The children were running about in the costume God had given them. But it is not to be supposed that they were troglodytes, and as unaware of culture as those who lived in the ice period. High on the rocks you can read in large black letters on a white background “El Retiro”.
Every Spaniard knows, at least by name, Madrid’s beautiful park the Retiro. For this reason it seems somewhat of a joke to suddenly come across the name in such a spot far up on the rocks. El Retiro, like Sanssouci, means solitude, retreat, place of rest. An enterprising hotel-keeper has levelled his portion of rocks into roof-terraces where the favourite gossip hour (tertulla) is spent, skittles played, and merry dances performed. Hence the alluring words on the wall for the benefit of passers-by. On another rock is graven the brief significant inscription: “Dios, Pan y Cultura” (God, Bread, and Culture. [92-95].
During the course of another stroll I was again equally surprised. I saw smoke arising in the distance from ground that looked like fantastic mountain erosions. Surely this was not the site of volcanic activity? Indeed this was out of the question. And on drawing nigh I discerned human figures moving among the columns of smoke. I then saw to my astonishment that little smoking towers—not unlike champagne corks in shape—were chimneys projecting out of the ground. I had again strayed among cave-dwellers. What Homeric primitiveness was there! The valleys are the streets, the mountain sides the fronts of the houses, the pinnacles villas. Front gardens are once and a while supplied by giant cacti and spiky agaves. My wanderings in this interesting world-forgotten primitive spot lasted for hours as I passed up and down the so-called streets ([96]-[99]).
My greetings were met with a cheerful response, and I was invited to enter a cool cave, provided with a drink of fresh water, and shown the treasures of the modest household: the bed on the ground, the hearth with a copper kettle, the earthenware pitcher, the stool, the oil-lamp and the image of the patron saint.
“Now as to work?” I asked. “Well we don’t do too much in that way. We cultivate what we need over there where the river runs. We make bricks for the towns where the people live in houses.”—Truly a picture of an enviable state of modest requirements. There are still those who are satisfied with the tub of Diogenes. Indeed you may find many such all over Spain. I remember when at a little railway station finding only a lad deep in his after-dinner nap. For the rest, there was no one else to take my luggage, so I woke him up and asked him to help me. He stretched himself in all the bliss of laziness, took a couple of coppers out of his pocket, and showing them to me said: “I’ve earned 25 centimos to-day already; that’s all I need,” turned over, and went to sleep again. I continued on my way recalling the words of the Indian philosopher: “He who is without wants is nearest to God.”
There is no cause to shrug one’s shoulders. Diligence and happiness are but relative conceptions. And just the poorest in Spain understand the art of doing nothing combined with extracting joy from next to nothing. They need a little shade in summer, and the sunshine in winter; a piece of bread, a tomato, a drop of wine. The whole earth with the sky for a roof is their bed-room; the highroad their field of labour. There is no master they would exchange positions with; they are their own masters; masters of their own time—verily a great possession this. Why then should they not spend it generously? “He whom God helps will go further than he who rises betimes” runs a Spanish proverb. And the Bible tells us: “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.”
O
Feria in Sepúlveda.—A bull-fight. There is high holiday in Sepúlveda, ([172], [173]) an ancient little town far from the turmoil of the great world, and far even from the railroad, which indeed is nearly 100 kilometres away. The feria is the greatest day of the whole year. Men and women crowd into the place on horses and donkeys. Old friends meet again. Once more they see ‘life’. Above all it is the bull-fight that is the greatest attraction. It has been for weeks already the only topic worth speaking about. As however our little town has no arena, the market-place is used instead. All day the lively rat-tat of hammers is heard there. The windows of the picturesque dignified old town-hall gaze smilingly down on the lively scene. At last there is really something worth looking at again. Another long tedious sleepy year has gone by.
There is hardly any one who does not go the hour’s walk outside the town to admire the bulls which have come from a long way off, and for the present are being kept at pasture.
When the great day has come, every one is up with the sun. The arrival of the savage animals is feverishly expected. The bravest show their courage by going forth to meet the procession.