Things seen in Spain

by C. Gasquoine Hartley

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.

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!

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.