Life in a Spanish Posada—Spanish Peasants—The Toilers of the Field and other Workers—The Cigarreras of Seville—The Kermesse in the Esclava Gardens—The Love of Festivals—Easter Day in a Spanish Village—Third-class Travelling—Wild Life in Spain—Fishing in the Country Districts.

To know Spain it is not enough to visit the towns. It is when the stranger leaves the beaten tracks of travel, and goes to the country districts, where the outcome of modern progress is still unknown, that he sees the life of ancient Spain almost unchanged. I know of no experience more necessary to the understanding of the country and its people than a lengthened stay in a village posada. The life, indeed, will be hard in many ways, and it will be wise for the stranger to cultivate the stoicism and indifference to personal comfort that characterize the Spaniards themselves; but the experience is excellent, and the people you meet are charming in their kindness and perfect courtesy.

The posada is the casa huÉspedes, or house of hospitality for the neighbourhood. The title is no misnomer, but stands for what the village posada truly is. To stay there is to find a new meaning in the word “hospitality”; it is to know willing service, restrained by the fine Spanish courtesy from offensive attention.

A bridge and country homes in the mountains of Northern Spain

It is more than probable that the first sight of the posada may disturb the stranger. It is built with a spacious vestibule. On one side of the stone staircase, which gives entrance to the upstairs living-rooms, is a dark wineshop, where the men of the village foregather to talk and drink the black native wine; while the other side serves as the stable, in which the mules, donkeys, oxen, and other animals belonging to the house, have their home. Many odours cling about the dark staircase; the scent of closely packed animals mingles with that of garlic, while the air reeks with the fumes of rancid aceite, or oil—the never-to-be-forgotten smell that belongs to every posada. The noise in the vestibule is deafening and incessant; the men talk in loud voices which are piercingly vibrant and metallic. Cackling hens, with maybe a fat black pig or little woolly lamb, block the way as one climbs the staircase to the living-room.

This room is bare, but never dirty; the filth which I had been led to expect from my experience of some of the smaller inns in the towns does not exist in the village posadas. The large windows open on to wooden balconies which look out on to the tree-shaded plaza. The walls are freshly whitewashed, and the bare boards of the floor are scrubbed to snowy whiteness by their daily scouring with sand; the curtains, too, when there are any, are always white. Sometimes a few highly coloured and amazing religious prints in black frames hang upon the walls, but, fortunately, more often they are bare. The furniture is of the simplest description—a large table, bare of any cloth, that fills most of the room, wooden chairs and a Spanish press, a great cupboard which holds the linen of the family. The beds are placed in small alcoves which lead out of the living-rooms; and these beds are always comfortable, with spotless linen, embroidered, lace-trimmed, and brought from the lavender-scented chest. There is no fireplace in the living-room, and if, as often chances in winter and early spring, the weather is cold, the only heat is gained from the brasero, whose charcoal ashes give the very faintest glow of warmth. The Spaniards accept cold without murmur; they wrap themselves in their cloaks, and wait till God sends out the sun.

The Village Posada at Matarosa

The posada is ruled by the seÑora. She sways a rod of iron over her husband, relatives, servants, guests, and the arrangements of the house, being full of energy and the vigour of character that is common to Spanish women even in old age. She is the characteristic type of the Spanish woman of the people, her face a formidable mass of wrinkles; jamona, or stout in body, but of surprising agility; she is witty, smiling, and contented. From break of day until late evening she bustles about, shouting orders as she goes from one task to another, yet she seems never hurried, never overburdened. How happy she is if her efforts are appreciated and her guests enjoy the fare she has provided! how her face saddens and clouds if any dish is sent from the table uneaten. “Mas, mas!” (More, more!), is her constant cry as she enters the room at the beginning of every course to urge her guests to eat.

To have English visitors staying at her posada filled the good seÑora with pride. Her satisfaction reached its zenith when letters arrived from England. She was loath to yield them up. “The great English people will know of my posada now,” she said on one occasion, pointing to the address in triumph. With comical humility she asked that, in my goodness, I would give her the envelope. How well do I remember the joy with which she carried away the torn trophy!

