Spanish Highways and Byways
by Katharine Lee Bates · English · Gutenberg #38767 · 743,040 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Spanish Highways and Byways
Author: Katharine Lee Bates
Release date: February 4, 2012 [eBook #38767]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
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SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
[Illustration: SAN SEBASTIAN]
SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
BY
KATHARINE LEE BATES
_Author of "American Literature" "The English Religious Drama," etc._
ILLUSTRATED WITH MANY ENGRAVINGS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
_Published by_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
_New York MCM_
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
_Norwood Press_
_J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith_
_Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._
Madre Mia
AQUI TIENES TU LIBRO
Preface
A tourist in Spain can hope to understand but little of that strange,
deep-rooted, and complex life shut away beyond the Pyrenees. This book
claims to be nothing more than a record of impressions. As such,
whatever may be its errors, it should at least bear witness to the
picturesque, poetic charm of the Peninsula and to the graciousness of
Spanish manners.
Contents
Chapter Page
I. "The Lazy Spaniard" 1
II. A Continuous Carnival 11
III. Within the Alhambra 27
IV. A Function in Granada 39
V. In Sight of the Giralda 48
VI. Passion Week in Seville 58
VII. Traces of the Inquisition 82
VIII. An Andalusian Type 102
IX. A Bull-fight 113
X. Gypsies 132
XI. The Route of the Silver Fleets 147
XII. Murillo's Cherubs 162
XIII. The Yolk of the Spanish Egg 183
XIV. A Study in Contrasts 203
XV. The Patron Saint of Madrid 214
XVI. The Funeral of Castelar 233
XVII. The Immemorial Fashion 246
XVIII. Corpus Christi in Toledo 263
XIX. The Tercentenary of Velazquez 283
XX. Choral Games of Spanish Children 297
XXI. "O la Senorita!" 338
XXII. Across the Basque Provinces 362
XXIII. In Old Castile 376
XXIV. Pilgrims of Saint James 394
XXV. The Building of a Shrine 409
XXVI. The Son of Thunder 423
XXVII. Vigo and Away 439
List of Illustrations
San Sebastian _Frontispiece_
Facing Page
Pasajes 8
An Arab Gateway in Burgos 23
Playing at Bull-fight. From painting by Bayeu 30
The Mosque of Cordova 39
The Columbus Monument in Granada 46
The Alhambra. Hall of Justice 55
Filling the Water-jars 62
Off for the War. From painting by Rubio 71
Looking toward the Darro 78
A Milkman of Granada 101
A Roman Well in Ronda 112
The Giralda 131
The Passing of the Pageants 146
The Pageant of Gethsemane 167
"Jesus of the Passion" 174
"Christ of the Seven Words" 195
Maria Santisima 210
A Spanish Monk. From painting by Zurbaran 215
A Seville Street 222
An Old-fashioned Bull-fight. From painting by Goya 243
The Bull-fight of To-day 258
The King of the Gypsies 275
Gypsy Tenants of an Arab Palace 290
From the Golden Tower down the Guadalquivir 311
Cadiz, from the Sea 318
The Divine Shepherd. From painting by Murillo 339
The Royal Palace in Madrid 354
The Royal Family 359
The Manzanares 366
A Spanish Cemetery 375
Toledo 382
Toledo Cathedral. Puerta de los Leones 391
St. Paul, the first Hermit. From painting by Ribera 398
The Maids of Honor. From painting by Velazquez 407
Dancing the Sevillana 414
Within the Cloister 423
The Trampler of the Moors 430
Santiago Cathedral. Puerta de la Gloria 439
St. James. From painting by Murillo 446
SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
Spanish Highways and Byways
I
"THE LAZY SPANIARD"
"There is a difference between Peter and Peter."--CERVANTES:
_Don Quixote_.
"Spain is a contradiction," was the parting word of the Rev. William
H. Gulick, the honored American missionary whose unwearied kindness
looked after us, during the break in official representation, more
effectively than a whole diplomatic corps. "Spanish blood is a strange
_mezcla_, whose elements, Gothic, African, Oriental, are at war among
themselves. You will find Spaniards tender and cruel, boastful and
humble, frank and secretive, and all at once. It will be a journey of
surprises."
We were saying good-by, on February 4, 1899, to sunshiny Biarritz,
whither Mrs. Gulick's school for Spanish girls had been spirited over
the border at the outbreak of the war. Here we had found Spanish and
American flags draped together, Spanish and American friendships
holding fast, and a gallant little band of American teachers spending
youth and strength in their patient campaign for conquering the
Peninsula by a purer idea of truth. Rough Riders may be more
pictorial, but hardly more heroic.
We were barely through the custom house, in itself the simplest and
swiftest of operations, before the prophesied train of surprises
began. One of our preconceived ideas went to wreck at the very outset
on the industry of the Basque provinces. "The lazy Spaniard" has
passed into a proverb. The round world knows his portrait--that broad
_sombrero_, romantic cloak, and tilted cigarette. But the laborious
Spaniard can no longer be ignored. Even at Biarritz we had to reckon
with him, for the working population there is scarcely less Spanish
than French. Everybody understands both languages as spoken, and it is
a common thing to overhear animated dialogue where the talk is all
Spanish on the one side and all French on the other. The war set
streams of Spanish laborers flowing over the mountain bar into French
territory. Young men fled from conscription, and fathers of families
came under pressure of hard times. Skilled artisans, as masons and
carpenters, could make in Biarritz a daily wage of five francs, the
normal equivalent of five _pesetas_, or a dollar, while only the half
of this was to be earned on their native side of the Pyrenees. Such,
too, was the magic of exchange that these five francs, sent home,
might transform themselves into ten, eight, or seven and a half
_pesetas_. Even when we entered Spain, after the Paris Commission had
risen, the rate of exchange was anything but stable, varying not
merely from day to day, but from hour to hour, a difference of two or
three per cent often occurring between morning and evening. The
conditions that bore so heavily on the crafts were crushing the field
laborers almost to starvation. In point of excessive toil, those
peasants of northern Spain seemed to us worse off than Mr. Markham's
"Man with the Hoe," for the rude mattock, centuries out of date, with
which they break up the ground, involves the utmost bodily exertion.
And by all that sweat of the brow, they were gaining, on an average,
ten or twelve cents a day.
No wonder that discontent clouded the land. We met this first at
Pasajes, on one of the excursions arranged for our pleasure by the
overflow goodness of that missionary garrison. The busiest of teachers
had brought us--a young compatriot from a Paris studio and myself--so
far as San Sebastian, where she lingered long enough to make us
acquainted with a circle of friends, and, incidentally, with Pasajes.
This Basque fishing hamlet is perched between hill and sea, with a
single rough-paved street running the length of the village from the
Church of St. Peter to the Church of St. John. Nature has not been
chary of beauty here. The mountain-folded Bay of Pasajes appears at
first view like an Alpine lake, but the presence of stately Dutch and
Spanish merchantmen in these sapphire waters makes it evident that
there must be an outlet to the ocean. Such a rift, in fact, was
disclosed as the strong-armed old ferry woman rowed us across, a deep
but narrow passage (hence the name) between sheer walls of rock, whose
clefts and crannies thrill the most respectable tourist with longings
to turn smuggler. The village clings with difficulty to its stony
strip between steep and wave. On one side of that single street, the
peering stone houses, some still showing faded coats of arms, are half
embedded in the mountain, and on the other the tide beats perilously
against the old foundation piles.
Above the uneven roofs, on the precipitous hillside, sleep the dead,
watched over by Santa Ana from her neglected hermitage. Only once a
year, on her own feast day, is her gorgeous altar cloth brought forth
and her tall candles lighted, while the rats, who have been nibbling
her gilded shoes and comparing the taste of the blues and crimsons in
her painted robes, skurry into their holes at the unaccustomed sound
of crowding feet. Pasajes boasts, too, a touch of historical dignity.
