Imperio, then you will have an idea of what Spanish dancing is!”
“Why,” Patsy asked, “doesn’t that other girl dance?”
“Just because she is not a girl; she was married two years ago. It would
not be good form; she has had her turn, now she must take a back seat
and give the others a chance. Thank God we’re still at that stage of
social development.” The young woman, a small _morena_ (brunette) with
a skin like a creamy magnolia blossom just beginning to turn brown, was
very little older, and quite as pretty as the twin dancing stars; her
foot tapped the floor, while her sisters danced and she sat talking with
the elders.
“I think this could not happen outside of Spain, the most democratic of
all countries,” Pemberton went on. “Here every man is equal, not merely
in the law’s eye, but--what’s far more important--in his own eyes, and
proves it by allowing no other man to show better manners than he. These
girls, the fine flower of Seville, may safely take their part, add their
beauty and their grace as the crowning attraction of the _Feria_,
because the man in the street will be as polite to them as the gentleman
in the drawing-room.”
“_Bendita sea la madre que ti pario_,” blessed be the mother that bore
thee. It was Miquel’s parting compliment to the señoritas, as he made
his way out of the crowd. In the _caseta_ visitors came and went; Luz
was surrounded by admirers. An old man servant handed a tray with
_agraz_, a drink made of pounded unripe grapes, clarified sugar and
water, and _bolardos_, little sugar cakes to dissolve in this nectar of
Andalusia. The _seguidilla_ was followed by a _sevilliana_. When the
buoyant feet seemed tired O’Shea sang _copla_ after _copla_: the last
he might have learned from his mother. It is at least as old as he:
“_Dos besos tengo en el alma_
_que no se apartan de mi;_
_el ultimo de mi madre,_
_y el primero que te di._”
Two kisses I have in my soul
That will not part from me;
The last my mother gave me,
And the first that I gave thee.
VI
A HOUSE IN SEVILLE
Rodrigo, Pemberton’s son, a grave child with eyes of brown fire, met us
at the gate of the patio; by his side stood a white lamb, with a wreath
of yellow primroses round its neck.
“You recognize the fleece of Huelva?” said Pemberton, “this is one of
Miquel’s flock; every child must have its pet lamb at Easter, you know.”
He opened the ancient iron gate,--the bars were lilies, tenderly wrought
as if of a more precious metal,--and we passed through the _Zaguan_
(vestibule) into the patio paved with marble, surrounded on all four
sides by a corridor like a cloister. Behind the Moorish columns,
graceful as palm trees, were walls lined with _azulejos_, blue, green,
yellow glazed tiles of fascinating design, bewildering color. In the
middle of the patio a jet of water leapt from an urn, danced in the sun,
broke into a shower of living diamonds, fell laughing to a marble basin.
“In summer we practically live in this patio, that long bamboo chair is
my favorite place. I lie there and read, or puzzle out the designs on
those tiles,--they’re over a hundred,--and listen to the fountain and
the birds. What more does a man want in hot weather? Take care, Rodrigo,
don’t drown him!”
The child was trying to make the lamb drink; the gold fish darted from
side to side in fright as its pink nose ruffled the water.
“We’re still living up-stairs; by Corpus Christi we shall have
_embajado_, as they say here. That means, moved down-stairs. It’s the
universal custom--the poorest house in Seville has two stories, the
upper for cold weather, the lower for hot; you can’t fancy the
difference in the climate. When moving day comes, the awning is drawn
over the patio, we bring all the furniture from the upper to the lower
rooms--exactly the same size and shape, so everything fits--hang
pictures and mirrors in the corridor; put the piano here, the plants
from the terrace there between the columns. We’ll have a look at the
summer quarters, if you like; it may give you some idea of how we live
in Seville in hot weather.”
We followed him through large, dark rooms, high-ceiled and airy; caught
glimpses of a mighty marble bath in a cool green chamber, of a kitchen
where they cook with charcoal, and finally halted in a place mysterious
as an alchemist’s laboratory. There were cauldrons of beaten copper,
measures for wet and dry, an antique balance with brass weights, strange
glass vessels, a press, an old still. As we stood admiring a huge marble
mortar, Concepcion came into the laboratory. She wore a short white
dress and apron, and, on her chatelaine, a bunch of big keys.
“Always on time!” Pemberton exclaimed. “At half past nine every morning
Concepcion unlocks the _despensa_, and gives out whatever is needed for
the day.”