Nothing was too good for these strangers who had come from a foreign land to stay at her posada. The best of everything the house contained was given up for our use, special food was cooked, and the village was ransacked to provide things fitting for los InglÉses. On one occasion, when I had asked for a certain food not to be obtained in the neighbourhood, a messenger was sent on horseback twenty miles over the mountains to the nearest town to procure it. Nor was any payment allowed for the service. No, the English seÑora was her guest; she had asked for something, it was her duty to provide it. The trouble! the expense! she did not understand. In the old Spain service is not rendered for payment.

It is in the villages that one is best able to study the peasants and the gipsies. Sunday is the dia festivo, when the youths and maidens, dressed in the picturesque native costumes, dance and sing to the music of the village piper, who plays the dulzaina, a kind of clarionet. He marks the time by beating on a drum which is slung around his waist. The singing is the tuneless chanting heard so often in Spain, a kind of interminable dwelling on one piercing note, not beautiful to unaccustomed ears, but disturbing in its strange appeal, which so persistently recalls the East. The dances are danced by boys and girls and men and women grouped in couples of four or six. There is a great deal of movement; the hands keep time with the feet, playing castanets hung with bright-coloured ribbons.

In all parts of Spain there are gipsies, but it is in the districts of the south that the stranger will see them best, for there would seem to be a special affinity between the Andalusian and the gipsy character. The Gitanas and Gitanos live in communities, often in houses carved out of the mountain sides. It is among them that we find the most typical of the Spanish dancers. Dancing is a universal accomplishment, a part of life, in which every girl and boy takes his or her share.

A mediÆval ox-cart, Province of GuipÚzcoa

On one day in the week the market is held in every small town, on the open ground of the plaza, under the overspreading trees. Let us look at the market-place at Ampuero, a large village in the Basque province of GuipÚzcoa. The whole ground space is filled with booths that are piled up with fruit and vegetables, with dress-stuffs, pots, water-jugs, furniture, and a medley of wares that give bright colour to the scene. Peasants from the surrounding hamlets have all come to buy and sell. They are dressed in the native costume—the men with the boina, or cap of dark blue wool, shaped like a Scotch tam-o’-shanter, short smock jackets, trousers of bright blue linen, and red or black body sashes; and the women with their many-coloured handkerchiefs of silk, bright skirts that are short and very wide, and still brighter blouses. The Spanish peasants have the delight in vivid colour that belongs to all primitive and happy people.

The sellers and buyers stand about in groups talking in the ancient and mysterious Basque language, which once, as place-names prove, was spoken over the greater part of the Peninsula. All business is carried out in the vivid, primitive Spanish manner. And what impresses the stranger most is the courtesy and happy good-nature, which makes the universal bargaining a game enjoyed alike by buyer and seller.

In one corner of the plaza, under an archway, is a stone image, beneath which burns a sacred lamp, and always, as they pass, the men and women pause, cross themselves, and make a genuflection; religion is part of business. The mules and ox-carts stand at the outskirts of the plaza. The mules are shaved on the upper part of their bodies and their tails and ears, and have a curious appearance; they are thin and badly cared for, but this is hidden by their gay trappings. The ox-waggons are exceedingly primitive, and as each one arrives a hoarse and deafening noise pierces the air. The peasants leave the wheels of the cart unoiled, and delight in the frightful music, which can be heard half a league away; they believe that the sound drives off demons. A peasant would not own a cart that did not “play.”

The Basques claim to be the oldest race in Europe; and it is now generally acknowledged that they represent the primitive Iberians of Berber stock, who form the fundamental population of all Spain. Many primitive customs survive among them, and one of the most interesting is that by which the eldest daughter in some districts takes precedence over the sons in inheritance. They are a people of the mountains, and to know the Basques you must live in their villages; even their one town, Bilbao, in spite of its industrial and commercial prosperity, is really an overgrown village more than a city. It offers a striking contrast to Barcelona, the other great Spanish seaport, and the most perfect example of a commercial city.

Harvesting wheat in the Basque Province of GuipÚzcoa

To see the Basques at their finest you must watch them in the fields, where the women work side by side with the men, and appear to have equal strength with them. They use a large and primitively-shaped fork on which both feet are placed to force the implement into the ground, and the work is carried out with surprising rapidity.

