Toledo, the Type of the Spanish City—Its Architectural Monuments—The Intermingling of Arab and Christian Art—Granada—The Alhambra—Cordova—The Great Mosque—Seville, the City of Pleasure—The Special Character of the Streets—The CafÉs and Shops—The Typical Andalusian—The Parks—The Sevillanas—Spanish Courtship—The Houses of Seville—The Patios—The Home-life of the Sevillians—Spanish Hospitality.

Toledo has kept, perhaps, more than any city in Spain its mediÆval aspect, combining in its buildings of so many civilizations that here remain together; churches, convents, mosques, Gothic walls and ornaments, Moorish houses and steep passages—everywhere the Moorish design is evident—and a great Christian cathedral—much of what is most typical of the genuine Spanish civilization. I know of no city that can give a more poignant emotion than Toledo.

A great town, set on its rough and elevated rock of granite in the midst of the blue Sierra, closely ringed by the deep brown water of the Tajo, it is like no other city in the world. The national character, strong and aloof, passionate and brilliant, and the nation’s history, are here epitomized before you. And coming to the city, as the stranger does, from Madrid, blatant, noisy, and modern, you will feel transplanted back into an older world.

Your first impression is of something extraordinarily austere. You seem to have passed into silence and an almost painful absence of life.

Bridge of Alcantara and the AlcÁzar, Toledo

Toledo has remained as the Moors built it, a tortuous network of cobbled alleys, as was most fitting in a city built upon rock, scorched by sun in summer, and in winter swept with icy winds. The tall houses, rising in straight upward lines like an arrangement of flat walls, are almost all windowless on the side next to the street; where there is a window it is barred and closely latticed, and the high gates are studded with iron bosses and seem to forbid an entrance. No sight of the tree-shaded court is given, as at Seville and Cordova. No one appears to go in and out of these doors. Every house has the aspect of a prison; they all look as if they had histories.

There is the same absence of bustling modern life in the streets. In the Calle del Comercio there are shops, but the wares are simple, having an old-world air; only specially interesting is that of Alvarez, the best maker of damascene. Even in the Zocodover, the centre of the city’s business, all is sedate. You will see the water-carriers driving their mules up the steep streets from the vega, a peasant whose beast is laden with bright-coloured fruits and vegetables, or a group of goats that supply the milk for the city. Yet often the streets seem deserted. Only the companies of beggar children, who clamour incessantly around you with their strange cry, “Un caukie sou! Un caukie sou!” remind you of the life hidden in the sleeping city.

Romance lives in Toledo. How many scenes and how many figures famous in Spain’s history are recalled to our memory here. In no other city are there the same number of architectural monuments. It is the chief centre of the two great elements of Spanish civilization, the Christian and the Arab, which makes it the place where the native art can best be studied. Its cathedral and churches are furnished with the most perfect examples of the industrial arts that have been produced in the Peninsula. El Greco, who adopted Toledo as his home, expresses in his pictures, which are one of the great possessions of the city, the Toledan spirit, which is the spirit of Spain. The churches are the museums and picture-galleries of the city; each one has its special appeal—its precious mosaics, its ironwork, its glass windows, its cloisters, its tombs, its beautiful carvings, or its pictures.In Toledo you understand the part that religion has taken in the history of the country. You can hardly walk for five minutes in any direction without coming upon some church; they stand at the corner of almost every square, many are embedded between the brown walls of the houses.

Its architecture shows a curious mingling of Arab, Gothic, and Renaissance work. Christian and Moor overlap in many buildings, while in others the art of each emerges isolated and independent. In the great cathedral, the perfection of Gothic in Spain, we see nothing of the Moor, while in the mosque of Bel-el-pardon, now called El Cristo de la Luz, and in the ancient mosque in the Calle de las Tornarias, which has never been converted to Christian uses, and retains its original character almost unimpaired, we can with difficulty trace the Christian. But in other buildings—the Sinagoga del TrÁnsito, for instance—we find the Moorish traditions persisting with the Christian. And it is this intermingling and absorption of the Moorish civilization with the Christian that gives the real character to Toledo. Not only in the churches that once were mosques does the passage of that great people remain, but in the houses, austere without but beautiful within, in ancient palaces, in fragments of gardens that still are places of rest, in embattled bridge and arch, in exquisite harmonies of ornament that meet you everywhere, and, more than all, we find this gracious influence in the spirit of the city itself. Toledo is a living picture, a city in which each building is a voice that speaks the history of Spain.

In Cordova, and even in Granada, you are less sharply conscious of the Moorish influence.

