makes me feel that I, too, have some part in them,--he is so much more
ours than theirs!”
As we came down the steps of the cathedral, we passed the knife grinder
of La Mancha. He had taken off his apron, and left his pipe and wheel at
home. As he strolled along under the burning stars, he hummed a snatch
of the music we had just heard, and hummed it correctly.
“Rich and poor, vagrant and King, there is room for us all in the Heart
of Seville,” sighed Pemberton.
_Good Friday_
That night the King slept in the old palace of the Alcazar. Did he
sleep? In the gardens the nightingales were singing to split their
throats; palms and orange trees rustled, fountains whispered of things
that might well keep a lover awake. Here in the old palace of the
Moorish kings lived the beautiful Maria del Padilla, beloved of Pedro
the Cruel. Here died the royal Moor, Abu Said, murdered by his host, Don
Pedro, for his jewels. The rarest, the great spinel ruby, Pedro gave to
Edward, the Black Prince. Henry V wore it in his helmet at
Agincourt,--to-day it glows in the front of England’s royal crown.
England, always England! How often, for good or evil, the fates of the
reigning houses of Spain and England have intertwined!
“Ena,” sang the nightingales; “Ena,” rippled the fountain,--for the King
was a lover. If he slept that night it must have been to dream of the
yellow hair and the blue eyes of the English princess who, one happy
day, shall wander with him through the mazes, gather the roses of that
matchless garden of the Alcazar.
There was serious business for Don Alfonzo that Good Friday morning. As
he came down to the patio (passing the splendid chamber where Maria de
Padilla bathed, and where Don Pedro’s courtiers showed their gallantry
by drinking the water of her bath), the drums and fifes of his
halberdiers sounded the royal march. Lopez Ballesteros, the Governor,
was waiting; with him, Garcia Pierto, Minister of Grace and Justice.
Preceded by the halberdiers, followed by the Court, they all set off
together for the cathedral. The way was lined by soldiers with furled
flags. In the _capilla mayor_ a throne had been placed for the King;
here he sat with his grandees and generals (one of them called Pacheco,
a descendant, perhaps, of the old painter, writer, and familiar of the
Inquisition, who taught Velasquez), and listened to the singing of the
Passion. The great Crucifix of Montañes was then uncovered, and the
royal party moved to the _coro_, where the King performed the act of
adoration, and made his offering of an ounce of gold.
At the act of adoration, Don Alfonzo was confronted by his Minister of
Justice, carrying a basketful of parchment scrolls, each tied with a
black ribbon.
“Señor,” said the Minister, “do you pardon the condemned felons whose
names are written here?”
“I pardon them, that God may pardon me,” answered the King. One by one
he untied the black ribbons and retied the scrolls with white silk cord.
The wild woman with the bruised face the Archbishop had comforted that
day in the street, had forced herself as near the front as the guard
allowed. She peered between two halberdiers, watching the ceremony with
desperate eyes. Was the name she loved among the fourteen names of
felons condemned to death, written on those white decrees of pardon?
“Did you ever,” asked Pemberton, “see a ceremony so touching, so human,
in the dead cathedrals of England, or even in St. Peter’s?”
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF VELASQUEZ, BY HIMSELF.]
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST’S WIFE. _Velasquez_]
We left by the Door of the Lizard, passing under the big stuffed
crocodile that gives the name.
“See that horrid beast!” said Concepcion. “A present from the Sultan of
Turkey to Alonzo el Savio, whose daughter he wished to marry. I think
our Don Alfonzo will take nicer presents when he starts for England
to-morrow.”
I asked if the people were pleased with the proposed marriage.
“Mad about it,” said Pemberton. “The Princess Ena will have a warm
welcome; may she bring as good luck as Elenor Plantagenet brought, when
she came to marry Alfonzo III of Castille. Their daughter Berenguela
(she was a rare one), joined Leon and Castille, and practically laid the
foundation of United Spain. Look for the woman, you know, and you will
find her at the bottom of most things practical!”