Great flocks of sheep are reared in Spain, especially in Estremadura; each flock belonging to one proprietor is called a cabaÑa, and many contain 50,000 sheep. The shepherd who guards the cabaÑa is one of the most constant figures in the country districts. A million arrobes of wool—an arrobe is about 25 pounds—are said to be obtained in each year, and the wool is famed throughout Europe. Although manufactures are not extensively developed, I have seen cloth made at Guadalajara that for beauty of colour and quality would compare favourably with the manufactures of England or France. It is worth noting that in some manufactories it is the custom to set aside a portion of the wool to be sold for the benefit of souls in purgatory—an instance of how in Spain religion is connected with everything.

The most important industries of Spain are wine-making and fruit-growing. The country makes all the common wines for her own consumption, and the brandies, rich wines, and fruits exported form a considerable source of wealth. Many thousands of men, women, and children, are employed in these industries. At Seville and other towns in the south, the women pick the oranges ready to be taken to the ships. Great heaps of golden fruit line the groves, which are afterwards sorted, the better fruit being wrapped in paper before it is packed.

One of the oldest industries is pottery. The jarro, or earthen pots used for water, are made of white or red clay, unglazed, and very beautiful in shape. The jarro are sold by women in the markets of the towns for a few reales—that is to say, about five or six English pence.

An orange-picker, Seville

Spanish workers are universally poor, receiving wages so low that it is surprising how they live. But they are thrifty and sober, while their needs are simple, and their hardships are mitigated in some measure by the fact that almost all industries are carried on out of doors. In the streets of the towns you see men and women at work at the edge of pavements, making and mending boots, working sewing-machines, preparing leather goods, ironware, and other commodities. The shops and small manufactories are open to the street; you can see the occupants within making ropes and baskets, saddlebags, brushes, and a variety of wares. What impressed me was that these workers always looked happy.

Women play an important part in the life of workaday Spain, and the splendid types of these women workers make the foreigner think deeply. They are full of energy and vigour even in old age. They work as well as the men in the fields, turning the soil with forks, training the vines, and garnering the grapes and chestnuts. I have seen women carrying immense burdens, unloading boats, acting as porters, removing household furniture. I saw one woman with a chest of drawers easily poised upon her head; another, who was quite old, carried a bedstead. A beautiful woman porter in one village carried our heavy luggage, running with it on bare feet, without sign of effort. For what surprised me most was that, in spite of hard physical labour, these women are beautiful. They are always happy and contented; in their faces, and especially in their eyes, is that indescribable expression, the wonderful smile of Spanish women.

A visit to the fÁbrica de tabacos at Seville will show the stranger a charming scene of labour. The rooms of the factory are large, and, although low, are airy. They open into outer courts, and the great chambers, supported by pillars, resemble a church. Each room has its altar, which is decorated with flowers and offerings. As the workers pass they cross themselves, and never fail to make the customary genuflection. Yet, with the easy familiarity which is the special feature of the Spaniard’s religion, they will often place their outer garments upon the altar. The cigarreras are deeply religious, and at a recent Easter festival one of the pasos of the Virgin was presented with a splendid new mantle at a cost of 9,000 dollars, for the purchase of which the 7,000 workers had each contributed two centimos a week during the preceding year.

The cigarreras, in brightly coloured costumes, sit at work making polvo de Sevilla and tabaco de fraile. A skilful worker can easily accomplish ten atados, or bundles of fifty cigars, daily. The murmur of conversation never ceases; talking seems to aid the Spaniards in work. Many of the women have their babies with them, whom they tend in the intervals of work; children a little older play happily together in groups. It is enough to have seen these smiling, contented, industrious women to know that life is happy to most women in Spain.The Kermesse, which is held each year in the Esclava Gardens, is the festival of the cigarreras; it is a kind of fair. The stalls and booths, where every variety of wares are sold, are presided over by the cigarreras, dressed in the beautiful Andalusian attire. They chaffer over every sale, but they do not seek customers, and appear to be more occupied in talking than in selling their goods. All day long the gardens are full of gay noise. The women pass to and fro; some sit on seats, some rest upon the grass under the trees. In the centre of the gardens a platform is erected, where in turn the women dance the sevillanas and other dances with charming spontaneous enjoyment. The sound of castanets and clapping of hands never ceases; the talking is deafening. Sometimes there is a quarrel, but this is rare. There is a natural refinement in these women, and because they are really happy they have no need of riot to convince themselves that life is pleasant.