From here Lafayette, gallant young Frenchman that he was, sailed for
America, and probably then, as now, little Basque girls ran at the
stranger's side with small hands full of wild flowers, and roguish
Basque boys hid behind boulders and tried to frighten him by playing
brigand, with a prodigious waving of thorn-branch guns and booming of
vocal artillery.
But not the joy of beauty nor the pride of ancient memory takes the
place of bread. We approached a factory and asked of the workman at
the entrance, "What do you manufacture here?" "What they manufacture
in all Spain, nowadays," he answered, "misery." This particular
misery, however, had the form of tableware, the long rows of simple
cups and plates and pitchers, in various stages of completion, being
diversified by jaunty little images of the Basque ball players, whose
game is famous throughout the Peninsula. We finally succeeded in
purchasing one of these for fifteen cents, although the village was
hard put to it to make change for a dollar, and was obliged, with
grave apologies, to load us down with forty or so big Spanish coppers.
"The lazy Spaniard!" Look at the very children as they romp about San
Sebastian. This is the most aristocratic summer resort in Spain, the
Queen Regent having a chalet on that artistic bay called the _Concha_
or Shell. It is a crescent of shimmering color, so dainty and so
perfect, with guardian mountains of jasper and a fringe of diamond
surf, that it is hard to believe it anything but a bit of magical
jewel-work. It might be a city of fairyland, did not the clamor of
childish voices continually break all dreamy spells. What energy and
tireless activity! Up and down the streets, the cleanest streets in
Spain, twinkle hundreds of little _alpargatas_, brightly embroidered
canvas shoes with soles of plaited hemp. Spanish families are large,
although from the ignorance of the mothers and the unsanitary
condition of the homes, the mortality among the children is extreme.
Here is a household, for example, where out of seventeen black-eyed
babies but three have fought their way to maturity. Spanish parents
are notably affectionate, but, in the poorer classes, at least,
impatient in their discipline. It is the morning impulse of the busy
mother, working at disadvantage in her small and crowded rooms, to
clear them of the juvenile uproar by turning her noisy brood out of
doors for the day. Surprisingly neat in their dress but often with
nothing save cabbage in their young stomachs, forth they storm into
the streets. Here the stranger may stand and watch them by the hour as
they bow and circle, toss and tumble, dance and race through an
enchanting variety of games. The most violent seem to please them
best. Now and then a laughing girl stoops to whisk away the beads of
perspiration from a little brother's shining face, but in general they
are too rapt with the excitement of their sports to be aware of
weariness. Such flashing of eyes and streaming of hair and jubilee of
songs!
One of their favorite games, for instance, is this: An especially
active child, by preference a boy, takes the name of _milano_, or
kite, and throws himself down in some convenient doorway, as if
asleep. The others form in Indian file, the _madre_, or mother, at the
head, and the smallest girl, Mariquilla, last in line. The file
proceeds to sing:--
"We are going to the garden,
Although its wicked warden,
Hungry early and late,
Is crouching before the gate."
Then ensues a musical dialogue between the mother and Mariquilla:--
_Mother._ Little Mary in the rear!
_Little Mary._ What's your bidding, mother dear?
_Mother._ Tell me how the kite may thrive.
_Little Mary [after cautiously sidling up to the doorway and
inspecting the prone figure there]._
He's half dead and half alive.
Then the file chants again:--
"We are going to the garden,
Although its wicked warden,
Hungry early and late,
Is crouching before the gate."
_Mother._ Little Mary in the rear!
_Little Mary._ What's your bidding, mother dear?
_Mother._ Of the kite I bid you speak.
_Little Mary [after a second reconnoissance, which sends her
scampering back to her own place]._
He whets his claws and whets his beak.
Here the enemy advances, beating a most appalling tattoo:--
_Kite._ Pum, pum! Tat, tat!
_Mother._ Who is here and what is that?
_Kite._ 'Tis the kite.
_Mother._ What seeks the kite?
_Kite._ Human flesh! A bite, a bite!
_Mother._ You must catch before you dine.
Children, children, keep the line!
And with this the dauntless parent, abandoning song for action, darts
with outspread arms in front of the robber, who bends all his energies
to reaching and snatching away Little Mary. The entire line, keeping
rank, curves and twists behind the leader, all intent on protecting
that poor midget at the end. And when the wild frolic has resulted in
her capture, and every child is panting with fatigue, they straightway
resume their original positions and play it all over again. In Seville
this game takes on a religious variation, the kite becoming the Devil,
and the _madre_ the angel Michael defending a troop of souls. In Cuba
we have a hawk pitted against a hen with her brood of chickens.
We stepped into a Protestant Kindergarten one day to see how such
stirring atoms of humanity might demean themselves in school. Talk of
little pitchers! Here were some twoscore tiny jugs, bubbling full of
mischief, with one bright, sympathetic girl of twenty-two keeping a
finger on every dancing lid. Impossible, of course! But all her week's
work looked to us impossible. We had known diligent teachers in the
United States; this "lazy Spaniard," however, not only keeps her
Kindergarten well in hand from nine to twelve, but instructs the same
restless mites--so many of them as do not fall into a baby-sleep over
their desks--in reading and counting from two to four, gives a Spanish
lesson from six to seven, and struggles with the pathetic ignorance of
grown men and women in the night school from eight to half-past nine
or ten.
The Spanish pastor and his wife, also teachers in day school, night
school, Sunday school, are no less marvels of industry. The
multiplication table, lustily intoned to the tramp of marching feet,
called us into a class-room where the older girls were gathered for
lessons in reading and writing, arithmetic and geography, sewing and
embroidery. The delicate little lady who presides over this lively
kingdom may be seen on Sunday, seated at the melodeon, leading the
chapel music--an exquisite picture of a Spanish senora, with the lace
mantilla crowning the black hair and gracefully falling to the slender
shoulders. We had heard her give an address on foreign soil, before an
audience of a hundred strangers, speaking with an irresistible fervor
of appeal, and no less charming was she at the head of her own table,
the soul of vivacious and winsome hospitality.
As for the pastor himself, he carries the administrative burdens of
church and school, teaches the larger boys morning and afternoon, and
the men in the evening, preaches once on Thursday and twice on Sunday,
and slips in between these stated tasks all the innumerable incidental
duties of a missionary pastorate. And yet this man of many labors is
not only Spanish, but Philippine. His childhood was passed at Cavite,
the home of his father, a Spanish officer, who had chosen his bride
from a native family. The boy was put to school with the friars at
Manila, where, rather to the disgust of the soldier-father, he formed
the desire to enter the brotherhood. He was not blind--what students
are?--to the blemishes of his teachers. He had often stood by with the
other lads and shouted with laughter to see a group of friars, their
cassocks well girded up, drive a pig into their shallow pond and stab
the plunging creature there, that it might be counted "fish" and serve
them for dinner on Friday. But his faith in the order held firm, and,
when his novitiate was well advanced, he was sent to Madrid for the
final ceremonies. Here, by chance, he dropped into a Protestant
service, and after several years of examination and indecision, chose
the thorny road.
[Illustration: PASAJES]
All his wearing occupations do not dull that fine sense of courtesy
inherent in a Spanish gentleman. The sun itself had hardly risen when
we departed from San Sebastian, yet we found Don Angel at the station,
muffled in the inevitable Spanish _capa_, to say good-by once more and
assure us that, come what might, we had always "a house and a friend
in Spain." We laid down the local journal, hard reading that it was
with its denunciations of "the inhuman barbarities of the North
Americans toward the Filipinos," and ventured to ask for his own view
of the matter.
"The United States," he answered, speaking modestly and very gently,
"means well and has, in the main, done well. When I say this in the
Casino, men get angry and call me a Yankee filibuster. But in truth
the Philippines are very dear to me and I carry a sad heart. It was
the protocol that did the mischief. It is not easy for simple
islanders to understand that words may say one thing and mean another.
