Death of Maria de Padilla--Don Juan de Mañara
Foremost in the fighting at Toledo, when Don Pedro drove out Don Enrique
de Trastamare and took Queen Blanche prisoner, was his favourite, Don
Juan de Mañara, an historical profligate of no small fame in poetry and
music, and dreaded by husbands and fathers.
Vainly did they lock the gates of their _patios_ and put iron bars over
the windows; he penetrated everywhere. The _Commendatore_ whom Don Juan
killed in a duel about his daughter Doña Anna, was but one of the many
whom he had injured, only the _Commendatore_ cursed him, and the curse
cleaved to him, although it is not true that as a _statue_, he invited
him to supper, as he does in Mozart’s opera, and was dragged down to
hell.
The stage Don Giovanni is a very elegant señor, with fine feathers,
bright clothes, golden chains, velvets, and lace; but the real man
clothed himself as plainly as his master, Don Pedro, in a dark doublet,
with a leather _capa_, or head-piece, quite innocent of gew-gaws, and
as heavy a mantle as a Castilian can wear.
Living in warlike times, when men rapped out their swords on every
occasion, Don Juan was ready for whatever adventure might befall, giving
no quarter and receiving none; little given to vanity of any sort, or
smoothness of speech in the passages of the _duelo_ or on the
battle-field, spending his leisure between the dice-box and the wine
flagon.
In person he was dark-featured, too bronzed and weather-beaten for
actual beauty, but with plenty of that dash and bravery which please a
lady’s eye. Careless, remorseless, sensual, neither God nor devil had
terrors for him, but he never shed blood wantonly, and was incapable of
butchering women, like his master, or of treacherous assassination or
murder of any kind.
How he remained in favour so long, spite of his outspoken comments on
Don Pedro, was due to his well-tried devotion. His contempt for the
whole family of the Padillas was notorious, specially for Don Garcia,
whom he qualified as a base flatterer and parasite, ready to sell Don
Pedro like Judas Iscariot.
Don Pedro had few friends; revolt and hatred had thinned his party, and
the followers of Enrique de Trastamare were continually increased by the
horror of some new crime.
Had the king given heed to Don Juan he would never have sacrificed Doña
Bianca or the Grand Master Fadique to the jealous fury of Maria de
Padilla. Every mishap which had been foretold by Albuquerque and the
queen-mother had followed, as was indeed apparent, after these cruel
deeds.
At this time his life and his throne were in jeopardy and he knew it.
Not only had the death of Blanche moved France to the core and allied
Charles V. with Enrique, but it had so profoundly offended the Castilian
sense of honour that a formal remonstrance was drawn up by his own
nobles, an insult at which his fierce temper flamed out, and but for the
certainty of coming war a bloody punishment would have been the result.
“The throne! the throne!” is the war-cry of El Caballero, who, no longer
a fugitive, has constituted himself the avenger of the queen; and word
has come to Seville that Aragon and Navarre have declared in his favour,
as well as many of the cities in old Castile, and that Blanche’s
kinsman, the Comte de la Marche, of the royal blood of St. Louis, has
joined Du Guesclin and the _Grande Compagnie_ despatched by the King of
France, now marching south to join them.
Hitherto prosperous in his wickedness, since Blanche’s death a curse
cleaves to Don Pedro. Has he read her letter and does he know that she
has summoned him to appear at the heavenly tribunal, where neither lying
nor hypocrisy will avail him? Who can say? Dead or alive, Don Pedro is
inscrutable.
At this time Maria de Padilla falls suddenly sick of a mortal malady.
Stretched on an Oriental couch of purple stuff, within her golden-walled
chamber she lies longing for the return of Don Pedro, far away battling
in Aragon. Plunged in the torpor of a sudden fever, her hand vaguely
wanders among the meshes of her glossy hair, still sown with the pearls
she had placed there overnight. From whom does she shrink, this terrible
beauty, gathering herself together until her henna-tipped fingers
sinking into her flesh, she cries loudly for Don Pedro, and shriek after
shriek comes from her as she flings herself into the arms of her slaves?
It is an evil death, haunted by phantoms. No priest comes to soothe her
dying moments. She is held to be a witch, in league with the Evil One.
The sacraments of the Church cannot be brought to such as she. But on
Don Pedro’s return to Seville she is laid to rest in the cathedral under
the dome of the Capilla Real, beside the sovereigns of Castile, and such
regal titles as were refused her in life are given to her in death.
The Cortes are assembled, and Don Pedro solemnly proclaims her his
lawful wife and her children, one son and three daughters, legitimate.
