Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

"Quien no ha visto a Sevilla

No ha visto a maravilla."

We confess, in all humility, that this proverb would strike us as more correct if applied to Toledo or Granada rather than to Seville, where we saw nothing particularly marvellous, unless it was the Cathedral.

Seville is situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in a large plain, whence it derives its name of Hispalis, which, in Carthagenian, means a flat piece of ground, if we may believe Arias Montano and Samuel Bockhart. It is a vast, straggling town, of very recent date, gay, smiling, and animated, and must really appear a charming place to Spaniards. It would be impossible to find a more striking contrast to Cordova. The town of Cordova is dead; it is an ossuary, a catacomb in the open air, on which Neglect is slowly sprinkling its white dust; the few inhabitants whom you meet at the corners of its narrow streets look like apparitions which have mistaken the hour. Seville, on the contrary, is full of all the petulance and busy hum of life; the sound of gaiety floats over her at every instant of the day; she hardly allows herself time to take her siesta. She cares little for yesterday, and still less for to-morrow; she exists altogether for the present. Memory and Hope are the consolation of those who are unhappy, and Sevilla is happy. She enjoys herself, while her sister, Cordova, wrapt in silence and solitude, appears to be dreaming mournfully of Abderama; of the great captain and all his departed glories, brilliant meteors in the nights of the Past, while all she now possesses are ashes.

To the great disappointment of travellers and antiquaries, whitewash reigns supreme at Seville; the houses have a new coat of it three or four times a year; this gives them a look of cleanness and neatness, but effectually prevents any investigation of the remains of the Arabic and Gothic sculptures which formerly adorned the place. Nothing can be less varied than this network of streets, where the eye sees but two tints—the indigo of the sky and the chalky white of the walls on which the azure shadows of the neighbouring buildings are thrown; for in warm countries the shadows are blue instead of being grey, so that the objects appear to be lighted up on one side by the moon, and on the other by the sun; the absence, however, of all sombre tints produces a general appearance of life and gaiety. Doorways closed with iron gates allow you to look through and see the patios ornamented with columns, mosaic pavement, fountains, flower-pots, shrubs, and pictures. As regards the external architecture, it offers no particularly remarkable feature; the houses are rarely more than two or three stories high, and you hardly meet with a dozen façades that are interesting in an artistic point of view. The streets are paved, like those of all Spanish towns, with small pebbles, but, on each side, there is a kind of pavement consisting of tolerably large flat stones on which the crowd walks in single file. If a man and woman meet, the man always makes way for the woman with that exquisite politeness which is natural to Spaniards, even of the very lowest classes. The women of Seville quite deserve the reputation for beauty which they enjoy; they are almost all alike, as is always the case in pure races of a well-defined type; their long eyes, opening to the temples, and fringed with long brown lashes, produce an effect of black and white which is unknown in France. When a woman or young girl passes you, she slowly drops her eyelids, and then suddenly opens them again, shoots at you a look so searching that you are perfectly unable to bear it, rolls the pupil of her eye, and then again drops the lashes over them. The Bayadere, Amany, when dancing the Pas des Colombes, was the only person who could convey the slightest notion of the murderous glances which the East has bequeathed to Spain; we have no terms to express this play of the eyes; the word ojear is wanting in our vocabulary. These glances, which are so full of vivid, sudden brilliancy, and which almost embarrass strangers, have, however, no particular signification, and are cast upon the first object that presents itself; a young Andalusian girl will look with the same passionate expression at a cart passing along, a dog running after its tail, or a group of children playing at bullfights. The eyes of the people of the north are dull and meaningless in comparison; the sun has never left its reflection in them. Their canine teeth are very pointed, and, as well as all the rest, rival in brilliancy those of a young Newfoundland dog, and impart to the smile of the young women of Seville an Arabic savage expression, which is extremely original. Their forehead is high, round, and polished; their nose is sharp and slightly inclining to the aquiline. Unfortunately, their chin sometimes terminates by a too sudden curve of the divine oval of the upper part of their face. Their shoulders and arms are somewhat thin; this is the only imperfection which the most fastidious artist could find in the women of Seville. The delicacy of their articulation, and the smallness of their hands and feet, are all that can be desired. Without any sort of poetical exaggeration, there are women in Seville whose feet an infant might hold in its hand. The Andalusian beauties are very proud of this, and wear shoes to correspond. There is no very great difference between these shoes and the slippers worn by the Chinese women.

"Con primor se calza el pié

Digno de regio tapiz."

is a compliment as common in their songs as the tint of the rose or the lily is in ours.

The said shoes, which are generally of satin, hardly cover their toes, and appear to have no heels, the latter being covered with a small piece of ribbon, of the same colour as the stocking. A little French girl, seven or eight years old, could not put on the shoe of an Andalusian of twenty. Accordingly, there is no end to their jokes about the feet and shoes of the ladies of the north. "A boat with six rowers, to row about in the Guadalquiver, was made out of the ball shoe of a German lady." "The wooden stirrups of the picadores might do for shoes for an English beauty,"—and a thousand other andulazades of the same kind. I defended, as well as I could, the feet of our fair Parisians, but I only met with incredulous listeners. Unfortunately, the women of Seville have only remained Spanish as far as the head and feet, the mantilla and the shoe, are concerned; the coloured gowns à la Française are beginning to obtain the superiority over the national robe. The men are dressed like plates of fashions. There are some, however, who wear small white dimity jackets, trousers to correspond, a red sash, and Andalusian hat; but this is rare, and, besides, the costume is not very picturesque.

The favourite walks are the Alameda del Duque, where the audience stroll during the time between the acts at the theatre, which is close at hand: and also, more especially, the Cristina. It is a most charming thing to see, between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, all the beauties of Seville, in little groups of three or four, parading up and down here, and showing themselves off to the best advantage, accompanied by their lovers, present or future. They have something peculiarly nimble, active, and brisk about them, and prance along, rather than walk. The celerity with which the fan is opened and shut in their hands, the searching power of their glance, the assurance of their bearing, and the undulating suppleness of their figure, give them a physiognomy which is especially their own. There may be women in England, France, and Italy, of a more perfect and regular style of beauty, but there are assuredly none who are prettier or more piquant. They possess in a high degree the quality called by Spaniards la sal, and which is some thing that it is difficult to explain to Frenchmen. It is a mixture of nonchalance, vivacity, bold repartees, and infantine manners; a grace, a pungency, a ragoût, as painters express it, which may be found without beauty, and which is frequently preferred to it. Thus, a person says to a woman in Spain, "How salt, salada, you are!" and there is no other compliment like that one.