Sunday in Andalusia
As you pass from the shadow of the great Rock with the British guns upon it, to begin your first day’s journey in Spain —ah, Spain at last! — the sun is just rising over the sandy neutral zone to its north, and the first fine thing he does for you is to illuminate the girl with flame-colored hair who stands on the pier with two baskets of strawberries in her hands, and trays of carnations and lilies beside her. She has a lily herself—in her bosom — and carnations and a rose in her hair.
Your guide-book tells you that second class in Spanish trains is none too good, that the third-class carriages are occupied almost exclusively by the lower orders, and that first is the only proper class for ladies. But you are not a lady, and you come from a land where class distinctions are not so much in vogue as here; and besides, you have many times found the lower orders of Europe agreeable enough; and so you defy the book once more and buy a third-class ticket; and when you have crossed the little bay in the light and cool of romantic morning and taken the train at the farther pier — why, you find yourself in a compartment with two dainty American ladies who also have been defiant. They are a bit nervous at thought of the daring, and clearly apprehensive; but one of them remarks, after covert scrutiny of yourself and other dark specimens of the Spanish lower classes, ‘Well, I believe it’s going to be all right. They don’t look half bad.’
This is pleasant, and you are assailed by the impulse to say, ‘Thank you ’; but you have n’t been introduced, and you don’t know what part of America she is from. And besides, at the moment a pair of carabineros climb up, in gray-green uniforms with red facings, and sombreros de tres picos with the front one of the three picos strangely omitted, and the back turned up in a very graceless way that does not at all accord with the grave and proper demeanor of their wearers.
There are numerous other people about, and it looks as if the compartment would be filled. ‘Oh, dear!’ exclaims the younger of the ladies, ‘there are some more going to get in with us. Why don’t they get into one of the other compartments? Everyone wants to crowd in here. That’s just the way it is! They always go where they see — ’
She finishes the sentence only in her mind, not quite liking to say, ‘where they see the best people,’ and blushes just a little, being of democratic nurture, and conscientious.
There is a little programme of bellringing by the station-master, hornblowing by the guard, and whistling by the engine and the conductor, and you roll into Spain at fifteen miles an hour.
This is something of a novelty, even after a year’s experience in southern Europe, and you forgive it because it is a novelty — as you forgave the charming flame-colored hair at the pier for obtruding in a land where hair and eyes of proper breeding are black. Besides, it is early morning, and Sunday morning, and there are fresh green fields on both sides, with clean white roads, and all the land is lying under the caress of a genial sun in a clear blue sky.
It is almost too cool at first, but it warms a little by the time you have passed the first few stations, especially as you enter a valley, whose walls intercept the slight breeze from the sea. On the roads are Spanish cavaliers on gray donkeys, and at the stations are knots of people with Sunday clothes and Sunday faces. The women are fresh and smiling in black and white, with black hair, big dark eyes, and heavy arched brows that do not meet, and with cheeks where red and white are beautifully mingled, and with flowers in their hair.
And the little Andalusian girls are like them. Yonder, a few yards from your window, hanging on the closed gate beside the station-house, with a background of marguerites, rosebushes in bloom, and orange-trees, are two little girls with an elder sister, all with dark Spanish eyes, round rosy cheeks, and smiles — and flowers in their hair. They don’t know what a beautiful picture they make — what a fine detail in the purity and freshness of the morning.
The men are clean in fresh Sunday shirts; there are many corduroys to be seen, and red sashes, and capas of deep colors over rugged shoulders, and stiff, straight-brimmed, flat-crowned, oval Andalusian hats. They are rather angular, these men, with faces full of character, and they move with natural dignity, and — or but — all smoke cigarettes.
‘I declare I’m enjoying every minute of this!’ exclaims the lady again. ’Just see how the red and blue set off that gray donkey there — the one with the rider in red sash and corduroys! And I counted sixteen kinds of flowers while we were waiting at that station!’