Philippine faith in American promises is broken. And red is a hard
color to wash out. Yet I still hope that, when the days of slaughter
are over, peace and life may finally come to my unhappy birthplace
from your great nation. The Tagalos are not so worthless as Americans
seem to think, though the climate of the Philippines, like that of
Andalusia, tempts to indolence. But strong motives make good workers
everywhere."
II
A CONTINUOUS CARNIVAL
"This periodical explosion of freedom and folly."--BECQUER: _El
Carnaval_.
Having re-formed our concept of a Spaniard to admit the elements of
natural vigor and determined diligence, we were surprised again to
find this tragic nation, whose fresh grief and shame had almost
deterred us from the indelicacy of intrusion, entering with eager zest
into the wild fun of Carnival. Sorrow was still fresh for the eighty
thousand dead in Cuba, the hapless prisoners in the Philippines, the
wretched _repatriados_ landed, cargo after cargo, at ports where some
were suffered to perish in the streets. Every household had its tale
of loss; yet, notwithstanding all the troubles of the time, Spain must
keep her Carnival. "It is one of the saddest and most disheartening
features of the situation," said a Spaniard to us. "There is no
earnestness here, no realization of the national crisis. The
politicians care for nothing but to enrich themselves, and the people,
as you see, care for nothing but to divert themselves."
Yet we looked from the madcap crowd to the closed shutters, keeping
their secrets of heartbreak, and remembered the words of Zorrilla,
"Where there is one who laughs, there is ever another who weeps in the
great Carnival of our life."
The parks of San Sebastian were gay with maskers and music, tickling
brushes and showers of _confetti_, on our last day there, but the
peculiar feature of the festivity in this Basque city is "the baiting
of the ox." On that Carnival-Sunday afternoon we found ourselves
looking down, from a safe balcony, upon the old _Plaza de la
Constitucion_, with its arcaded sides. The genuine bull-fights, which
used to take place here, have now a handsome amphitheatre of their
own, where, when the summer has brought the court to San Sebastian,
the choicest Andalusian bulls crimson the sand of the arena. But the
_Plaza de la Constitucion_, mindful of its pristine glory, still
furnishes what cheap suggestions it can of the terrible play. The
square below was crowded with men and boys, and even some hoydenish
girls, many in fantastic masks and gaudy dominos, while the tiers of
balconies were thronged with eager spectators. A strange and savage
peal of music announced that "the bull" was coming. That music was
enough to make the hereditary barbarian beat in any heart, but "the
bull"! At the further corner of the _plaza_, pulled by a long rope and
driven by a yelling rabble, came in, at a clumsy gallop, an astonished
and scandalized old ox. Never did living creature bear a meeker and
less resentful temper.
At first, beaten and pricked by his tormentors, he tore blindly round
and round the _plaza_, the long rope by which he was held dragging
behind him, and sometimes, as he wheeled about, tripping up and
overturning a bunch of the merrymakers. This was a joy to the
balconies, but did not often happen, as the people below showed a
marvellous dexterity in skipping over the rope just in time to escape
its swinging blow. Sometimes the poor, stupid beast entangled his own
legs, and that, too, was a source of noisy glee. But, on the whole,
he was a disappointing and inglorious ox. He caused no serious
accident. Nothing could ruffle his disposition. The scarlet cloaks
waved in his eyes he regarded with courteous interest; he wore only a
look of grieved surprise when he was slapped across the face with red
and yellow banners; tweaks of the tail he endured like a Socrates, but
now and then a cruel prod from a sharp stick would make him lower his
horns and rush, for an instant, upon the nearest offender. The
balconies would shout with the hope of something vicious and violent
at last, but the mobile crowd beneath would close in between the ox
and his assailant, a hundred fresh insults would divert his attention,
and indeed, his own impulses of wrath were of the shortest. To the end
he was hardly an angry ox--only a puzzled, baffled, weary old creature
who could not make out, for the life of him, into what sort of red and
yellow pasture and among what kind of buzzing hornets his unlucky
hoofs had strayed.
Finally he gave the enigma up and stood wrapped in a brown study among
his emboldened enemies, who clung to his horns and tail, tossed
children upon his back, tickled his nostrils with their hat brims, and
showered him with indignities. The balconies joined in hooting him out
of the _plaza_, but he was so pleased to go that I doubt if human
scorn of his beastly gentleness really interfered with his appetite
for supper. He trotted away to that rude clang of music, the babies
who were dancing to it on their nurses' arms not more harmless than
he. And although that worrying half hour may have told upon his
nerves, and his legs may have ached for the unaccustomed exercise, no
blood was to be seen upon him. It was all a rough-and-tumble romp,
nothing worse, but the balconies would have liked it better had it
been flavored with a broken leg or two. A few sprawlings over the rope
really amounted to so little. But the _toro de fuego_ was to come
there Tuesday evening, and when this blazing pasteboard bull, with
fireworks spluttering all over him from horns to tail, is dragged
about among the throng, there is always a fine chance of explosions,
burnings, and even of blindings for life.
But Carnival Tuesday found us no longer in sunny San Sebastian. We
were shivering over a _brasero_ in storied Burgos, a city chill as if
with the very breath of the past. And the Spanish _brasero_, a great
brass pan holding a pudding of ashes, plummed with sparks, under a
wire screen, is the coldest comfort, the most hypocritical heater,
that has yet come my way.
Our Monday had been spent in a marvellous journey through the
Pyrenees, whose rugged sublimities were bathed in the very blue of
Velazquez, a cold, clear, glorious blue expanding all the soul. These
are haunted mountains, with wild legends of lonely castles, where
fierce old chieftains, beaten back by the Franks, shut themselves in
with their treasure and died like wounded lions in their lairs. We
passed fallen towers from whose summits mediaeval heralds had trumpeted
the signal for war, ruined convents whence the sound of woman's
chanting was wont to startle the wolves of the forest, mysterious
lakes deep in whose waters are said to shine golden crowns set with
nine precious pearls--those ducal coronets that Rome bestowed upon her
vassals--craggy paths once trod by pilgrims, hermits, jugglers,
minstrels, and knights-errant, and shadowy pine groves where, when
the wind is high, the shepherds still hear the weeping ghost of the
cruel princess, whose beauty and disdain slew dozens of men a day
until her love was won and scorned, so that she died of longing.
We had reached Burgos at dusk and, without pausing for rest or food,
had sallied out for our first awe-stricken gaze up at the far-famed
cathedral towers, then had ignominiously lost our way over and over in
the narrow, crooked streets and been finally marched back to our hotel
by a compassionate, though contemptuous, policeman. My artist comrade
was fairly ill by morning with a heavy cold, but she would not hear of
missing the cathedral and sneezed three or four enraptured hours away
in its chill magnificence. As we came to know Spanish and Spaniards
better, they would exclaim "_Jesus, Maria y Jose!_" when we sneezed,
that the evil spirit given to tickling noses might take flight; but
the Burgos sacristan was too keen to waste these amenities on
stammering heretics. What we thought of the cathedral is little to the
purpose of this chapter. In a word, however, we thought nothing at
all; we only felt. It was our first introduction to one of the monster
churches of Spain, and its very greatness, the terrible weight of all
that antiquity, sanctity, and beauty, crushed our understanding. Like
sleepwalkers we followed our guide down the frozen length of nave and
aisles and cloisters; we went the round of the fifteen chapels,
splendid presence-chambers where the dead keep sculptured state; we
looked, as we were bidden, on the worm-eaten treasure-chest of the
Cid, on the clock whose life-sized tenant, Papa-Moscas, used to scream
the hours to the embarrassment of long-winded pulpiteers, on the
cathedral's crown of fretted spires whose marvellous tracery was
chiselled by the angels, and on the "Most Holy Christ of Burgos," the
crucified image that bleeds every Friday.