On the borderland of sleep that night, I was overtaken and called back
to earth by the wail of Eslava’s dirge. I sprang up and ran to the
balcony to watch the passing of a midnight procession. It was very late,
the air was chill, the stars pale, the _calle_ deserted, save for the
_penitentes_ and _Nazerenos_ (_hidalgos_ all) in white gowns, black
antefaces, and scapularies. On the first _paso_ stood the Virgin of
Solitude, who, by rule of the order, may only be absent from the church
of San Lorenzo for the two hours after midnight on Good Friday. The
second _paso_ represented Calvary. The body of the Christ nailed to the
cross shone pale and ghastly in the torchlight; the footsteps of the
masked men sounded like muffled drums in the funeral march. Before the
Christ walked a female penitent representing Santa Veronica: her hair
fell over her shoulders in a dark flood. She carried in extended hands
the handkerchief, whereon, the legend says, the Master dried his face on
his way through the Street of Sorrows, leaving the impress of His
features on the linen. A second penitent followed the cross, a young
woman all in white, who personified Mary Magdalen, carrying a box of
ointment. There was something familiar about this Magdalen. As she
passed, a rose fell from a balcony, catching in her curls. She looked
up; could it be Concepcion, walking so painfully with bare feet over the
rough cobbles?
_Sabbado de Gloria_
“_Vayan Vds. con Dios_,” said the beggar at the cathedral door, lifting
the heavy leather curtain for us.
The black veil still hung before the altar, the bells had not yet
spoken. Life seemed at a standstill. There was no present, only the
momentous past, in the Heart of Seville that bright Saturday of Glory.
In the _coro_ a pair of stooping, weedy old men--twin brothers--with
ancient bassoons under their arms, several violins, flutes, and bass
viols, added their music to the voices of the choir. There was an acute
sense of waiting, of holding the breath in anticipation of some great
event. Concepcion was very silent. There were dark rings under her
dovelike eyes. In a moment all was changed. The bells of the Giralda
burst out in sudden clamor. Thunder once again rolled through the
cathedral, the black veil parted and fell to the ground, revealing the
_retablo_ of Dancart. In this wonderful altar-piece the sculptor has
carved in larchwood the story of the life whose last hours on earth
Seville has been living over again during the last three days! It is all
here, told once again in faithful, loving art. Instead of wandering from
chapel to shrine to read it pictured in marble, wood, color, miniature,
and fine needlework,--an Annunciation here, a Nativity there, it is all
here in the _retablo_ illustrated by a series of marvellous wood
carvings. Concepcion studied them with me, pointing out her favorite
panels.
“Behold the blessed Saint Anne, the grandmother of God, San José,
husband of Nuestra Señora. These be Peter and Paul,--two of our saints.”
“They are saints of us all,” Pemberton interrupted, “Christians as well
as Catholics. Peter and Paul pray for us all!”
Concepcion was glad of that. “You asked,” she said, confidentially to
me, “something of the blessed saints. At the convent where I was
educated, they have a great reverence for San José. Last year the nuns
were in much need of a house in the country where they might go in
summer. So they tied a little house around the neck of the statue of San
José. Well, what do you think? Last August a lady died and left the
convent her country house. Would you believe it? The house is exactly
like the little house the sisters tied about San José’s neck. The other
day, being in great need of a pig, they tied a small pig about the
saint’s neck. That prayer has not been answered, but the sisters are
sure that they will have their pig before the month of Mary is over.”
“Prophecies sometimes fulfill themselves,” said Pemberton. “What
Concepcion tells you is perfectly true; I know the house; it is just
possible some one in the convent knew it, too. Do not say so to
Concepcion. If she had not ‘taken up’ with me, she might, some day, have
been the prioress of that convent.”
_Domingo de la Resurrecion_
There was little sleep in Seville the night of Sabbado de Gloria! The
streets were crowded, the music and the laughter only stopping when the
Easter bells began to ring. Under our windows three boys squatted on the
ground playing at cards and rattling dice. They were “flush of cash”;
_perro chicos_ and _grandes_ clinked as they changed hands.
“_Cacahuete!_” cried the peanut man. The largest cardplayer bought a
double handful of nuts, dividing them fairly with the other two.
“_Eá! los altramuzes!_” The seller of lupins, a peasant in a brown capa,
stopped at the hail. After some haggling, the second sized boy laid in a
stock of the large green lupin beans the people eat at all odd times of
day and night. The _chicos_ munched their lupins, spat, and munched
again, their game of _brisca_ going cheerfully on, not without some
discussion. The smallest lad, he who wore a working blouse and a blue
cap, won heavily. At the end of the hand he scooped the coppers into his
pocket, scrambled to his feet and strolled jauntily away singing:
“_En los sopas y amores los primeros son los mejores_” (with soups and
with loves, the first are the best).