A street in Cordova, looking towards the Mosque

Time, the tamer of proud cities, has shadowed Granada, and to visit it is to understand the desolation of conquest. The big hotels, placed so incongruously near to the Alhambra, the clamorous guides, the beggars—all the disagreeable conditions of a show city that trades on its past are here. The efforts of recent years, that have developed a certain amount of industrial activity, have not lessened this impression; for modern enterprise seems strangely out of place in Granada, while the attempts to improve the old city, such as the boulevard which has been driven through its centre, have been left unfinished, with a result of added desolation. In the air itself there seems something of decay, as the white mists from the snowy heights of the Sierra Nevada rest shroud-like upon the vega. Always you seem to catch an echo of that ultimo suspiro del Moro. Ruins meet you everywhere; only the gardens in Granada have kept the charm of their exquisite beauty.

But there is one possession that conquest has left to Granada. It is to see the Alhambra that everyone comes to the city, which is but a setting to this Moorish jewel. And in the wooded garden, which lies around the citadel, where nightingales sing, and flowers embroider the grass, and the sound of running water is always heard, Granada, with its memories of ruin, seems shut off as by a veil of quiet. The Alhambra is the supreme pearl of Moorish art in Spain. It is bewildering in the appeal of its strange beauty. It is like an invocation of an Eastern sorcerer, and as you wander in its courts and halls the Thousand and One Nights seem true. It is hardly conceivable that people lived here. You seem to understand the brilliant dominion of the Moors in Spain. Only people with a history like theirs could have reigned here; life lived here could but have been a romance.

The first impression you gather from the almost bewildering beauty is how any building so seemingly fragile can be so strong. More than five centuries have passed since the Alhambra was built. The repeated earthquakes which did so much damage to Granada, and laid in ruin the Renaissance palace of Charles V., have been powerless to destroy this most delicate of architectural structures. To-day the Alhambra is kept as a show-place, rejuvenated by the restorer. But even this has not been able to dim the exquisite beauty of its courts and halls. And all the jewelled weaving of ornaments, so difficult to grasp as being quite real, have kept much of their splendour. It almost seems as though the common superstition were true, and that the charm of Fate does guard the Red Palace of the Moors.

Cordova suffers from the memory of a past greatness which she cannot now support. Gautier describes the city as le squelette blanchÉ et calcinÉ. Cordova is a city in sleep; it rests in a quiet and beautiful dream. Here the Eastern spirit of acceptance echoes with an unsilenced voice. And this is why the sensitive stranger will find such perfect satisfaction in the white city’s sleeping peace. Cordova was the town that I most loved in Spain.

But the tourist goes to Cordova in haste to visit the mosque. “Mezquita? Mezquita?” Each Cordovese you encounter will surmise your desire and direct you without question. They know that this imperishable building is the one interesting lion in their city; it is to visit it that the stranger comes to Cordova.

The great mosque is a “wonder of the world,” the one perfectly satisfying building left in the city of the Khalif, the Cordova that was known as “the Bride of Andalusia.” This Church of the Divine Wisdom is the most complete expression in building that the Moors have left in Spain, more even than the Alhambra. It is one of the buildings that sum up the genius of a people, the experience of a race, and the teaching of a school.

In the Outer Court of Oranges, where the water of the fountains and the leafy shade of the orange-trees give delicious coolness from the blazing heart of the sun, you will find the untiring charm and dreamy peace of Oriental repose. You will see the women of Cordova gathered around the great almÎda fountain with their red-brown pitchers to fill. You will hear them chattering, telling the news of the day. Now and then will come a sound of laughter as a youth, also with a vessel to fill, joins them. The women will leave their pitchers and go into the mosque, one by one or in groups together, for prayer is a part of the day’s work. Figures move slowly up and down the cloisters; they are the Canons; each will be smoking a cigarette. Groups of beggars crouch on the low stone seats; they seem quite content in the sun. At the hour of service a band of acolytes will come from the chancery and cross the court slowly to the mosque, making a line of scarlet. And presently there will be a soft sound of music as the boys sing the coplas in honour of the Virgin. Yes, the Court of Oranges is the most perfect spot in Cordova, to which the stranger will come again and again.

Puerta Del PerdÓn (Gate of Pardon) the Mosque, Cordova

And when you go into the mosque itself, you will pass out of the colonnades of orange-trees into colonnades of stone. Before you, around you, everywhere, a forest of columns; and the canopy of curves above you, formed by the double rows of crossed fantastic arches, will seem like the interlacing branches of great trees. You will remember those enchanted forests you dreamed of as a child. In truth, the architecture of the mosque is like a living thing. The light, entering from above, plays upon the arches, causing the red stones to gleam like fire; it frets the thousand columns with moving patterns; it catches the glass mosaics in jewelled brilliance, and makes a soft shining upon the marble pavement, in which, as you look up and down, you see the long arcades reflected until the distance dies away, mysterious and apparently unending.

