"Here you have them, the two Spains, unlike, antagonistic,
squared for conflict."
--_Vida Nueva._
The world-old struggle between conservatism and advance is at its most
dramatic point in Spain. The united forces of clericalism and
militarism work for the continuance of ancient institutions, methods,
ideas, and those leaders who do battle in the name of liberalism are
too often nothing more than selfish politicians. But with all these
odds against progress, it is making way. The mass of the people, kept
so long in the darkness of ignorance and superstition, are looking
toward the light. During my last week in Madrid I chanced upon two
extreme expressions of these warring principles. The first was a royal
and religious ceremony, the second a monster mass meeting,--the one
intent on cherishing the past, the other clamoring at the gates of the
future.
I was looking over the _Imparcial_ as I took my coffee one morning,
when my eye fell on an item to the effect that there would be _capilla
publica en Palacio_ at ten o'clock. A traveller learns to jump at
opportunity. Public service in the royal chapel promised to be of
interest, and half-past nine found me waiting, with a miscellaneous
company of gentles and tatterdemalions, natives and foreigners, on the
palace side of the _Plaza de Armas_, the expectant throng streaming
far down the paved and covered way. We were well marshalled by
soldiers, who kept the crowd in form of a long troop, and banded this
by military lines, with gleaming bayonets. These bands, but a few feet
apart, were effectual in preventing crowding and disorder, and when at
last the doors were thrown open, a double rank of soldiers closed in
before the portal as often as the entering file showed any tendency to
press and hurry, and thus passed us through by small divisions, so
that there was no unseemly struggling on the succession of bare, plain
stairways that led to the upper galleries.
For "public service in the royal chapel," I was now to discover, does
not mean that the public is admitted to the chapel itself. This is
small, but very Spanish, with profusion of gilding, imposing altar,
and frescoed saints, the characteristic splendor being tempered with a
no less characteristic gloom, an effect enhanced by austere columns of
gray marble. On days of public service, which are usually high feast
days, three long galleries, forming three sides of a great quadrangle,
are traversed by the court in passing from the royal rooms to the
chapel door, and it is to these galleries only that the public is
admitted. On such occasions the gallery walls are hung with richly
colored tapestries from the magnificent collection of eight hundred
pieces that enriches the royal _Tapiceria_.
The instant I crossed the threshold these tapestries blazed upon the
eye, so dazzling in their beauty that it was difficult to grasp the
general situation. Civil Guards, in gala uniform, each armed with a
pike taller than himself, were stationed at intervals of about six
feet all along these tapestried walls, holding the carpeted way open
for the passage of the royal and ecclesiastical party. The public
hastened to fill in the spaces left between the guards, so that when
the dignitaries paced the length of the three galleries, they walked
between continuous human lines of mingled soldiery and spectators. We
were of various ages, sizes, colors, and quite as picturesque, take it
all in all, as the slowly stepping group on which our eyes were
focussed.
A division of the royal escort, marching with drawn swords, preceded
the Queen Regent, a slight and elegant figure in white and heliotrope,
her mantilla pinned with diamonds. She walked in royal solitude, with
a bearing of majesty and grace, but her face had a hard and almost
sour look, which of itself might account for her unpopularity. The
King and the younger Infanta did not take part in the day's ceremony,
but the Princess of Asturias followed her mother, a fresh-faced girl,
charmingly dressed in white and blue, with pearls and turquoises. A
respectful step or two in the rear of her niece, yet at her side
rather than behind, came in rich green silk adorned with emeralds the
stout, gray-puffed, easy-going Infanta Isabel, her broad, florid face
beaming with affability. The guards had passed stern word down the
line for all hats to be off, but there was no sign of greeting, so far
as I saw, from the spectators to the royal party, except as now and
then some happy Spaniard bowed him to the dust in acknowledgment of a
nod, as familiar as a wink, from this popular Infanta.
