behind the other. On the other side of the grill was a close-latticed
screen, through which we could see a heavy, black curtain; the movement
of the folds showed that we were being watched by some one on the other
side of the triple barrier. After a short delay a novice slipped quietly
into the chapel, a sprite of a girl with bright eyes and rosy cheeks,
dressed in white serge and crisp linen. She asked us for “alms for the
Holy Sacrament.” Patsy produced our offering. The little novice’s eyes
opened roundly as her small red hand closed on the coin; she courtesied,
so prettily, and flitted away as lightly as she came. As she passed the
grill, she breathed some word of necromancy--it sounded like
“blankichisserando.” Then, silently, the black curtain was withdrawn; we
saw a stout red porteress with a bunch of huge keys in her hand, a key
turned grudgingly in a rusty lock, a hinge squeaked, the lattice parted,
the convent walls flew back! We had a glimpse of veiled figures flying
helter skelter; then through the grim, double iron grating we looked
into the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the nuns. A long, lonely room with rows
of uncomfortably narrow, high-backed benches and narrow tables, over
which hung some good crystal chandeliers filled with wax candles. Though
it shone with neatness, it was the most cheerless living-room
imaginable. In the middle, close to the grating, stood a tall, graceful
woman, who looked like a Vestal of ancient Rome. Her taper, aristocratic
hands were folded in a clasp that suggested strength rather than
meekness; her small head, finely set upon the shoulders, was held high
and proudly.
“The Abbess wishes to speak with you,” whispered the Sibyl.
“How long,” asked the Abbess--her voice like a far away chime of silver
bells,--“how long do you remain in Ronda?”
I said our stay was short, no one had told us how much there was to see
in Ronda.
“There is but one Ronda in the world,” she said. The bells sounded
nearer. The Sibyl nodded agreement. “It is the truth,” she murmured.
“You are of Ronda?” I made out to ask.
The Abbess shook her head, and answered with a splendid pride, “_Soy
hija di Granada_” (I am a daughter of Granada), as if that were the
proudest title in the world. There was more bronze than silver in the
bells now.
“What is the work you do in the convent?”
“We pray for the entire world.” Her voice all silver again. Then, as an
after-thought and of far less consequence:
“We have a school of needlework. Our embroidery is not unknown outside
of Ronda; it has been heard of even outside of Spain.” I felt abashed
that I had not heard of it.
“You will, perhaps, return to Ronda for the fair in May? Many strangers
are here then. Should you come back we shall always be glad to see you
at the convent.”
We felt that we were dismissed. I thanked the Abbess as best I could, in
my halting Spanish, for her courtesy. She smiled a cold, holy smile;
her last words were a benediction:
“_Vayan Vds. con Dios!_”
I had a glimpse of the little novice standing on tiptoe looking at Patsy
over the Abbess’s shoulder, with round, bright eyes, then the black
curtains drew noiselessly together, the stout red porteress shut the
wooden lattice with a loud clang, and turned the protesting key in the
lock. The cold beauty of the Abbess, the fresh comeliness of the novice,
were hidden behind the triple barrier: curtain, lattice, and cruel iron
bars in double rank. No outstretched hand from within that grating could
ever touch another hand reaching to meet it from the other side.
“We shall come back to Ronda for the fair,” said Patsy, cheerfully, as
he took leave of the Sibyl at the station. “If not this year, another
year. The Abbess has invited us: mind that you are here to meet us at
the train!”
The Sibyl smiled, a brave, old, withered smile, and waved her tiny,
wrinkled hand:
“_Hasta otra vista!_”
She would do her best to keep the tryst!
III
THE WHITE VEIL
Concepcion sitting in the patio under a golden shower of yellow
Bankshire roses! That was our first impression of Seville. Pemberton,
tall and lean, stood beside her, nervously twirling his stick. We
hurried down to the courtyard; introductions followed.
“_Mes amigos_, Concepcion. She doesn’t speak a word of English--all the
better for your Spanish. She is Sevilliana born. We will do our best
between us to show you the town in--how many days or hours do you mean
to stay?”
“Weeks or months, rather; you don’t know what you are letting yourself
in for,” warned J.
“The longer the better. Concepcion is sometimes busy with the children,
housekeeping, or millinery. I never have anything to do.”
Concepcion welcomed us with soft eyes, a gracious flurry of civilities,
glanced at her watch, and looked meaningly at Pemberton.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s time to start. The
[Illustration: OUR LADY OF O., SEVILLE.]
ceremony of Rending the White Veil, the first act of the drama, begins
at ten o’clock.”
