noticeable twelfth century portals, timber roofs, and often a Moorish
tower. The best are Omnium Sanctorum and San Marcos: and a lovely bit to
sketch is the façade of Santa Paula with its Italian faience decoration.
The peaceful patio of the chief Hospital--a church in the center--must
be a nook of repose loved by the convalescent. I could not see that the
ill or aged suffered in Spain, despite the general abuse of her
institutions. What is it about Spanish ways that makes most Englishmen
so pessimistic over her? It seems to me that an Englishman should be
sympathetic here, for so many of his traits he has in common with the
Spaniard, such as sincerity, independence, loyalty to national ideals,
to their rulers and creed. A prominent London publisher, in a new series
of travel books, has lately reprinted Richard Ford's "Wanderings in
Spain," thereby perpetrating a grave injustice, for in this book is
gathered, with no sense of proportion, the abuse expurgated (chiefly
because of its length) from his "Murray's Hand-book of Spain." Ford
visited Spain when she was torn by the disorders of civil war, after
three centuries of ill-government. A sad picture of England could be
made by the foreign visitors who happened to witness the Lord George
Gordon riots or the industrial agitations of the Midlands, or who
visited the poorhouses, schools, and prisons described by Dickens and
Charles Reade, yet who would maintain that such a picture was true as a
whole, or print such a book to represent England to-day? Why must a
different justice be meted out to Spain? Ford could be enthusiastic over
the Castilian peasants' manhood, over the security of life and purse
throughout the northern provinces, and the gentle kindness of the
country women, the hospitality of whose kitchens he sought, but when it
comes to the national religion he fills his pages with false statements.
"One never pelts a tree unless it has fruit on it," a Spaniard will say
as he shrugs his shoulders.
There is no doubt that the travelers in Spain then as well as the
travelers of to-day see many things that have cause to distress them,
but it should never be forgotten that in cities like Seville, the
disease and vice which are kept out of sight in a distant slum in
northern towns, are here right in the open eye. The poorest here live in
the same block with the rich, a juxtaposition that may lead the outsider
to see only the evil of a place, but for the native has the happier
result of a more human primitive relationship between the classes than
in most countries: poverty has never been looked on as pitiable in
Spain: haughtiness and snobbishness are almost unknown here.[28]
I must also add, to be quite honest, that, often, the impudence of the
Sevillian street loafer and the exasperating pursuance of the beggar
children, made me break out in Invincible Armada abuse myself; then some
slight episode would occur to reprove me. One day we paused to watch a
very ugly little girl of five nurse her wounded dog. She was pity
incarnate, she had rolled it in her poor shawl and rocked it backward
and forward. When she gently touched the bandaged paw tears came to her
eyes. We often passed her during the winter, and feeling our sympathy,
unconscious of its first cause, the little tot would wait shyly till we
had gone by, then dash after us to thrust into our hands two tiny
bunches of orange blossoms or violets, and then tear away in confusion,
refusing to be thanked. That she so ugly and poor had won two friends
intoxicated her warm little heart, and she regularly prepared her
offerings of answering affection, to have ready when the strangers
passed: every characteristic of this untrained child of the street was
admirable. Another time a stationer sent his young apprentice of
fourteen to show us the way to a book-binder's. We offered the boy the
usual fee, when he flung back his head proudly with a flush; his name
was Emilio Teruel y Nobile, and the high-minded young descendant of
Aragonese or Castilian blood bore it worthily. Having shown us the shop
we sought, and realizing that we now recognized him as an equal, he made
his farewell with a poise and reserved grace that were splendid. Later
we occasionally passed Emilio, and the equality of the greetings
exchanged, not the slightest presumption on his part, is a thing only
to be found in _caballero_ Spain.
To follow the church feasts that so diversify and brighten the year for
these southern countries, also helps one to see them more justly. On the
19th of March, St. Joseph's Day, a large crowd filled the Cathedral to
listen to a sermon, almost the best I have ever heard, wherein the
sanctity of the family and the dignity of labor were held up as needed
models in the world to-day. Before the lighted altar of St. Joseph I
noticed a magnificent looking hidalgo, _muy hijo de algo y de limpia
sangre_, with three equally grandly built young sons beside him. Such
men had never been raised amid city temptations. The line of the four
profiles was so similar it was striking. When they rose from prayer, the
self-forgetful prayer of the Spaniard with bowed head and closed eyes,
the lads pressed about the father they revered, they laid their hands
lovingly on his shoulder, the youngest stroked his back as he talked to
him; two of the group were probably named José, and the father had come
in from a country town to pass his saint's day with his boys at the
University. All over the city, cakes and presents were carried openly,
for everyone named Joseph (and the Pepes are legion) was keeping open
house, and his friends were pouring in to offer congratulations.
