Maud Howe Elliott

“ARE you painting?” Don Luis, the Valencian, put his head into the studio. “Am I too early? The fandango is to-day, isn’t it?”

“Adelante!” cried Villegas, “the ladies have come. Imperio will be here soon. I am only preparing my work for to-morrow.” He stood before a new canvas making a charcoal drawing of Angoscia.

“He cannot waste five minutes!” sighed Lucia.

“It seems that we are either working, or getting ready to work, day and night. Where does life come in?” asked Don Luis.

“Turn the head this way,” said Villegas to the model. “Hold the guitar better—so.” Then to Don Luis: “To those accustomed to work, work is life.”

“I have noticed,” said the Argentino, who came in at that moment with Patsy, “that only working people know how to play. That’s the reason artists play so much better than the rest of us.”

“What did you see in Barcelona that made up for missing the fÊtes?” I asked the Argentino.

“A woman clerk who sold me a railroad ticket. A butcher’s shop where the meat was cut up and sold by women,” he answered.

There were cries of protest from all the party. “That’s going a little too far if you will,” the Argentino acknowledged; “but it’s a sign of progress—things will adjust themselves. I saw the cathedral too; that’s a joy forever. I hardly knew the old city—expensive buildings are springing up everywhere in the art nouveau style, pandemonium in stone, an echo of the ‘greenery-yallery Grosvenor Gallery’ nonsense, the tag end of the ‘Æsthetic’ movement. Big granite buildings with window frames, whole faÇades even, carved into flowers. Lilies, poppies, what you like. No more idea of architecture, of style, of subordinating parts to the whole, than—than——”

“That comes of progressive republican ideas,” growled Don Luis; for once our cheerful Valencian was out of sorts.

“You have no sympathy with them?” I asked.

“Frankly, I have never had time to occupy myself with such matters,” Don Luis confessed. “I don’t know if a Republic is good for the arts or not. The Republicans I know are all barbarians. They come to the Prado; I hear them say to the guides,

THE DOGARESSA. Villegas

‘Are these dingy old pictures all you have to show?’ I once took a Chilian to Rome. When he saw the Sistine Chapel he was furious. ‘Why do the writers deceive us?’ he said, ‘we have better chapels in Valparaiso.’ Suppose Don Alfonzo should order a hundred portraits of himself—people might laugh but nobody could stop him. If the President of the Argentine ordered twenty, or five, or even one portrait of himself, and paid for it out of the public money, would you reËlect him?”

“Art is a luxury,” the Argentino began.

“Ah, there’s your mistake, it’s a prime necessity, it is the great civilizer!” Don Luis was roused. “North Americans are not so ignorant of art as South Americans,” he added, remembering there were two present. “They are the great buyers now. Villegas’ Baptisimo is in New York, and now his Dogaressa has gone to Washington.”

Here Patsy plunged into the talk and reminded Don Luis of the Age of Phidias, the painters of the Dutch and Venetian Republics. The great periods of art had little to do with the form of government under which they flourished. Art was a rare and wonderful flowering of the human intelligence, the fairest flower on the tree of life. It depended on the development of the race, not the will of the ruler.

“That may be,” said the Argentino, “but if we are ever again to have a great art, the artist must be protected, his trade must be taken as seriously as the baker’s or the plumber’s. If art is the fine flower of civilization, it must in its very nature be the costliest of products—so to most people it seems a luxury.”

“Is religion a luxury, is poetry a luxury? Is anything that lifts the ideals, or stimulates the imagination a luxury?” cried Don Luis, passionately.

The old arguments were brought forward and threshed out, the discussion became heated; meanwhile Villegas worked on steadily. On the flat bare canvas a dim foreshadowing of what would be Angoscia’s perfect face grew and grew under his hands. While the others talked about art he was at work upon his latest masterpiece, the portrait of Angoscia.[5]

This was our last visit to the dear studio in the Pasaje del Alhambra, where for six months J. had worked, where we had all been so happy together. Our stay in Madrid was drawing to a close; we counted the hours now as misers count gold.

