The Eve of the Auto.
"It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth
He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it
upon him.
He putteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be
hope."--Lamentations iii, 27-29
On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville wore a festive appearance.
The shops were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers
in their gay holiday apparel. For it was the eve of the great Auto, and
the preliminary ceremonies were going forward amidst the admiration of
gazing thousands. Two stately scaffolds, in the form of an
amphitheatre, had been erected in the great square of the city, then
called the Square of St. Francis; and thither, when the work was
completed, flags and crosses were borne in solemn procession, with music
and singing.
But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place.
Outside the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly
Quemadero--the great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered
human sacrifices to the God of peace and love. Thither came long files
of barefooted friars, carrying bushes and faggots, which they laid in
order on the place of death, while, in sweet yet solemn tones, they
chanted the "Miserere" and "De Profundis."
Very close together on those festive days were "strong light and deep
shadow." But our way leads us, for the present, into the light.
Turning away from the Square of St. Francis, and the Prado San
Sebastian, we enter a cool upper room in the stately mansion of Don
Garcia Ramirez. There, in the midst of gold and gems, and of silk and
lace, Dona Inez is standing, busily engaged in the task of selecting the
fairest treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival of the
following day. Dona Beatriz de Lavella, and the young waiting-woman who
had been employed in the vain though generous effort to save Don Carlos,
are both aiding her in the choice.
"Please your ladyship," said the girl, "I should recommend rose colour
for the basquina. Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord's late
gift, my lady will be as fine as a duchess; of whom, I hear, many will
be there.--But what will Senora Dona Beatriz please to wear?"
"I do not intend to go, Juanita," said Dona Beatriz, with a little
embarrassment.
"Not intend to go!" cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise. "Not
go to see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year!
Worth a hundred bull-feasts! Ay de mi! what a pity!"
"Juanita," interposed her mistress, "I think I hear the senorita's voice
in the garden. It is far too hot for her to be out of doors. Oblige me
by bringing her in at once."
As soon as the attendant was gone, Dona Inez turned to her cousin. "It
is really most unreasonable of Don Juan," she said, "to keep you shut up
here, whilst all Seville is making holiday."
"I am glad--I have no heart to go forth," said Dona Beatriz, with a
quivering lip.
"Nor have I too much, for that matter. My poor brother is so weak and
ill to-day, it grieves me to the heart. Moreover, he is still so
thoughtless about his poor soul. That is the worst of all. I never
cease praying Our Lady to bring him to a better mind. If he would only
consent to see a priest; but he was ever obstinate. And if I urge the
point too strongly, he will think I suppose him dying."
"I thought his health had improved since you had him brought over here."
"Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father's house. But of
late he seems to me to be sinking, and that quickly. And now, the
Auto--"
"What of that?" asked Dona Beatriz, with a quick look, half suspicious
and half frightened.
Dona Inez closed the door carefully, and drew nearer to her cousin.
"They say _she_ will be amongst the relaxed,"[#] she whispered.
[#] Those delivered over to the secular arm--that is, to death.
"Does he know it?" asked Beatriz.
"I fear he suspects something; and what to tell him, or not to tell him,
I know not--Our Lady help me! Ay de mi! 'Tis a horrible business from
beginning to end. And the last thing--the arrest of the sister, Dona
Juana! A duke's daughter--a noble's bride. But--best be silent.
'Con el re e la Inquisition,
Chiton! Chiton!'"[#]
[#]| "With the King or the Inquisition,
Hush! Hush!"--_A Spanish proverb._
Thus, only in a few hurried words, spoken with 'bated breath, did Dona
Inez venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible
tragedies in that time of horrors. Nor shall we do more.
"Still, you know, amiga mia," she continued, "one must do like one's
neighbours. It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day.
Besides, every one would talk."
"That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I
would not go. For not to look sorrowful, when thy father, Don Manuel,
and my aunt, Dona Katarina, are both doing their utmost to drive me out
of my senses, would be past my power."
"Have they been urging the suit of Senor Luis upon thee again? My poor
Beatriz, I am truly sorrow for thee," said Dona Inez, with genuine
sympathy.