In Spain moving scenes are witnessed when the Viaticum is brought to the
dying: the inmates of the house go to the church to escort the priest
back in procession, the sacristan gives each a lighted candle, then at
the door on their return, the servants kneel to receive "_el Señor, su
Majestad_." Sir William Stirling-Maxwell has told of a duchess in
Madrid, returning from a ball past midnight, that when a priest passed
carrying the sacrament to the dying, she resigned her carriage to him
and returned home on foot. It is said that if in a theater the tinkle of
a passing bell is heard, actors and audience fall on their knees.
In Seville, in spite of there being none of the mild festivities the
foreigner finds in Rome or Florence--not a single tea party!--we never
had time to be bored. No sooner were the celebrations for December 8th
over than the Christmas _fiestas_ began. Flocks of turkeys were driven
through the streets and sold from door to door, and it was comical to
see one of the awkward creatures step stiffly into the corridor leading
to a patio, gravely crane his neck about to observe the romantic
white-marble propriety within the gate, and his stupefaction when the
iron _reja_ opened to him with too warm a welcome, alas! In the shop
windows were exposed all sorts of useful gifts, silver-necked flagons
full of yellow oil, and ornate boxes of cakes. The Midnight Mass on
Christmas Eve was very solemn under the lofty piers of the Cathedral.
The people gathered there seemed to be meditating on the mystery they
commemorated, and at the words of the Gospel, "Et Verbum caro factum
est," all fell spontaneously to their knees.
Not long after the New Year, the King and Queen, to escape the icy winds
of Madrid, came to pass a month in the sun-warmed Alcázar. It was Doña
Victoria's first visit to Seville, so the city made it an occasion;
triumphal arches were put up across the streets, the fences of the parks
were painted crimson and gold, there was a great clipping of trees and
repairing of roads,--a bit late this last (but truly Andalusian) for the
royal carriages had to grind down the scattered stones,--also, the
private houses put on new coats of whitewash. Platforms for seats were
built along the route from the station to the Alcázar. We hired chairs
on the steps of the Lonja opposite the Cathedral, as it did not seem
likely that the old custom of going direct to the church to sing a _Te
Deum_ of thanksgiving would be set aside. We were in place early and
watched the animated crowds passing,--there was no pushing or crowding.
Deputaries in gold lace and medals dashed by; the balconies on all
sides, hung with the national colors, were filled with pretty women.
The clamor of the Giralda bells told the waiting people the train had
arrived; then, as the royal carriage passed, Doña Victoria was given an
enthusiastic reception: her bright golden hair and brilliant complexion
won cries of "_Bonita_!" "_Simpática_!" "_Guapa_!" Before the cigar
factory, where its five thousand employees were grouped, a band of the
handsomest _cigarreras_, in red and yellow silk shawls, stepped forward
to present the Queen with a fan made of flowers, on whose floating
ribbon was painted a genuine Andalusian welcome:
"Tienes el mismo nombre "Thou hast the same name
Que la Patrona,[29] As our patroness,[29]
Tienes 'ange' en la cara, Thou hast the face of an angel,
Tienes corona, Thou art a queen,
Dios te bendiga! May God bless thee,
Eres la más hermosa The fairest that has come
Que entró en Sevilla." to Seville!"
The loud exclamations of delight in the robust health of the little
Prince of Asturias pleased the Queen, and as she passed through the
cheering mass of people, she made very gracefully the foreign gesture of
greeting, the fingers bent back rapidly on the palm. As the night
journey had tired her, the doctors ordered her immediate entrance into
the Alcázar, postponing the _Te Deum_ till the afternoon; and Seville,
who clings tenaciouly to old customs, was distinctly displeased.
The group that stood on the Cathedral steps later in the day was superb.