“The picture the Czar bought is of the same subject as this,” said J., pointing to The Death of the Matador.

The wounded matador lies on a litter in the chapel of the bull-ring. An old priest stands at his head, reading the prayers for the dying. A group of gorgeously dressed bull-fighters stand about him, their eyes fixed on their comrade’s pale face. At the back of the picture an opening in the wall gives a glimpse of the crowded arena, where the spectators are watching the great game of death, unconscious that a few feet away one of the heroes of the corrida is dying, gored to death by the last bull.

While I was looking for the last time at the picture, Don Jaime came into the studio with a stranger, an immense man, deep in the chest, broad in the shoulders, small in the hips. His head was scarred, so were both his hands. He wore his hair brushed down on his forehead. At the first glance he looked like a priest, at the second like a prize fighter.

“Jaime has kept his word,” whispered J., “that is—the most famous matador in the world.”

“That is something I have seen more than once,” said the matador, looking at the picture. “In my time there was a mass before every corrida, when the priests carried the oils of the extreme unction in procession. I stopped that; it took the heart out of a man.”

The matador came nearer the picture, studied it carefully, taking now the attitude of one figure, now of another. “Muy bien!” he said, nodding his great head in approval.

“You cannot know,” said the Argentino to me, “how good that picture is. No one who is not familiar with the ways of torreros can know. See the one who crosses himself, and bends his knee—it is exactly their manner. See the civil guard in the corner explaining to the other how the accident happened—look at his hand, it tells the story.”

“How many bulls have you killed?” asked Patsy of the matador.

“In twenty-five years I killed three thousand five hundred bulls.”

“Were you ever afraid?”

“I was afraid many, many times. On those occasions I never put my faith in the Virgin, but rather in my legs and ran as fast as I could. The bull, however, is the noblest of animals and the bravest. He never makes a cowardly attack from behind; he is so frank! He is terrible, though; a man needs nerve to face him when he comes into the ring pawing the earth and bellowing.”

“Will you tell me about the bull that was the hardest of all to kill?” asked Patsy.

The matador’s face changed: “He was a white bull,” he said, slowly, “and he didn’t want to fight. When he first came in, he put his muzzle in my hand. He followed me about like a little

dog. I led him with the cloak wherever I wanted him to go. Yes, that was the hardest bull of all to kill.”

J., who had been looking at the matador ever since he came into the studio, nodded his head as if satisfied.

“He’s the man,” he said. “I had forgotten the name; I remember the face. I saw you kill a bull in Cadiz once. I wonder if you remember it? The bull put his head down to charge, and you put your foot between his horns, stepped on his head, ran along his back and jumped down behind.”

“Ah, that happened at Cadiz? No, I don’t remember. The Cadiz audience is the best in Spain, the most intelligent, the most sympathetic; it has the best knowledge of the art. It is not like the Madrid audience, that must sit in judgment and criticise. The American audience is good, especially the Mexican. Yes, the Americans have a real understanding of the art.”

“Have you ever been wounded?” asked Patsy.

“Often; twice badly. Once I spent three months in bed; that was not amusing, I can tell you. The bull’s horn went through my thigh and wrenched the muscles apart. I recovered though. The wound of the bull’s horn is a good wound; one either recovers from it, or dies quickly.”

“Have you any scholars?” asked Patsy.

“No,” sighed the matador. “My art is one that does not allow of disciples. A man cannot be trained to it if he has not the gift. It is an inspiration, like poetry.” He sighed. “It is five years since I retired. It seems twenty-five.”

He was silent a few minutes, looking down as if distressed; then he brushed back his hair with a spirited gesture and glanced again at the picture.

“Most of us end that way,” he confessed. “I have escaped to become an alderman and interest myself in the hygiene of the city that once criticised me!” Then to Villegas: “It was kind of you to ask me to see Pastora Imperio; I have not seen her since she was a child. Her father used to make my professional clothes. They tell me she is a great dancer.”

Villegas had arranged that Imperio should dance for us at the studio. The others had seen her often and were never tired of talking about her.