No one believes it, though witnesses are called as having been present
at the ceremony, but no one dares to deny it and Maria de Padilla is
buried as she has lived--a queen.
Whatever Don Pedro feels at the loss of the woman he loved, he conceals
it. This is no time for grief. Furious at the growing success of El
Caballero, Don Pedro signs a hasty peace with Aragon, and threatens to
attack his ancient allies, the Moors.
Much alarmed, they send an ambassador to Seville, in the person of
Mahomed Barbarossa, the _Rey Bermejo_, charged with rich presents to
appease him.
* * * * *
In the midst of a superb procession rides the Red King, the
accoutrements of his horse set with jewelled fringes; on his head he
wears the green turban of the followers of the Prophet, and in the
centre, conspicuous among a galaxy of gems, three enormous rubies are
set, the middle one, known as “the Balax,” big as a pigeon’s egg. When
he beholds Don Pedro in royal robes, standing on the threshold of his
gorgeous portal, surrounded by such of the brilliant Castilians who as
yet are true to him, the dusky emir is moved to smile, and as he
dismounts to kiss Don Pedro’s hand, the Balax gleaming like fire on his
head, his steely blue eyes fix on it greedily, and it is clear to Don
Juan who stands behind, that strong passion of some kind moves him.
Long he contemplates in silence the turban of the Moor; then, turning
abruptly to Don Juan, he whispers: “What right has the Infidel to wear
such gems? While my treasury is empty he comes here to flaunt them in my
face. Mark me, _amigo mio_, I will have that Balax before the day is
old. It is worth a king’s ransom and will some day stand me in good
stead.”
“I pray your Grace not to contemplate so villainous a project,” is Don
Juan’s reply. “You have enemies enough, methinks, without making more. I
will not help you. I am willing to second you, as my liege and
sovereign, in the field or the _duelo_, to the death, but by St. Helena
or any other male or female saint, I cannot stand by you in a matter of
open spoiling of your guest.”
“No, but the gems, the gems,” returns the king in the same whisper. “I
never saw the like! I cannot take my eyes from them!”
“That may or may not be. It is no concern of mine, my lord. I am no
merchant to adjudge their value; nor do I care for such toys except on
the bosom of the fair, where I would be before your Grace in plucking
them. Otherwise, let every man and every Moor, I say, possess his own;
and if the emir likes to deck himself like a peacock he is free for me.”
* * * * *
As the day falls and the bells of the Giralda tower and of all the
towers in the churches of Seville have ceased their clang, a sumptuous
banquet is spread in the Hall of the Ambassadors.
Darker and darker grows Don Pedro’s brow as the feast continues, and
more and more anxiously his eyes turn towards the entrance leading into
the Patio de las Doncellas.
As the innumerable courses of _pilaus_ and curries, conserves and
sweetmeats are served in honour of his guests, with the finest wines of
Xeres and Malaga, and golden basins with perfumed water and embroidered
napkins are offered between each course, Don Pedro can scarcely master
his impatience.
A stony silence falls on all the company from the grim humour of the
king. Don Juan is absent, but Don Rodrigues with the other familiars are
there, and Emanuel _El Zapatero_, now captain of the body-guard, stands
behind his chair, and as if conscious that something is about to happen,
never takes his eyes from his master’s face.
But the strangeness of the position reaches its climax when the emir,
rising from the gold-embroidered divan on which he is stretched to
pledge the king, Don Pedro neither moves nor responds in any way, but
sits with his eyes fixed, as if fascinated, on the Balax in his turban.
Suddenly, at some secret sign given by Emanuel, he strikes the table
with his fist, and from each of the pillared openings the hall is filled
with troops, armed to the teeth, and behind his chair arises, as if by
magic, the naked figure of a Nubian slave bearing an axe.
Ere one can draw breath he falls upon the Red King, who, taken unawares,
has not even time to draw his dagger. At the same moment each Moorish
knight is seized from behind by a Castilian trooper and dragged into the
outer court of the Monteria, where he finds his horse, arms, and slave,
receiving at the same time stern injunctions to cross the frontier of
Castile before sunrise.
Alone in the hall, Don Pedro advances to where the unhappy Red King lies
dead upon the floor, hard by the spot where the blood of Don Fadique
stains the marble.
