Impressions of Spain

by Albert Frederick Calvert

SEÑOR BÁRRIS’S HOUSE, BARCELONA.

Barcelona, of all the cities of Spain, has never been blind to the advantages of commerce; and to-day, the city, in its bustling activity, its red-hot life, its ceaseless movement and sense of prosperity resembles all the great commercial cities of the world—London, New York, Melbourne, Liverpool, and Chicago. But in one respect it more nearly approaches London in the resemblance, by reason of an ill-favoured side of approach. I have often met at Tilbury or Liverpool—but Tilbury especially—friends who have been on their first visit to our Metropolis, and I have begged them, as a personal favour, not to form any opinion of the city from the railway-carriage windows. The squalor and dreariness of the eastern approach to London is only mildly reproduced by the southern environs of Barcelona. Indeed, when one makes one’s first acquaintance with it, it is difficult to believe that it is the boastedly first city of Spain. Yet the boast is not unjustified in so far, at least, as the concerns of every-day life, polity and progress are concerned. When once the visitor is within the circle of her brighter ways, he will look in vain for any of the smudginess whose kingdom and on-coming have been heralded by smudge; he will speedily recognise the fact that here is rolling by him a greater volume of trade than in all the other great centres of Spanish commercial life put together. Everywhere in Barcelona there is apparent the lively, virile animation, bred of a prosperous and forceful existence; and it is this which constitutes one of the great charms of the place. In no town-ways of Spain, not even in those of Seville, is the visitor so well rewarded as in Barcelona.

On one of my visits to Barcelona, I arrived in the city during the labour riots last year. Trains had been fired at and attacked with stones, so the windows of the carriages were barricaded, and all precautions were taken for the safety of the passengers. We were allowed, however, to enter the station unmolested; and although the crowded streets were paraded by the military, and a further outburst of public feeling was expected, the force of the human volcano had evidently expended itself before our arrival. Much property had been damaged; and, on all sides, one saw windows riddled with bullets, or smashed with stones, and evidences that the industrious and law-abiding Barcelonian is a Spaniard when roused. There was an alertness akin to menace in the flashing glances that inspected us that seemed to threaten all kind of unpleasant eventualities. But we walked through the streets in perfect safety; and my good friend, who had driven in from his country house to meet me, along roads patrolled by soldiers and skirted by turbulent rioters, apologised delightfully for the insecurity of the highways which rendered him unable to offer me the hospitality of his house until the following day. The risk he had run in coming in to Barcelona to welcome me did not occur to him. I was his friend—he had not given a thought

SNAPSHOT IN SEÑOR BÁRRIS’S GARDEN, BARCELONA.

for his skin. As we promenaded the streets, he approached men and asked them questions about the riot, and the scowl disappeared from their faces as a sea-mist lifts from the cliffs as they gave us the required information. I have written that the Spaniard’s good manners are the result not of an acquired and superficial politeness, but are derived from a natural and national courtesy that is inbred in the race. There is in their attentions a vein of selfishness which is half its charm. A stranger will do you a courtesy for which your thanks can only half pay him—the other half-payment he himself contributes for the service. He has pleased you, and in so doing he has pleased himself. And one feels that he has pleasure in his own unselfishness. It is impossible to be many hours in Spain without recognising this delightful trait. You step into a shop and inquire the way to the cathedral. The friendly shopkeeper places himself immediately at your disposal. He takes down his capa, and personally conducts you to the desired spot. It is the same always. You ask for your bearings of a member of the famous guardia civil, and the pair will solemnly march you to your destination; or the first pedestrian you meet proceeding in the opposite direction, faces about on the instant, and retraces his steps through the length or breadth of a town to put you on the right road.

We have no force in this country that corresponds with the Guardia Civil; perhaps the Royal Irish Constabulary are their nearest counterpart in organisation and fine morale. This body, which is composed of 20,000 foot and 500 mounted guards, are neither soldiers nor policemen, but they combine the duties of both. Their splendid physique, and smart, soldierly bearing—only the best men in the Spanish Army are admitted to the ranks of the Civil Guards—give one a feeling of security and a sense of order that nothing else seems to impart. They are stationed in every town and small village throughout the country. They patrol the roads, they accompany every train, and are to be seen at every station; they are to be encountered everywhere, and always in pairs. Dressed in blue tunic and trousers of the same colour, with light buff-coloured belts, cocked hats, and top-boots, they carry their well-polished rifles in a manner which engenders the respect of evil-doers. In contrast with the leisurely life around them, they stride through the traffic, in it, but not of it—a class apart. They are, indeed, apart in habit

“RAMBLA DE LAS FLORES,” BARCELONA.