It was the Wednesday of Holy Week. We had timed our arrival in Seville
with an eye to that service. Had it not been for Concepcion, we might
have missed it, after all. It was wonderful enough to sit in the patio
with the paired Moorish columns, the green and blue _azulejos_,
listening to the fountain, and the green love-birds in their gilded
cage, looking at Concepcion, her little feet tucked under her chair, her
fan gently agitated, her mantilla almost as black as her curls.
Outside, in the Plaza del Pacifico, the sun lay hot on the tawny earth;
among the glossy green leaves of the orange trees, golden fruit and
waxen blossom hung side by side. The air was sweet with the smell of
them. A little boy took off his jacket and fluttered it like a _muleta_
(the matador’s red cloak) in his companion’s face. In a moment the two
boys were hard at it--playing at bull-fighting. We lingered to watch
them.
“Seville is even better than I remembered,” said Patsy. “I must have
been here before (I knew that he had not); I seem to have known it all
my life. What a lot of our friends, dead and alive, came from here! The
Emperor Trajan was a Sevilliano, so were Don Juan and Velasquez, so is
Villegas. Figaro, brass basin, white apron, and all, met us at the gate
last night when we arrived, and ran beside the carriage, pointing out
the black arrows at the corners showing the way.”
Was Rossini ever in Seville? Not that it signifies; he devined it all,
if he did not see it. His creatures, Figaro, Rosina, Don Bartolo, are of
the glorious company of its ghosts.
Seville is a siren city. The river Guadalquiver throws an arm about her;
genius, when it may, follows suit and embraces the darling of Andalusia.
“I’ll show you Figaro’s barber shop some day,” said Pemberton over his
shoulder. “It’s near my place. Yes, I’m a householder. You know the
proverb? ‘Whom God loves, he gives a house in Seville.’”
“Find us one, and we’ll settle here, too!” Patsy exclaimed.
“We will talk about that later,” said Pemberton. “Now, I am taking you
to the cathedral. Before you see it, I ask you to consider the immortal
resolution passed by its founders before the first stone was laid. ‘Let
us build,’ they resolved, ‘a monument that shall make posterity declare
that we were mad.’ That was a good bluff, wasn’t it?”
“The only thing about posterity that you can bank on,” Patsy sagely put
in, “is that it won’t say what is expected of it!”
“_Claro!_ Posterity, you and I and Concepcion here, say those men were
the sanest of their time. They, their architects, and their artists
support this city to-day. I don’t know how the taxes could get paid
without the money you travelers bring. The cathedral is the thing that
draws you, and the pageants and _fiestas_--they have all grown up out of
it, are part and parcel of it. The ‘monument’ of those ‘madmen’ is the
Heart of Seville. I wish we had a few such lunatics at home. _They_ only
thought about building the house of God. We waste ourselves in inventing
ingenious devices for heating and lighting the churches of men, and let
slip the great opportunity!”
We were walking, while Pemberton poured out his vehement torrent of
talk, through a narrow, twisting _calle_, innocent of sidewalks, between
tall Morisco houses with openwork gates, catching tantalizing glimpses
of patios where roses riot, fountains sing, cedars whisper. If there be
jealous iron-bound doors in gracious Seville, like those of grim, old
Moorish Ronda, they stand hospitably ajar. As we turned a corner,
Pemberton stopped us with a gesture:
“Look,” he said, “the Giralda!”
Across a plaza where fringed palms rustle, at the end of a _calle_ still
in faint lilac shadow, stood a tall square tower of tenderest rose
color. The Giralda, once the minaret of old Abu Yacob’s mosque,
dominates Seville as the Giglio of Giotto dominates Florence, by its
imperial right of beauty. The bronze Victory on the summit turned
lightly with the breeze; her Roman helmet, her standard, and the olive
branch in her hand sharply etched against the fiery blue sky. In the
belfry the old green bells--all Christians baptized--San Miquel, el
Cantor, Santa Maria, la Gorda, swung to and fro, calling the people to
prayer as their predecessor, the muezzin, once called them.
“It is very late,” murmured Concepcion. She spoke slowly, distinctly; I
understood her then and after. My Spanish was “coming back to me:” at
sixteen I could chatter like a magpie in West Indian Castilian. We
hurried on, losing the Giralda to find it again standing like a tall
sentinel beside the cathedral. This was our first meeting with Gothic
architecture in Spain. The pure lines of pointed window and door, the
airy, flying buttresses, the graceful parapet crowning the roof rose
stately above us, solemn and inspiring, a very gospel carven in warm
gray stone.