There was the Archbishop in cope and miter, with his silver crozier, the
canons in purple robes, the acolytes bearing the historic crosses
carried on festivals, and all the chief citizens of the town. For just
this occasion the huge western doors were thrown open, giving a new
aspect to the nave; through this door the King is the only one
privileged to pass, but on this her _first_ entrance, the Queen too. The
Archbishop on first coming to his church and when carried out to his
burial passes under this portal. The King and Queen, led by the
Archbishop, now walked up the nave, chanting _Te Deum laudamus_, and
before leaving they went to kneel in the Royal Chapel where, before the
High Altar, lies King Ferdinand the Saint who conquered Seville in 1248,
after five hundred years of Moorish rule. Here on November 23d,
anniversary of his entrance to the city, a Military Mass is said, and
the colors are lowered as the garrison files past. To a Sevillian that
day of 1248 is as alive as the Battle of Lexington to a New Englander.
This being a first visit, some brisk sightseeing was done. They
automobiled out to Italica to see the Roman amphitheater there; and the
day after her arrival Doña Victoria redeemed the good-will of the
Sevillians by driving, in black mantilla, to visit a church in a poor
part of the city where is an altar to Our Lady of Hope, dear to
expectant mothers. In the Lonja, where the Indian archives are kept, Don
Alfonso pored over the maps of Mexico and the autographs of Cortés and
Pizarro; in the _Museo_, the Queen again touched the sentiment of the
Spanish women by preferring Murillo's realistic "Adoration of the
Shepherds." The Duke of Medinaceli got up some splendid provincial
dances and tableaux in his Mudéjar _Casa de Pilatos_, one of the show
places of the town. We happened to meet the pretty peasant girls who had
taken part returning home, singing and waving to the crowd, like birds
of paradise, in their rose and lemon silk shawls. There seemed to be a
congenial companionship between the young royal people. They were at
ease together. The King, extremely fragile-looking, has a thin Hapsburg
face so eminently sympathetic that sometimes when he would give an
affectionate grin at his applauding subjects he made one rather wish to
be a Spaniard one's self. With the irresistible impulses of youth he
would sally out from the Alcázar to explore the city on foot, like any
other happy, free mortal, but sooner or later the cry "_El Rey!_" would
gather a crowd and force him back to his state. One day he had to jump
into a fiacre to escape the crush, and it was very jolly to see the
descendant of the severe Philip II, of the inflated, pompous Bourbons,
dashing through Seville, laughing at the good sport. We often met him
riding back from Toblada in the late afternoon from polo, and it
certainly appeared as if the affection of his countrymen went with him.
I should say few kings are loved as is young Alfonso XIII, and Seville
especially prides herself on being _muy leal_. Did not Alfonso _el
Sabio_ (tenth of the name, as this Alfonso is the thirteenth) give the
city the famous _nodo_, seen everywhere as the town crest, for just this
trait of loyalty six centuries ago? So several times a day an eager
crowd gathered to watch the King pass, or to cheer for the rosy little
Prince of Asturias who drove out with his titled governess and two
nurses,--one of severe English propriety, the other a romantic Spanish
peasant--behind four big mules decked with Andalusian red trappings and
bells. A whole series of fêtes were preparing when the tragic
assassination of the King of Portugal and his eldest son at Lisbon put a
stop to the rejoicing. The sensation in Seville was enormous, as the
Portuguese Queen had brought her two sons the year before to follow the
services of Holy Week here, and her mother, the Countess of Paris,
lives in an estate near the city. Don Alfonso had just gone for a week's
big-game hunting to the Granada mountains, when he hurried back to take
part in the funeral service held in Madrid at the same hour as that in
Lisbon. On his return to Seville his changed appearance showed what a
shock the tragedy had been; not relationship alone but friendship united
him to Portugal.
Before the Royal visit ended there was a grand review of the troops in
the park, where Don Alfonso wore a new uniform, that of the Hussars of
Pavia, in commemoration of the great victory of Charles V in Italy four
centuries before. Audience was given the envoys from the new King of
Sweden in the Ambassador's hall of the Alcázar, which it was said had
not been so used since Isabella's day. A mild form of carnival was
followed by Ash Wednesday, when the King and Queen and court attended
the services in the _Capilla Real_ of the Cathedral, before St.