She might have counted a thousand, bless her, had there been a thousand; there was time enough. The Spanish train is in no hurry. Even the expreso and the lujo, which make twenty-five miles an hour, only seem to hurry on account of the brighter uniforms and the red in the engine-wheels. The correo, which carries the mail, has a name that promises motion, but it never much exceeds its promise. The mercancia and the mixto, which you can hardly hope to escape, run somewhat faster than a very tall man with very light luggage could walk. The demands their schedule makes are so very moderate that they would never disappoint, were it not for an amiable weakness of falling asleep at stations.
The train this morning is a correo, but everything is so new that you feel no more hurried than the train, and rather enjoy its ways. It creeps into the station quietly and carefully, as if in fear that some hen might have laid one of those numerous fine Spanish eggs on the track, and it might get broken in a too reckless approach. Sometimes — but this does n’t happen frequently — it slows up when near to one of the smallest of the multitudinous stations, and sneaks by without stopping, as if ashamed or afraid.
When it does come to a standstill, it listlessly slides back a bit, then slides forward a bit, then rights itself once more, and then straightens up with a jerk — as if it were tired, and its muscles not obedient to its will. Then, for a few moments, every one cautiously waits to see what further it intends.
About the time it is thoroughly stopped, some one pulls at the cord attached to the tongue of the stationbell, and gives three signals — to let the passengers, and any one else who may be interested, know that the train has officially arrived; and a station employee calls out, ‘San Pablo, ocho minutos!’ — meaning that there will be eight minutes of waiting.
But the clock already points at leaving-time, and you wonder why the train does not go. There are a few men sauntering about and chatting, but there is no baggage, and the postal agent from the town has already handed over his little wallet of a dozen letters and received as many in return — if it is a brisk day for mail in Andalusia. After a few weeks of experience, you will come to the conclusion that trains have habits, and that this was why you waited at San Pablo.
In the course of time, some one signals again with the bell, and you sit back expectant. But nothing happens. A man passes the length of the train, chanting in a long-drawn sacerdotal tone, ‘ Señores viajeros al tren!' that is the Spanish ‘All aboard!’ You look out , but no one is doing anything, and you see nothing going forward of a nature either to hinder or promote departure. In a few minutes more there is another signal, and you sit back again — and again nothing happens.
Just as you are making ready to lower the window and look out once more, there is the trill of a trainman’s whistle up ahead, and now you feel sure you are going. But there is still a half minute, with no sound and no movement ; and then, though nothing new has happened, the engine whistles sharply, and in a few seconds resumes its labors. As you move away, a station-hand, perhaps the dignified jefe de estación himself, blows three blasts on a little horn, and now there is no doubt that you are off.
At the last station, a man with a milk-can and two chickens got in. The latter he tumbles under the seat, with legs tied, scattering a little grain before their beaks; the milk-can he deposits in the rack overhead, where a soldier who is moving to another post has already placed two bird-cages and several boxes, and where a woman — with flowers in her hair — has laid a bunch of green onions and a big bouquet. You rightly argue that the baggage provisions for third-class passengers in Spain are very liberal.
The ladies are amused, but worried. ‘I was awfully afraid he’d get that milk-can against my dress,’ says the elder. ‘I wish I had put on a thirdclass traveling-suit. Don’t you think we’d better tip the conductor, so he won’t let any one else come in with us? I think I’ll give him a peseta at the next station.’
At the next halting-place, as at some of the preceding, there is a little booth on the platform, with shutter raised to shade it, and behind its counter of gleaming glasses and bottles stands another fresh-faced woman — with flowers in her hair. There is a lively and good-humored trade in various liquids
— water for one cent, and others for two.
‘ Look, there is a place with drinks! ’ cries the younger lady; and after a while, very earnestly, ’I believe that what she is filling those little glasses with is anisette, and it’s awfully good. I’m going to have some.’
‘Hey!’ She calls to the conductor, who happens to be looking, ‘anisette? anisette?’ and motions him to bring some. She has n’t discovered yet that a loud and alarming ‘Ps-s-s-st!’ is the Spanish way of attracting attention.
The conductor has plenty of time, of course, and goes over to the booth, and the fresh-faced woman with flowers in her hair carefully rubs till they sparkle even more two little glasses, and sends them brim full to the car. The lady puts a peseta into the conductor’s hand, he pays the woman four cents, and brings back fifteen cents in coppers — perras gordas and perras chicas, ‘ big dogs’ and ‘little dogs,’ as the royal lions on them are named by popular Spanish humor.