The Queen’s Chamber, Alhambra, Granada

But words cannot describe this wonderful temple. The Moorish houses of prayer will bring you a sense of joy: there is nothing of the mystic suggestion of a Gothic cathedral—that of Seville, for instance; your spirit is freed, not awed. The mosque was to the Moor this world as well as the next. Here is the message of a race who understood the fulness of living so well that they knew how to be joyously at home with their God; and you realize more fully this lesson that the Moors gave to Spain, which finds its expression to-day in the Spaniard’s happy familiarity with his God.

The stranger will now be ready to understand the special atmosphere of Seville, for it is this frank acceptance of joy as the gold thread of life which gives the southern city its charm. It is not shadowed with memory like sleeping Cordova, nor is it overburdened with heroic monuments like Toledo; there are no ruins such as give sadness to Granada; it is still a living city whose blood is pulsing with the joy of life lived in the sunshine.

The buildings for which the city is famous all have this aspect of joy—the Moorish Tower of Gold; the AlcÁzar, with its flower-crowded gardens; the Giralda Tower, which is so old, and yet in its glittering whiteness looks so new. There is a joyousness in these buildings that I have never seen in the buildings of any other city.

Then, Seville is alive commercially, and from its wharves among the orange-trees which line the banks of its rivers vessels carry away its wine, its oil, and its oranges.

Seville has no rival among the cities of Spain. The old saying is still true: “To him whom God loves He gives a home in Seville.”

In Seville you are happy without seeking to be so, and when the stranger has learnt this he has learnt the secret of the Sevillanos.

Seville has the aspect of a city given up to a holiday humour; and if I wished to describe the special quality of her happy people, I should say that they understood perfectly the difficult art of loafing. You must be happy to loaf successfully; that is why Northern people find it so difficult. But not even the Venetians loaf as well as the Sevillanos. Go to the Calle de las Sierpes, that narrow, animated street, the centre of Seville’s joyous life; it is different from other streets; its gay shops, with the double row of irregular, close-drawn windows that make a sinuous line of light—certainly it is like a serpent. All day and far into the night people saunter up and down its pavements or sit in one of the many cafÉs, which are always filled with crowds of unoccupied persons. You will seem to be watching a stage play. It is here that you will see best the majos, or dandies of Seville; in springtime there is sure to be a matador strolling about in splendid costume, and women in mantillas saunter to and fro with their slow, graceful walk.

In the cafÉs you will have an opportunity of studying the typical Andalusian. He wears a short coat and very tight trousers of a light colour, and a felt hat with a broad, flat brim. He is always clean-shaven, and his hair is cut very short. These men are often handsome, and have a striking expression of strength; the faces, dignified and always humorous, often resemble a comic actor. They are an affectionate and friendly company, and their conversation echoes with a deafening buzz. Notice the way in which they smoke their cigarettes, and at intervals drink their refrescos or sip from their small glasses of aguardiente. Their enjoyment is so Spanish, so epicurean. And women in the street fan themselves in the same way. All these people are happy in the frank acceptance of life as it is.

Inside the shops, which have doors wide open to the street, groups of women sit to buy fans and mantillas. Making purchases is a delightful game, in which all Spanish women excel. They smile, and chatter, and use their fans, bargaining with delicious grace, while the salesman, cigarette in hand, shrugs his shoulders and gesticulates.

“But the mantilla is dear, seÑor.”

He throws out his hands in protest.

“No, seÑorita; I am giving it away at ten pesetas.”

“Is the quality good?” and she raises her eyebrows in bewitching incredulity.

“As good as God’s blessing.”

And with mutual smiles and salutations the purchase is made.

Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada

It is in the Paseo de las Delicias—the name will tell you of the beauty of this park, with its orange-groves, hedges of blue aloes, and all manner of tropical trees and flowers—that the ladies of Seville drive and promenade each afternoon. The majos cast languishing glances upon them as they walk to and fro, and compliments are given: “Oh, Jesus, what an air!” “Happy is the mother that bore thee!” “Your eyes are as runaway stars that would rather shine in your face than in the heavens!”

The Sevillanas smile and chatter together; this play of love is a part of the accustomed homage which is their due.