Fulfilled with amazement, we searched our way back to the hotel
through the sleety rain, ate a shivering luncheon at the "_mesa
redonda_," that "round table" which is never round, and agreed to
postpone our anticipated visits to the haunts of the Cid until a less
inclement season. For of course we should come back to Burgos. The
proud old city seemed to fill all the horizon of thought. How had we
lived so long without it? That the stormy afternoon was not favorable
to exploration mattered little. We peeped down from our balconies into
the ancient streets, half expecting the exiled Cid to come spurring
up, seeking the welcome which we, like all the craven folk of Burgos,
must refuse him.
"With sixty lances in his train my Cid rode up the town,
The burghers and their dames from all the windows looking down;
And there were tears in every eye, and on each lip one word:
'A worthy vassal--would to God he served a worthy lord!'
Fain would they shelter him, but none durst yield to his desire.
Great was the fear through Burgos town of King Alphonso's ire.
Sealed with his royal seal hath come his letter to forbid
All men to offer harborage or succor to my Cid.
And he that dared to disobey, well did he know the cost--
His goods, his eyes, stood forfeited, his soul and body lost.
A hard and grievous word was that to men of Christian race;
And since they might not greet my Cid, they hid them from his
face."
Meanwhile the streets were a living picture-book. Muffled cavaliers,
with cloaks drawn up and hats drawn down till only the dance of
coal-black eyes, full of fire and fun, was visible between, saluted
our balcony with Carnival impertinence. Beggars of both sexes, equally
wound about with tattered shawls, reached up expectant hands as if we
were made of Spanish pennies. A funeral procession passed, with the
pale light of tapers, the chanting of priests, with purple-draped
coffin, and mourners trooping on foot--men only, for in Spain women
never accompany their dead either to church or grave. A troop of
infantry, whose dapper costume outwent itself in the last touch of
bright green gloves, dazzled by, and then came a miscellany of
maskers. It was rather a rag-tag show, take it all in all--red devils
with horns, friars extremely fat, caricatures of English tourists with
tall hats and perky blue eye-glasses, giants, dwarfs, tumblers, and
even a sorry Cid mounted on a sorrier Bavieca. But the climax of
excitement was reached when a novel bull-fight wheeled into view. It
was a stuffed calf this time, set on wheels and propelled by a merry
fellow of the tribe of Joseph, if one might judge by his multi-colored
attire. With white hood, black mask, blue domino, garnet arms, and
yellow legs, he was as cheery as a bit of rainbow out of that sombre
sky. All the people in sight hastened to flock about him, policemen
left their beats, and servant maids their doorways, an itinerant band
of gypsy girls ceased clashing their tambourines, the blind beggar
opened his eyes, and the small boys were in ecstasies. For over an
hour the populace played with that mimic bull in this one spot under
our windows, good-humored _caballeros_ lending their scarfs and cloaks
to delighted urchins, who would thrust these stimulating objects into
the calf's bland face and then run for their lives, while the motley
Mask trundled his precious image in hot pursuit behind them. We were
reminded of the scene months after by an old painting in the Escorial,
depicting an almost identical performance. Spain is not a land of
change.
But that teeth-chattering cold, "_un frio de todos los demonios_,"
eased our farewells to Burgos, and night found us dividing the
privileges of a second-class carriage with two black-bearded
Castilians, who slept foot to foot along the leather-cushioned seat on
the one side, while we copied their example on the other. I started
from my first doze at some hubbub of arrival to ask drowsily, "Is this
Madrid?" "Be at peace, senora!" cooed one of these sable-headed
neighbors, in that tone of humorous indulgence characteristic of the
dons when addressing women and children. "It is twelve hours yet to
Madrid. Slumber on with tranquil heart." So we lay like warriors
taking our rest, with our travelling rugs, in lieu of martial cloaks,
about us, until the east began to glow with rose and fire, revealing a
bleak extent of treeless, tawny steppe.
We had only a few days to give to "the crowned city" then, but those
sufficed for business, for a first acquaintance with the _Puerta del
Sol_ and its radiating avenues, a first joy in the peerless _Museo del
Prado_, and a brilliant glimpse of Carnival. We found the great drive
of the _Prado_, on Ash Wednesday afternoon, reserved for carriages and
maskers. Stages were erected along one side of the way, and on the
other the park was closely set with chairs. Stages and chairs were
filled with a well-clad, joyous multitude, diverted awhile from their
pretty labors of shooting roses and showering _confetti_ by the
fascinating panorama before their eyes. The privileged landaus that
held the middle of the road were laden with the loveliest women of
Castile. Carriages, horses, and coachmen were all adorned, but these
showy equipages only served as setting to the high-bred beauty of the
occupants. The cream of Madrid society was there. The adults were
elegantly dressed, but not as masqueraders. The children in the
carriages, however, were often costumed in the picturesque habits of
the provinces--the scarlet cap and striped shawl of the Catalan
peasant, the open velvet waistcoat, puffed trousers, and blue or red
sash of the Valencian, the gayly embroidered mantle of the Andalusian
mountaineer, the cocked hat and tasselled jacket of the gypsy. Moors,
flower girls, fairies, French lords and ladies of the old regime, even
court fools with cap and bells, were brightly imaged by these little
people, to whom the maskers on foot seemed to have left the monopoly
of beauty. The figures darting among the landaus, in and out of which
they leaped with confident impudence, were almost invariably
grotesques--smirking fishwives, staring chimney-sweeps, pucker-mouthed
babies, and scarecrows of every variety. Political satires are sternly
forbidden, and among the few national burlesques, we saw nowhere any
representation of Uncle Sam. He was hardly a subject of the King of
Nonsense then.
Squeaking and gibbering, the maskers, unrebuked, took all manner of
saucy liberties. A stately old gentleman rose from his cushion in a
crested carriage to observe how gallantly a bevy of ladies were
beating off with a hail of _confetti_ and bonbons an imploring
cavalier who ran by their wheels, and when he would have resumed his
seat he found himself dandled on the knees of a grinning Chinaman.
Sometimes a swarm of maskers would beset a favorite carriage,
climbing up beside the coachman and snatching his reins, standing on
the steps and throwing kisses, lying along the back and twitting the
proudest beauty in the ear or making love to the haughtiest. This
all-licensed masker, with his monstrous disguise and affected squeal,
may be a duke or a doorkeeper. Carnival is democracy.
Meanwhile the inevitable small boy, whose Spanish variety is
exceptionally light of heart and heels, gets his own fun out of the
occasion by whisking under the ropes into this reserved avenue and
dodging hither and thither among the vehicles, to the fury of the
mounted police, whose duty it is to keep the public out. One
resplendent rider devoted his full energies for nearly an hour to the
unavailing chase of a nimble little rogue who risked ten of his nine
lives under coaches and in front of horses' hoofs, but always turned
up laughing with a finger at the nose.
Yet this jocund day did not set without its tragedy. A hot-tempered
Madrileno, abroad with his wife, resented the attentions paid her by
one of the maskers and shot him down. The mortally wounded man was
found to be a physician of high repute. This was not the only
misadventure of the afternoon, a lady losing one eye by the blow of a
flying sugar-plum.
Our next night journey was less fortunate than our first, though it
should be remembered that our discomforts were partly due to our
persistency in travelling second-class. The carriage had its full
complement of passengers, and each of our eight companions brought
with him an unlawful excess of small luggage. Valises, boxes, bundles,
sacks, cans, canes, umbrellas wedged us in on every side, while our
own accumulation of grips, shawl-straps, hold-alls, and sketching kit
denied us even the relief of indignation. We all sat bolt upright the
night through in an atmosphere that sickens memory. Not a chink of
window air would those sensitive _caballeros_ endure, while the smoke
of their ever puffing cigarettes clouded the compartment with an
uncanny haze that grew heavier hour by hour. Conversation, which
seldom flagged, became a violent chorus at those intervals when the
conductor burst in for another chapter of his serial wrangle with a
fiery gentleman who refused to pay full fare. Every don in the
carriage, even to the chubby priest nodding in the coziest corner, had
an unalterable conviction as to the rights and wrongs of that
question, and men we had supposed, from their swaying and snoring,
fast asleep, would leap to their feet when the conductor entered,
fling out their hands in vehement gestures, and dash into the midst of
the vociferous dispute. Lazy Spaniards, indeed! We began to wish that
the Peninsula would cultivate repose of manner. Our tempers were
sorely shaken, and when, in the pale chill of dawn, we arrived at
Cordova, sleepless, nauseated, and out of love with humanity, we had
every prospect of passing a wretched forenoon.