Pottery vendors in a Spanish Market

Their love of festivals is shared by all Spaniards, and everywhere holiday-making is a part of life. In the country districts, as in the towns, the Pascua de ResurrecciÓn of Easter is the most popular festival, when the days are spent in a curious combination of religious ceremonial and holiday-making.

It was my good fortune to spend one Easter in a mountain village, where I had an opportunity of seeing the customs of the people of old Spain. On Palm Sunday the village was filled to overflowing with peasants, many of whom had travelled long distances, riding on mules or driving in the wooden ox-carts, from the hamlets among the mountains. They were dressed in the native costumes. The men wore velvet breeches adorned with silver buttons, and leather gaiters, open to show the calves; bright sashes of red or yellow silk; jackets of brown cloth, with embroidered cuffs and collars; blue or maroon cloaks, brightly lined; and pointed hats, adorned with silver tassels. The fantastic dress gave the scene an aspect more African than European. The women were not so gay, and were almost universally attired in black; but the mantilla with the white flower, which all wore, gave them an incomparable grace. All day the streets were filled with bustle and life. Vendors of palms were stationed in every corner selling their wares, while boys ran to and fro among the crowds with arms full of olive branches.

The great function was the procession, when the pasos were carried through the streets after the celebration of Mass. In the plaza a stand had been erected, and every seat was filled; people crowded the pavements, and in the balconies of every house men and women were closely packed. The gendarmes of the little town walked first, marching gravely, the representatives of law and order; then followed the children, clad in white, and bearing the consecrated palms and olive branches; while after them came the priests, dressed in robes richly embroidered and trimmed with lace. Upon the shoulders of hidden bearers was carried the litter, illuminated with hundreds of candles, upon which rested the figure of the Virgin, the patron saint of the village. The image was hideous, quite without beauty, and decked out in cheap tawdry finery, strangely incongruous. But to the peasants she was the Mother of God. I saw no sign of levity; the attitude of the men as well as of the women was perfectly dignified, perfectly religious. All eyes were riveted upon the sacred figure, heads were bared, and each man and woman bowed and made the sign of the cross as the lighted litter passed. Prayers were murmured and blessings invoked. “Holy Mother, cause the crops to ripen,” “the sick child to be healed,” “the lover’s heart to soften”—such were the cries of the women. Children pressed forward, dodging unchecked among the gendarmes and priests, clamouring for a blessing. One small niÑa knelt upon the pavement in front of the pasos, holding up a white carnation in offering. A priest stepped forward, took the flower, and placed it upon the litter.To the children of the village the Easter days brought special enjoyment. The part they played in the festival was a strange one, giving an example of the old-world customs that live so persistently in Spain. On the Viernes Santo, or Good Friday, each boy and girl went to church armed with a horn and large wooden clapper, upon which strange instruments they played to frighten the spirit of the traitor Judas Iscariot, who betrayed SeÑor Dios, the name by which they quaintly designate the Saviour. They blew and rattled with a will, and the hideous, deafening noise mingled strangely with the music of the Mass, for the evil spirit must not escape. Incomprehensible survival of an old superstition, blending the grotesque with the most sacred service of the Church—how often the stranger is surprised in Spain!

A Basque peasant-girl driving an ox-cart

The Spaniards are more friendly with one another than any people that I know. The stranger will realize this travelling in the third-class trains, as he must in the country districts, where the expresses do not stop. These trains are known as mixto, and convey luggage as well as passengers. The carriages are uncomfortable, and not always clean, and the speed is very slow. Patience is a quality that the visitor to Spain must cultivate. The train may start before the advertised time; it may be an hour late. No Spaniard is disturbed by such trifles. At the stations there is always a crowd of people waiting. There is a kind of fatalistic patience in their appearance; they seem not so much to be waiting for a particular train, as hoping that presently a train will come that will take them to their destination. Even when the train arrives there is no hurrying; a start will not be made until everyone is ready, for punctuality is a small virtue compared with politeness. The long-drawn cry of A-a-gua fresco! is always heard. Much time is occupied, as everyone in the train seems to want to drink.

