MARY AND JESUS MEET
Though the early morning sky was bright and cloudless, the streets of
the Cabanal were rumbling as in a thunderstorm. People jumped out of bed
as the crashing almost split their eardrums; and good women of the
village, their hair still down and in wrappers hastily thrown on, went
out on the sidewalk in front of their doors to see what was going on.
The bluish transparency of dawn was barely gilded with the rays of the
still invisible sun. But the "Jews of Jerusalem" were on a rampage,
banging their harsh cymbals together as they marched along the streets.
One would have thought the Calendar had suddenly gone mad and
transported Carnival to Easter week. The most grotesque horribles were
gathering in the squares. The young folks of the town were out in
costume; for the procession of the _Encuentro_, in the environs of
Valencia, is virtually a masquerade.
Far down the long street, what looked like an army of cockroaches could
be seen assembling, figures, called _las vestas_, in tall, black,
sharp-pointed hoods, like so many astrologers, or judges of the
Inquisition, their cloth masks rolled up over their foreheads, their
long black trains hung over their arms, and each with a baton painted
black in one hand. Some of the paraders, to add a touch of ingenuity,
had slipped white petticoats on, well ironed and pleated, and from under
them pairs of trousers protruded with the legs turned up, and, at the
very bottom, top-shoes unutterably tormenting enormous feet accustomed
to walking bare on the sands.
Then came the "Jews," fierce villains apparently snatched from some
lowly stage for dramas of the Middle Ages that could afford only a
conventional costume of poor quality. Their induments were what the
Valencian populace refers to as its "war trappings," short skirts or
kilts, much mottled with spangles, trimmings and lace fringes, like the
tunic of the Apaches; helmets topped off with huge cock plumes, arms and
legs "armored" with a rude fabric of cotton tufts to give a distant
suggestion of mail. To cap the climax of caricature and anachronism,
following the _vestas_ and the "Jews," came--tall and handsome fellows
all--the "Virgin's Grenadiers," wearing high-fronted caps like those of
Frederick's Prussian guards, with black uniforms decorated with silver
lace that must surely have been ripped from the caskets in an
undertaker's store.
A stranger might have laughed at that naif array had he dared brook the
wrath of those solemn boys whose faces all wore expressions of stern
professional seriousness. It is never safe to make fun of an army ready
to fight; and these "Jews" and "grenadiers" who were to guard the
crucified Christ and his mother were carrying, unsheathed in their
hands, all the varieties of sword known from the dawn of history to the
present time, beginning with the heavy cavalry saber of the ordinary
marcher, to the slender, delicate rapier of the drum-major.
Following the march, or keeping up with it along its flanks, trooped the
gamins of the town, enviously studying the colorful uniforms. Mothers,
sisters and sweethearts looked on admiringly from their doorways: "There
he is, there! Do you see him? _Reina y sinora!_ How grand he looks!" The
devout procession, like the parade that heralds the coming of a circus
to town, seemed to recall to the sinful, backsliding population of the
Cabanal that at seven A. M. sharp Jesus and his mother would meet--hence
the name _Encuentro_--in the middle of the Calle de San Antonio, in
front of the "Side of Bacon," the tavern of _tio Chulla_.
As the twilight brightened into the rosy glow of sunrise, promising a
warm spring day, the martial uproar about the village grew. There were
drums, cornets and brass horns sounding on every hand. An army seemed
suddenly to have descended on the Cabanal. The various
companies--_collas_, as they are called--had formed four abreast, and
solemn, stiff, and as much admired as soldiers returning from victory,
were marching to the homes of their respective captains to collect the
banners displayed there--weird standards of black velvet embroidered
with the horrifying symbols of the Passion.
The Rector was hereditary captain of the "Jews," and long before dawn he
had gotten up and crammed his person into the handsome costume that was
kept securely locked in a chest at other times of the year and was
revered by the whole family as the treasure of the house. Lord help us!
