There is a certain paradoxical relationship between the motives of step and music, perhaps peculiar to Spain, that asserts itself most clearly in the Jota. That is, the setting of brilliant dance-movement to the accompaniment of melodies of a sadness sometimes unearthly. The juxtaposition does not always occur. When it does, as in the old Jota of Aragon and las Soleares of Andalusia, it is the very incarnation of the mysterious magic of a magic land; it is the smile forcing back the tear, words of wit spoken by the voice of sorrow. Or is the foreigner mistaken? The peasant himself sees no sorrow in the tunes, any more than in life.
Thumping the foot-beats gives an idea of the rhythm so far as related to the sound; but this fails more than to hint at the effect of the music in combination with the dance, because the dance so fills the conscious attention that the music is less heard than felt. The melody itself is unnoticed; but its underlying melancholy persistently cuts its way into the heart during the very moments that vision is most madly happy.
True to her modest and serious character, the peasant woman of Aragon puts on her manton like a shawl, sternly concealing her figure. Her full, rustic skirt is of dull-coloured cotton. For her no high-heeled shoes; her foot-wear—and her grandfather’s—is the practical cord-soled sandal (alporgata) tied on with black cords, which, on their background of white stocking, have a coquettish look in spite of her. The man’s dress is a representation of simple strength, saved from sombreness by well-disposed contrasting accents, few but brilliant. The lacing of the breeches slashed at the knee echoes the tie of the sandals. The waistcoat and breeches are black; the sash—worn very broad—may be either dull or bright; but the kerchief tied around the head is of colour as strong as dyes will produce. Red with a design of little black squares is characteristic ornament of the province.
Valencia, too, has its Jota, but of movement more fluid than that of Aragon. La Jota Valenciana is superficially distinguished by its employment of the tambourine; the only dance in Spain—with possible unimportant exceptions—to accompany itself with this instrument. In structure it is of the Seguidillas type, the coincidence of the term Jota being without significance.
To go into a discussion of the dances of the northern provinces—Cataluña, the Basque provinces, Galicia, Leon and others—would in most instances be to digress from the theme of Spanish dancing in any but a geographical sense. The dances of the northern region that are Spanish in type are of the Seguidillas family already described, and without special pertinence to the locality. Conversely, the dances that are indigenous to and characteristic of the North are not of the type generally and properly known as Spanish, but, in respect to everything but geography, pertain to the character dances of western Europe. True, the Fandango is seen in the Basque provinces; but it is a stray from other parts. Galicia has a pantomime of oafish courtship. A dance characteristic of Quipuzcoa was described to us by Tencita: glasses of wine were set on the floor, of the same number as the dancers, all of whom were men. At a given time every one would jump—from a considerable distance and to a good height—with the aim of missing his glass by a minimum margin. This exercise—or dance, by charity of definition—is performed after important matches of the provincial game of pelota. Being of the general style of racquets, control of placement of the feet follows. Many of the dances, says Tencita, are rounds. Of these the salient feature is the man’s lift of his partner. Some of those iron-shouldered mountaineers, grasping the girl’s waist in two big hands, lift her straight up to arm’s-length. But this, to repeat, is Spanish only by grace of political boundary lines. The same feat is described in a French rustic dance of the Middle Ages. So long as the tradition of round dancing joins the performers’ hands to one another, choreographic art can hardly exist.
It is doubtful if the North has carried to the superlative any of the qualities of real dancing. In pure decorative beauty; variety and force of expression; scope of motive; happy contrasts of treatment—briefly, in the art of the dance, Andalusia speaks the final word. Who wishes natural pantomime need only call a Gipsy. Mimica more delicate is that of Toreo Español or el Vito, both narrating the placing of banderillas, defence with the cape, and the final despatch of a bull. In a combination of strong movement with speed and grace, there does not exist in this world a dance-form to excel the Jota of Aragon.
The home of Spanish dancing is south of the latitude of Madrid, in the flowery region that the caliphs ruled. The pilgrim in search of dancing, therefore, shall not unsaddle until the nearest hilltop shows the ruins of a Moorish castle. By that token he will know that he has come to the land of grapes and fighting bulls, destitution and wit, black eyes, guitar and song, enchantment. There he may sell his horse; where falls the shadow of a castle of the Moors, on that soil blooms the dance.