“_Vengo sofocado!_” (I suffocate with rage) cried the big boy who had
lost most. “_Maldita sia tu estampa!_” (accursed be thy beastly
portrait).
Was he mean enough to draw out of the game when he was winning? The
winner crossed the street, loitered outside a sweets shop opposite,
flattened his snub nose against the pane, and gazed at the goodies. At
last he entered the shop, reappearing with a paper bag full of sweets of
Jijona, cakes of almond paste and honey. The cakes were shared equally,
the big boy shuffled the cards, the little one “shook” for deal, and the
interrupted game of _brisca_ began again.
Let into the wall of the corner house was a shrine with a lamp before
it. The light fell on the face of a pretty girl behind the iron bars of
the lower window. She was talking eagerly with a soldier standing
outside in the street, a lover, plucking the hen turkey, as the saying
goes.
Easter morning we went to the cathedral by the sacristy, filled with
kneeling women in black mantillas. A long line of penitents waited
outside each confessional: as we came in, Torquemada slipped into the
one nearest the door. At the altar rail knelt a row of communicants. An
old priest and a young server walked up and down the ever recruited
line, administering the communion. The server carried a lighted candle,
the priest a gold chalice with the wafer. At each communicant they
stopped, the priest took a wafer from the ciborium, made the sign of the
cross, and placed it in the mouth of the person before him.
“See how quiet all this is,” said Pemberton; “and this is the real
thing! Now for the cathedral, the stage of the church, the last act of
the drama. Nowhere in the world can you see so splendid a mass as you
will see to-day.”
Archpriests and priests were glorious in priceless embroidered
vestments. Boys and acolytes must have been chosen for their beauty. The
little fellows were like cherubs; the elder lads, like angels. The boys
stood in groups of three, the candles burned in threes; the _retablo_
was lighted by trios of candles,--the mystic number was repeated at
every point. On the lower altar steps stood the scarlet and ivory altar
boys, each holding a mighty silver candlestick, so tall that the base of
the candle stood at the height of the shoulder, and the winged silver
angel supporting the taper rose far above the head. From every spire of
the great _retablo_ sprang a crucifix, the highest towering up in to the
dim roof. Under this crucifix was a painted, wooden group of Virgin and
Child. Directly below, in a straight line, one behind the other, stood
the three celebrants in their Easter splendor. At one side blazed the
vast paschal candle.
“It is of the most fine wax,” Concepcion whispered, “and of the weight
of twelve kilos.”
At the moment of the elevation, two stiff, gawky tourists, Germans, I
think, stood by, guidebook in hand, staring at the ceremony with no
pretence of being anything but spectators.
The Archbishop held up the wafer in his transparent old hands; thick
clouds of incense rose; at every tinkle of the golden mass bells,
Concepcion, kneeling beside me, crouched lower. A young deacon in a
white robe motioned the outlanders to kneel. They paid no attention; he
approached and whispered what he had said in pantomime; again they
refused. Then, like a young archangel, he drove them from the place with
his silver staff. They shrugged stiff, protesting shoulders, and moved
on.
Mass over, a procession formed. Two cherubs walking backwards, held open
the illuminated missal for the Archbishop to read the prayers; followed
Torquemada and the other priests, the old canons from the _coro_, the
choristers, their long goffered white sleeves folded over their arms,
their black letter scores held between them, singing as they walked, to
the bassoon accompaniment of those two old weedy brothers. Near a
gigantic, faded fresco of Saint Christopher, the ferryman with the Niño
Jesus on his arm, they stopped beside the tomb of Columbus, a brand new
bronze monument in the aisle that makes the right arm of the cross--a
place of high honor. Here the first prayer was recited. We waited by
the tomb, watched the procession with the glittering cross, the lights,
the incense, the booming bassoons, move slowly down the aisle, stopping
at one and another of the chapels.
“As a work of art that monument is simply impossible,” said Pemberton;
“humanly, it means something. You catch the idea? Those four kings in
armor stand for Castille, Leon, Arragon, and Granada. In that
sarcophagus they bear on their shoulders lies what is left of the dust
of Columbus.”