The occasion of this stately function was the elevation of the Papal
Nuncio to the rank of cardinal. He passed in all priestly
magnificence of vestments and jewels, his red hat borne before him on
a cushion. He was attended by the chief clerics of Court and capital,
but even these gorgeous personages were outshone by the military and
naval officers, whose breasts were a mosaic of medals, and whose
headgear such erections of vainglory as to hush the crested cockatoo
with shame. The Gentlemen of the Palace, too, were such peacocks in
their glittering coats of many colors, their plumes and sashes, gold
lace and silver lace, that the plump Ladies in Waiting, for all their
pride of velvet, satin, and brocade, looked like mere hens in the wake
of strutting chanticleers.
The American mind is ill prepared to do homage to the dress parades of
European courts, and I laid by the memory to laugh over when I should
have reached a place and hour where laughter would be inoffensive. As
the Diplomatic Corps, in its varied costumes, came trooping on, twice
a whisper ran along the gazing lines. "The Turk!" and the traditional
enemy of Spain limped smilingly past, a bent, shrewd-faced old
Mussulman, whose Oriental finery was topped by the red fez. "The
Yankee!" and Spain's latest adversary strode by in the person of the
newly arrived United States Minister, decorously arrayed in dress suit
and a Catholic expression.
The chapel doors closed on this haughty train, and we, the invited
public, cheerily proceeded to pass a social hour or two in chat and
promenade and in contemplation of the tapestries. Even the Civil
Guards unbent, dancing their babies, lending their pikes to delighted
urchins, and raising forbidden curtains to give their womenkind
furtive peeps into the royal apartments. Most astonishing was the
maltreatment of those priceless tapestries. Small boys, unrebuked,
played at hide and seek under the heavy folds, old men traced the
patterns with horny fingers, and the roughest fellows from the streets
lounged stupidly against them, rubbing dirty-jacketed shoulders over
the superb coloring. The most splendid series displayed was from a
master-loom of the Netherlands, illustrating the conquest of Tunis by
Charles V--marvellously vivid scenes, where one beholds the spread of
mighty camps, the battle shock of great armies and navies, and, like
shrill chords of pain in some wild harmony, the countless individual
tragedies of war. The scimitar of the Turk flashes down on the Spanish
neck, while the upturned eyes are still too fierce for terror; the
turbaned chief leans from his gold-wrought saddle to scan the severed
heads that two blood-stained sons of the prophet are emulously holding
up to his survey, hoping to recognize in those ghastly faces enemies
of rank; white-robed women on the strand, their little ones clinging
to their knees, reach arms of helpless anguish toward the smitten
galley of their lords, who are leaping into the waves for refuge from
the Christian cannonade.
I wondered how the Turkish Minister liked those tapestries, as his
stooped-back Excellency passed in conference with a Chinese mandarin,
who must have studied his costume from a teacup. For we had all been
hustled into rows again to make that human lane through which the
Royalties and the Reverends returned from their devotions. I was
facing a quaint old tapestry of Christ enthroned in glory, with the
beasts of the Apocalypse climbing over Him like pet kittens, and this
so distracted my attention that I omitted to ask the amiable Infanta
Isabel, who would, I am sure, have told anybody anything, what had
taken place. But I read it all in the _Epocha_ that evening--how her
Majesty with her own august hands had fitted the red hat to the
Nuncio's tonsured head, and how the new-made cardinal had addressed
her in a grateful oration, praising her virtues as manifested in "the
double character of queen and mother, an example rich in those
peculiar gifts by which your Royal Grace has won the veneration and
love of the noble and chivalrous Spanish people, the especial
affection of the Father of the Faithful, and the respect and sympathy
of all the world." For her and for the youthful monarch of Spain he
invoked the favor of Heaven, and uttered a fervent hope that the cup
of bitterness which this most Catholic nation had bowed herself to
drink might be blessed to her in a renewal of strength and a
reconquest of her ancient preeminence among the peoples of the earth.