“Dog, and son of a dog!” he exclaims, “did you think to come to Seville
to rival _me_? Dead or alive, I will have the rubies,” and, stooping
down with his own hand he plucks them from his turban. “Such a stone as
this,” he says, reflectively, holding up the Balax to the light, as if
unable to detach his eyes from it, “I never saw, though I am cunning in
gems. It is unequalled. It may save my crown. Who knows? Till then I
will cherish it as a lover does his mistress. In my bosom I will place
thee, wondrous stone, next to my heart of hearts.”[A]
* * * * *
Don Juan, though wholly disapproving these barbarities as useless and
uncivilised, instead of falling away from his master like the rest,
applies himself to strengthen his cause. To the dissipated and the young
he holds out the prospect of unlimited license; to the ambitious, power;
to
[Illustration: Death of “El Gran Capitan.”
From a Painting by M. Crespo.
National Exhibition of Fine Arts, Madrid, 1884.]
the covetous, domains. Nothing is left undone that can determine the
wavering and secure the doubtful. “The ultimate success of the pretender
of Trastamare,” he says, “is an event utterly improbable; and even
should he come, it would only be to enrich his own followers by a
fearful reckoning among those who have opposed him.”
Subtle arguments these, and admirably suited to the temper of the times,
when men’s minds were swayed either by venal and selfish motives, or by
the terror of ruin and massacre.
* * * * *
Don Juan lives in a narrow street, a stone’s throw from the gate of the
Alcazar. His house still remains, a curious monument of the times; a
small, low building with a quaint projecting attic and casements guarded
by rows of low Saracenic arches.
Of course there is a fountain in the small pillared _patio_ where he
received his friends. If it is the same little pillar of spray as in Don
Juan’s time hummed and splashed through the long summer days, I cannot
say, or if he was served by the identical Leporello we know so well, and
scolded by the shrewish wife Doña Elvira, who always sings in “_alt_.”
But it is certain that the low door of his house gave access nightly to
crowds of rollicking guests and fair masked señoras, and that the king
in disguise often stepped across the street from the Alcazar to take
part in the revelry.
The real Don Juan lives in evil times. Seville is growing desperate
with the tyranny of the king. The name of Enrique el Caballero is
whispered everywhere as a saviour to an oppressed people. It is said
indeed that he has again been proclaimed king at Cahorra by his
followers, at the head of the _Grandes Compagnies_, and that Charles V.
of France treats with him as friend to friend.
The priests despise Don Pedro because he lies under an interdict, and no
masses can be said in the churches; the libertines hate him because he
judges them severely and gives such large measure to himself; and the
lovers and husbands because no woman is safe.
No two men are of the same mind in this divided city. The houses are
barricaded, the towers turned into fortresses, the iron lattices of the
windows, where true lovers whisper, into loopholes for pikes and arrows;
the black crosses in the plazas are stained with blood, and the dead
often lie unburied in the _calle_. In all these disorders Don Juan is a
leader, cutting down the king’s enemies like dogs, and anathematising
all rebels to his cause. “Let us make merry ere we die,” is the cry of
the _Sevillianos_, not knowing what may befall; and so they pass the
time in the certainty of coming warfare between Don Enrique and the
king, in rioting and profligacy.
The very priests live like gallants, and the nuns trail silken gowns.
Merry-makings and orgies are held even in the churches, and drinking and
dancing are common among the graves, much to Don Juan’s delight as a
scoffer and a blasphemer, who gaily foots it to a rattling measure with
the bones.
From dancing the citizens get to fighting; a few cry for Don Pedro, but
more shout for El Caballero and thus from bad to worse the evil days
pass along.
* * * * *
There is a homely proverb which says, “The devil will have his own.”
This is proved in the history of Don Juan de Mañara. During an orgy, at
which another noted gallant and profligate, Don Santiago de Augebo, is
present, a _gitana_ of great beauty slips in to sell flowers to the
noble señors lounging in drunken mirth among the wine-cups.
Impudent gitana! Swords are drawn and a free fight for her possession
instantly ensues, Don Santiago getting the upper hand and seizing on
her, spite of her screams.
“Now, by all the saints and devils!” cries Don Juan, touched by the
genuine terror of the girl, “give us also a chance, Señor Caballero,”
and as the other opposes him, although in his own house, he draws his
rapier and falls on him with such thundering blows that Santiago sinks
insensible on the floor.
The gitana, somewhat above her class, and very beautiful, kisses Don
Juan’s hand, which he returns by raising her and pressing his lips to
hers. Then plunging his hand into the depths of his doublet he pulls out
a well-filled purse, which he gives her with a glance out of his wicked
eyes, such as the stage Don Giovanni bestows on Zerlina and with like
effect, much to the amazement of the company, who rise up to shout and
laugh as he conducts her with mock solemnity to the gate of the
_patio_--especially Don Santiago, by this time recovered, and swearing
secret vengeance on Don Juan.