Thus it is I am inclined to believe we lay down under an orange tree
and dreamed a dream of the "Arabian Nights." Or perhaps it was only
another freak of the Carnival. At all events, a cup of coffee, and the
world was changed. Cordova! A midsummer heat, a land of vineyards and
olive groves, palms and aloes, a white, unearthly city, with narrow,
silent, deathlike streets, peopled only by drowsy beggars and by
gliding maskers that seemed more real than this Oriental picture in
which they moved, high walls with grated, harem-like windows, and an
occasional glimpse, through some arched doorway, into a
marble-floored, rose-waving, fountain-playing patio, enchanted and
mysterious, a dream within a dream. Cordova is more than haunted. It
is itself a ghost. The court of the Spanish caliphs, at once the Mecca
and the Athens of the West, a holy city which counted its baths and
mosques by hundreds, a seat of learning whose universities were
renowned for mathematics and philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, and
medicine, and within whose libraries were treasured manuscripts by
hundreds of thousands, a star of art and poetry, it ever reproaches,
by this lovely, empty shadow, the Christian barbarism that spurned
away the Moors.
The insulted Mosque of Cordova well-nigh makes Mohammedans of us all.
Entering by the studded Door of Pardon into the spacious Court of
Oranges, with its ancient trees and sparkling quintette of fountains,
one passes onward under the Arch of Blessings into a marble forest of
slender, sculptured pillars. The wide world, from Carthage to
Damascus, from Jerusalem to Ephesus and Rome, was searched for the
choicest shafts of jasper, breccia, alabaster, porphyry, until one
thousand four hundred precious columns bore the glory of rose-red
arches and wonder-roof of gilded and enamelled cedar. More than seven
thousand hanging lamps of bronze, filled with perfumed oil, flashed
out the mosaic tints,--golds, greens, violets, vermilions,--of
ceiling, walls, and pavement. All this shining sanctity culminated in
the Mihrab, or Prayer-Niche, an octagonal recess whose shell-shaped
ceiling is hollowed from a single block of pure white marble. This
Holy of Holies held the Koran, bound in gold and pearls, around
which the Faithful were wont to make seven turns upon their knees, an
act of devotion that has left indisputable grooves in the marble of
the pavement.
[Illustration: AN ARAB GATEWAY IN BURGOS]
The Christian conquerors splashed whitewash over the exquisite
ceiling, hewed down the pillars of the outer aisles to give space for
a fringe of garish chapels, and even chopped away threescore
glistening columns in the centre to make room for an incongruous
Renaissance choir, with an altar of silver gilt and a big pink
retablo. We could have wandered for endless hours among the strange
half-lights and colored shadows of that petrified faith of Islam,
marvelling on the processes of time. It is claimed that the Arab
mosque rose on the site of a Roman temple, whence Mahomet drove forth
Janus, to be in his own turn expelled by Christ. The race of those who
bowed themselves in this gleaming labyrinth has fared ill at Spanish
hands. Even now a Moor, however courteous and cultured, is refused
admission to certain Castilian churches, as the Escorial.
How did we ever part from Cordova, from her resplendent, desecrated
mosque, her stone lanes of streets, her hinted patios, the Moorish
mills and Roman bridge of her yellow Guadalquivir? It must all have
been a morning dream, for the early afternoon saw us tucked away in
another second-class carriage speeding toward Granada.
We were in beautiful Andalusia, _la tierra de Maria Santisima_. The
green slopes of the Sierra Morena, planted to the top with olive
groves, watched the beginnings of our journey, and banks of strange,
sweet flowers, with glimpses of Moorish minarets and groups of
dark-faced, bright-sashed peasants, looking as if they had just
stepped down from an artist's easel, beguiled us of all physical
discomforts save heat and thirst. When the sun was at its sorest, the
train drew up at a tumble-down station, and we looked eagerly for the
customary water seller, with his cry of "Water! Fresh water! Water
cooler than snow!" But it was too warm for this worthy to venture out,
and our hopes fastened on a picturesque old merchant seated in a shaft
of cypress shade beside a heap of golden oranges. Those juicy globes
were a sight to madden all the parched mouths in the train, and
imploring voices hailed the proprietor from window after window. But
our venerable hidalgo smoked his cigarette in tranquil ease,
disdaining the vulgarities of barter. At the very last moment we
persuaded a ragged boy in the throng of bystanders to fetch us a
hatful of the fruit. Then the peasant languidly arose, followed the
lad to our window, named an infinitesimal price, and received his coin
with the bow of a grandee. He was no hustler in business, this
Andalusian patriarch, but his dignity was epic and his oranges were
nectar.
We shall never know whether or not we had an adventure that evening. A
wild-eyed tatterdemalion swung himself suddenly into our compartment
and demanded our tickets, but as all the Andalusians looked to our
unaccustomed view like brigands, we did not discriminate against this
abrupt individual, but yielded up our strips of pasteboard without
demur. A swarthy young Moor of Tangier, the only other occupant of the
carriage, sharply refused to surrender his own until the intruder
should produce a conductor's badge, whereupon the stranger swore in
gypsy, or "words to that effect," wrenched open the door and fled,
like Judas, into the outer dark. The Moor excitedly declared to us
that our tickets would be called for at the station in Granada, that
we should have to pay their price to the gate-keeper, and that our
irregular collector, hiding somewhere along the train, would be
admitted by that corrupt official to a share in the spoils. Moved by
our dismay, this son of the desert thrust his head through the window
at the next stop, and roared so lustily for the conductor and the
civil guard that, in a twinkling, the robber, if he was a robber,
popped up in the doorway again, like a Jack-in-the-box, and rudely
flung us back the tickets. Thereupon our benefactor, if he was a
benefactor, solemnly charged us never, on the Granada road, to give up
anything to anybody who wore no gilt on his cap.
More and more the purple mountains were folding us about, until at
last we arrived at Granada, too tired for a thrill. Mr. Gulick's
constant care, which had secured us harborage in Madrid, had provided
welcome here. Content in mere well-being, it was not until the
following afternoon that tourist enterprise revived within us. Then we
somewhat recklessly wandered down from the Alhambra hill into the
heart of the People's Carnival, a second Sunday of festival given over
to the enjoyment of the lower classes. The grotesque costumes were
coarser than ever and the fun was rougher. The maskers cracked whips
at the other promenaders, blew horns, shook rattles, and struck about
them with painted bladders, but the balconies were bright with the
bewitching looks of Andalusian beauties, each vying with the rest in
throwing the many-colored _serpentinas_, curly lengths of paper that
crisp themselves in gaudy fetters about their captives. A single
business house in Granada claimed to have sold over a million of
these, representing a value of some ten thousand dollars, during
Carnival week. Southern Spain was grumbling bitterly against the
Government and the war taxes, and in Seville, where a tax is put on
masks, the Carnival had been given up this year as last; but Granada
would not be cheated of her frolic. Our study of this closing phase of
the Carnival was cut short by the recollection that it was, above all,
the _fiesta_ of pickpockets. Finding ourselves, on the superb _Paseo
del Salon_, in the midst of a hooting, jostling, half-gypsy mob,
rained upon with _confetti_, called upon in broken French and English,
pressed upon by boys and beggars, and happening to catch sight of the
stately bronze statue of Columbus which the women of Granada had
recently stoned because, by discovering America, he brought all the
Cuban troubles upon Spain, we took the hint of the wise navigator's
eye and decided that we two stray Yankees might be as well off
somewhere else. "Feet, why do I love you?" say the Spaniards; and so
said we, suiting the action to the word.