“Until I saw Imperio dance,” said Patsy, “it was always a mystery to me why Herod had John the Baptist’s head cut off to satisfy the whim of a dancing girl. Now I quite understand it.”

While they were discussing her, Imperio walked into the studio with her mother, followed by her brother Dionisio and another youth, each carrying a guitar; behind them came attendant nymphs with sisters or mothers, the inevitable chorus that keeps time with hand clapping, foot patting, and encourages the performance with cries of ollÉ, ollÉ, and andar.

The two studios had been made miraculously neat and tidy. They smelled of turpentine and beeswax. Gil and Cisera had been at work half the day preparing for the fandango. They had spread two tables in the inner studio where J. worked; one with tea and cake for us, the other with sandwiches, sliced sausages, and manzanilla, a thin, white wine, for the performers.

First we had songs; the curious long-drawn chanted wailing songs of Andalusia that have more of the East than of the West in them. To our ears they were a trifle monotonous but to the Spaniards, to the Andalusians especially they were tremendously moving. Dionisio, a strange-looking youth of eighteen, with odd slate-colored eyes and a lovely smile, threw back his head and wailed out couplet after couplet.

“Ay de mi!” cried Imperio and shivered.

“Virgin!” sighed Dionisio’s mother.

Imperio repeated the words slowly to me, line by line. I can see her now! her burning green eyes fixed on mine, her face that made all the other faces seem expressionless in comparison. She was at once immortally young and immemorially old. Her face was young, the spirit that looked from those marvellous eyes was immemorially old. The grace of her wild chaste dance is world old and has come down from the ages. I despair of making any one imagine her! Small, lithe, graceful as a young tigress from the jungle, now laughing like a child, now brooding like the world spirit.

When I could not understand what she said she was furious;—I must have had a bad teacher, she herself would teach me Spanish. When she arrived with her mother she was demurely dressed in a pretty white frock like any other young Andaluz. Her short, thick black hair was curiously arranged in curls on either side of her face, held in place by tortoise-shell combs set with turquoises. I gave her a pair of crimson peonies I had bought from the old flower woman at the corner. These evidently decided the color of her dress. After a while she disappeared behind the vast canvas of the Death of the Matador, that takes up the whole end of the studio, and from this improvised dressing room she soon reappeared in a scarlet moreen skirt, and a manton de Manila draped gracefully a la maya, about her lithe figure. She had stuck the peonies in the curls on either side of her pale face.

Dionisio and the other lad began to play a strange droning, wailing chant; the chorus clapped hands keeping time. Imperio sat watching till she caught the right rhythm, then she sprang to the dance, the castanets on her fingers. What it all meant, I cannot begin to tell. It seemed the primitive expression of the joy, the pain, the mystery of life. As she made “the charm of woven passes,” like Vivian—only Vivian was bad, this child was virginal and pure—the combs dropped out, the short, black hair clung about her face and neck, the color surged to her cheeks; she seemed as one filled with the divine fury of the dance; a pythoness, a Bacchic priestess, might have looked like this. We had seen in Granada, in the Gypsy King’s cave, somewhat similar dances given by very old women and little girls of ten or eleven. These were as the past and the future. Imperio made the dance part of a glowing, splendid, breathless present. Life called to life, the life blood in our veins danced in time with those wonderful gestures of arms, of feet, of the whole perfect body of the creature. I believe she drew power from us, that it was all give and take. She gave us youth and the dance, the dance which is the natural expression of the lust of life; and we gave her the elixir of our sympathy. Suddenly she stopped and broke forth into song—singing a long panegyric of Seville:—

The flexibility of her body was unbelievable. I can see now the little, little hands held over her wild head, the fingers snapping rhythmically, for the castanets were soon thrown away and her fingers themselves marked the measure to which she danced; the impatient tapping of the feet, the wild leaps in air when she seemed to grow taller, to tower above us and her own original self, and finally the abandon of her last pose, the final attitude; the head thrown back, the red lips parted, the gasping breath coming from between the small perfect teeth, the left arm down, the right arm thrown above her head, her whole body quivering with the ecstacy of the dance—it was worth coming to Spain—just to see one of Pastora Imperio’s poses!