A vision of life’s morning came back to me! The cathedral at Santo
Domingo City on Easter day; my father, my mother, and myself standing by
the place in the worn brick pavements that then covered the dust of the
Great Admiral. There had been a mass, with incense and candles, and
splendid priests, that Easter in Hispaniola, and we had watched, in the
plaza before the cathedral, Judas burned in effigy!
“Columbus was born to wander!” said Pemberton. “Even his poor bones have
no rest. From Valladolid, where he died, they were taken to Seville;
from Seville to Santo Domingo; from Santo Domingo to Havana; from
there,--read the inscription, that tells the story.
“_Quando la ingrata America se emancipe de la madre España, Sevilla
obtuvo el deposito de los restos de Colon y su ayutamiente eligio este
monumento._”
“The sculptor was a poor artist and a good Spaniard,” said Pemberton.
“In spite of the thing’s being so baroque, taken with the inscription,
and the date, 1901, it is moving; it expresses the pride and humiliation
of this brave people who won the new world only to lose it. I tell my
friends here that the loss of Cuba and the Philippines was the dawn of a
renaissance, the beginning of a new Spain. It was cutting back the vine
that had gone to wood. Now the sap runs, there is new life, fresh
growth. Knockdown blows are what men and nations need to get up their
muscle. He said it,--your father: ‘Obstacles are things to be
overcome!’”
The pigeons fluttered in and out of the Giralda, careless of the great
bells swinging to and fro, and the shadow of their wings wove a new
pattern on the face of the roseate tower.
“Christ is risen!” The bells rang out the triumphant pean. A shadow
larger than that cast by a dove’s wing passed over the face of the
Giralda.
“Take Concepcion home with you,” said Pemberton, quickly, in English;
“she did not see it. Do not, if you can help it, tell her.” He led the
way to a side street, made some excuse to his wife,
[Illustration: THE GIRALDA, SEVILLE.]
and left us. We took Concepcion home; an hour later Pemberton joined us.
“There was nothing to do; of course she was quite dead. One leaps to
certain death from the top of the Giralda. You remember that woman with
the bruised face who spoke to the Archbishop? It was she; _his_ name,
you see, was not written on one of those decrees of pardon!”
Later in the afternoon, Concepcion appeared, a black chenille dotted
mantilla of the old style over her head, a white _manton de mantilla_
worked with purple grapes, draped, Andaluz fashion, over her shoulders.
“Are you ready?” she cried. Her eyes flashed, her cool, olive cheeks
were flushed. She smiled more than usual, for the mere pleasure, it
seemed, of showing teeth that were as matched pearls on a string.
“Are you ready?” she repeated. “_Tengo mucha prisa_” (I am in a great
hurry).
“Ready--for what,--where are we going?”
“_A los torros, los torros_ (to the bulls)! Did he not tell you? My
husband has taken seats for us all _a la sombre_” (in the shade).
So this week of vigil, penitence, and prayer was all a preparation for
the Easter bull-fight!
“I have seen Bombito, the matador, ride by on his way to the
_corrida_,” said Concepcion, “it is time, _vamonos a la calle_!”
There was a disappointment in store for Concepcion; she was met at the
entrance with the announcement, “No bull-fight to-day on account of the
picadors’ strike.”
V
SEVILLE FAIR
The Guadalquiver was a swollen, tawny flood, whirling dead leaves and
dry branches down to the sea.
“Look,” said Pemberton, “the river has piled enough firewood against the
piers of Triana bridge to keep a thrifty family a month.” A small boat,
sculled by an old fisherman with gold earrings and a blue jersey, crept
slowly towards the largest pile of brushwood at the middle pier. “I’m
glad Isidro comes in for that bit of luck; he is a good sort, brings us
fish every fast day, and doesn’t know I have a _bula de cruzada_ and may
eat meat o’ Fridays. We shall see him at the house soon; when the river
is at the flood we sometimes get shad,--an advantage of living in
Seville.”
As he roped the driftwood to the stern, the old fellow sang in a high,
quavering voice a popular _copla_:
“_Antiquamente eran dulces todas las aguas del mar;_
_se baño mi amor en ellas y se volvieron salas._”
(Once on a time all the waters of the sea were sweet;
My love bathed in them and they turned salt.)
Other women are praised as sweet, the Andaluz as salt! Andalusian salt
is the supreme quality, wit, sparkle, humor, grace combined.