“The grapes for the _agraz_ are pounded in that mortar,” said
Concepcion, who saw I was interested in the strange vessels, “and those
big stone rollers are used for crushing and grinding the chocolate.”
“Do you remember how good the smell of chocolate is, when they are
making you a cup at home?” said Pemberton. “Imagine what it must be to
have the whole house filled with it! Ah! the making of the chocolate is
an important event. Rodrigo and I are always impatient for it to begin.”
“When the time has come to make the chocolate,” Concepcion went on, “the
cacao is bought. It comes in great sacks,--the best from the Havana,
cinnamon from Ceylon--being sure it is the most fresh--sugar the finest,
and supreme vanilla. When all is ready, we call the _chocolateros_, two
good men, who make the chocolate under my direction, according to a
family recipe. When it all is finished, it is poured out into those
large troughs to cool. Then it is cut in squares; each large square is
just big enough to make a cup of chocolate for grown-up people; and the
little squares to make the children’s chocolate. When hard, it is put
away on these shelves; as the cupboard is airy it keeps itself for a
year.” When she learned that some housekeepers bought their chocolate
ready made, Concepcion was scandalized. “It will be mixed with flour of
chestnuts, or other inferior things; there is no chocolate like the
Andalusian!” she declared.
In the _despensa_, a cool, stone grotto, hams, sausages, dried herbs,
onions, and scarlet peppers hung from the roof; a dozen bloated
goatskins leant against the wall.
“The oil,” Pemberton explained, “was brought in from the farm on
mule-back this morning. When it settles, we shall draw it off in those
_amphoræ_;” he pointed to a row of two-handled, red clay jars. “Those
_tarros_ are full of pork,--we killed a hundred pigs last November. The
best of the meat is sent in town to us, the rest is kept at the farm for
our work people; we feed our laborers in Andalusia, you know, and feed
them well.”
Concepcion told us that she herself always gave out the day’s
provisions; this was important, else disastrous things might happen. She
stood by and saw cook take the pork from the _tarro_, where it was
packed in the “butter of pig,” or the game from the smaller barrels.
These lower ones were full of the partridges Pemberton shot last season;
some days he got a dozen, some days twenty. Those that were not eaten or
given away were slightly boiled and packed in the butter of pig. They
would keep six months if great care were used in taking them out, and
only the wooden spoon touched the pig butter. If, as had happened, a
careless servant puts in her hand to take out a partridge or a bit of
pork, the whole _tarro_ is lost; nothing can save it from going bad. The
same is true of olives, put up in those tall _tinajas_. Once a human
hand,--a metal spoon is almost as bad,--is dipped into that home-made
pickle of vinegar, water, lemon, salt, and laurel leaves, the whole
_tinaja_ is ruined.
“These nice comfortable-looking round jars are made especially to hold
Manchegan cheeses,” said Pemberton. “They’re like Parmesan, only better,
made of sheep and goats’ milk mixed. Once a year they bring them from La
Mancha to sell; we always lay in a large stock; packed in those jars,
with enough oil poured in to cover them, they keep indefinitely. Here
is the cook. The momentous council of the day is about to open. Come,
I’ll show you the rest of the house, while Concepcion gives the orders.
We’ll have a look at the roses first.”
Behind the patio was a second court, with orange and lemon trees; at one
end grew an ancient cedar with hollow trunk and strange roots, like
splay feet, that gripped the earth. A whiff of orange blossoms, the
tinkle of a guitar, the voice of an unseen singer chanting a low wailing
_malageña_ greeted us as we entered. The walls were a living glory of
roses; the yellow Bankshires hung in starry bunches; the white rose
vines flung out floating banners of green, thick sprinkled with rose
snow. A golden pheasant strutted and preened itself in the sun; from an
aviary came the chatter of a happy family of birds.
“_Hijo de mi alma_,” Pemberton said to Rodrigo, “you may not take the
lamb up-stairs; stay with him till we come down.”
Rodrigo, nothing disappointed, drew out a little cart, and seating
himself in it turned the wheels so that the cart slid along the stone
path in the middle of the garden, the lamb trotting beside; back and
forth, back and forth, we heard the rattling of those wheels (I can hear
them still) as the lonely boy and the lamb played together.
“Did you ever see a game of football?” Patsy asked the child. Rodrigo
had only seen pictures of football, but he had seen _pelota_, and he
could hit the bull’s-eye with his arrow three times out of five.
