"The moon is a Republican,
And the sun with open eye;
The earth she is Republican,
And Republican am I."
But who can understand this ever baffling Spain? After all, what was
the significance of that assembled host? How far was it drawn by
devotion to the man, and how far by devotion to the idea for which he
stood? How far by idle curiosity, by the Spanish passion for pomps and
shows, and, above all, for a crowd, by that strange Spanish delight
in _mucha gente_? So far as eye could tell, this might have been the
merriest of fetes. The wide street was a sea of restless color.
Uniforms, liveries, parasols, hats, frocks, pinafores, kerchiefs,
blouses, sashes, fans, flecked the sunshine with a thousand hues. Here
loitered a messenger boy in vivid scarlet; there passed a waiter with
a silver tray gleaming on his head; here a market woman bent beneath
her burden of russet sacks bursting with greens; there stood a priest
in shovel hat and cassock, smelling a great red rose; here a gallant
in violet cape escorted a lady flaming in saffron; there a beaming old
peasant, with an azure scarf tied over his white head, threw an orange
to attract the attention of a plodding porter, whose forehead was
protected from the cords binding the boxes to his back by several
folds of purplish carpeting.
Streets and sidewalks, balconies and windows, all were full, and
everywhere such eagerness, such animation, and such stir! The children
sitting on the curbstone rocked their little bodies back and forth in
excitement. Young mothers danced their crying infants, and young
fathers shifted the babies of a size or two larger from one shoulder
to the other. A boy in a red cap climbed a small locust tree, from
whose foliage his head peeped out like an overgrown cherry. The crowd
indignantly called the attention of authority to this violation of the
city laws. A glittering member of the Civil Guard sonorously ordered
the culprit down. The laughing lad refused to budge, inviting this
embarrassed arm of the law to reach up and get him. The Guard darkly
surveyed the slender stem already swaying with the boy's slight
weight. The fickle crowd, whose every face seemed to be upturned
toward that defiant cherry, cheered the rebel and tossed him
cigarettes and matches, wherewith he proceeded to enjoy a smoke. The
Guard caught a few cigarettes in mid-career, pocketed them, smiled
benevolently, and walked away. The lad saucily saluted, and the
multitude, suddenly impartial, pelted them both with peanuts.
Thus it was that the Madrid populace awaited the last coming of
Castelar. Even when the funeral train was passing, the crowd showed
scant respect. Not half the men uncovered for the bier, although I was
glad to see the cherry cap whisked off. And one picturesque gentleman
stood throughout with his back to the procession, making eyes at his
novia in the gallery above our own.
The Government, which had finally assumed the charges and care of the
obsequies, had been remiss in not providing lines of soldiers to hold
an open way for the cortege. As it was, the procession could hardly
struggle through the mass of humanity that choked the street. A
solitary rider, mounted, like Death, on a white horse, went in
advance, threatening the people with his sword. A division of the
Civil Guard followed, erect and magnificent as ever, their gold bands
glittering across their breasts, but their utmost efforts could not
effectually beat back the crowd. Men scoffed at the drawn blades and
pushed against the horses with both hands. The empty "coach of
respect," black as night, its sable horses tossing high white plumes,
pressed after, and then came some half dozen carriages overflowing
with wreaths and palms, and all that wealth of floral gifts. The crowd
caught at the floating purple ribbons, and called aloud the names
upon the cards; a monster design, with velvet canopy, from the
well-known daily, _El Liberal_, a beautiful crown from the widow of
Canovas, and, later in the procession, alone upon the coffin, a
nosegay of roses and lilies, brought in the morning by a child of
four, a little "daughter of the people," and bearing the roughly
written words, "Glory to Castelar!--A workingman."
The train of mourners, impeded as it was by the multitude, seemed
endless. After the representatives of certain charities there walked,
in gala uniform, white-headed veterans of war. A great company of
students followed, their young faces serious and calm in that tempting
hurly-burly of the street, and after them an overwhelming throng of
delegates from all manner of commercial and craft unions. Even the
press wondered that Castelar's death should move so profoundly the
trading and laboring classes, almost every store and workshop in
Madrid closing for the afternoon. Then came the Republican committees,
and behind them the representatives of countless literary, scientific,
and artistic associations.
At this point in the procession a place had been made for all or any
who might wish, as individuals, to follow Castelar to the tomb. Some
fifteen hundred had availed themselves of the opportunity--a motley
fellowship. The gentlemen preceding, those who had come as delegates
from the industrial and learned bodies of all Spain, wore almost
without exception the correct black coat and tall silk hat, and paced,
when they could, with a steady dignity, or halted, when they must,
with a grave patience, that did more to quiet the unruly host of
spectators than all the angry charges of the police. But the fifteen
hundred showed the popular variety of costume--capes and blouses,
broad white hats and the artisan's colored cap. Some of them were
smoking, an indecorum which, by a self-denial that counts for much
with Spaniards, nowhere else appeared in the long array.
