Spanish Highways and Byways

But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'
And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"

Spanish wiseheads say that the children's choral games are already perishing, that the blight of schools and books is passing upon the child-life of the Peninsula, and soon there will be no more time for play. The complaint of the niñas is much to the same effect, yet they wear their rue with a difference: —

"Not even in the Prado
Can little maidens play,
Because those staring, teasing boys
Are always in the way.

"They might be romping with us,
For they're only children yet,
But they won't play at anything
Except a cigarette.

"Now let me tell you truly:
If things go on like this,
And midgets care for nothing
But to walk and talk and kiss,

"No plays will cheer the Prado
In future times, for then
The little boys of seven
Will all be married men."

XXI

"O LA SEÑORITA!"

"Since the English education came into fashion, there is not a maiden left who can feel true love." – Alarcón.

During my stifling night journey from Madrid to the north I had much chat with Castilian and German ladies in the carriage about Spanish girls. Our talk turned especially on their reading, so reminding me of an incident of the past spring. On an Andalusian balcony I once found a little girl curled up in the coolest corner and poring over a shabby, paper-bound book. On my expressing interest in the volume, she presented it at once, according to the code of Spanish manners. "The book is at the disposal of your worship." But as the bundle of tattered leaves was not only so precious to her own small worship, but also greatly in demand among her worshipful young mates, whose constant borrowing seemed a strain even on Andalusian courtesy, I retained it merely long enough to note the title and general character. The next time I entered a book-shop I expended ten cents for this specimen of juvenile literature – "the best-selling book in Seville," if the clerk's word may be taken – and have it before me as I write. On the cover is stamped a picture of two graceful señoritas, perusing, apparently, this very work, "The Book of the Enamored and the Secretary of Lovers," and throughout the two hundred pages are scattered cheap cuts, never indecent, but suggesting violent ardors of passion – embracings, kissings, gazings, pleadings, with hearts, arrows, torches, and other ancient and honorable heraldry of Cupid. The title-page announces that this is a fifth edition of ten thousand copies.

The opening section is on "Love and Beauty," enumerating, by the way, the "thirty points" essential to a perfect woman. "Three things white – skin, teeth, and hands. Three black – eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Three rosy – lips, cheeks, and nails." But warning is duly given that even the thirty points of beauty do not make up a sum total of perfection without the mystic, all-harmonizing quality of charm.

Next in order are the several sets of directions for winning the affections of maid, wife, and widow, with a collection of edifying sentiments from various saints and wits concerning widows. Descriptions of wedding festivities follow, with a glowing dissertation on kisses, "the banquet-cups of love." After this stands a Castilian translation of an impassioned Arab love-song with the burden, Todo es amor. Maxims on love, culled chiefly from French authorities, are succeeded by an eighteenth-century love-catechism: —

"Question. Art thou a lover?

Answer. Yes, by the grace of Cupid.

Question. What is a lover?

Answer. A lover is one who, having made true and faithful declaration of his passion, seeks the means of gaining the love of her whom he adores."

This is the first lesson. The second treats of the five signs of love, the third of love's duties, the fourth gives the orison of lovers – a startling adaptation of the Lord's Prayer – and their creed: "I believe in Cupid, absolute Lord of Love, who gives to lovers all their joys, and in her whom I love most, for most lovable is she, on whom I think without ceasing, and for whom I would sacrifice gladly my honor and my life."

There is nothing here, it will be noticed, of the Englishman's proud exception: —

"I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more."

Love has its own beatitudes, too. "Blessed are they who love sincerely. Blessed are they of merry mood. Blessed are lovers who have patience. Blessed are the rich, for love delights to spend."