The most significant expression of "new Spain" that I encountered in
Madrid was a mass meeting--a rare and novel feature in Spanish public
life. I blundered upon it as foolishly as one well could. The second
day of July was the first anniversary of the founding of a daring
Madrid weekly, the _Vida Nueva_, to which, attracted by its literary
values, as well as its political courage, I had subscribed. The sheet
is usually issued Sunday, but as I was on the point of going out one
Saturday afternoon my _Vida Nueva_ arrived, accompanied by two
non-committal tickets. They gave entrance to the _Fronton Central_,
"only that and nothing more." I called one of the pretty senoritas of
the household into council, and she sagely decided that these were
tickets to _pelota_, the Basque ball game, played in one or another of
the various Madrid halls almost every summer afternoon. It seemed a
little too considerate in the _Vida Nueva_ to provide for the
recreation of its subscribers, but I was growing accustomed to
surprises of Spanish courtesy, and tucked the tickets away in a safe
corner. The folded newspaper rustled and whispered, and finally
fluttered to my feet, but I was eager to be off, and, after the blind
fashion of mortals, put it by.
It was my privilege to dine that day with two compatriots, and one of
these, who knows and loves Spain better than many Spaniards do, began
at once to tell me of that most unusual occurrence, a Madrid mass
meeting, to take place this very evening. Of course we resolved to go,
although my friend's husband was not in the city, and no other escort
would countenance so harebrained an expedition. For the street to
which this valiant lady led the way was choked with a flood of men
surging toward an open door. The hall for the "meeting," a word which
the Spanish language has fully adopted, was the _Fronton Central_, and
admission was by ticket. Light dawned on my dim wits, and, while my
two companions, with dignified and tranquil mien, stood themselves up
against the outer wall, I besought a leisurely cabman, who insisted on
waiting to pick up a little ragamuffin clamoring for a ride, to drive
me in hot haste to my domicile. Here I searched out the tickets, put
away only too carefully, and took a fleeting glance at the _Vida
Nueva_, which urged all "men of heart" to celebrate the eve of its
anniversary by their presence at this mass meeting.
I had not realized that there were so many men of heart in Madrid. The
street on my return was worse than before. The cabman objected
strenuously to leaving us in these tempestuous surroundings, and,
since there were only two tickets, we two elders of the trio agreed
that the American girl was all too young for such an escapade, and
forthwith despatched her, under his fatherly care, to the hotel. Then
came the tug of war. We saw men fighting fiercely about the door, we
heard the loud bandying of angry words, we were warned again and again
that we could never get through the jam, we were told that, tickets or
no tickets, ladies would not, could not, and should not be admitted;
it was darkly hinted that, before the evening was over, there would be
wild and bloody work within those walls. But we noticed a few other
women in the throng, and decided, from moment to moment, to wait a
little longer, and see what happened next. Meanwhile, we were almost
unjostled in the midst of that excited, struggling crowd, often
catching the words: "Stand back there! Don't press on the ladies!
Leave room!" And when it came to the final dash we had well-nigh a
clear passage. Our tickets gave access only to the floor of a big,
oblong hall, closely packed with a standing mass of some ten thousand
men; but a debonair personage in authority conducted us, with more
chivalry than justice, to the reserved boxes in the gallery, where we
occupied perfect seats,--for which other people probably held
tickets,--in the front row, overlooking all the house.
[Illustration: MARIA SANTISIMA]
So much for Spanish indulgence to audacious womenfolk. But as to the
meeting itself, what was it all about? In Spain one word suffices for
an answer. _Montjuich_ has become a Liberal rallying cry, although the
movement is not bound in by party lines. It is the Dreyfus _affaire_
in a Spanish edition. The _Castello de Montjuich_ is a strong
fortress, with large magazines and quarters for ten thousand soldiers.