What are we coming to! Every Easter the poor Rector was getting fatter
and fatter and finding it a more and more serious task to stuff his
corpulency into that tight-fitting "coat-of-mail." Dolores, in her
nightgown and with her hair down, was making the tour of his spacious
waist, pushing in the stomach here, and stretching the cloth there, to
make room for one more cubic inch of husband inside the cotton armor. On
the bed sat little Pascualet gazing in amazement and alarm at that
helmet with Indian plumes on the man's head and at that menacing cavalry
saber which clanked against the walls and the furniture every time the
Rector turned around. Could that be papa?
At last the dread toilette was over. Not exactly what you would call
comfortable, but they had spent enough time over it. The Rector's
underwear, at odds with the stringency encircling it, was all lumpy, and
what looked like tumors could be seen standing out under the "Jew's"
stockings. And those trousers! They were so tight around the middle that
the poor man could hardly breathe. His helmet, far too small for his
head, kept slipping forward and bumping on his nose. But this was a day
for dignity, not for ease! And the Rector drew his saber, struck up a
rub-a-dub-dub in his stentorian voice, and began to stride up and down
the room, as though the baby there were a crown prince reviewing guard.
His wife's golden, mysterious eyes followed him as he walked back and
forth from one wall of the bedroom to the other like a bear in a cage.
She was tempted to laugh at those bandy legs; but no--she liked him
better in that costume than in the tarred and pitchy clothes he came
home from work in at night, tired out and stupid from toil.
And now they were coming! The "Jews" could be heard, with their band,
down the street. They would be wanting their banner. Dolores hastily
threw a wrapper on, while the captain advanced to the frontiers of his
domain to welcome his army. The lurid company drew up in front of the
house. The drum-beat softened in tone, but continued to give the rhythm
for the privates who stood there marking time, keeping their heads and
bodies and legs moving energetically in space but without moving from
their positions. Tonet and two other "Jews" came gravely forward,
entered the house, and started for the second story, whence the standard
was hanging from a window.
Dolores met her brother-in-law on his way upstairs, and instantly,
instinctively, she drew the overwhelming comparison. There was a real
soldier, a general! Tonet had something about him that distinguished him
from the uncouthness and clumsiness of the others--of the other. His
legs were straight, and his stockings had no wrinkles--everything in his
make-up was stylish, well fitting, sleek. He belonged to the Juan
Tenorios, the royal don Pedros, the Henri Lagarderes, she had seen on
the stage of the theater of La Marina, reciting verses and fighting
duels that had thrilled her to the bottom of her soul.
And now all the _collas_ were off toward the church, their bands and
banners in front of them, looking, from a distance, like troops of
glossy insects moving up and down in the rhythm of the march. The
_Encuentro_ was at hand! Two processions were coming-down different
streets. In one was the Virgin, weeping, sorrowful, escorted by her
guard of funereal grenadiers; in the other, Jesus, in a showy purple
mantle spangled with gold, his hair awry, his face stained with blood,
collapsing under the burden of the Cross. The image had fallen on the
rocks of painted cork that covered its pedestal. Around the Christ, to
prevent his escape, crowded the ruthless "Jews," who, in line with their
parts, had marshaled ferocious scowls; and with the "Jews" came the
_vestas_, their masks lowered now and their trains dropped and dragging
through the puddles. The whole scene was so dreadful, so awe-inspiring,
that children along the road began to scream and to hide in fright
behind their mothers' skirts.
_Sinor!... Ay, sinor, Deu meu!..._ the old fisherwomen murmured
sympathetically at sight of the bleeding Christ in the clutches of that
mob of infidels.
The low-pitched cymbals were clanging meanwhile, and the cornets were
shrieking long-sustained, ear-splitting blasts like the bellowing of
calves in a slaughter-house. In the midst of the throng of cruel guards
marched some tall, well-built girls, with painted cheeks, and in
costumes copied from the Turkish maidens of comic opera. They carried
water jugs to show they were the Biblical women from Samaria. From their
mothers they had borrowed earrings and breast-pins. Their plump legs
were ostentatiously exposed in open-work stockings under short Polish
peasant skirts. But this was not the occasion for mocking raillery from
the men in the crowds.