“I have never seen dance any gel as Imperio,” Jaime exclaimed. “More gracious, great spirit in her figure (he meant face) always smiling!”

“There’s something half dramatic, half religious about this,” said Patsy—“like David’s dancing before the Ark or like the Pyrric dance, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Don Jaime agreed, “I have not seen La Davide, nor the other dancer, La Pyrrique, you speak of. In Spain the dance is according to the region; in Madrid, the madrileÑa, in Seville the sevilliana, in La Mancha the manchego, and so on. The base of all our Spanish dances is oriental; this is rather correct, any lady may see it. Imperio dances with the entirety of the corpe. The French dance with toes, feet, and legs only.”

“Who taught you to dance?” I asked Imperio, “your mother, was it not?”

“Nobody!” she exclaimed proudly. “I have danced since I was eight years old.”

“She see her mother dance every day since she were born. She imitate her dancing as her walking, but do not know—each of them have their own manner.”

“That dance is as old as Eve,” said the Argentino, “Imperio adds the sum of her own personality to it, and it is new again.”

“Will Imperio dance to-night?” I asked.

“Always at the KÜrsaal after middlenight,” said the Don. “How a pity you cannot go Missis. There are some French and English performers would not please ladies.”

“Ask her to tell you about her doll,” said Villegas; “her mother says that she still plays with it on rainy days when she has to stay at home.”

“Don’t you think Imperio dances better in the studio than in the KÜrsaal?” Patsy asked.

“Claro!” the mother smiled and agreed with him.

“Natural,” said Villegas, “we are all Sevilliani, born in the same parish, baptised from the same font in the cathedral. When I first came to Madrid—to copy Velasquez—I was just sixteen years old then—Imperiou’s mother was the first dancer in Spain. How is it? Have you forgotten the dance you gave before Queen Isabel at the palace?”

The grave, fat, middle-aged woman said she remembered something of the dance.

“Well, show us how it went.”

“Yes, little mama,” said Imperio kindly, “show us how you danced before the Queen.”

The old dancer rose with a curious action springing with one step from her chair to the first position of the dance. Then with a noble solemnity she danced the same dances, only not with the same spirit as Imperio; that would have been incongruous. She danced with the most magnificent and splendid dignity as became the mother of a family. Patsy was right, so might David have danced before the Ark. Little saucy Imperio sat by and encouraged.

“Viva tu madre, ollÉ ollÉ!” she cried, clapping her little hands.

Dionisio nodded kindly to his mother, looking at her with eyes that were her very own. The gentle mother, so long relegated to the second place, danced and rejoiced in the tardy attention and applause of the company.

“Isn’t it time for refreshments?” asked Patsy. “They all look as if they needed something to eat.” We adjourned to the inner studio where the dancers and musicians fell upon the good things with the appetite of demigods and heros. Imperio seeing that I was not eating anything, came across the room holding between a small thumb and finger a thin slice of sausage which she offered me, which I made out to eat.

Don Jaime seemed in a dream, he had felt the dance deeply; Patsy tapped on the shoulder. “Wake up,” he said, “have you forgotten where you are?”

“It is like the lotus,” sighed the Don, “it make you forget all the world.”

Imperio had changed her dress again; the fandango, the very best fiesta of all we saw in Spain, was over.

“Show us my portrait, Maestro,” she said, pointing to a veiled picture on an easel.

Villegas threw back the curtain and showed us a second Imperio standing with one hand raised above her head, one held behind her back, a red matador hat upon her short curls, the emerald fire in her eyes. Patsy stared at the picture, then at Imperio, once more a demure child in a white frock as she was when she came into the studio, save for an added touch of color in her cheeks.

“To the life!” cried Patsy.

Villegas rubbed his fingers over the canvas; “It needs a little scraping down,” he said, “a little repainting, the color is too thick. It is like her, yes? Quien sabÉ! She is different from the

rest. When she falls in love and marries she will be like the others. You have seen, I have tried to paint the first dancer of Spain in her flower.” Then he went with the dancers to the door.

