Women, Children, Love, and Marriage

by C. Gasquoine Hartley

How well I recall these women as I have seen them often, gathered for the morning markets in the towns; chaffering, laughing, and carrying on their work in the conversational Spanish manner. Here is commercial activity united with a picturesque beauty, unspoilt by the usual ugliness of business. Ugliness is not a necessary growth of progress. There is terrible poverty in Spain. The peasants in the country and the labourers in the towns suffer much injustice in too heavy rents and an unfair burden of taxation. But as I have come to know them, I have realised that the sum of their poverty is, after all, so much less than the sum of their knowledge of the art of living. Not their poverty, but their splendid capacity for eluding its misery, is what is so remarkable. These workers have colour not only in their dresses, but in their souls.

I see again a charming scene that I chanced upon one day in the beautiful town of Vigo, which is situated in Galicia, in the extreme north-west, and is one of the seaports by which the stranger enters Spain. The day was saddened with heavy rain; a company of girls, who had just finished their work of packing the fish for market, had gathered in two empty railway vans, and were dancing together, in the most delightful way, watched and applauded by a group of youths.

It was a dance of quick movement and of great variety. It was not a dance of the feet only, every part of the girls’ bodies played its part in the performance, the swaying figures, the beckoning hands, the glittering smiles, that came and went in their dark eyes—all contributed to the dance, which like all Spanish dances was a love drama of intense passion; but always decorous, always beautiful. And the watching youths took their part by a rhythmic clapping of hands and stamping of feet. There was something infectious in this spontaneous gaiety. These girls, I felt, understand happiness, and, as I watched them, the world seemed once more a place in which workers could have their share of the joy of living.

Nor does this overflowing and joyous vigour belong to youth alone. I have seen mothers, stout and matronly, at play in the national games, throwing large heavy balls of wood along the grass with a healthy pleasure in muscular movement. Women, no longer young, may as often be seen dancing as the girls. Well, I remember one woman; she was quite old, and her skin was a yellowed mass of wrinkles. But the wrinkles on her face were but the work of time and the hardness of living, and went no deeper than the skin; they had not touched her soul. She was a little bowed, yet she held herself finely, as indeed, do all Spanish women. I shall never forget her perfect absence of self-consciousness; her abandonment as she quivered all over with the excitement of the dance—and she used her castanets with the innocent coquetry of a young girl. There is something that may well give thought in this wholesome energy, which is so abundant as to find its expression in play.

If I have emphasised the physical qualities of the women workers of Spain, it is because I regard these qualities as being the outward expression of intelligence and will. It is true that Spanish women are not educated as we count education; many of them cannot read or write. But in no other land can women be found with a finer understanding of all that is essential in womanhood.

From the earliest notices we have of Spanish women we find them possessed of a definite character of remarkable strength. Courage and strength have throughout the centuries been common qualities among Spanish women. The history of the mujeres varoniles of this land would fill a volume: women who would take the field and fight with a sagacity and ferocity equal to, and often surpassing, that of men.

We may still associate the position of women with some of the old traditions. Women are held in honour. Many primitive customs survive, in particular among the Basques; and one of the most interesting is that by which in some districts a daughter takes precedence over the sons in inheritance of land and family property. As far back as the fourth century, Spanish women insisted on retaining their own names after marriage, for we find the Synod of Elvira trying to limit this freedom. The practice is still common for sons to use the name of the mother coupled with that of the father, and even in some cases alone, showing the absence of preference for paternal descent. Velazquez, for instance, is known to the world only by the name of his mother: his father’s name was de Silva. It is significant that in no country does less stigma fall on a child born out of wedlock; and the unmarried mother meets a recognition that is rarely accorded to her elsewhere. I questioned a cultured Spaniard on the position of the prostitute; his answer is worth recording, “Our women give themselves for love much more often than for money.” This statement may have some extravagance, but I believe it corresponds to a real fact in the position of women, which persists from a time when their liberty was greater than it is to-day. The introduction of modern institutions, and especially the empty form of chivalry, has lowered the position of women. Emilia Pardo Bazan, the great woman novelist of Spain, has said, “All the rights belong to men, and the women have nothing but duties.” Yet there can be no question that some features of mother-right have left their imprint on the domestic life of Spain, and that women have in certain directions preserved a freedom and privilege which in England have never been established, and only of late claimed.

The industrial side of primitive culture has always belonged to women, and in many provinces in Spain the old custom is in active practice, owing to a shortage of men through military service and widespread emigration. The farms are worked by women, the ox carts driven by women, the seed is sown and reaped by women,—indeed, all the work is done by women. And the point to notice here is that the women have benefited by this enforced engaging in activities, which in most countries have been absorbed by men. The fine physical qualities of these workers is evident. I have taken pains to gain all possible information on this question. Statistics are not available because in Spain they have not been kept from this point of view. It is, however, the opinion of many eminent doctors, who were questioned by a Spanish friend for me on this subject, that this labour does not damage the health or beauty of the women, but the contrary, nor does it prejudice the life and health of their children.

I have seen many charming scenes of labour; and among my memories a visit I paid to a sardine factory in the town of Vigo stands out clearly. The work-rooms open directly on to the bay; here the boats come, the fish are landed and the silver heaps are washed. The airy rooms were scarcely redolent even of fish; and the most scrupulous cleanliness was evident. They were filled with girls, women, men, and boys. I learnt that both the women and men are well paid, and that there is no separation between the tasks allotted to the two sexes. Women and men labour together side by side, capacity alone deciding the kind of work done. The day’s work is the eight hours, established in Vigo by arrangement between the masters and the workers; but when a large catch of sardines comes in it must be dealt with at once, and the workers are then paid overtime on a higher scale than their weekly wages. I saw many ingenious and labour-saving machines, one, which was worked by a boy, made the keys for opening the tins at the rate of 140 a minute. I learnt that most of the machinery is supplied by Germany. I was interested to hear that the waste pieces of tin, left from cutting the boxes, were shipped to that country, to be used for making toys. It was not, however, in these things that I found my chief interest. What I chiefly remember was the fine appearance of the women. I was impressed with their smiling and contented faces. Many of them are mothers, and there is an admirable créche in connection with the sardine factory, where the children are cared for. A more industrious and charming scene of labour it would be impossible to find. I lost no opportunity of inquiry into local industrial conditions. The workers in this town are in a very favourable position, and in many respects Vigo has attained to a degree of humane development under industrial life, which other countries are toiling to achieve.

As workers the women are most conscientious and intelligent, apt to learn, and ready to adopt improvements. From my personal observations I can bear witness that their cottages, though very poor, are usually clean, and their children are universally well cared for. Nowhere are children happier or more loved than in Spain. The women are full of energy and vigour even to an advanced age. They are certainly healthy. I once witnessed an interesting episode during a motor-ride in the country districts of the north. A robust and comely Spanish woman was riding a ancas (pillion fashion) with a young caballero, probably her son. The passing of our motor frightened the steed, with the result that both riders were unhorsed. Neither was hurt, but it was the woman who pursued the runaway horse; she caught it without assistance and with surpassing skill. What happened to the man I cannot say. When I saw him he was standing in the road brushing the dust from his clothes. I presume the woman returned with the horse to fetch him.