“Rodrigo is a Spaniard; he is going into the army,” Pemberton said, as
he led the way up-stairs to the winter quarters. “My grandmother was a
Spaniard; my parents called themselves ‘cosmopolitans’; some other
people called them disgruntled Americans. I’m a man without a
country,--one of that kind is enough in a family!”
He flared up with sudden passion. To make a diversion J. complimented
him on the winter parlor, a bare, comfortable room with a few good
pictures, the necessary furniture and a refreshing absence of junk.
“No little tables of jointed silver fish and jade idols here?” he said.
“We’re still half Orientals in Seville; we don’t suffer from the
dreadful ‘too much’ that is stifling you in America!”
The winter kitchen, all white marble and tiles, had a gas range, the
most modern thing in the house, and deal tables scrubbed with soap and
sand till you saw the grain of the wood. Something was said about the
exquisite neatness of the house.
“Andalusians,” Pemberton assured us, “are remarkably clean people. Did
you notice our _calle_? You don’t often see a street so well kept. Each
householder is obliged to take care of the part before his house;
competition is a good principle in street cleaning.”
The upper corridor, giving access to the winter rooms, was shut in with
glass; it led to the _azotea_, a terrace that overhung the court of
roses. The flowers here had more sun and air than in the patio; the
carnations were as big as coffee cups, the damask roses as large as
saucers. A second flight of stairs led up to the winter bed and
dressing-rooms.
“These mattresses are of carded wool,” said Pemberton; “the
blankets,--feel how light and soft they are,--were made at the farm,
spun and woven by an old woman, the last survivor of my grandmother’s
servants. These sheepskins are spread under the mattresses for warmth,
for tiled floors are cold. The fleece is of three years’ growth; see, it
is as fine as silk.”
Laundry, drying-room, and terrace for bleaching and airing, were at the
top of the house. The keen smell of good gum camphor met us on the
stair; it came from a brass-bound cedar chest, standing open on the
terrace. A dozen of Concepcion’s feather fans dangled from a line.
“Now that you’ve seen the house in Seville God has given me,” said
Pemberton, “look at the view; it’s the best thing about it!”
Below us lay the city with its narrow _calles_, sunny plazas, shining
houses. In every patio, on every terrace and roof garden were flowers
and caged birds. The air was musical with bells, song, laughter. Outside
the old Roman city walls, spread the green Andalusian _vega_, with the
yellow river, gleaming, where the sun touched it, like clouded amber. In
the distance the _vega_ was shut in by a circle of blue Sierras; snow
lay on the shoulders of the hills, at whose feet the fruit trees were in
blossom.
“Can anybody ever be sad in Seville?” cried Patsy. “Do people ever die
or grow old here? Are there such things as tears?”
“There is a young lady down-stairs who must have shed a quart of tears
since yesterday,” said Pemberton. “Come and help Concepcion comfort
her.” He led the way down to the drawing-room. Sitting beside
Concepcion, whose hand she had been holding, was a pretty girl, wearing
a dress much too large for her.
“_Mi amiga_, Señorita Trinidad Fulano,” Concepcion introduced her
friend, who tried to look as if she had not been crying. Our hostess
then bustled out of the room, and returned, followed by a neat maid with
a tray of preserved sweet potatoes, some _huevos dulces_, a sort of
sweetmeat made of sugar and yolk of egg, a delicate decanter, and a
straw basket containing twelve long thin glasses no bigger round than a
walking stick.
“A _caña_ of manzañilla,” said Pemberton, pouring out a clear amber
liquid. “It is light for Spanish wine, no headache in it.” Patsy,
Concepcion and Trinidad were already chattering together like three
magpies at the other end of the room. In the solemn silence that
accompanied the tasting of the manzañilla, Concepcion’s voice rang
clear.
“For a woman to call herself beautiful, she must possess the nine
essentials of beauty. Three things must she have that be black,--the
hair, the eyes, the lashes; three that be red,--the lips, the palms, the
cheeks; three that be white,--the hands, the neck, and the teeth.”
Trinidad nodded. “_Claro_,” she said, “she has expressed it divinely.”
“Trinidad could hardly say less,” Pemberton observed, “seeing that she
herself possesses the nine indispensables. That is a Moorish proverb,
though Concepcion learned it from the nuns, like the saying that the
_sal_ a _morena_ wastes in a minute would last a blonde a week and a
half. It is a good thing you came in to-day; Trinidad is cheering up
already. She has been tremendously harried--had a visit from an angry
parent this morning, and a visit from a despairing lover last night. He
stood in the _calle_ outside her window, talking with her till past
twelve o’clock. You see she’s _en deposito_ with Concepcion.”