III
WITHIN THE ALHAMBRA
"The Sierra Nevada, an enormous dove which shelters under its
most spotless wings Saracen Granada."--ALARCON: _Los Seis
Velos_.
Our surprises were by no means over. We had come to Granada to bask in
the quintessence of earthly sunshine, and we found bleak rains, dark
skies, and influenza. The Moorish palace was indeed as wonderful as
our lifelong dream of it,--arched and columned halls of exquisite
fretwork, walls of arabesque where flushes and glints of color linger
yet, ceilings crusted with stalactite figures of tapering caprice, but
all too chill, even if the guides would cease from troubling, for
tarrying revery. We tarried, nevertheless, were enraptured, and caught
cold. We were dwelling in the village on the Alhambra hill, within the
circuit of the ruined fortress, in a villa kept by descendants of the
Moors, but the insolent grippe microbe respected neither ancient blood
nor republican. During the month of our residence, every member of the
household was brought low in turn, and there were days when even the
stubborn Yankees retreated to their pillows, lulled by the howling of
as wild March winds as ever whirled the grasshopper vane on Faneuil
Hall. From beyond the partition sounded the groans of our
fever-smitten hostess, and from the kitchen below arose the noise of
battle between our sturdy host and the rebel spoons and sauce-pans. If
we could not always swallow his bold experiments in gruel and
porridge, we could always enjoy the roars of laughter with which that
merry silversmith plied his unaccustomed labors. It is said that there
are only three months of the year when Granada is fit to live in, and
certainly February and March are not of these. But our delighted
spirits had no thought of surrender to our discomfited bodies. We
would not go away. It is better to ache in beautiful Granada than to
be at ease elsewhere.
At the first peep of convalescence, we fled out of doors in search of
a sunbeam and discovered, again to our surprise, this immemorial
Alhambra hill as young as springtime. The famous fragments of towers,
with their dim legends of enchantment, all those tumbled masses of
time-worn, saffron-lichened masonry, are tragically old, yet the
tender petals of peach blossoms, drifting through the fragrant air,
lay pink as baby touches against those hoary piles. We rested beside
many an ancient ruin overclambered by red rosebuds or by branches
laden with the fresh gold of oranges, where thrushes practised songs
of welcome for the nightingales. We were too early for these sweetest
minstrels of the Alhambra, who, like the Moors of long ago, were
yearning on the edge of Africa for the Vega of Granada.
One expects, shut in by the crumbling walls of the Alhambra, in shadow
of the ruddy towers, in sound of the Moslem fountains, to live with
dreams and visions for one's company, to have no associates less
dignified than the moonlight cavalcades of shadowy Arabian warriors,
whom the mountain caverns cast forth at stated seasons to troop once
more in their remembered ways, or lustrous-eyed, lute-playing
sultanas, or, at least, a crook-backed, snow-bearded magician, with a
wallet full of talismans, and footsteps that clink like the gold of
buried treasure. But here again the eternal fact of youth in the world
disconcerts all venerable calculations. The Alhambra dances and laughs
with children--ragamuffins, most of them, but none the less radiant
with the precious joy of the morning.
They are gentle little people, too. It became well known on the hill
that we were Americans, yet not a pebble or rude word followed us from
the groups of unkempt boys among whom we daily passed. Once a mimic
regiment, with a deafening variety of unmusical instruments and a
genuine Spanish flag, charged on me roguishly and drew up in battle
square about their prisoner, but it was only to troll the staple song
of Spanish adolescence: "I want to be a soldier," and when I had
munificently rewarded the captain with a copper, the youngsters doffed
their varied headgear, dipped their banner in martial salute, and
contentedly re-formed their ranks. It was seldom that we gave money,
but we usually carried _dulces_ for the little ones, who, even the
dirtiest, have their own pretty standard of manners.
Some half-dozen _pequenitos_, not one of whom was clearly out of
petticoats, were scampering off one day, for instance, their thanks
duly spoken, and their bits of candy just between hand and mouth, when
they turned with one accord, as if suddenly aware of an abruptness in
their leave-taking, and trotted back to bow them low, their tatters of
cap sweeping the ground, and lisp with all Spanish gravity, "Good
afternoon, senora." One chubby hidalgo tipped over with the
profundity of his obeisance, but the others righted him so solemnly
that the dignity of the ceremonial was unimpaired.
The habit of begging, that plague of tourist resorts, is an incessant
nuisance on the Alhambra hill. Half-grown girls and young women were
the most shameless and persistent of our tormentors. Age can be
discouraged, and babyhood diverted, while the Spanish boy, if his
importunities are met by smile and jest, will break into a laugh in
the midst of his most pathetic appeals and let you off till next time.
"A little money for our Blessed Lady's sake, senora. I am starving."
"Wouldn't you rather have a cigarette?"
"And that I would."
"Then you are not starving, little brother. Run away. I have no
cigarettes."
"But you have money for me, senora."
"No, nor enough for myself, not enough to buy one tile of the
Alhambra."
"Then may God take care of you!"
"And of you!"
[Illustration: PLAYING AT BULL-FIGHT]
But the wild-haired, jet-eyed gypsy girl from the Albaicin is
impervious to mirth and untouched by courtesy. She would not do us the
honor of believing our word, even when we were telling the truth.
"Five _centimos_ to buy me a scarlet ribbon! Five _centimos_!"
"Not to-day, excuse me. I have no change."
"Hoh! You have change enough. Look in your little brown bag and see."
"I have no change."
"Then give me a _peseta_. Come, now, a whole _peseta_!"
"But why should I give you a _peseta_?"
The girl stares like an angry hawk.
"But why shouldn't you?" Darting away, she hustles together a group of
toddlers, hardly able to lisp, and drives them on to the attack.
"Beg, Isabelita! Beg of the lady, little Conception! Beg, Alfonsito!
Beg, beg, beg! Beg five _centimos_, ten _centimos_! Beg a _peseta_ for
us all!"
And out pop the tiny palms, and the babble of baby voices makes a
pleading music in the air. It is for such as these that the little
brown bag has learned to carry _dulces_.
Before the month was over we had, in a slow, grippe-chastened fashion,
"done our Baedeker." We had our favorite courts and corridors in the
magical maze of the Moorish palace; we knew the gardens and fountains
of the _Generalife_, even to that many-centuried cypress beneath whose
shade the Sultana Zoraya was wont to meet her Abencerrage lover; our
fortunes had been told in the gypsy caves of the Albaicin; we had
visited the stately Renaissance cathedral where, in a dim vault, the
"Catholic Kings," Ferdinand and Isabella, take their royal rest; we
had made a first acquaintance with the paintings of the fire-tempered
Granadine, Alonso Cano, and paid our dubious respects to the convent
of Cartuja, with its over-gorgeous ornament and its horrible pictures
of Spanish martyrdoms inflicted by that "devil's bride," Elizabeth of
England. We had explored the parks and streets of the strange old
city, where we possessed, according to the terms of Spanish
hospitality, several houses; but better than the clamorous town we
liked our own wall-girdled height, with its songful wood of English
elms, planted by the Duke of Wellington, its ever murmuring runlets
of clear water, its jessamines and myrtles, its Arabian Nights of
mosque and tower, and its far outlook over what is perhaps the most
entrancing prospect any hill of earth can show. The sunset often found
us leaning over the ivied wall beneath the _Torre de la Vela_, that
bell-tower where the first cross was raised after the Christian
conquest, gazing forth from our trellised garden-nook on a vast
panorama of gray city all quaintly set with arch and cupola, of
sweeping plain with wealth of olive groves, vineyards, orange
orchards, pomegranates, aloes, and cypresses, bounded by glistening
ranks of snow-cloaked mountains. From the other side of the Alhambra
plateau, the fall is sheer to the silver line of the Darro. Across the
river rises the slope of the Albaicin, once the chosen residence of
Moorish aristocracy, but now dotted over, amid the thickets of cactus
and prickly pear, with whitewashed entrances to gypsy caves. Beyond
all shine the resplendent summits of the great Sierras.