“The cathedral is the Heart of Seville,” said Pemberton, “it is a unique
thing. No church in Christendom, no Greek temple or Buddhist shrine can
compare with it. Not because it is the largest Gothic cathedral and the
third largest church in the world, but because it has breath, because it
is alive.”
An aged beggar, clean and respectable, lifted the heavy leathern curtain
that hung over the door. “_Una limosna por el amor de Dios_,” he
whispered. Concepcion dropped a _perro chico_ (literally a small dog, a
copper coin worth one cent) into his trembling old hand.
“_Dios se lo paga a V._,” said the beggar, a neat, self-respecting
mendicant whose voice lacked the whine of Italy. God himself will pay it
to you!
In the rich, dusky spaces of the nave, near the _puerta mayor_, a marble
slab is let into the pavement. Carved upon the slab are the familiar
device of the three brave caravels and the proud motto, “_á Castilla y á
Leon, mundo nuebo dié Colon_.”
“This is the tomb of that good son, Ferdinand Columbus,” said Pemberton.
A cord tightened round my heart. “That’s a link with the past that
holds, isn’t it?”
From that moment it seemed as if we all caught fire from Pemberton, saw
through his eyes, felt with his intensity of feeling. The sweeping
aisles, the steadfast columns, the soaring arches of that cathedral
seemed elemental things, like their prototypes, the forest lanes, the
giants of the primeval wood. We could almost feel the spring of pine
needles underfoot, smell the resin, see the sunlight striking through
the tops of tall pines swaying together, arching the forest path.
The _coro_ the distinguishing feature of Spanish cathedrals--it is like
a chapel set down in the middle of a church--interferes less with the
impression of the whole building at Seville than in any other cathedral
we saw. In the outer aisles, which are free of the _coro_, you have an
uninterrupted view of the entire length of the building, and can realize
its sublime proportions, get a sense of the harmony of the whole; the
ease with which the vast columns uphold the roof, and divide the whole
space into its proper parts. In itself, the _coro_ is like an
exquisitely wrought gem in a chaste and simple setting. It is shut off
from the nave on the side of the _puerta mayor_, by a marble façade
containing fine bas-reliefs, and a painting of the Virgin by Francesco
Pacheco, father-in-law and teacher of Velasquez. On the side towards the
_capilla mayor_ and the high altar, the _coro_ is isolated by a
magnificent wrought-iron screen where, high up in groups of threes, hang
the golden mass bells. Around the interior of the _coro_ runs a double
row of choir stalls, marvels of wood carving, in part grotesque, where
the carver’s fancy ran riot and reproduced the faces of the men, beasts,
and devils that had haunted his childish dreams.
[Illustration: SEVILLE CATHEDRAL.]
Those goblin, demon heads are carved low down, where the hand rests, the
knees push. They are worn away, polished smooth by the rubbing of the
palms and the calves of generations of monks. Safe above, where the
uplifted eye strikes, are the heavenly visions,--angels, saints,
prophets, the Virgin in glory, fresh as the day old Nufro Sanchez carved
them. In the middle of the _coro_ stands the tall _facistol_ holding the
yellow vellum music books open at the page where the monkish
illuminators painted their most beautiful miniatures.
“There’s Villegas’s picture,” J. whispered, as we passed the _coro_,
“the old choirmaster holding up his baton, scolding the choristers. I
know every inch of this church; there’s not a corner he has not
painted.”
“And how he has painted it!” sighed Pemberton; “as a man paints the
portrait of his mother. How you feel the artists, dead and alive, who
have worked here; that’s part of the fascination of the place.”
“Put the camp chairs there,” said Concepcion. She had found us the
perfect position, between the _coro_ and the _capilla mayor_. “Did he
tell you that screen is gilded with the first gold that came from the
Americas?”
The ship that brought that first gold must have been the size of the
Mayflower, from the amount of “first gold” it is supposed to have
brought to Spain.
There was no crowd, only a few women dressed like Concepcion, all in
black; some poor bodies, a sprinkling of tourists, and one brown
Franciscan. The sunlight pouring through the painted window of the
Assumption stained the nearest columns blood-red, sapphire, emerald. In
the _coro_, sombre and rich, the crimson and scarlet cloaks of the old
canons, sitting slumbrous in the stalls, glowed like jewels in the dusk.