In the carriages the company talk together with excessive volubility, and have the appearance of being members of one family. As soon as you enter questions will be asked. “Where are you going to?” “Are you FrancÉses or InglÉses?” “Why have you come to visit their country?” “Are you married, and is the seÑor who is with you your husband?” “How many children have you?” “How old are you?” “Why do you wear a hat, and not a mantilla?” “And how is it you have no earrings and no fan?” You will soon become accustomed to this interrogation, which is made with no hint of familiarity, and is the outcome of a friendliness that wishes to make the stranger at home.

The natives seem to be without a thought of themselves, and incapable of considering personal comfort. They will crowd upon one seat of the carriage to give the English strangers more room. If the weather is cold, they will insist upon giving you their cloaks. They talk to you incessantly, explaining to you the scenery and various places through which the train passes, with delightful childish enthusiasm. They will offer you everything in their possession that you chance to admire.

Sherry a half-century old, Jerez

I remember saying to a little Spanish maid, “What a beautiful carnation in your hair!” Off came the flower. “It is at your disposal, seÑora.” I protested with the fitting answer: “A thousand thanks, but, no, I could not accept.” But the offer was quite sincere, and, in spite of protest, the flower was fastened into my hair, amidst the compliments and congratulations of every occupant of the carriage. On another journey a fan and a beautiful peasant brooch, which I rashly admired, were pressed upon me with the same delightful politeness.

When meal-time arrives, each peasant brings out the alforja, or embroidered wallet, which Sancho Panza kept so well filled. A huge Spanish loaf is produced, and some of the long thin garlic sausages. Slices of the bread are cut to serve as plates. But before the meal is begun a hearty gusta invites all the other occupants to share in the feast. It is customary at this stage to refuse, and “Muchas gracias” is politely murmured. Soon the black-leather wine-bottle is brought out of the wallet and a packet of some kind of sweetmeat. Now is the time for acceptance; the bottle is handed round for everyone to drink, and small pieces of the sweetmeat are divided. It is a charming experience, provided that you have acquired the skill to drink from that curious long-spouted bottle of leather. And if you fail, the Spaniards will enjoy the task of teaching you the art.

But, indeed, there is no limit to the helpful friendliness of these simple happy people. On one occasion a workman abandoned his own journey, and, in spite of our protests, came with us. When we arrived at our destination, he spent several hours in assisting us to find suitable lodgings in the village in which we had planned to stay, where there was no regular house of hospitality. He introduced us to the inhabitants of the place as his friends, and expended much energy to insure our comfort. It is only when work is profitable that the Spaniard is ever lazy. He delights to expend an immense amount of effort, which may not be considered useful, so long as the work makes appeal to his Spanish love of romantic effects. It is because this trait is so often overlooked by the stranger, who too quickly condemns “the lazy Spaniards,” that I recount this characteristic incident. Our friend was genuinely surprised when we offered payment for his services; there was a note of dignified sorrow in the “Muchas gracias” of his refusal. It had been a privilege to assist los InglÉses, whom he admired. Had he not once visited our country? We were a great people. He desired that we should think well of his country. All he would accept was to share our meal, after which he left us—I suppose, to continue his own journey.

Among the mountains and in many country districts there are still no railways. The stranger who travels here has to use the diligences, which on certain days in the week run from the nearest town to the outlying hamlets. The diligence is a kind of coach without springs. I know of no other conveyance so uncomfortable, except the long car of Ireland. It is drawn by a team of gaunt mules, usually six in number, with gay harness, and each animal has jangling bells around its neck. The driver wears a picturesque dress: a brown jacket with coloured collar, a red sash and knee-breeches, and a peaked hat adorned with tassels. He drives with a tremendous amount of noise, stamping his feet, shouting, and brandishing his whip. He beats incessantly the wretched mules. The coach is kept at full gallop, and ascends and descends the steep hills with a rapidity which is often alarming; but accidents are rare, owing to the sure-footedness of the mules.

Ruins of the Old Aqueduct, which supplied the Alhambra with water, Granada

It was when travelling in these mountainous districts that we gained some knowledge of the wild animals of Spain. We were often near to the haunts of boars, wolves, and deer. Bears are common in many hilly districts, and that fine wild creature, the ibex, ranges the peaks of the higher mountains. Foxes are plentiful everywhere, and the wild-cat is far from scarce. The marten is often found, and otters live in most of the rivers.