Among the spectators, to be sure, were a few pale faces and blue-ringed
eyes--revelers who had been up all night and, to finish their carousals,
had come down from Valencia to witness the famous popular festival. But
if such people ventured a smile at any incongruity in the costumes, a
soldier of Pilate would step up and raise his saber menacingly, calling
them to order in righteous indignation:
"_Morrals! Morrals!_ Hey, there, you pig! This is not a joke! The idea!
The most religious ceremony of the coast, and as old as the Cabanal
itself! You're no gentleman! You must come from Valencia. But I'll teach
you manners, if you don't behave yourself!"
The "meeting" place, on a crossing of the Calle de San Antonio, along
which, every now and then, some tiles of curious design had been placed
to mark the stations of the march to Calvary, was drawing the bulk of
the crowd. Rough, aggressive shore-women, in checkered shawls and with
kerchiefs on their heads for hats, were competing restlessly for places
in the front line.
Among a group of older ones Rosario was stoutly defending her excellent
position on the sidewalk with her elbows and her knees. Had they seen
her Tonet? Not a "Jew" in the whole lot to compare with him! And in all
this enthusiasm for her handsome husband, the poor woman was still
rubbing the bruises he had inflicted on her that morning in the course
of getting his costume out and on. But suddenly Rosario felt a rude
shove which brushed her aside, while a compact, muscular female body
crowded into the place she had been occupying. She looked around. Did
any one ever hear of such brazen impudence! It was Dolores, leading
Pascualet by the hand! They had at last forced their way through the
crushing throng. The comely girl still had her usual pout of disdain as
she looked at people and carried herself with her habitual queenly
pride. The harlot! Yet how everybody made way for her and fawned upon
her in spite of her conceit!
To the exceeding alarm of _tia_ Picores, the two women stood there
frowning at each other angrily. Their reconciliation some days before in
the ice-cream place had been nothing but a truce. They had promised to
be good friends, but without much warmth, and one could see from the
looks in their eyes at the time that there would be trouble again soon.
Rosario, taken aback by the violence of the push that had displaced her,
rested content with a grimace. What nice manners some people had! Some
people wanted the earth with a fence around it! Gangway for Her Majesty
the Queen! Well, there are people and people in this world! And the
wrong sort reveal themselves--you don't have to bother to point them
out.
As the pale, sickly woman muttered on, her face grew redder and redder
with the intoxication of her own words. Her friends near by kept nudging
her, egging her on to stand her ground. Dolores, meanwhile, began to
toss her gorgeous head like a lioness preparing to cuff at a hornet
buzzing behind her back. However, the processions were debouching into
the square, and a wave of expectancy swept over the multitude.
Slowly the two lines of celebrants approached each other, measuring
their steps so as to reach the designated spot at exactly the same
moment. The sun was darting its first golden rays upon the purple robe
of Jesus, the maze of plumes, helmets and upraised swords of the
guards--one bright, sparkling brilliancy. From the other direction came
the Virgin, bobbing up and down on her throne in rhythm with the
footsteps of her bearers, dressed in a black velvet gown with widow's
weeds, some big wax tears glistening on her face, and--to catch them,
supposedly--a black-bordered mourning handkerchief in her stiff,
lifeless hands. She it was who riveted the attention of all the mothers
present. Many of them began to weep. _Ay reina y soberana!_ How she must
be suffering! A mother finding her boy in a fix like that! Suppose I
should meet my boy--do you see him over there, and isn't he
handsome?--handcuffed, and on the way to the penitentiary! And I'm only
an ordinary mother! The fisherwomen were now groaning and weeping all
around the square, not forgetting, meanwhile, to study the Virgin's
costume for any improvement or shortcoming as compared with the year
before.
The exciting moment was now at hand. The drums ceased beating, the
cornets interrupted their dolorous bleating, and the bands were hushed.
The images of Jesus and Mary were face to face. A plaintive, tremulous
voice began to recite in monotone some stanzas which told how very sad
and mournful the whole scene was. _Tio_ Grancha, an aged velvet-spinner,
came down from Valencia every year to declaim those couplets, and his
art was one of the attractions of the festival! What a voice! How it
went to your heart! And that is why a riot almost started when some
gamblers in the "Side-of-Bacon" began to laugh at a turn in their game,
and people rushed to the doors exclaiming angrily:
"Shut up ... shut up ... you vermin!"