The lady waves him off, crying out, ‘No, no! That’s all right! That’s all right!’ And he does n’t know what to do, and tries to pour the pieces into her hand, or into her lap, and is still protesting, half injured and half mystified, when the train moves away. Can it be that there is a mortal in Mediterranean lands who will not take a tip?
At the next station there is no little booth, but a woman — with flowers in her hair — passes under the window with a big stone jug held against her hip, and a ‘Quién quiere agua?’ and pours a few glasses of water for a perra chica apiece. She calls but once or twice, and then stands quietly waiting to see whether any one else is thirsty, being, like most of her countrymen, not greatly concerned about her gains.
Another woman standing near, as little concerned, has a basket of oranges. You have no idea what they cost, and hold up a perra gorda, and she brings you three of the never-to-be-forgotten oranges of Andalusia — so rich and juicy and tender that you can’t get the peel off without shedding their golden blood in streams.
‘They are awfully hard to eat,’ remarks the younger lady to her companion, as she sees your plight.
Here a woman and a calm-eyed little girl get on — with flowers in their hair. The woman, on passing through the door, lifts a pleasant face toward all, and says a greeting in the manner of her people: ’Buenos estad’ — be you well! Or perhaps it is the more universal, ‘Buenos dias!’ or the still shorter, ‘Buenos!’ that often takes its place; for the Spaniard wastes no words. When he wants to be especially cordial, he expands into, ‘ Muy buenos!' still leaving the dias for the party of the second part to supply — thus dividing the labor of greeting, so to speak.
‘ How precious you are! ’ says the woman, who is clearly a grandmother, kissing the face of the calm-eyed child, and hugging her close.
Another woman has two children, one of them very small. An interested neighbor asks the mother to ‘do her the favor ’ of letting her hold the baby, and beams with pleasure at a response which is given with conscious hospitality. The conductor, with cigarette stuck over his ear, stops to pat the infant’s cheek, and to inquire its gender. ‘Is it a chico or a chica?’ ‘A chico ’ promptly responds the mother, and volunteers to the passengers in general that both children were born in Argentina, and that the elder — pobrecita! — still was nursing when the younger was born, and had to be put on the bottle. This sounds like an apology, and seems, from the look on the faces round about, to be received as such.
At a certain station, the woman and the calm-eyed child descend, and there stands the father, with a kiss for greeting. As she leaves the car, she wishes you ‘Good continuation,’ or, more probably, utters the universal Spanish, ‘Vaya Usted con Dios’—may you go with God!—a leave-taking with seeming implication that it is less difficult for man to follow the way of God than for God to follow the way of man.
A soldier, too, gets out, from the car ahead, just home from Africa. A crowd is waiting on the platform, and he is rushed upon by friends and relatives, who jump and caper, laughing and weeping and crying, ‘ay! ay! ay!’ without the least thought of restraint, and almost rending him with kisses and embraces. Another soldier has just got in, and his wife, with streaming eyes, holds the baby up to the window for a last kiss as the train moves on. A great surprise, such unrestraint in this grave, impassive-looking people; but you learn that this is their way when the springs of affection are touched.
The valley is narrower now, and you sometimes follow close to the stream, and the limestone barriers are not far distant, and you enjoy charming visions of gleaming white-walled villages in the gray verdure at their base. At the stream-banks begin green grass, and fruit and olive trees, and little fields of grain, and gardens, and they in turn are bordered by round green hills with trees, which would be mountains, but cannot quite succeed. Beyond these, far up and treeless, silver-gray tinged faintly with red, and spotted with a shrub or two, are the real mountains, rising until their lines cut sharply into the clear blue brightness of the sky, that seems so void. You have come to Spain from the sea, and somehow it seems as if there could be nothing beyond those mountain ridges but blue waters — on one side the Midland Sea, on the other the Streams of Ocean. You feel yourself surrounded by blue sea, secluded from the rest of the world.