To the Leporello of that day, by name Gesuelo, Don Juan secretly issues
his commands to find out all he can about the gitana, which is done by
the ready-witted knave, who tells him her name is Caritad, and that her
father abandoned her mother at her birth.
But next morning, with the fumes of last night’s wine the image of
Caritad vanishes, and he orders a great supper in honour of Don Pedro,
to which all the gallants of Seville are bidden.
“Death to the king’s enemies” is the toast, and Don Pedro himself graces
the board with his presence. But a cloud of care rests on his young
face. All looks dark. The Black Prince, on whose help he has so firmly
relied, has not responded to his repeated calls for help, while Enrique
is supported by the presence of the redoubtable Du Guesclin or
_Clayquin_ as he is called in contemporary history. Now they have
entered Spain, and actually Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca, Palencia, and
other cities of the north are with them. The King of Portugal is
doubtful in his allegiance, the passes of the Pyrenees swarm with French
adventurers and rebels, tramping down to join Enrique’s camp at
Logroño; and worse than all, his little son, Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s
child, his only male heir and successor, is dying. Ever since the death
of Blanche the horrors of a violent and speedy death possess him. Do as
he will, curse, carouse, murder, and blaspheme, he cannot shake off the
sinister foreboding. The murder of the _Rey Bermejo_ has alienated the
Moors, and Seville, his own Seville, is wavering.
* * * * *
As the banquet proceeds and the heads of the guests begin to turn under
the effect of the choice wines of Andalusia, passed round in golden cups
and goblets, Don Juan suddenly rises and drinks the health of the
_hereditary ally of Castile_--the hero of Crécy and Poitiers--Edward,
the Black Prince--now lying encamped in Guienne at Bordeaux; extols his
prowess and generosity, and cunningly passing on to vaunt the respect
and affection he bears to his master the king, announces his speedy
arrival in Spain with the flower of the English chivalry unrivalled in
the world.
Don Juan knows this is a lie, and that the Black Prince has shown no
sign, but that matters little if only he can succeed in impressing the
company with the belief that he is on the road to fight Don Enrique.
Indeed, to do this is the principal aim of the banquet, and he takes
care to bring forward the intelligence at a moment when no one is in a
condition either to canvass or to dispute it.
The name of the Black Prince is coupled with those of the English
knights who accompany him--Captain de Buch, Thomas of Canterbury,
Montfort, and the gallant and elegant Chandos. The feats of arms
performed in the taking of Toledo by Don Pedro are remembered, and also
the ugliness of the women, except indeed the Jewesses. The humiliating
particulars of Don Enrique’s flight are detailed, and loud laughter
ensues at his sham coronation at Burgos. But no one dares to mention
that the _Grandes Compagnies_ have entered Castile commanded by the
Comte de la Marche, of the royal blood of St. Louis, and Du Guesclin,
and that with Don Enrique they are marching upon Seville!
At the mention of his brother’s name the king’s passion blazes out; he
clenches his fist and the veins swell on his forehead. Starting to his
feet, his blue eyes travel round the room, as if he would read on each
countenance the bias of the mind within. Then, seizing a jewelled cup,
which he holds on high, he drinks: “Death to the bastard, and by the
Holy Cross of Compostella may he burn in Hell!”
There is a pause. No one echoes this savage curse of brother to brother.
Even the well-seasoned profligates around are sobered for an instant by
the unnatural toast.
In the general silence which follows, Leporello or Gesuelo makes his
way to his master with a musk-scented letter in his hand, bound with a
blue ribbon.
Cutting the ribbon with his dagger, Don Juan (like a man accustomed to
such missives) glances at the signature, then lets it fall. What matter?
It is signed Amina. Who is Amina? He has already forgotten!
When the king rises to depart, Don Juan accompanies him to the portal of
the Alcazar, followed by the soberer guests. The open letter lies upon
the floor. It is perceived by Don Santiago who, raising it on the point
of his rapier, reads these words aloud: “Come to me, false one, come ere
I die. Amina.”
Shouts of laughter follow, and deep draughts of wine are drunk to speed
her parting soul to purgatory; not forgetting the health of the gitana
Caritad, with whom Don Santiago swears he will cut out Don Juan.
Meanwhile Don Juan wanders on from the Alcazar into the dark streets. A
vague notion possesses him he is going to visit some one, but if it be
his new love Caritad, or his ancient flame Amina, of whom he has long
lost sight, or both, he cannot clearly define. From the streets he turns
into the Plaza de San Francesco, and perceives a light in a house
opposite the Palace of the Ayuntamiento (the first floor still remains,
all _miradores_, like the wooden houses in England). On approaching, a
silken ladder appears attached to the balcony.