A "Divination of Dreams," "copied from an ancient manuscript found in the ruins of the convent of San Prudencio, in Clavijo," that famous battle-ground where St. James first trampled the Moors, next engages attention. To dream of a fan is sign of a coming flirtation; of a banner, success in war; of a woman's singing, sorrow and loss; of stars, fair fortune in love; of fire, good luck at cards; of a black cat, trouble from the mother-in-law; of closed eyes, your child in mortal peril; of birds, joy and sweet content; of a ghost, ill health; of scissors, a lover's quarrel; of wine, a cheating Frenchman; of shoes, long journeys; of angels, good tidings from far away. Some of these omens are a surprise to the uninitiated reader. It is bad luck to behold in a dream images of Christ and the Virgin. A church, seen from within, denotes alms; from without, death. To dream of the altar arrayed for high mass betokens grave misfortune. Other omens are significant of Spanish discontents. To dream of a Jesuit brings miseries and betrayals; of a military officer, tyranny and brutality; of a king, danger; of a republic, "abundance, happiness, honors, and work well recompensed." Often these divinations run into rhyme, as: —

"Dream of God at midnight dim,
And by day you'll follow Him."

The next section of this Complete Guide is given over to snatches of love-song, which Andalusian children know by heart. These five are fairly representative: —

"Mine is a lover well worth the loving.
Under my balcony he cries:
'You have maddened me with your grace of moving,
And the beaming of your soft black eyes.'"

"Though thou go to the highest heaven,
And God's hand draw thee near,
The saints will not love thee half so well
As I have loved thee here."

"If I had a blossom rare,
I would twine it in thy hair,
Though God should stoop and ask for it
To make His heaven more exquisite."

"Such love for thee, sent forth from me,
Bears on such iron gate
That I, used so, no longer know
Whether I love or hate."

"The learnéd are not wise,
The saints are not in bliss;
They have not looked into your eyes,
Nor felt your burning kiss."

Then comes a "New Dictionary of Love," defining some two hundred doubtful terms in Cupid's lexicon, as forever, no, unselfish. After this we are treated to the language of fan flirtation, of handkerchief flirtation, of flower flirtation, and "the clock of Flora," by which lovers easily make appointments, – one, two, three, being numbered in rose, pink, tulip, and so on. A cut of a youth toiling at a manuscript-laden desk introduces some fifty pages of model love-letters, which seem, to the casual eye, to cover all contingencies. A selection of verses used for adding a grace to birthday and saint-day gifts comes after, and this all-sufficient compendium concludes with a "Lovers' Horoscope."

A single illustration of the sort of reading that Spanish girls find in their way should not, of course, be pressed too far, and yet any one who had seen the pretty group of heads clustered for hours over these very pages on that shaded balcony would not deny the book significance. A taste for the best reading is not cultivated in Spanish girls, even where the treasures of that great Castilian literature are accessible to them. Convent education knows nothing of Calderon. As for books especially adapted to girlhood, we have just examined a sample.

Love and religion are the only subjects with which a señorita is expected to concern herself, and the life of the convent is often a second choice. Even when a Spanish girl wins her crown of wifehood and motherhood, her ignorance and poverty of thought tell heavily against the most essential interests of family life. The Spanish bride is often a child in years. Pacheco's direction for painting the Immaculate Conception ran, "Our Lady is to be pictured in the flower of her age, from twelve to thirteen." This was three centuries ago, but Spain changes slowly. The girl of to-day, nevertheless, marries later than her mother married. I remember one weary woman of forty with eighteen children in their graves and the three who were living physical and mental weaklings. She told us of a friend who married at fourteen and used to leave her household affairs in confusion while she stole away to a corner to play with her dolls. Her husband, a grave lawyer in middle life, would come home to dinner and find his helpmeet romping with the other children in the plaza.

The Spanish girl is every whit as fascinating as her musical, cloaked gallant confides to her iron-grated lattice. Indeed, these amorous serenades hardly do her justice, blending as she does French animation with Italian fervor. In Andalusia she dances with a grace that makes every other use of life seem vain. And when she bargains, there is nothing sordid about it. Her haggling is a social condescension that at once puts the black-eyed young salesman at her mercy.

"But the fan seems to me the least bit dear, señor."

He shrugs his shoulders and flings out his arm in protest.

"Ah, señorita! You see not how beautiful the work is. I am giving it away at six pesetas."