There are other dances of a less modest character than the Bolero, which are performed at the minor theatres; but it may be said of Spanish public dancing generally, that it is light, spirited, and poetic, and admits of the display of considerable grace without being indecent.
Although of all modern languages—that of dulcet Italy alone excepted—the Spanish is the best adapted to song, yet the Spaniards have little or no relish for musical entertainments. The truth is, they are not a musical nation. In expressing this opinion, I am aware that I declare war against a host of preconceived notions; but in proof of my assertion I will ask, what country possesses so little national music as Spain? Has a single known opera ever been produced there? Is not her church music all borrowed? Is not the trifling guitar the only instrument the Spaniard is really master of? Is not the Sostenuto bellow of the arriero almost the only approach to melody that the peasant ever attempts?
Spanish music consists of a few simple airs, which are probably heir-looms of the Saracens; and a medley of Boleros, that may be considered mere variations of one tune. Neither their vocal nor instrumental performances ever reach beyond mediocrity, and in concert they invariably sing and play a faire casser la tête.
A fine climate and a gregarious disposition lead the peasantry to assemble nightly, and amuse themselves by dancing and singing to the monotonous thrumming of a cracked guitar; and this habit has earned for the nation the character of being musical—a character to which the Spaniards are little better entitled than the Tom Tom-loving black apprentices of our West India islands.
There are exceptions to every rule, and I willingly admit that I have heard an opera of Rossini very well performed by Spanish “artists.” But that they do not pride themselves on being a musical nation is evident from their always preferring Italian music to their own, though they like to sing Spanish words to an Italian opera.
The Theatre is a place of fashionable resort at Seville. It fills up a vacuum between the Paseo and the Tertulia. And when the times are sufficiently quiet to warrant the outlay, a sufficient sum is subscribed to bribe a second-rate Italian company to expose their melodious throats to the baneful influence of the sea breezes. The house is large and rather tastily decorated, but so ill-shaped that, unless one is close to the stage, not a word can be heard; and if there, the prompter’s voice completely drowns those of the performers. The fall of the curtain at the conclusion of the Bolero is generally the signal for the beau monde to retire, leaving the highly seasoned Saynete to the enjoyment of the “gente baja y desreglada.”[52]
This breaking up is not the least amusing part of the play. The antediluvian carriages are again put in requisition; and now, besides the cocked-hatted attendants, each vehicle is accompanied by two or more torch-bearers on foot; so that the blaze of light on first issuing from the Theatre is most dazzling and astounding,—astounding, because it is only on walking into the gutter, or over a heap of filth in the first cross street one has occasion to enter, that the want of lamps in these minor avenues renders the utility of this extraordinary illumination apparent.
Each carriage, after “taking up,” moves majestically off, its torch-bearers running ahead to show the way, scattering long strings of sparks, like comets’ tails, amongst the humble pedestrians.
The Tertulias commence after the families have supped at their respective houses, that is to say, at about eleven o’clock; and are generally kept up until a late hour.