"Urging it again!" Beatriz repeated with flashing eyes. "Nay; but they
have never ceased to urge it. And they spare not to say such wicked,
cruel words. They tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother's
crime. Dishonoured, forsooth! Think of dishonour touching him! After
the day of St. Quentin, the Duke of Savoy was not of that mind, nor our
Catholic King himself. And they have the audacity to say that I can
easily get absolved of my troth to him. Absolved of a solemn promise
made in the sight of God and of Our Lady, and all the holy Saints! If
_that_ be not heresy, as bad as--"
"Hush!" interrupted Dona Inez. "These are dangerous subjects.
Moreover, I hear some one knocking at the door."
It proved to be a page bearing a message.
"If it please Dona Beatriz de Lavella, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y
Menaya kisses the senora's feet, and most humbly desires the favour of
an audience."
"I go," said Beatriz.
"Request Senor Don Juan to have the goodness to untire himself a little,
and bring his Excellency fruit and wine," added Dona Inez. "My cousin,"
she said, turning to Beatriz as soon as the page left the room, "do you
not know your cheeks are all aflame? Don Juan will think we have
quarrelled. Rest you here a minute, and let me bathe them for you with
this water of orange-flowers."
Beatriz submitted, though reluctantly, to her cousin's good offices.
While she performed them she whispered, "And be not so downcast, amiga
mia. There is a remedy for most troubles. And as for yours, I see not
why Don Juan himself should not save you out of them once for all." She
added, in a whisper, two or three words that more than undid all the
benefit which the cheeks of Beatriz might otherwise have derived from
the application of the fragrant water.
"No use," was the agitated reply. "Even were it possible, _they_ would
not permit it."
"You can come to visit me. Then trust me to manage the rest. The truth
is, amiga mia," Dona Inez continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her
cousin's dark glossy hair, "what between sickness, and quarrelling, and
the Faith, and heresy, and prisons, there is so much trouble in the
world that no one can help, it seems a pity not to help all one can. So
you may tell Don Juan that if Dona Inez can do him a good turn she will
not be found wanting. There, I despair of your cheeks. Yet I must
allow that their crimson becomes you well. But you would rather hear
that from Don Juan's lips than from mine. Go to him, my cousin." And
with a parting kiss Beatriz was dismissed.
But if she expected any flattery that day from the lips of Don Juan, she
was disappointed. His heart was far too sorrowful. He had merely come
to tell his betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow--that
dreadful morrow! "I have secured a station," he said, "from whence I
can watch the whole procession, as it issues from the gate of the
Triana. If _he_ is there, I shall dare everything for a last look and
word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled. If even his dust is there,
I shall stand beside it till all is over. If not--" Here he broke off,
leaving his sentence unfinished, as if in that case it did not matter
what he did.
Just then Dona Inez entered. After customary salutations, she said, "I
have a request to make of you, my cousin, on the part of my brother, Don
Gonsalvo. He desires to see you for a few moments."
"Senora my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his."
Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonsalvo lay.
And at the special request of the sick man, they were left alone
together.
He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence,
but with a look of compassion. For it needed only a glance at his face
to show that death was there.
"I should be glad to think you forgave me," he said.
"I do forgive you," Juan answered. "You intended no evil."
"Will you, then, do me a great kindness? It is the last I shall ask.
Tell me the names of any of the--the _victims_ that have come to your
knowledge."
"It is only through rumour one can hear these things. Not yet have I
succeeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst
them."
"Tell me--has rumour named in your hearing--Dona Maria de Xeres y
Bohorques?"
Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Dona Inez had but recently
confided to his betrothed. He therefore answered, without hesitation,
though in a low, sad tone, "Yes; they say she is to die to-morrow."
Don Gonsalvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great
silence.
Which the awed and wondering Juan broke at last. Guessing at the truth,
he said, "It may be I have done wrong to tell you."
"No; you have done right. I knew it ere you told me. It is well--for
her."
"A brave word, bravely spoken."
"Nigh upon eighteen months--long slow months of grief and pain. All
ended now. To-morrow night she will see the glory of God."