At this moment Concepcion glided across the room--she moved with that
peculiar poetry of motion of the Spanish woman--and joined us.
“Trinidad is very distinguished, no?” This was always her highest
praise. “And intelligent, and instructed; _Ave Maria Purissima!_ she can
speak three idioms.”
“You don’t understand what being _en deposito_ means,” Pemberton went
on, ignoring the interruption. “Having lately come of age, that is
eighteen in Andalusia, Trinidad made application to a magistrate by
means of an official document written and signed by herself stating that
she wished to marry José Maria Benamiel; that her parents, with no
sufficient reason, forbade the marriage; that----”
“_Pobrecitos!_” broke in Concepcion; “they have been making love
these four years. He is a youth the most well-bred, the most
distinguished----”
“Yesterday,” Pemberton continued, “the magistrate called on Trinidad’s
father----”
“He came in a carriage,” Concepcion reminded him.
“And after a heated interview, took Trinidad away from her father’s
house and brought her to ours. Here she will stay _en deposito_ for
three months. During this time, Concepcion is responsible for her.
Trinidad is free to see Benamiel, always in the presence of some
responsible third person, and her parents are free to visit her.
They----”
“They are people the most egotistical, the most _interested_!”
Concepcion burst out. “Can you imagine? they denied her clothes, _por
Dios_! it is the truth: that is my dress she is wearing! who ever heard
of so great a shame? Not one handkerchief allowed those hard-hearted
ones their daughter to take away from their accursed house!”
“It is true, they all lost their tempers,” said Pemberton lightly, “and
behaved foolishly. I fancy we shall see a portmanteau before night;
between ourselves, Trinidad might very well have kept on the dress she
came away in yesterday. It is not a bad system, the _deposito_; it gives
time for both love and anger to cool off. The girl is out of coercion
here; she has a chance to make up her mind whether or no Benamiel is
really the man for her. At the end of the three months, if she still
wants him, she may marry him without her parents’ consent.”
“Do you think she will?”
“Pretty safe to. The old people will give in; there is nothing really
against Benamiel, only they preferred O’Shea! Small blame to them.
O’Shea did not know that Trinidad and Benamiel had already settled
things between them. When he found it out he went back to Cordova, where
he is stationed, and, Trinidad says, wanted to give to Benamiel a
bracelet he had bought for her. Nice boy, O’Shea. Why is it that the
nice girls always take the wrong--well, there’s no use opening that
chapter, if you must be going--it is time for your Spanish lesson--we’ll
tackle it some other time when we have the night before us!”
* * * * *
Don Renaldo, the ex-ofeecial de marina, was waiting to give Patsy and me
our lessons in _vero Castellano_. His method was simple; he talked,
while we listened. He began by explaining his rusty mourning suit, as he
drew off his worn old leather gloves. “It is the thirtieth anniversary
of the death of my father,” he spoke slowly, so that we might follow
him. “All the masses celebrated to-day in the church of San Sebastian
will be applied to the repose of his soul.” Patsy said he would like to
hear one of the memorial masses, but it was already too late, they were
all over.
“He was the most kind of fathers, the most benevolent of men, his
benevolence was the cause of all his misfortunes in this world! To
oblige a friend he signed his name to a note, understanding that it was
a mere form. With those two strokes of the pen he signed away his
fortune.”
“He did not have a benevolent friend!” Patsy ejaculated.
“_Hombré!_ He was a _caballero_, a gentleman of distinction--but--it is
the truth, of business he was as ignorant as _mi pobre papa_! The
catastrophe that ruined both, killed my papa; his friend died soon after
of shame. Then Tio Jorge, my rich uncle, took me and brought me up as if
I were his heir. Every year we went to Paris together; we lived with
great elegance on the Rue de Rivoli; we had a box at the opera; I had my
own carriage; my clothes came from Poole; at that time I was very
elegant, and not, people said, bad looking. I am old now, but then!” He
sighed and rolled up his eyes at the recollection of his elegant youth.
“You’re not old, you’re in the prime of life,” said Patsy. Though Don
Renaldo was not even elderly, he had given up the fight, went shabby and
unshaven, with buttons missing from his frayed shirt.