A white yacht, a fine lady of the sea, lay alongside the river bank near
the Paseo de las Delicias. Sailors were busy polishing brass that shone
before, scrubbing decks already clean as starched damask. A blond viking
sitting aft, mending a sail, sang a stave that told where he and the
yacht _Peerless_ hailed from.
“I wish I was in Baltimore, O, O, O, O,
A dancing on the sanded floor a long time ago!”
By the Torre del Oro, the _Buenaventura_, from Malaga, a rusty freight
steamer, was taking on cargo. The stevedores, like busy brown ants,
trotted to and fro, stooping under bales of cotton from the Isla Mayor
in the delta. The mole smelt tarry and sea-faring; looked prosperous,
bustling, alive. Watching sailors, stevedores, longshoremen, we tried to
visualize our emotions, but alas, the set pieces of sentimental
fireworks, prepared beforehand, wouldn’t go off! We reminded ourselves
that here, in this port of Seville, the Tribunal of the Indies, the
whole trade of the Americas once centred. From the shadow of that old
Moorish tower of gold, the Spanish galleons sailed for the new world,
carrying the yeast and ferment of young adventurous blood, bringing
back--a poor exchange--the ingots of the Incas. Alas! No ghost, not even
of Columbus sailing up the Guadalquiver that Palm Sunday of his triumph,
could materialize in that vital atmosphere of oozing kegs, fish-nets,
and oakum. A swart gypsy dropped a line into the river, a crane flapped
across the sky, a fish leaped, flashing silver in the sun; the
wonderbook of life was still to read; history and its ghosts must wait
for old age and winter fireside.
It had rained for three days and nights, to the discomfort of flocks,
herds, dealers, breeders, gypsies, and _compradores_. From Ronda and
Utrera in the south, from Huelva in the west, from Aguilar, Lerida, from
all over Andalusia, the animals were being driven in for the _Feria_,
the great animal fair that follows the _fiestas_ of Holy Week.
The thrifty ones, early on the ground, were already settled in the city
of tents and cottages, that had sprung up on the Prado de San Sebastian.
The laggards fared badly; the downpour had made the roads worse than
ever. The inns were crowded, for even those who usually slept, cooked,
and ate in their covered carts struggled to get under shelter while that
torrential rain lasted. Then, just in time to save the situation, the
sun came out.
From the quay we drove along the bank of the Guadalquiver, through
orange groves washed clean and smelling of rain, and olive groves where
the little, silvery leaves were still dark with the wetting. From a rise
in the sodden road we saw the entire horizon, felt the sky like a fiery
blue cup overhead; at the edge, where it rested on the earth, there was
warm, colorless light; in the middle, deep cobalt. It was impossible,
early as it was, to look at the sun; there was not a fleck of cloud
anywhere. Though the earth was drying as quickly as sun and soft air
could contrive, the middle of the road was still a lake of mud.
“_Arré, arré!_ dog of a horse!” the sounds of blows and curses shattered
the crystal silence. A brave, blind horse again and again made a mighty
effort, stretching its lean neck and straining its poor body to pull a
_carreta_ out of the muddy rut where the wheels stuck fast. His master
encouraged him by striking him over the head; his companion, a starved
dog, by snapping at his heels. Pemberton’s hand tightened nervously on
his whip, as if he would have liked to lay it about the man’s ears:
Patsy was over the wheel like a flash, and out in the muddy road.
“What a pity, my friend, your wife and children must get out to lighten
the load,” he said; “it is the only way; I have had great experience in
such matters. You help them, while I----” he had the bridle in his hand,
and was petting the panting horse as he talked. A gaunt woman suckling
an infant sat in the back of the _carreta_; a little girl leaned against
one knee, at the other crouched a boy shaking with fever; a raven
drooped in a battered cage, near a big drum half hidden by a heap of
spangled and velvet rags; a pair of castanets and a tambourine lay in
the girl’s lap. By these poor possessions, their tools of trade, we knew
them for what they were.
“Mountebanks, on their way to the fair,” said Pemberton; “poor things,
one can hardly hope they will add much to the gaiety of nations!”
“See you later,” said Patsy, waving his free hand to us. We drove on and
left him haranguing, hectoring, but helping, always helping, that
forlorn family of _feriantes_ (fairgoers).