Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

Alone among so many ruins stands the theatre. The new dramatic literature lacks the marvellous invention, the splendid form, and the pristine impress of the nobility and grandeur of the old, which was the expression of a people who ruled Europe and the New World. Still less does it possess the incredible productiveness and the endless variety; but, in compensation, it possesses a more wholesome influence, a deeper observation, a finer delicacy, and a greater degree of conformity to the true scope of the theatre, which is to purify manners and to ennoble the heart and mind.

In all the forms of literature, moreover, as in the drama, in the novels, the popular songs, the poems, and histories, there always lives and rules the sentiment which informs the literature of Spain more powerfully indeed than any other European literature, from the first rude lyrics of Berseo to the noble martial hymns of Quintana—the sentiment of national pride.

And here it is appropriate to speak of the Spanish character. The national pride of the Spaniards is still so great to-day, after so many misfortunes and so grave a fall, that the stranger who lives among them is doubtful whether they are the Spaniards of three centuries ago or the Spaniards of the nineteenth century. But it is an inoffensive pride, a pride which runs to harmless rhetoric. They do not depreciate the other nations which seem to rise higher than themselves. No; they respect, praise, and admire them, but show a feeling of superiority which draws a clear inference contradictory to their praise. They are benevolent toward other nations, with that benevolence which Leopardi justly remarks is peculiar to men full of self-conceit, who believe that they are admired by all, and love their avowed admirers because they think that a duty attendant upon the superiority with which they imagine fate has blessed them. Surely there has never existed in the world a people with greater enthusiasm for their history than the Spanish. It is incredible. The boy who shines your boots, the porter who carries your valise, the mendicant who begs for alms, raises his head with flashing eyes at the names of Charles V., Philip II., Hernando Cortez, and Don John of Austria, as if they are heroes of his own time, and as if he had witnessed their triumphal entry into the city only the day before. The people pronounce the word España with an accent like that with which the Romans of the most glorious times of the Republic would have pronounced Roma. When they speak of Spain modesty is thrown aside, even by men of extremely modest nature, without the least indication in their faces of that exaltation because of which one may sometimes pardon intemperate speech. They boast in cold blood, from habit, without being conscious of so doing. In the speeches of Parliament, in the newspaper articles, in the writings of the Academy, they speak of the Spanish people without circumlocution as a nation of heroes, the great nation, the wonder of the world, the glory of the ages. It is a rare thing to hear any one speak or read a hundred words before an audience without sooner or later recognizing the burden of the song in Lepanto, the Discovery of America, or the War of Independence, the mention of which always elicits a burst of applause.

And it is precisely this tradition of the War of Independence that constitutes to the Spanish people a powerful inherent force. One who has never lived in Spain for a long or short period cannot believe that a war, however fortunate and glorious, could leave to the people so steadfast a faith in their national valor. Baylen, Victoria, San Marcial, are throughout Spain even more potent traditions than are Marengo, Jena, and Austerlitz in France. Even the martial glory of the armies of Napoleon, seen through the War of Independence, which shrouds it like a veil, appears to the eyes of the Spanish less splendid than to any other people in Europe. The idea of a foreign invasion provokes among the Spaniards a smile of proud disdain; they do not believe it possible to be conquered in their own country; one should hear the tones in which they speak of Germany when it is rumored that the emperor William has determined to uphold the throne of the duke d’Aosta with his arms. And doubtless if they were obliged to fight a new war of independence, they would fight, possibly with less fortunate success, but with a bravery and constancy equal to those which they once so marvellously displayed. 1808 is the ’93 of Spain; it is a date which stands out before the eyes of every Spaniard in letters of fire; they glory in it, from the women and the boys to the babies who are just learning to lisp; it is the war-cry of the nation.

And they have a similar pride in their writers and artists. The beggar, instead of saying España, says sometimes the country of Cervantes. No writer in the world has ever gained such popularity among his own people as the author of Don Quixote in Spain. I believe that there is not a peasant or a shepherd from the Pyrenees to the Sierra Nevada, from the coast of Valencia to the hills of Estremadura, who if asked about Cervantes will not reply with a smile of complacence, “He is the immortal author of Don Quixote!” Spain is perhaps the country where the anniversaries of the great writers are most generally celebrated; from Juan de Mena to Espronceda, each one has his solemn day, when they offer at his tomb a tribute of song and flowers. In the squares, the cafés, the railway-carriages, wherever you are, you hear lines of the famous poets repeated by all sorts of people; he who has not read them has heard another read; he who has not heard them read repeats the quotation as a proverb learned from others; and when any one repeats a verse, they all prick up their ears. Any one who knows a little Spanish literature may make a journey in that country with the assurance of always having something to talk about and something with which to inspire sympathy wherever and in whatever company he may happen to be. The national literature is truly national.