Yet it is strange how homely are many of the memories that spring to
life in me at the name of the Alhambra,--decorous donkeys, laden with
water-jars, trooping up the narrow footpath to the old Fountain of
Tears, herds of goats clinging like flies to the upright precipice, a
lurking peasant darting out on his wife as she passes with a day's
earnings hidden in her stocking and holding her close, with laughter
and coaxing, while he persistently searches her clothing until he
finds and appropriates that copper hoard, and our own cheery little
house-drudge washing our linen in a wayside rivulet and singing like a
bird as she rubs and pounds an unfortunate handkerchief between two
haphazard stones:--
"I like to live in Granada,
It pleases me so well
When I am falling asleep at night
To hear the _Vela_ bell."
There is the proud young mother, too, whom we came upon by chance over
behind the Tower of the Princesses, where her pot of _puchero_ was
bubbling above a miniature bonfire, while the velvet-eyed baby boy
sucked his thumb in joyous expectation. She often made us welcome,
after that, to her home,--a dingy stone kitchen and bedroom,
unfurnished save for pallet, a few cooking-utensils, a chest or two,
and, fastened to the wall, a gaudy print of _La Virgen de las
Angustias_, the venerated _Patrona_ of Granada. But this wretched
abode, the remains of what may once have been a palace, opened on a
lordly pleasure-garden with walls inlaid with patterns of rainbow
tiles, whose broken edges were hidden by rose bushes. There were
pedestals and even fragments of images in this wild Eden, jets of
sparkling water and walks of variegated marble. In the course of the
month, English and Spanish callers climbed the hill to us and
encompassed us with kindness, but we still maintained our incorrigible
taste for low society and used to hold informal receptions on sunny
benches for all the tatterdemalions within sight. Swarthy boys,
wearied with much loafing, would thriftily lay aside their cigarettes
to favor us with conversation, asking many questions about America,
for whose recent action they gallantly declined to hold us
responsible. "It was not the ladies that made the war," said these
modern cavaliers of the Alhambra.
Their especial spokesman was a shambling orphan lad of some fifteen
summers, with shrewd and merry eyes. Nothing pleased him better than
to give an ornamental hitch to the shabby, bright-colored scarf about
his thin, brown throat, and proceed to expound the political
situation.
"You admire the Alhambra? I suppose you have no palaces in America
because your Government is a republic. That is a very good thing. Our
Government is the worst possible. All the loss falls on the poor. All
the gain goes to the rich. But there are few rich in Spain. America is
the richest country of all the world. When America fought us it was as
a rich man, fed and clothed, fighting a poor man weak from famine. And
the rich man took from the poor man all that he had. Spain has nothing
left--nothing."
"Oh, don't say that! Spain has the Alhambra, and beautiful churches,
beautiful pictures."
"Can one eat churches and pictures, my lady?"
"And a fertile soil. What country outblooms Andalusia?"
His half-shod foot kicked the battle-trampled earth of the immortal
hill contemptuously.
"Soil! Yes. All the world has soil. It serves to be buried in."
This budding politician graced us with his company one Sunday
afternoon, when we went down into Granada to see a religious
procession. Our Lady of Lourdes, escorted by a distinguished train of
ecclesiastical and civic dignitaries, with pomp of many shining lights
and sonorous instruments, with peal of church bells and incongruous
popping of fireworks, passed through extended ranks of candle-bearing
worshippers, along thronged streets, where every balcony was hung with
the national red and yellow, to the Church of Mary Magdalene. There
the sacred guest was entertained with a concert, and thence conducted,
with the same processional state, amid the same reverent salutations
of the multitude, back to her own niche. Our youthful guide showed
himself so devout on this occasion, kneeling whenever the image, borne
aloft in a glory of flowers and tapers, passed us, and gazing on every
feature of the pageant with large-eyed adoration, that we asked him,
as we climbed the hill again, if he would like to be a priest. But he
shrugged his shoulders. "There are better Christians in Spain than the
priests," he answered.
The son of the house, Don Pepe, a young man of five and twenty, who
usually attended us on any difficult excursion, was also frankly
outspoken in his disapproval of the clergy. He could hardly hold his
countenance in passing a Franciscan friar. "There walks the ruin of
Spain," he muttered once, with bitter accent, turning to scowl after
the bareheaded, brown-frocked figure so common in Granada streets. We
had, indeed, our own little grudge against the friars, for they were
the only men of the city who forced us off the narrow sidewalks out
into the rough and dirty road. All other Granadines, from dandies to
gypsies, yielded us the strip of pavement with ready courtesy, but the
friars, three or four in Indian file, would press on their way like
graven images and drive us to take refuge among the donkeys.
This escort of ours, formally a Catholic, was no more a lover of State
than of Church. He was eager to get to work in the world and, finding
no foothold, charged up his grievance against the Government. He was
firmly persuaded that Madrid had sold the Santiago and Manila
victories to Washington for sums of money down,--deep down in
official pockets. But his talk, however angry, would always end in
throwing out the hands with a gesture of despair.
"But what use in revolutions? Spain is tired--tired of tumult, tired
of bloodshed, tired of deceit and disappointment. A new government
would only mean the old dogs with new collars. We, the people, are
always the bone to be gnawed bare. What use in anything? Let it go as
God wills."
The Silvela and Polavieja ministry came in during our stay at Granada,
and the Liberal and Republican chorus against what was known as the
Reactionary Government swelled loud. "It means the yoke of the
Jesuits," growled our burly host. Our Alhambra dream suffered frequent
jars from these ignoble confusions of to-day. When we were musing
comfortably on the melancholy fortunes of Boabdil, a cheap newspaper
would be thrust before our eyes with an editorial headed "Boabdil
Sagasta." It is always best to do what one must. Since we could not be
left in peace to the imagination of plumy cavaliers, stars of Moslem
and Christian chivalry, who sowed this mount so thick with glorious
memories, we turned our thoughts to the poor soldiers from Cuba,
especially during the week throughout which they paraded the cities of
Spain in rag-tag companies under rude flags with the ruder motto:
"_Hungry Repatriados_." Their appearance was so woful that it became a
by-word. A child, picking up from a gutter one day a mud-stained,
dog-eared notebook, cried gleefully, "It's a _repatriado_." There was
no glamour here, but the courage and sacrifice, the love and anguish,
held good.
Granada had borne her share in Spain's last war sorrow. So many of her
sons were drafted for the Antilles that her anger against America
waxed hot. A few months before our arrival every star-spangled banner
that could be hunted out in shop or residence was trampled and burned
in the public squares. The Washington Irving Hotel hastened to take
down its sign, and even the driver of its omnibus was sternly warned
by the people to erase those offensive American names from his vehicle
on pain of seeing it transformed into a chariot of fire. A shot,
possibly accidental, whistled through the office of the English
consul, who was given to understand, in more ways than one, that Spain
made little difference between "the cloaked enemy" and the foe in the
field. Meanwhile, month after month, the recruits were marched to the
station, and the City Fathers, who came in all municipal dignity to
bid the lads godspeed, were so overwhelmed by the weeping of the women
that they forgot the cream of their speeches.
Among the new tales of Spanish valor told us on the Alhambra hill was
this:--
When lots were drawn for military service, one blithe young scapegrace
found in his hand a fortunate high number, but, walking away in fine
feather over his luck, he met the mother of a friend of his, sobbing
wildly as she went. Her son had been drafted, and the two hundred
dollars of redemption money was as far beyond her reach as those
dazzling crests of the Sierra Nevada are above the lame beggar at the
Alhambra gate. Then the kindly fellow, troubled by her grief and
mindful of the fact that, orphan as he was, his own parting would be
at no such cost of tears, offered to serve in her boy's stead. Her
passion of gratitude could not let his service go all unrecompensed.