“Villegas says,” Patsy quoted him, “‘that an artist should leave behind him a true picture of his own time; that he should be like a phonograph, preserving the character of his own period to posterity. The matador and the dancing girl are two of the most characteristic figures of the Spain of his day; he has painted both supremely well: he seems to be doing the thing he set out to do!’”

All too soon after the fiesta came the day we had fixed to leave Madrid. Not till then did I realize the strength of the spell Spain had laid upon me. We were going to Rome—even that could not console me—for the spell of Spain, so dark, so noble, so tremendous, is not to be shaken off once you have yielded to it.

The promise the child made so lightly, “to see Spain, and tell the other children what it is like,” has yet to be kept. I did not begin to see Spain, I have told but a halting story of what I did see. It was enough to make me love Spain, to love the Spaniards. They are more like us Anglo-Saxons than any people I have lived among. Villegas says, “In every one of us Spaniards there is a Sancho Panza, and a Don Quixote.” That is as true of us as it is of them.

Several of our friends came to the station to see us off as is the pleasant custom of a land where people are rich, because they have time to be kind. Lucia, hospitable to the last, came followed by Gil carrying a great net basket with a roast capon, some torrones, and a bottle of ValdepeÑas. Engracia, the lovely soft-eyed, willful beauty of Madrid, brought us chocolates from Paris, a characteristic gift, for she is a true Cosmopolitan: mi paisano, Robert Mason Winthrop, Secretary of the American Legation, who had been endlessly kind and added in a thousand ways to the interest of our life in Madrid, brought a bunch of wonderful Spanish carnations.

Don Jaime and Patsy were both more cast down at parting than either wished the other to realize.

“Come and see us in America, Don,” said Patsy, “We will give you the time of your life.”

“Though I would like to take another climate,” said the Don, “I have not the dinero fresco, fresh money as you say. I have not the habitude to spend very mooch to voyage; I could not justificate the emprize at present.”

“Where is Villegas?” asked J.

“There he comes,” said little Don Luis, the Valencian, “bearing the flowers of San JosÉ.”

Villegas was hurrying along the platform with a great sheaf of annunciation lilies in his arms.

“Adios, adios,” we cried from the window as the train began to move.

“No, no!” came a cordial chorus from the platform.

“Hasta otra vista.”

BOOKS BY MAUD HOWE

ROMA BEATA

Letters from the Eternal City

With illustrations from drawings by John Elliott and
from photographs. 8vo. Cloth, gilt top
in box, $2.50 net

No aspect of the Roman kaleidoscope escaped her notice, and for the Pope and peasant her comprehension and sympathies were alike quick and ready.—Boston Herald.

This is a clever book, and an engaging one. The author has observed Italians and Italian life with an intelligence no less sympathetic than acute. By temperament as well as by training she was fitted to appreciate the glamour of Italy—that embodied romance of nature, art, and history. In these sketches, marked by humor, discrimination, and womanly grace and gentleness, she does much to draw the reader under the spell which she herself has felt so deeply.—New York Tribune.

Sparkles with humor and runs over with unique and entertaining experiences such as could not possibly fall to the lot of the ordinary tourist. A dozen illustrations, from Mr. Elliott’s drawings and from photographs, add a decorative touch to this tempting volume.—Dial, Chicago.

TWO IN ITALY

With six full-page illustrations from drawings by John
Elliott. Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top
in box, $2.00 net

A book of delightful rambling sketches of Italian life. There is hardly another American so capable of interpreting Italian life and character.—Chicago Tribune.

The stories are full of humor and color, picturesque bits of real life, touched by a skilful hand.—Philadelphia Telegraph.

Not since the publication of Howell’s “Venetian Days” have we had books by an American so full of Italian sunshine and so soft with Italian atmosphere as are the writings of Mrs. Elliott.—Chicago Interior.

Little, Brown, & Co., Publishers, Boston