“By St. Anthony! a public tryst!” Don Juan mutters. “Which of the fair
ones I seek thus openly hangs out the signal?”
Then he falls into a deep cogitation as to the owner of the house. But
Gesuelo has the list of the three hundred and three noble ladies he
loves in Seville, and such peasants too who are worthy of his attention,
and it was thus he came to know Zerlina, and gave such trouble to that
poor fool Masetto. For the life of him, he cannot now remember who lives
here, but in a confused way he recalls the letter which he feels for in
his vest and misses.
“Confusion,” he mutters to himself. “Into whose hands has it fallen?
Meanwhile, here goes!” he cries aloud, “Caritad or the Devil; it is all
the same to me, so it be a woman,” and he vaults on the rounds of the
ladder and swings himself up to the bars of the balcony.
Within he pauses. All is dark. Somehow, the abundant moon shining
outside does not penetrate into the room. To see clearly he must remove
his mask, when he discerns from an inner chamber the glimmering of a
taper.
Drawing his sword he rushes forward and finds himself before a couch
closely shrouded. With haste he removes the draperies and beholds a lady
sleeping. Stooping to observe her more closely, with a beating heart he
removes a veil, and his eyes fix themselves on the hideous aspect of a
corpse festering in its shroud! _This is his first warning._
[Illustration: THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE, GRANADA.]
Later, at midnight, in the ancient quarter of the Macerena, Don Juan
falls in with a funeral procession, with torches, singing, and banners.
It is some grandee of high degree, doubtless--there are so many muffled
figures, mutes carrying silver horns, the insignia of knighthood borne
upon a shield, a saddled horse led by a shadowy page, and the dim forms
of priests and monks chanting death dirges.
Don Juan can recall no death at court or among the nobles, and this is
plainly a funeral of quality. Nor can he explain a midnight burial, a
thing unknown except in time of war or plague; so, advancing from the
dark gateway where he stood to let the procession pass, he addresses
himself to one of the muffled figures and asks: “Whose body are they
bearing to the Osario at this strange time?”
“Don Juan de Mañara” is the reply. “Will you follow, and say a prayer
for his sinful soul?”
As these words are spoken, the procession seems to pause, and one
advances who flings back the wreaths of flowers which lie around the
face, and lo! Don Juan beholds his own visage in the coffin!
Spellbound he seems to join the ghastly throng which wends its way to
the Church of Santa Iñes. Here other spectral priests appear to meet it
and carry the bier into the nave, where next morning he is found by the
nuns, coming into matins, insensible on the floor! _This is the second
warning._
After this the name of Don Juan was heard no more at court. Whither he
went, no one knew, not even Gesuelo. At length he was discovered in a
monastic dress, living in a hospital he had founded for the old and
bedridden, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, opposite the Golden Tower
where Don Pedro kept his treasure,--a quaint old building which still
remains close to the custom-house. You cannot pass a day in Seville
without remarking it as you follow along the wharf crowded with merchant
ships and steamers, placed a little back but conspicuous by its
whiteness.
* * * * *
On an ancient portal, much ornamented in that _barocco_ style into which
Seville fell when ceasing to be Moorish, are graven these words:
Sancta Caridad
Domus Pauperum
Scala Cœli.
On one side are the high windows of a Gothic hall, where aged men sit,
so shrunk and old one seems to think death has forgotten them. A low
iron-bound door leads you farther into the nave of a noble church,
supported by twisted pillars such as Raphael loved to paint as the
background of his frescoes.
It is very still and rather dark, for red blinds are drawn over the
windows, but you plainly perceive the high altar, gay with coloured
marbles, and on the highest step where you plant your foot there is a
monumental slab let into the pavement, engraven with these words:
Cenizas del peor
Nombre que ha habido
en el Mundo,
Don Juan de Mañara.[B]
The disappearance of Don Juan from the stormy scene was little heeded by
Don Pedro in all the confusion of civil war. He was but a bolder sinner
than the rest, and that he had turned from the devil to the priest was a
contemptible proof of weakness.
No gallant rode down the bank of the Guadalquivir without launching a
sneer at the old Gothic pile where, habited in sackcloth, he tended the
sick and the dying to the last day of his life.
A riotous band still remained about the king for midnight adventure, to
spoil churches, sack convents, waylay travellers, fight duels, and
guzzle good Val de Peñas within the gilded walls of the Alcazar. But
even the terrified nobles by-and-by fall away from Don Pedro, who has
hardened into such a tyrant men fly from him as from a fiend.