There is a fascination about Spanish women not easy to define. Many of them are not beautiful, but they are always graceful, and they all walk beautifully. Then, most of them have the soft, expressive eyes which the East has bequeathed to Spain. There is a quality and certain finish about them which is unique; each one looks as if she understood that she was a woman, and was very glad that this was so. Perhaps this is why they are so attractive; this is the reason, too, why the old women are so good-humoured, smiling, and gay. The indefinite unquietness that so often characterizes English and American women is entirely absent. These Spanish seÑoras, for their happiness, have kept the pagan content.

A group of workers in a “patio” at Seville

Much of what is characteristic of the home life of the Sevillians may be gathered from the arrangement of their houses. They are all—the houses of the poor as well as those of the rich citizens—built around the patio, or shaded court, where palms, myrtles, pomegranates, and jasmines grow, and the singing of caged birds mingles with the sound of the playing fountains. Into this patio all the windows of the house open and the rooms lead. The doors are of open ironwork—no two doors are alike—and often, even in the small houses, the grating is of exquisite workmanship. One door, which also has an open reja, or grating, leads into the street. It is in these patios that the Sevillians spend their lives, and this throwing open of their homes to the gaze of all who pass in the streets is exactly characteristic of this simple, happy people. Every afternoon and evening the youth of the family laugh and sing and dance to the rattle of the castanets. It is against the rejas that the lovers stand at night and sing their serenades, and so persistent is their patience that they have gained the title of “iron-eaters.” All Andalusians are musical; even the beggar thrums his guitar, which he will not part with for bread; to him music is a necessity, and bread a luxury with which he can dispense.

The Andalusian’s leisure is a perpetual source of delight. What impresses the serious foreigner, who is so fortunate as to become an inmate of a Sevillian home, is the mirth and courtesy of the family, who all seem to enjoy endless leisure. Spanish households have a pleasantness quite their own. The men are never preoccupied with business; smoking cigarettes, they will pass hours chattering to the women of the family, who spend the greater part of the day working their beautiful embroideries. Few books are read, and talking is the chief occupation. No people can talk like the Spaniards, and the excitement is so spontaneous that often the conversation is carried on far into the night. The slightest incident gains a poetic vividness from their dramatic telling. Cigarette-smoking and talking are the only indulgences which the Sevillians carry to excess.

In their home life there is a love of visiting and a love of receiving visitors. Tertulias, or parties, are frequent. But a Spanish party differs materially from an English, in so far as there are no refreshments—if we except the glasses of pure water and plate of azucarillos to sweeten the water, which are placed upon a side-table. This is an instance of the sobriety of the Sevillians. The guests dance and sing and talk incessantly, and are perfectly satisfied to enjoy themselves without eating.

The Spaniards are good hosts; the exquisite politeness which is natural to them, even to those of the very lowest classes, causes them to lay themselves out to entertain; boredom would seem to be unknown to the native host and hostess. They make a pleasure of the slightest social intercourse. I recall one occasion in Seville, when I asked permission to enter the house of a poor woman in the Macarena quarter, in order that my artist friend might make a drawing from her balcony of a building of which a satisfactory view could not be obtained in the street.

“My house is yours, seÑoras; make whatsoever use of it you will,” was her answer to my request. And during the hours that my friend was at work she put aside her occupations—she was a planchadora, and was ironing with her assistants on our entrance—and gave herself up solely to help and entertain us. A refresco was brought to us; calientes, the twisted doughnuts which are made in every Andalusian house, were fried for us. Nor would she consent to receive the payment which we, with our foreign stupidity, offered to her on our departure. No, the kindly, cheery woman did not understand payment for hospitality.

But it is during the days of festival at Easter and the Feria that the fine hospitality of the Sevillians is seen at its best. The houses are filled to overflowing, and hospitality is taxed to a degree that only the most perfect courtesy and good-nature could endure. Every corner is received with a chorus of welcome, and embraced like a brother. Beds are surrendered, even sofas are given up, and as fresh strangers arrive, unable to gain accommodation in the crowded inns, mattresses, pillows, and rugs are brought out of cupboards, and beds are made upon the floor. All the members of the family, and even the tired servants, who are always joyously ready to help, sit up, because there is literally nowhere for them to sleep. The difficulty of obtaining provisions in these seasons of festivity is very great: the butcher cannot provide meat; even bread is hard to buy. But the seÑora of the house is never troubled; she tells you her woes, and then goes smiling to fry calientes and prepare other delicacies for the refreshment of her guests. The constant Spanish courtesy never fails, and the foreigner who happily chances among this crowded joyous party can but wonder.

“Las Planchadoras” (laundresses) at work, Seville