The defect of the Spanish which from the first strikes the stranger is this—that in their estimate of the affairs, the men, and the achievements of their time and their country they over-estimate their measure, if one may so speak. They exaggerate everything, they see everything, as it were, through a lens that magnifies to vast proportions. For a long time they have had no immediate part in the common life of Europe, and hence they have lacked opportunity for comparing themselves with other states and of judging themselves by such comparison. On this account their civil wars, the wars in America, Africa, and Cuba, are to them not what the little war of 1860 and ’61 against the Papal army, or even the revolution of 1860, are to us, but what we regard the great Crimean War and the wars of 1859 and of 1866. They speak of the combats—which exalt the Spanish armies in those wars, sanguinary doubtless, but not great—as the French speak of Solferino, the Prussians of Sadowa, and the Austrians of Custozza. Prim, Serrano, and O’Donnell are generals who in comparison dwarf the most illustrious commanders of other countries. I remember the to-do made at Madrid over the report of the victory gained by General Merriones over four or five thousand Carlists. The deputies in the lobby of the Cortes exclaimed emphatically, “Ah! Spanish blood!” Some even said that if an army of three hundred Spaniards had found itself in the position of the French in 1870, it would have marched straight to Berlin. Certain it is, that one cannot doubt the valor of the Spanish, which has been proved on so many occasions, but one may safely assert that there is a great difference between disorganized Carlists and Prussians in battle array—between the soldiers of Europe, to speak more comprehensively, and the soldiers of Africa—between great pitched battles, where canister sweeps away its thousands, and the combats of ten thousand soldiers on either side with great disparity in equipment and discipline. And as they speak of war, so they speak of everything else; and this is true not only of the common people, but of the upper classes as well. They lavish high-sounding praises upon their writers; they give the title of grande poeta to many whose names are never heard outside of Spain; adjectives of exalted sublimity and wonder are current coin given and taken without the least doubt of its value as legal tender. One may say that Spain regards and judges everything like an American, rather than a European, people, and that it is separated from Europe by an ocean instead of the Pyrenees, and joined to America by an isthmus.

In other points how similar they are to us! To hear the people talk of politics, one would think one was in Italy: they do not argue, they express opinions; they do not censure, they condemn; a single argument is enough for any judgment, and to form an argument an inference alone is sufficient. As for this minister, he is a rascal; that one, a traitor; and this one a hypocrite: they are all a pack of thieves. One has sold the trees in the gardens of Aranguez; another has robbed the Escurial of its treasures; a third has drained the coffers of the state; a fourth has sold his soul for a bag of money. They have lost all faith in the very men who have had a hand in all the political movements of the last thirty years; even among the lowest people there is creeping in a spirit of discouragement which gives rise to the expressions that one hears very often and on every side: “Poor Spain! Unhappy country! Wretched Spaniards!”

But the violence of the political passions and the fury of the civil struggles have not changed the foundation of the ancient Spanish character. Only that part of society known as the political world, only this is corrupt; the people, though always inclined toward those blind and at times savage impulses of passion which betray the mingling of the Arabian and Latin blood, are good and loyal and capable of magnanimous action and sublime bursts of enthusiasm. “The honor of Spain” is still a motto which quickens every pulse. And, moreover, their manners are frank and refined; perhaps less polished, but certainly more amiable and ingenuous, than those for which the French are praised. Instead of smiling at you, they offer you a cigar; instead of paying you a compliment, they press your hand, and are more hospitable in actions than in protestations. Nevertheless, the forms of address still preserve their ancient courtliness; the gentleman says to the lady, “I am at your feet;” the lady to the gentleman, “I kiss your hand.” Among themselves the gentlemen sign their letters Q. B. S. M.—que besa sus manos (I kiss your hands), like a servant to his master; only friends say Adios; and the people preserve their affectionate salutation, Vaya Usted con Dios! (God be with you!), which is worth more than all the kissing of the hands.

With the warm, generous nature of this people it is impossible to spend a month in Madrid without making a hundred friends, even though one does not seek them. Think how many one might make if one did seek them! This was my case. I cannot say that they were real friends, but I was acquainted with so many persons that it did not seem at all like being in a foreign city. Even the illustrious men are very easy to approach, and hence there is no need, as elsewhere, of a pile of letters and messages from friends in order to meet them. I had the honor of knowing Tamayo, Hartzenbusch, Guerra, Saavedra, Valera, Rodriguez, Castelar, and many others, some famous in letters and some in the sciences, and I found them all alike—open, cordial, fiery; men with silvered hair, but with the eyes and voices of young men of twenty; passionately devoted to poetry, music, and art; cheerful and animated, with a fresh, ringing laugh. How many of them did I see, as they read the lines of Quintana or Espronceda, grow pale, weep, and spring to their feet as though touched by an electric spark, revealing their whole soul in a radiant glance! What youthful spirits! What ardent hearts! How delighted I was to see and hear them—to belong to that same poor Latin race of which we now say such hard things! and how happy I was in the thought that to a greater or less degree we are all formed in the same mould, and that, although we may accustom ourselves, little by little, to envy the qualities of others, yet we are never wholly successful in obliterating our own!

After three months and more of sojourning in Madrid I was obliged to take my departure, in order that I might not be caught by the summer in Southern Spain. I shall always remember that beautiful May morning when I left, perhaps for ever, my dear Madrid. I was going to see Andalusia, “the promised land” of travellers, the ideal Andalusia, whose wonders I had so often heard sung by poets and romancers in Italy and Spain—that Andalusia for whose sake, I may say, I had undertaken the journey; and yet I was sad. I had passed so many happy days in Madrid! I was leaving so many dear friends! On my way to the station to take the noon train I passed along the Alcalá, saluted from a distance the gardens of the Recoletos, passed the Museum of Painting, stopped to take a last look at the statue of Murillo, and reached the station with an aching heart. “Three months?” I asked myself a few moments before the train started. “Have three months passed already? Has it not been a dream? Yes, it seems as if I have been dreaming. Perhaps I shall never again see my good landlady, nor Señor Saavedra’s little daughter, nor the sweet, serene face of Guerra, nor my friends of the Café Fornos, nor any one else. But what is this? Shall I not return? Return! Oh, no! I know well that I shall not return. And so ... farewell, my friends! farewell, Madrid! farewell, my little room in the street of Alduana!” At this moment my heartstrings seem to be breaking and I must hide my face.