Ferdinand's silver tomb. As they passed out between the dense mass of
people, my heart sprang to my mouth when I saw a man struggling to reach
the King,--fortunately only a humble petitioner, but the Lisbon
assassinations had filled everyone with terror. The royal visit over,
came Holy Week, but that and the dancing of the _seises_ merit some
pages to themselves.
A CHURCH FEAST IN SEVILLE
"I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where
thy glory dwelleth."--PSALMS XXV, 8.
"When after many conquerors came Christ
The only conqueror of Spain indeed,
Not Bethlehem nor Golgotha sufficed
To show him forth, but every shrine must bleed,
And every shepherd in his watches heed
The angels' matins sung at heaven's gate.
Nor seemed the Virgin Mary wholly freed
From taint of ill if born in frail estate,
But shone the seraph's queen and soar'd immaculate."
GEORGE SANTAYANA.
The eighth of December is a great day in Spain, but more especially in
Seville where they look on the Immaculate Conception as their special
feast, symbolized, hundreds of years before the dogma was defined, by
their fellow townsman Murillo, in the seraphic purity of his
_Concepción_. The celebration began on the day preceding the eighth with
an early-morning peal of bells that lasted half an hour, and was
frequently repeated during the day. Nothing can express the mad,
exultant peal of Spanish bells: one strong metallic dong backward and
forward,--or rather over and over, for the bells are balanced with
weights and make the complete circle when in motion,--with a running
carillon of more musical minor notes. We mounted to a roof terrace to
watch the ringers in the Giralda, who in reckless enjoyment, let the
rope of the revolving bell toss them aloft, a perilous feat that has led
to fatal accidents, but high up in that Moorish tower, above the palm
and orange-growing city, a triumphant tumult filling the air, it must be
easy to lose one's balance of common-sense.
Toward evening of the _Víspera de la Pureza_, every one placed lights
along the balconies, which were draped with blue and white, those of the
Archbishop's palace, under the Giralda, being hung in red and yellow,
the national colors. A military band played in one of the smaller
plazas, and the Seville girls flocked out in full enjoyment, each with
the customary rose or bright ribbon in her hair. The people of the upper
classes entertained their friends in open booths around the square.
Then on the eighth itself, the bells fairly out-did themselves in
tumultuous clamor, calling all to the Cathedral, that haunting soul of
the city, _La Grandeza_, the noble, the solemn, its special title.
Sevillians love to boast that it is bigger than St. Peters in Rome and
cite its 15,642 square meters of ground area to St. Peter's 15,160. It
is truly one of the most imposing churches in the world; vast and dim,
the lofty Gothic piers make double aisles as they rise in springing
arches to the roof. I have seen tourists enter laughing and chatting,
but before they take ten steps instinctively their voices are lowered
and they walk reverently with half-bowed heads. This serious temple to
God is worthy of the men of big ideas who decided "to construct a church
such and so good it never should have its equal," to accomplish which
vow the canons sacrificed their personal revenues, and for a century the
Cathedral Chapter ate in common.[30]
December eighth I was in place early, in time to see each lady carry in
her own folding chair and set it up in the matted space between the
altar and choir: surely it is in church that the Spanish woman is at her
best, in her severe black gown, with her veil draped over a high hair
comb and gathered gracefully about the shoulders and waist. When she
kneels she makes a sign of the cross, which has national additions.
After the usual sign from forehead to breast, left shoulder to right,
she carries her thumb crossed over her first finger to her lips. I am
told this is a token of fidelity to the faith of the cross, and is
often a way by which Spaniards recognize their countrymen in foreign
countries. And since Seville out-does Spain in most customs, here are
still other additions. They precede the sign of the cross by making a
small cross on the forehead, lips, and breast; and there are many who
even precede _this_ by a first regular sign of the cross, thus making
two signs of the cross with the gospel symbol between. All this is done
so rapidly that it takes several days of close observation to decipher
it.
Gradually the church filled for the great feast, until a solid mass of
people knelt or stood in the transepts, covering every foot from which
the High Altar could be seen; there was no crowding or impatience, for
this was not for them a show, but their daily place of prayer. The
onlooking tourist too often forgets this vital difference. In most cases
he is ignorant of the meaning of church ritual; mental prayer,
meditation on the feast celebrated, the unspeakable spirituality of the
Mass are undivined by him; it is curiosity or æsthetic pleasure that
usually brings him there. As I thought later during the Holy Week, it
must be a soul weariness to sit during long hours, through ceremonies
one cannot follow intelligently. On this festival, first there was a
procession round the church to bless the various altars dedicated to
the Blessed Virgin ("For behold, from henceforth all generations shall
call me blessed. For He that is mighty hath done to me great things."