“Suddenly Tio Jorge had a stroke of apoplexy,--I was at Monte Carlo at
the time. I hurried to his bedside and took all care of him till he
died. It was very sad, but it was my duty to see everything done as he
would have wished. His funeral was the most luxurious ever seen in
Valladolid. He was followed to the grave by the aristocracy, civil and
military authorities, and whole communities of monks and nuns. There was
a multitude of carriages, and to every coachman I gave a _propina_ of
fifty _pesetas_. After the funeral the will was opened. Well, what do
you think he left me?”
“That depends upon whether or not you were the only heir,” Patsy
answered soothingly.
“He left me nothing! Money, palace, horses, plate, jewels, everything
went to found a home for the widows and daughters of navy officers! the
preference always to be given to the handsomest ones. The will was
published; there followed ridicule the most painful from half the papers
of Europe, from the Argentine, from all over the world. They called Tio
Jorge a modern Don Juan Tenorio!”
“The old hunks deserved something worse than to be laughed at. I hope
he’s getting it now,” murmured Patsy.
“May be--but that was not true; he was not an immoral man. He believed
that beautiful ladies had greater difficulties to contend with than
others.”
“He might have left you a life interest,” said Patsy; “the beautiful
ladies could wait.” While Don Renaldo did not allow himself to criticise
Tio Jorge, our sympathy was as balm to him.
“I gave up my home, I gave up Paris--where I was too well known. I had
frequented the best society. I came to Seville where I have no friends,
where many travelers come;” he dropped into English. “I offré my service
to accompany and visit monuments, gib lessons, recommend the hotels!”
“Everybody is bothered about money one way or the other;” Patsy tried to
encourage him; “as long as you live, you either have got to earn the
money you spend, or spend money that other people have earned. Brace up,
_Amigo_! Think how much more fun it is to earn your own money than to
spend money some other fellow has had the fun of earning!”
Don Renaldo looked steadily at him, groping for his meaning. “At first I
envied people who have money,” he confessed; “now I envy those who have
work that they enjoy.” He took up a book Patsy had told him was written
by a friend of ours. “Your friend must be a very rich man.”
“He just makes the two ends meet without lapping!”
“How could he afford to print this book? The binding is elegant, paper,
print and engravings, superior; it must have cost a great deal!”
“So the publishers say.”
“_Ojalá!_ If I could only write.”
Poor, pathetic soul, if he could only do any useful thing. A fortune
had been spent on his education. He could ride and shoot straight, he
could dance, and fence, and play every game under the sun, but his life
investment yielded a small, precarious income. His only dividend-bearing
stock, all that stood between him and starvation, was a passable
knowledge of the French and English languages, part of the
accomplishments of his elegant youth.
The lesson over, Don Renaldo gone, Patsy summed up his case. “A spent
shot!” he said, “a poor thing, as capable of taking care of himself as a
year old baby; more coals to Tio Jorge!”
* * * * *
One happy day, when we had almost given up hope of ever seeing him
again, Don Jaime strolled jauntily into the patio, his sombrero
gallantly cocked on one side, his worn coat carefully brushed, his
trousers newly creased, a bunch of violets in his buttonhole. He was
greeted with shrieks and screams of joy. Black coffee and _un poco de
ginevra de campagna_ (his only vices) were immediately ordered for him.
“I arrive only at middle night yesterday,” he said, when accused of
desertion. “I have made a loose, my brother-in-law, he is daid.” Patsy
asked if it was the husband of his sister who had died.
“Ah, no! brother to my woman. Me, my father, my grandfather were all
unique childs; I have no sister--only a half a sister, Candalaria,--no
brother, no honkle, no haunt; I am a widow and a horphan.” We expressed
sympathy for his loss. The Don assured us that his brother-in-law’s
death was a release.
“Poor man! he was secluded in--how you say? an insanitorium these long
years. When he was daid, he had himself embaumed and transported to
Cadiz, where is the pantheon of himself and his wife.”
“We were just starting to drive to Italica,” said J. “You’ll go with us,
Don? Where’s your _capa_? You’ll need it; it’s cold this afternoon.”
“Ah, no! I am warm inside, since I drinked the _ginevra_,” he patted his
stomach. “Ah well, it is heatier in Sevillia than in Cadiz, where I goed
to escort the catafalque of my brother.”
After that J. and Patsy took the Don away from me, and all that
afternoon they kept him to themselves. I followed in another carriage
with Pemberton. Bursts of riotous laughter came to us from their cab, as
they passed us on the Alameda of Hercules. At the foot of that pleasant,
shady mall, our coachman drew up under a pair of tall, gray granite
columns.