The images tilted back and forth, in symbolic pantomime of desperate and
sorrowful farewell!
Meanwhile, Dolores could not take her eyes off the arrogant, elegant
"Jew" who contrasted so favorably with his bandy-legged captain. She was
standing with her back toward Rosario, but that did not prevent the
latter from divining the object of her gaze. And did you see that? A
married woman making eyes at a married man, and right in the presence of
her husband! And all this in public! And what went on in private, when
that Tonet went to her house on the pretext of playing with the baby,
and found her alone?
The two processions had now joined and were going back toward the
church. The jealous, infuriated woman continued, in a half-audible
voice, to hurl her insulting tirade over those broad, exuberant
shoulders in front of her--a splendid pedestal for a beautiful head with
luxuriant hair. Dolores turned around with a smirk of biting ridicule on
her face. Beg pardon! Had all that been for her? When would that dirty
scullion stop annoying a lady? Couldn't a person look at a parade
without being insulted? And a glitter of gold sparkled with a wicked
gleam in the pupils of her sea-green eyes.
Yes, came the reply. It had all been for her, every word! An immoral,
impudent wench, who was always eyeing other women's husbands! Dolores
laughed contemptuously. Thanks! Rosario could keep her husband, for all
she cared. What a jewel he was, besides! She had her own man and that
was enough for her. Tonet might do for other women, if they were fool
enough to take him on. But for the thief there's nobody in the world but
thieves! No, madam, her job in life was not stealing husbands, but
slapping the faces of lying gossips who talked too much!
"_Mare, Mare!_" screamed Pascualet, clinging to the skirts of his
beautiful mother, who, her dark skin pale as death, had drawn herself
up to her full height preparing to throw herself upon her enemy.
Rosario, meanwhile, was struggling to shake off a number of women who
were holding her pinioned by her weak, flaccid arms.
"What's going on here? At it again, eh?" It was the harsh, scolding
voice of _tia_ Picores, who had interposed her towering form between the
combatants. She would settle the row! She knew how to handle those
hot-heads. "You, Dolores, home with you! And you, you groveling, lying
slanderer, get out of my sight and hearing." And with a shove and a
threat, first in one direction and then the other, she put them both to
rout.
Lord, Lord, what people! And on Good Friday! On Good Friday! And right
in front of Mary and Jesus! God might forgive them, but she wouldn't!
The thousandth time! And that's the way they bring up girls nowadays.
And when the stern old woman saw that the younger ones were still
shouting insults at each other from a distance, she went at them again,
shaking her fists and calling them names, till they were dragged away by
their partisans.
The quarrel was soon the talk of all the Cabanal. After the services
were over there was another disturbance in the household of Tonet, who,
without waiting to take his costume off, thrashed his wife within an
inch of her life for making a fool of him in public. And the Rector
also brought the subject up while Dolores was prying him out of his
uniform, and his flesh was gradually resuming its normal rotundity. He
was sorry to say so, but that poor Rosario was crazy. Tonet might be all
he might be--and it was true that brandy didn't do him any good! Just
the same, it was a pity to see him tied to a woman about as easy to
handle as a porcupine. But a brother was a brother in his eyes! He
wasn't going to break with the son of his own father just to please that
fool of a woman! Much less at that particular moment, when there would
be a chance to make a real man of Tonet. Dolores, though hardly yet
recovered from the excitement of the brawl, nodded approval to all he
said.
And the Rector thought no more about it. He had that little matter on
his mind. And, in fact, the following day, just as the bells were
ringing for the service of Holy Saturday, while revolvers were being
fired in festive celebration about town, and gamins were going from
house to house beating upon front doors with sticks, _la Garbosa_, that
leaky death-trap hardly able to keep afloat, with a complete outfit for
fishing aboard to make her look like a seiner, raised her huge lateen
sail, new and strong and white, and slipped away from the beach of the
Cabanal, taking the first sea swells like a time-worn beauty, frilled
and painted up to make one last conquest.