The swamps and ponds are filled with big green frogs, and lizards of the same colour are common. The frogs are much larger than the English frog, and their peculiar cry, a sort of monotonous rumbling, is so loud that it can be heard a mile away. The legs of these green frogs are a table delicacy much esteemed in many districts.

In the country hamlets the stranger must be prepared to meet discomfort. One of the trials will be hunger. In the fondas of the Basque provinces and in the smaller towns the fare is ample, and as a rule well cooked. But the peasants of Central and Southern Spain are the most frugal people, who subsist on a diet that would be refused by the poorest workers in England. For the stranger the peasants do their utmost, but the diet is limited to eggs, leathery, quite tasteless beef, hard stale bread, and thin wine. The cooking is always indifferent. The first meal of the day consists of a cup of chocolate or coffee, often without milk, and a lump of dry bread. There is no butter, and no milk except goat’s milk, and, strange as it seems in this fertile land, vegetables and fruit are always scarce in the country villages. The universal dish is garbanzos, a large dried pea, which is cooked with garlic as a flavour.

We spent several months fishing in these districts, and, although sometimes we fared tolerably well, more often we had to be content with indifferent and inadequate meals. But for the sake of experience the stranger can endure discomfort with fortitude.

Beaching fishing-boats: the Blue Mediterranean

There are numerous sport-giving rivers in all parts of Spain, which possess all the qualities for the production of fish-life. Such rivers as the Sil and Minho contain trout as big as any in Europe. The fishing is free, except for a licence costing about three shillings. There can be no doubt that with proper cultivation these rivers might become a fisherman’s paradise in the course of a few years. But a complete revision of the ley de pesca—fishing law—is necessary. Rivers are not stocked, and trout hatcheries are almost unknown. The poacher is everywhere, using snares, spears, and the deadly dynamite. Thousands of small fish are scooped out of the small pools of the tributaries with pole-nets during dry seasons. But, on the other hand, Spain is, happily, almost free, except in the mining districts of the north, from poisoned and contaminated waters. There are thousands of miles of beautiful rivers with no factories, works, or big cities within many leagues of their lengths. Then, the fish in the Spanish rivers are splendidly prolific. Trout teem in many rivers, where the deep pools baffle the poachers, who devote their attention to the shallows and tributaries. Salmon are found in many rivers; shad or sÁbalos, escalos—a kind of cross between a chub and a dace—barbel, bogas, and other coarse fish, and eels, are plentiful. The barbel is different from the barbel of England, being a handsomer fish and not so coarse; it is more golden in colour, and the scales are less thick. The beautiful silvery sÁbalos are caught in sunk nets, whose opening is concealed by a green bough which looks like water-weed, and so deceives the travelling fish. The sÁbalos will not rise to any bait. They vary from 4 pounds to 12 pounds in weight, and are an excellent fish to eat, resembling the salmon.

In all parts of Spain there are native anglers. The tackle they use is of the rudest description—a rod made of maize stalks, with a hazel switch for the top, coarse casts, and flies clumsy and big. But they are all keen, and many of them are clever fishermen. At Materosa, a small hamlet on the wild Sil, some leagues from the town of Ponferrada, the peasants gain their living by fishing with the rod for trout, which they send to the market at Madrid.

I recall Estanislao, a chico who fished with a great bamboo rod, which he looked too small to handle.We talked to him.

“You are also a fisherman?”

“Yes, seÑora; I have fished all my life, and my father before me.”

This chico was a good angler. Standing on a great boulder, he cast with a loud swishing noise across the river, letting his dozen flies swim on the rough water. At each cast the weight of his great rod nearly threw him into the whirling current. But he caught more fish than we did.

We offered him a present of some of our flies. He looked at them and smiled.

“Muchas gracias, they are very pretty. But how can I catch big trout with these little hooks?”

He laughed till the tears ran down his face. But in a minute he remembered the good manners in which every Spanish child is trained. He added:

“Mil gracias, seÑora! Es favor que usted me hace (A thousand thanks, seÑora! It is a favour you make me). I will keep them as toys!”