Grouped in couples about the _facistol_ were the choir boys, their
black-letter scores held between them. The high altar of the _capilla
mayor_ was covered by a thick, White Veil, that hung from the groined
roof to the floor. Two by two the tonsured acolytes in long purple
gowns, with tassels of gold and violet, prepared for the service,
dressed the pulpits, laid ready the missals. The three officiating
priests appeared, each preceded by a pair of altar boys in scarlet and
ivory, carrying silver candlesticks twice as tall as they. The priest at
the middle pulpit was a big, powerful man, with a fine resonant voice.
His intoning of the gospel was masterly; Concepcion said the finest in
Seville, if not in Spain. The old priest with the delicate, spiritual
face, like a wax mask with jewel eyes, and the high treble voice, must
have been as good at intoning in his day. The little boys who held the
candles close for his old eyes to see, leaned towards him with a
pleasant, human tenderness. It was easy to see there was love in their
service.
“_Et posuit eum in monumento_,” the old priest quavered out the last
words of the story, as it is told by Luke; the three celebrants left the
altar with much ceremony of book and bell and kiss ecclesiastical, and
took their stand before the white veiled altar; the purple acolytes
swung their gold censers till we saw the glowing coals; the smoke of
frankincense and spice rose up in clouds. There came a moment of
strained silence. The only sound was the clinking of the censer chains.
The air between priests and people was thick and blue with incense.
Brrrrrrrrrrm, brrrrrrrrrrrm! The silence was shattered by a loud clap of
thunder, another and another, as if a fierce tempest had sprung up
outside. While the thunder rolled and echoed through the aisles, the
White Veil was rent from top to bottom, fell to the ground, and
disappeared as if by magic. In its place hung the Black Veil. Before
this stood in studied attitudes the big priest, the old priest, and a
little priest. The brown Franciscan kneeling by the great tenabrium had
thrown back his head in ecstasy.
“Look,” whispered Pemberton, “the Saint Anthony of Murillo; I will show
you the picture in the baptistry; it’s the one the figure of Anthony was
cut out from and sent to New York. They have put the piece back, but the
‘joining’ shows.”
We came out of the cathedral into the light and perfume of the Court of
Oranges, sat down upon a sun-warmed marble bench, and looked up at the
pigeons flitting about the Giralda. A little cloud floated before the
face of the sun, a shadow fell upon the fountain.
“That fountain where the women are gossiping is the old Moorish _midhâ_,
where the musselmen washed before prayer, as I have seen them do in
Turkey. Women weren’t allowed in the Court of Oranges then,” mused
Pemberton. “Where we sit, the temples of Astarte and of Salambo once
stood. It’s curious how you catch the echoes of the older religions in
these ceremonies of Holy Week. Some of the rites were practiced before
Rome was. The mosque, the Moors who worshipped there, seem things of
yesterday, in comparison.”
“Almost of to-day, that cry, that man are more than half Arab.”
“_Agua, agua fresca!_” The cry twanged of the Orient. The water seller,
lean and brown, with impenetrable black velvet eyes, turned into the
courtyard. He was dressed all in white, with
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO COURT OF ORANGES, SEVILLE.]
odd, hemp-soled shoes,--a grave man who offered water from his clean
cup, then passed on his way, his cry growing faint, fainter, till it was
drowned in the clangor of _el Cantor_, the great, green, bronze bell of
the Giralda.
The afternoon of Holy Wednesday found us in the Plaza de la
Constitucion. Before the florid façade of the Casa de Ayutamiento a
grand stand had been built. In the center was a dais hung with crimson
velvet, garlanded with flowers. Under a gold embroidered canopy stood
three gilded thrones.
“For the King, the Queen Mother, and the Infanta Maria Teresa,”
Concepcion explained. Opposite, across the plaza, Pemberton pointed out
the Audienza, a handsome Renaissance building, over whose door were the
arms of Charles V, the Pillars of Hercules with the old motto borrowed
from the old hero, _ne plus ultra_. A marble column shows where the
public executions once took place. The plaza, scene of tournaments,
bull-fights, and carnival fêtes, was crowded by those who could afford
the best seats for the processions of penitence, the famous pageants of
Holy Week. The audience assembled in twos and threes, the dark,
full-bosomed Andalusian women, with fan and mantilla, the men in uniform
or afternoon dress. In a neighboring box sat a young girl with a lovely
oval face, masses of wavy black hair, and eyes like cool, brown agates.