It is built on a commanding height, the old Mountain of the Jews, just
outside Barcelona, and has again and again suffered bombardment and
storm. But in this latest assault on Montjuich the weapons are words
that burn and pens keener than swords. It was on the seventh of June,
1896, that the famous bomb was exploded in Barcelona. It was taken for
an Anarchist outrage, and over two hundred men, including teachers,
writers, and labor leaders, were arrested on suspicion. Nearly two
months passed, and, despite the offer of tempting rewards, no trace of
the culprits had been found. In the Fortress of Montjuich the guards
deputed to watch the prisoners, acting more or less under superior
authority, which itself may have been influenced by Jesuit suggestion,
began on the fourth of August to inflict tortures upon the accused for
the purpose of extracting evidence. The trials were by military
procedure, power sat in the seat of justice, and innocent men, it is
believed, were condemned on the strength of those forced
confessions--mere assents, wrung from them by bodily agony, to
whatever their guards might dictate. But many persisted in denial, and
in course of time a number were released, maimed, in certain cases,
for life. Others were shot, and a score still lay in prison. The
fortress dungeons are deep and dark, but little by little the cries
and groans of the "martyrs of Montjuich" penetrated the dull stone and
sounded throughout Spain.
On the fourteenth of May, last year, the _Vida Nueva_, this bold young
periodical in the van of the Liberal cause, brought out an illustrated
number devoted to "The Torments of Montjuich." Other periodicals
sprang to its support and kept the Government busy with denunciations,
while they vehemently called for a revision of the judicial process,
with the hope of releasing the men still under sentence and clearing
the names of those who had perished. Mass meetings to urge such
revision, which could be accorded only by vote of the Cortes, were
held in Barcelona, Saragossa, Valencia, Santander, and other principal
cities, all demanding revision in the sacred names of patriotism,
humanity, and justice.
Our Madrid mass meeting was of chief consequence in impressing the
Government with the weight of popular opinion. The swaying multitude
was called to order at quarter of ten by Senor Canalejas, who
introduced a notable array of speakers. There were representatives of
labor, of republicanism, of the press, a Catalan charged with a
greeting from Barcelona, the champion of Spanish Socialism, Pablo
Iglesias by name, and great men of the nation, Azcarate, Moret, and
Salmeron. Spanish eloquence at its best thrills the blood to wine, and
the swift succession of orators, fourteen all told, played on the vast
audience like master artists on a murmurous organ. Yet there was no
disorder. A generous and grateful hearing was accorded the Count of
Las Almenas, who frankly declared himself a conservative in politics
and an apostolic Roman Catholic in religion, but in the name of both
these creeds a lover of justice and humanity. Since for these he ever
held himself ready to do battle in the Cortes, he gave the meeting his
pledge that he would support Azcarate in the motion for revision.
But the wrath and grief of the audience could hardly be controlled
when one of the released prisoners took the platform to recount the
horrors of Montjuich. He told of dungeons with earth floor and one
grated window, of savage guards determined to gain the crosses and
pensions promised to those who should extract evidence. He told how
the helpless captives, weakened by confinement, were tortured with
cords, whips, sleeplessness, hunger, and thirst. Bound as they were,
water was held before their parched mouths, with the sinister words,
"Confess what we bid you, and you shall drink." When the famished men
begged for food, they were answered with the lash, or, more
fiendishly, with shreds of salt codfish, which increased their thirst
a hundred fold. One man in his desperation sprang to the lamp and
quaffed the dirty oil. They licked the moisture from their dungeon
walls. They thrust white tongues through the grating to catch the
drops of rain. Soon the guards proceeded to more violent torments,
wrenching, burning, and probing the quivering flesh with a devilish
ingenuity of torture, making a derisive sport of their atrocious work.
One of the victims went mad while undergoing torture by compression of
the head. Others, on hearing the coming steps of the guards, strove to
escape their cruel hands by suicide. One drank a bowl of disinfectant
found in his cell, one beat his forehead against the wall, one strove
to drive a rusted nail into his heart.
It was a frightful tale to hear. I looked across the hall to where a
Spanish flag was hung. Yellow wax is funeral wax, and Alarcon, who
sees in yellow a symbol of death and of decay, laments that it is the
color of half the Spanish banner. "_Ay de la bandera espanola!_" But
surely there is hope for Spain, while she has sons who, in grasp of a
military tyranny which has rendered such crimes possible, contend in
open field for the overthrow of the "black Spain" of the Inquisition,
and still bear heart of hope for a white, regenerated Spain, where
religion shall include the love of man.