St. Luke i, 48-49). Over the first altar visited hung Luis de Vargas'
celebrated picture of Adam and Eve, the _Generación_, painted in the
sixteen century to symbolize to-day's doctrine. Before the procession
walked officers in uniform, then groups of acolytes, bearing antique
silver crosses and the six-foot silver poles that end in handsome candle
shrines. Seville gentlemen in dress suits followed, and then the
Archbishop in cope and miter, with canons, beneficiaries, and choristers
in vestments rich in gold and embroidery. The long imposing train passed
slowly round the outer aisle. To those who remained before the altar,
the chanting of the procession came but faintly, so colossal is the
church, though like all well-proportioned things it is only from effects
such as this that one realizes its size. The solemn High Mass proceeded,
now the deep magnificently male voice of the organs, now the delicate
stringed instruments, with human voices, for the Spaniard fearlessly
follows his impulses of worship and presses every talent into the
service of the altar. Twenty laymen were grouped in the _coro_ about a
priest who led with his baton, and beside them stood the chorister lads
who were to dance that afternoon before the tabernacle, as David once
danced before the Ark of the Covenant. Their mediæval dress, a
singularly pleasing Russian blouse of blue and white, with white
breeches and slippers, was worn with so unconscious a grace that they
were a charming sight as they sang in clear childish treble.
The altar, one blaze of light, was approached by twelve steps, up and
down which the bishop and canons swept in their gorgeous robes. Below
the steps stood twelve silver candlesticks higher than a man, and close
by were displayed the priceless flagons and trays used on high feasts.
Every accessory of Seville's Cathedral is on a vast scale; the _retablo_
of carved scenes towers to a hundred feet; the gilded _rejas_, wrought
by the monk of Salamanca in the same disregard for man's limitations in
which the whole Cathedral was built, and whose dark fretwork enhances
the brilliant scenes they enclose, all tell of an age of ardent faith
when men gave of their best.
[Illustration: LOS SEISES, CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE]
The service over, the Archbishop passed to the sacristy which for this
day was thrown open to the people, and they thronged in to kiss the
episcopal ring, and to gaze at the Murillos and other masters. Then his
vestments laid aside, the prelate, accompanied by a dense crowd, crossed
the square to his palace, but before leaving the church, he paused by
the chapel of Gonsalvo Núñez de Sepúlveda, who in 1654 left a fortune to
the Cathedral that this Octave of the Immaculate Conception should be
fitly celebrated. Even after the three-hour service some people lingered
in the side chapels, and the choristers, in their picturesque costume,
gathered in the _capilla mayor_ of the partly deserted church to
continue their songs of praise: not for outer effect alone had these
hymns been taught them, but to glorify One unseen but all-seeing. The
spirit of inner worship was not lost in its outward symbolization.
During the Octave, the Blessed Sacrament was exposed, and unceasing were
the offices of praise and song. In the late afternoon of each day came
the dance of _los seises_ before the Altar, perhaps one of the most
poetic customs remaining in Christendom. The Archbishop, in red robes,
again entered the chancel surrounded by the canons, and they all knelt,
some here, some there, in unconsciously artistic groups,--the strong
firm profiles like those of the donors in Italian pictures. Some knelt
in meditation, others affectionately watched the dance of the lads; they
too, as boys, may have been choristers. It is more a quiet rhythmic
stepping to music than a dance, and all the while they sing in their
clear, high voices. Twice the music stopped, and for a few seconds the
lads moved slowly to the sound of their own castanets. This unique
custom commemorates the Christian's entry into the conquered Moslem town
more than six hundred years ago, when the children are said to have
danced and sung for joy. These twentieth century Christian lads, their
part now over, passed up the steps of the altar into a small sacristy
behind it; and the musicians continued a lovely concert of sacred music,
a last half hour of peace and prayer that seemed like the benediction of
the great darkened church on the bowed groups of worshipers.