There are lunches on the train, and you are made acquainted with another pleasant custom of the Spanish people. Your neighbor draws forth his bread and cheese, or salsichón, or pimento-red chorizo, or other form of sausage, with bottle of wine, looks amiably about, and says, ‘Ustedes gustan?’— would you like? It is only formal, of course, but pleasant. At an empalme, where the line branches, is a railway restaurant, with a wait of half an hour; but there is no gong, no one rushes after your patronage, and you are as welcome to buy a few cents’ worth of fruit and bread and cheese as to take the regular meal at fifty cents. You are beginning to remark to yourself that Spain, of all the countries you have traveled in, seems least greedy.
You are through the mountains now, and in the midst of a wide and sunny plain, with very red soil showing in the railway banks, and contrasting strongly in the fields with green grain and vines and gray-green olives. At the northern border of the plain a sierra cuts the sky.
And now you descry a low-lying, whitewashed city with a beautiful belltower rising high above its only massive building, and in a moment are at your journey’s end. You alight in the city of the great Mosque.
The siesta hours are long to-day, and you are almost alone in the warm and quiet streets — warm and quiet and clean, and perfumed with orange and locust blossom. You pass through the Gate of Pardon into the warm, wide garden-court before the Mosque, where locust and orange are more fragrant still, and the fine old fountain is purling to itself, and one or two priests are walking under the opaque trees, and the silence is rich.
Inside the Mosque, in the dim recesses among the hundreds and hundreds of columns, are groups of two and three who are walking or standing in awe: the columns are so interminable, the light and the distances so mystic, and the music of vespers is just beginning. Even here you get the scent of orange, of carnation, or of rose, as a knot of women pass, with flowers in their hair.
When you emerge again into the old patio, the black shadows of the orange trees have lengthened, and the women of the quarter about the Great Sanctuary are filling their big jars at the fountain, and children are running about — with flowers in their hair. Out in the street, a girl with oval face and dancing dark eyes and a carnation in the knot of her hair, stops with her jar, to assail you with Andalusian sauciness: ‘Ah Señorito muy simpatico, give me a perra gorda!' Assuredly you will. This is even better than being called ‘ Senor Caballero’ by the most courtly men of Europe. And out in the paseo by the broad banks of the Guadalquivir are more women and girls and children — and all with flowers. You never really knew before what roses and carnations were for.
In the narrow streets with the clean cobble pavement, bordered by one and two-story stuccoed and whitewashed houses, you get the perfume of flowers again. The sidewalks are narrow, and there is no space for plants, and balconies and windows are few, for the Andalusian town has streets almost as blank as those of the Moors. You wonder whence the perfume comes, until you happen to glance through a portal or two, and see the most beautiful patios within, with clean, bright marble floors, and light from the azure sky above, and shrubs and plants in brilliant bloom.
When the twilight comes, you see a figure standing alone by the wall of a house some distance ahead. But he is not alone. He is at a reja, and on the other side of the reja is a girl of Andalusia with flowers in her hair. Be sure he scents them, though you may not. This is the courting through the grate that you have so many times witnessed before as you traveled Spain in the finely naturalistic page of Valdés in the modern Spanish novel. In passing, you catch the subdued ripple of the hidden senorita’s laugh as the witty requiebros of her lover call it forth.
Everything to-day has been subdued and mellow — a leisurely train, subdued sunlight, subdued sounds in the Mosque and its fine old court, mellow perfumes, mellow laughter, — subdued and mellow by nature, not from taking thought. When the twilight has deepened, it does not give place to dark, but to the subdued light of a mellow round moon. The breeze, too, is so subdued that it stirs no ruffle on the broad, calm bosom of the Guadalquivir, and only carries to your nostril the delicate scent of locust and orange from patio and garden — and of the flowers in women’s hair.
The American ladies alighted at a little mountain town, and in a few hours were going back to the Rock with the British guns upon it, and so to America.
‘I think we are making a great mistake not to travel in Spain,’ one of them had said. As you sit in the patio of the Spanish fonda, eating an Andalusian dinner in a bower of roses and green plants, you are sure that the lady was right.