point out, however, that highway robberies do occasionally occur in the country districts.

Two years ago, in the neighbourhood of Granada, a party of travellers found themselves and the guides surrounded by ruffians on a mountain-side, and were submitted to a complete rifling of their pockets before they were allowed to proceed on their way. A friend of mine, an English artist, was one of the party. You are frequently told in Spain that brigandage has been entirely suppressed. It is quite true that the Civil Guards have almost exterminated the organised bands of brigands that used to infest the lonelier roads of the country. But, here and there, as in Galicia, robbers sometimes work in small parties on the high roads, after dark. In Seville, however, one may feel as secure as in any other continental city. The average Andalusian is honest. Railway porters, cabmen, and hotel servants expect a propina or 'tip'; but they are seldom exacting, and rarely addicted to pilfering. The propina is a national institution; but a small gratuity is, as a rule, gratefully received, and I have met porters and others who have refused a fee for their assistance. Railway servants and hotel waiters are so poorly paid in Spain that they rely largely for their living upon the generosity of travellers. There is, however, a protest afloat against the propina, and a society has been formed in Madrid to combat the custom of giving 'tips.'

The smart or fashionable life of Seville may be studied, after five in the evening in the warm months, in the narrow central thoroughfare called Sierpes, or in the drives of the beautiful gardens bordering the Guadalquivir. The Calle de Sierpes signifies in English the street of the serpents. It is a street for foot passengers only, with many cafés, wine bars, nick-nack stores, and superior hatters', tailors' and tobacconists' shops. In this quarter ladies will find a fine array of fans, mantillas and showy Andalusian shawls. Some of these articles bear the label 'made in Austria.' The shawls worn by the majas, or Sevillian smart dames, and maidens of the middle and working class, are sometimes very beautiful. Yellow is a favourite hue, as it accords with the black which is universally worn by the women of southern Spain.

The majo costume, as 'sported' by the dandies of Sierpes, is correctly made up of a wide-brimmed brown or white felt hat, a shirt with a frilled front, and diamond or paste studs, a low waistcoat, or broad silk band around the middle, a short coat, resembling an Eton jacket, and trousers cut exceedingly tight across the hips. A majo affects the dress and conversation of his ideal, the bull-fighter. He favours the tightest, thin-soled, pointed brown shoes, crops his hair, shaves his cheeks and chin clean, walks with a self-consciousness, and ogles and bandies repartee whenever he passes a maja. The loungers of Sierpes exhibit more or less amused interest in the English or American lady visitors. Their hats are a wonder to them; their serviceable travelling dresses appear severely plain, their coats masculine in fashion, and their shoes short, broad, and absurdly low in the heel.

How different is the guise and demeanour of the Spanish señora! If she is of the upper rank of society, she may wear a Parisian hat and a dress in the English style; but her slow, erect and graceful walk proclaim her an Andalusian. She will not start and seem insulted when a man stares her full in the face, smiles, and exclaims: 'How lovely you are! Blessed be the mother who bore you!' A parting of the lips, perhaps a slight flush, show that she is pleased when the gallant turns to gaze at her.

So much has been sung and written about the loveliness of the Sevillian doñas that I may perhaps be taken to task if I do not join in the rapturous chorus. The beauty of the Andalusian women does not startle one immediately upon setting foot in Seville. It seems to me to be a charm that needs comprehension. Undoubtedly you may see a proportion of handsome faces among the ladies in the evening parade in the park, on the racecourse, at the bull fights, and in the theatres. If you expect to find that every other woman in Seville is a belle – well, I think you will be disappointed.

'If Shakespeare is right in saying that there is no author in the world "teaches such beauty as a woman's eyes," then Andalusia easily leads the world in personal beauty.' So writes Mr. Henry T. Finck, in his Romantic Love and Personal Beauty. Byron comments in the same strain, and so does Blanco White, not to mention other authors. Perhaps Mr. G. P. Lathrop's description of the girls of the Seville tobacco factory may, by reason of its dispassionateness, be accepted as a fair estimate. In Spanish Vistas, Mr. Lathrop writes: 'Some of them had a spendthrift common sort of beauty, which, owing to their southern vivacity and fine physique, had the air of being more than it really was… The beauty of these Carmens has certainly been exaggerated. It may be remarked here that, as an offset to occasional disappointment arising from such exaggerations, all Spanish women walk with astonishing gracefulness, and natural and elastic step, and that it is their chief advantage over women of other nations.'

The opinion of Washington Irving on the charms of the Seville fair may perhaps explain my qualification that the graces do not make a sudden and arresting appeal, but require reflection and comprehension, like many interesting works of art. Washington Irving says: 'There are beautiful women in Seville as … there are in all other great cities; but do not, my worthy and inquiring friend, expect a perfect beauty to be staring you in the face at every turn, or you will be awfully disappointed… I am convinced the great fascination of Spanish women arises from their natural talent, their fire and soul, which beam through their dark and flashing eyes, and kindle up their whole countenance in the course of an interesting conversation. As I have had but few opportunities of judging them in this way, I can only criticise them with the eye of a sauntering observer. It is like judging of a fountain when it is not in play, or a fire when it lies dormant and neither flames nor sparkles.'

A true appreciation of the Sevillian dame is only possible to such as possess the wit to understand the quality known as sal or 'salt.' Andalusian sal has a flavour of its own. It is made up of persiflage and the quality called 'smartness.' Sal is more esteemed than beauty in a woman; it is more fascinating than physical comeliness. 'The Andalusian women,' writes the author of Costumbres Andaluzas, 'has on her lips all the salt of the foam of two seas.' … The woman of Andalusia 'is frank, passionate, loving or hating without taking the trouble to dissemble her sentiments.' She is 'life, light, fire'; she 'is beauty illumined by the torch of Paradise,' etc. Such is the strain of Spanish gallantry.

In the old days the ardent lover was wont to beat himself beneath a maiden's window, until the blood trickled down his back. Nowadays, the amorous cavalier waits below the casement, and when he catches a glimpse of the object of his devotion, exclaims: 'Your beauty ravishes me! Your eyes burn into my soul!'

The peculiarly guarded life of the young Spanish woman, which is in part a relic of Orientalism, and in part traceable to her religion, forces her to develop ingenuity in attracting an admirer, and in her means of communicating with him.

Mr. Lathrop, in his Spanish Vistas, says that the beggars around Seville Cathedral are sometimes the bearers of love letters to the ladies who attend the services and go to confession. A piece of silver is dropped into the mendicant's dirty palm, and a little note is transferred to the señorita's hand. And with eyes fixed modestly upon the ground, the maiden steps out of the portal of the sacred building, clutching the tender missive which she burns to read. In all countries stealthy courtship has its charm and romance for lovers; and in Spain the zest of wooing is quickened by the devices employed for clandestine assignations, and the secret conveying of gifts and letters from one lover to another. Our forthright British mode of love-making might appear almost barbarous to an Andalusian girl.

The women of Southern Spain are short, and they incline to stoutness. Mr. Finck says that sexual selection 'is evolving the petite brunette as the ideal of womanhood,' and that 'the perfected woman of the millennium will resemble the Andalusian brunette, not only in complexion, hair, eyes, gait, and tapering plumpness of figure, but also in stature.'