But whatever might be the deficiencies of dress or bearing, here, one
felt, was the genuine sorrow, here were the men who believed in
Castelar and longed to do him honor. The impulsive onlookers responded
to this impression, and more than one rude fellow, who had been
skylarking a minute before, elbowed his way into the troop and fell
soberly into such step as there was. Music would have worked wonders
with that disorderly scene, but the bugles and cornets were all in the
far rear. The representatives of the provinces, as they struggled by,
were hailed with jokes and personalities. The chanting group of
clergy, uplifting the same ebony cross that they had borne for
Canovas, did not entirely hush the crowd, nor did even the
black-plumed hearse itself, with its solemn burden. For close after
came, bearing tapers, a group of political note, closed by Sagasta and
Campos, and then the chiefs of army and navy, including Blanco and
Weyler. Behind these walked the city fathers, the senators, the
diplomats, ex-ministers,--among them Romero, Robledo,--then the
archbishop, and, finally, Silvela, with his colleagues.
The procession was closed by a military display and a line of empty
coaches, sent, according to Spanish custom, as a mark of respect. The
coach sent by Congress, a patriotic blaze of red and yellow, with
coachman and footman in red coats and yellow trousers, and horses
decked with red and yellow plumes, looked as if it had started for the
circus and had missed its way.
[Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED BULL-FIGHT]
The sight of the politicians seemed to serve as spark to the
Republican fuel. Even while the hearse was passing somebody shouted,
"Long live Castelar!" but the crowd corrected the cry to "Long live
the glorious memory of Castelar!" Then came a heterogeneous uproar:
"Death to the friars!" "Long live the Republican Union!" "Down with
Reaction!" "Down with the Jesuits!" "Down with Polavieja!" "Down with
the Government!" "Up with the Republic!" "Long live Spain!" "Long live
the army!" "Long live Weyler!"
A woman was run over in the confusion and a man was trampled, but the
procession, aided as much as possible by the Civil Guards and the
police, slowly worked its way through the _Alcala_ to the _Puerta del
Sol_, where the people poured upon it like an avalanche, with ever
louder cries against ministry and clergy, until the scene in front of
the Government Building suggested something very like a mob. Silvela
bore his silvered head erect and exerted a prudent forbearance. But
few arrests were made, and the military force that sallied out from
the Government Building merely stood in the gates to awe the rioters.
After an hour and a quarter the transit of the square was effected.
The disturbances were renewed in the _Calle Mayor_ with such violence
that the ministers were advised to withdraw, but they only entered the
funeral coaches, and, the Guards exerting themselves to the utmost, a
degree of order was at last secured. While the cortege was descending
the difficult hill of La Vega, the Queen, standing in one of the
palace balconies, opera glass in hand, sent a messenger for a report
of the state of affairs in her capital, and was visited and reassured
by a member of the Government.
After this stormy journey the cemetery of San Isidro was reached at
nightfall, and the silent orator laid to rest in the patio of _Santa
Maria de la Cabeza_, beside his beloved sister, Concha Castelar. Even
here Republican _vivas_ were raised, and again, later in the evening,
before the house of Weyler, who appeared upon the balcony in answer to
repeated calls. This general, more popular with Spaniards than with
us, discreetly absented himself on Tuesday from the high mass chanted
for Castelar in the Church of _San Francisco el Grande_, where there
was an imposing display of uniforms and decorations.
While the people still talked of their lost leader and proposed
monuments and medals in his honor, the Government held firmly on its
course. The Royal Progress for the opening of the Cortes on the
following Friday was a suggestive contrast to the procession of
Monday. Soldiers lined the curbstones all the way from the Royal
Palace to the Congress Hall, bands were posted at intervals, the royal
escort, splendidly mounted and equipped, was in itself a formidable
force, while additional troops, in gala dress, paraded all the city.
The balconies along the royal route were handsomely draped, but the
people looked on at the gorgeous array of coaches, gilded and
emblazoned, each drawn by six or eight choice horses, with sumptuous
plumes and trappings, and attended by a story-book pomp of quaintly
attired postilions, coachmen, and outriders, in a silence that was
variously explained to me as indicating respect, hostility,
indifference.
I heard no _vivas_ and saw no hats raised even for the affable Infanta
Isabel, riding alone in the tortoise-shell carriage, nor for the
Princess of Asturias, girlishly attractive in rose color and white,
nor for the bright-faced young King, ready with his military salute as
he passed the foreign embassies, nor for the stately Regent, robed as
richly as if she were on her way to read a gladder message than that
which the opposition journals indignantly declared "no message, but a
pious prayer of resignation."
And while Madrid jarred and wrangled, the flowers brought by the
little daughter of the workingman drooped on the marble slab above
Castelar's repose.