“That is Luz,” said Pemberton, “called the prettiest girl in Seville.”
He looked at Concepcion as he said it.
“There is a woman who is as beautiful,” I said, truthfully, and knew
that Pemberton was my friend for life.
Luz had many visitors (the seats in her box were never empty), they came
and went like moths about a candle. One remained, a monk in a brown
habit, the Franciscan of the cathedral. In spite of his rope girdle, his
bare sandaled feet, he had once belonged to that world of fashion where
Luz rules, and where he was still at home.
A fanfare of trumpets rang out above the babble and the laughter. Fans
were closed, flirtations broken off. Luz turned in her seat; all eyes
were fixed on the corner where the Calle de Serpientes turns into the
plaza. Down the narrow street, out into the full light of the square,
rode a troop of resplendent cavalry,--white Andalusian horses with
delicate, high-stepping feet, men who sat straight in the saddle, in
spite of rich trappings and gorgeous uniforms. The _penitentes_
followed, sombre, masked men in long, purple velvet gowns, the train
folded over the arm, showing violet silk stockings and silver-buckled
shoes. From their tall, pointed caps hung down the antefaces covering
the entire head, falling low upon the breast: through the eyeholes one
caught the flash of dark eyes. In their gloved hands they carried silver
staffs of office ten feet high. Behind walked the _Nazerenos_. The
foremost carried a large cross; the others, standards of the order, or
flaming torches that smoked and flickered as they walked. Before the
_penitentes_ passed in front of the grand stand, they spread out their
trains that trailed behind them on the ground. In the midst of these
maskers strode a band of Roman centurions,--helmets, cuirasses, spears,
and standards with the familiar S P Q R glancing in the sun. The music
to which they marched had a melancholy refrain, a sort of insistant
grieving that knocked at the heart.
“The funeral march of Eslava; you will know it well before Easter,” said
Pemberton.
“_Ai, ai!_” A great sigh breathed by a thousand people as the first
_paso_ came in sight,--a huge float moving, as if miraculously, down the
Street of Serpents out into the plaza. On a base of wrought silver, at
the height of a man’s shoulder, stood a life-sized statue of the Virgin.
“_Nuestra Señora de la Vittoria_,” murmured Concepcion.
The statue, of painted wood, was sumptuously dressed. The front of her
robe was of costly lace; over this fell from the shoulders a train of
black velvet, two yards long, heavily embroidered in gold arabesques.
The hair was real. On the head sparkled a stupendous diamond crown.
Slowly, slowly the float drew near, wrapped in a cloud of incense from
the censers of the _penitentes_. A rain of flowers fell from window and
balcony; the velvet and gold baldequin over the Virgin’s head was almost
hidden by lilies and roses. At her feet were flaunting daffodils in
silver vases, and row on row of blazing candles at various heights. She
was covered from throat to waist with superb jewels, strings of pearls,
diamonds, and sapphires. Her wrists were laden with bracelets, in her
hand she carried a lace pocket handkerchief. As she entered the plaza a
tremendous peal shook the soft air; the vast green bells of the Giralda
seemed to fling themselves like live creatures towards Mary. The glitter
of the gewgaws, the glow of the candles lighted up the face, showed the
tears (pearls of great price) on the cheeks, the beauty and tenderness
of the expression.
“A masterpiece by the sculptor, Montañes, the friend of Velasquez,” said
Pemberton. In spite of all the frippery of the dress you feel the hand
of the master sculptor in the painted statue. The
[Illustration: THE SCULPTOR MARTINEZ MONTANES.
_Velasquez_]
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST’S SON
_Greco_]
loving, tender face, the feminine outstretched arms divinely express the
eternal womanly.
“_Miré, Miré, Vd! el Rey y la Reina!_” whispered Concepcion. She had not
been too much engrossed to see the young King and his mother take their
places. The _paso_ turned slowly as if on a pivot till the queen
celestial faced the queen terrestrial. The King uncovered and saluted,
the Queen Mother, Cristina Maria, courtesied,--so they stood facing each
other for a single heart-beat, then the King left the dais, walked down
into the plaza, and took his place at the head of those masked men.
“Don Alfonzo is the Elder Brother of the Confraternity of the Cigar
Makers,” whispered Concepcion. “See, he escorts their patron, our Lady
of Victory, through the plaza.”
To the mournful grieving of Eslava’s dirge, the Virgin of the cigar
makers, escorted by the King, disappeared on the way to her station in
the cathedral.