Poorest of the poor, she went about among her humble friends, lauding
his deed, until she had collected, _peseta_ by _peseta_, the sum of
sixteen dollars, which she thrust into his hands to buy comforts for
the campaign. But another sobbing mother sought him out. He had saved
her neighbor's son; would he not save hers? Laughing at her logic and
moved by her faith in him, he answered: "I am only one man, senora. I
cannot go in place of two. But here are sixteen dollars. If you can
find a substitute at such a price, the money is yours."
Sixteen dollars is a fortune to hunger and nakedness, and the
substitute was found. As the year wore on those two mothers did not
let the city forget its light-hearted hero, and a great assembly
gathered at the station to honor his return. A remnant of his comrades
descended from the train, but as for him, they said, he had died in
Cuba of the fever months before.
His was no poetic death like that of the Abencerrages. Happy
Abencerrages! They knew the Alhambra in the freshness of her beauty.
Their last uplifted glances looked upon the most exquisite ceilings in
the world. Their blood left immortal stains on the marble base of the
fountain. But this young Spaniard, in his obscure Cuban grave, only
one out of the eighty thousand, will promptly be forgotten. _No
importa._ There must be something better than glory for the man who
does more than his duty.
[Illustration: THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA]
IV
A FUNCTION IN GRANADA
"O Love Divine, Celestial Purity,
Pity my cries!
My soul is prone before a clouded throne.
Let thy keen light arise,
Pierce this obscurity
And free my dream-bound eyes!"
--_Ganivet's Last Poem._
The civilization of Spain, streaked as it is with Oriental barbarisms,
belated and discouraged as the end of the nineteenth century finds it,
is still in many respects finer than our own. In everything that
relates to grace and charm of social intercourse, to the dignified
expression of reverence, compassion, and acknowledgment, Spain puts us
to the blush. I was especially touched in Granada by the whole-souled
sympathy and veneration with which the city rendered public honors to
one of its sons, Angel Ganivet, who died in the preceding winter, a
poet hardly thirty.
Although I had glanced over obituary notices of this Spanish writer in
the Paris papers, I had but a vague idea of his work and life, and
sought, before the night of the memorial ceremonies, for further
information. I appealed, first of all, to our table waiter, whose
keen black eyes instantly turned sad and tender.
"_Pobre! Pobre!_ He threw himself into the river at Riga, in Russia,
where he was consul. It was at the close of the war. And he such a
genius! So young! So true a Spaniard! But all Granada will be at the
theatre. He left his play to Granada, asking that it be seen here
first of all. I have never read his books, but I have met him in the
streets, and lifted my hat to him for a wise _caballero_ who cared
greatly for Spain."
My next appeal was to our kind neighbor, the English consul, who
assured me laughingly that he, like myself, was vainly ransacking the
few bookstores of Granada for Ganivet's works.
"The first time I ever heard the name," he added, "was some three or
four years ago, when I noticed an old gentleman standing often in
front of my house, and gazing at the British coat-of-arms above my
door. He told me one day when I drew him into talk that he had a
nephew, Angel Ganivet, roaming in foreign lands. 'But he does not
forget his old uncle,' said he. 'I always receive my little pension
prompt to the day, and so I like to look at the foreign shields about
the city, and remember my nephew, far away, who remembers me.' That
was a trifle, of course, but it gave me a kindly feeling for the young
fellow, and I'm sorry he came to such an end. They found him in the
river, you know. I dare say it was suicide, and likely enough the
defeat of Spain had its share in causing his despondency; but nobody
knows. He was a zealous patriot, I understand, and all Granada seems
to take his death to heart."
My next authority was an aged Granadine, a man of letters; but he had
not read Ganivet's books.
"I have heard of him often," he said, "but I never met him. He was not
much in Granada, although he seems to have had a romantic affection
for the place. _Bueno!_ Its pomegranates are worth remembering. But
Ganivet liked to live in foreign countries, with the idea of
understanding his own better by comparison. He was young; he still had
hopes for Spain. Eighty years are on my head, and I have long done
with hoping. I have served in my country's armies, I have served in
her Government, I have seen much of Church and State, and since the
night when they murdered General Prim I have seen nothing good. But
Ganivet had faith in the national future, and the people, without
waiting to ask on what that faith was founded, love him for it, and
mourn his loss as if he had been their benefactor. They are all going
to pour into the theatre to-morrow night to hear his symbolic drama,
that not one in a hundred of them will try to understand, and the
hundredth will get it all wrong."
The "function" took place in the _Gran Teatro de Isabel la Catolica_,
a name to conjure with throughout all Spain, and especially in
Granada. The day set for the performance, and widely advertised by
newspapers and posters for a month in advance, was a Wednesday. On
Tuesday, in a fever lest we be too late, we arrived at the ticket
office. We had our hurry all to ourselves. Apparently nobody else had
as yet taken a seat. The office was empty, save for us and our
attendant train of boys and beggars.
The official in charge, deaf, slow, and courteous, invited us into a
private room and gave us rocking-chairs by the _brasero_, while he,
with paper and pencil, laboriously added the price of our _entradas_
to the price of our modest box, and spent five minutes in subtracting
the amount from the figure of the small bill we handed him. The
counting out of the change was another strain on his arithmetic, and,
after all these toils, we were still without tickets. He said he would
"write them out at home," and we might send some one for them the next
day. But he affably offered to show us the theatre, and led us through
black passages to a great dusky space, where, while he struck match
after match, we could catch glimpses of pit and balconies, and even a
far-off stage, with a group of actors gathered about a lamp,
rehearsing the play. In Wednesday morning's paper, however, they
announced with entire nonchalance that they were not ready yet, and
would postpone the representation until Thursday.
On Thursday evening the theatre, choking full though it was, hardly
presented a brilliant appearance. Granada is not Madrid, nor Seville,
and the best the Granadines had to offer their dead poet was the
tribute of their presence in such guise as they could command. The
big, barnlike theatre, with its rows of broken lamp-chimneys, looked
shabby, and the rag-tag proportion of the audience was so great that
it overflowed the _Paraiso_ into the aisles and doorways and all
conceivable corners. People were so jumbled and crumpled together
that, with reminiscences of my traveller's hold-all, I found myself
wondering if they would ever shake out smooth again.
Whole families were there, from the infant in arms that invariably
screamed when the actors were reciting any passage of peculiar
delicacy, to the dozing old grandfather, who kept dropping his
cigarette out of his mouth in a way that threatened to set us all on
fire. The gentlemen, even in the boxes and the stalls, were generally
ungloved, and we did not see a dress suit in the house. Cloaks and
neckties were ablaze with color as usual, but the masculine toilets
eluded our stricter observation; for when the curtain was up, our eyes
were all for the stage, and between acts your Spaniard sits with hat
on head, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.
But the Andalusian ladies made amends for everything. By some
prehistoric agreement, Spanish women have yielded the rainbow to the
men, reserving for their own attire the quiet elegance of black or the
festive beauty of pure white. The dress that evening, even in the
principal boxes, was conspicuously simple. But the clear brunette
complexions, the delicate contours, the rich black hair worn high and
crowned with natural flowers, the waving fans and flashing glances,
cast a glamour over the whole scene.
The memorial rites themselves made up in quantity whatever they might
lack in quality, continuing from eight o'clock till two. An orchestra,
organized from Granada musicians for this occasion, opened the
programme. The bust of Ganivet, wrought by a young Granada sculptor,
was reverently unveiled. The star actor, Fuentes of Granada, who had
undertaken with his troupe to present his fellow-townsman's drama
purely as a labor of love, read an interpretation written by one of
Granada's leading critics. The orchestra was in evidence again,
introducing the first act, entitled "Faith." After this the orchestra
played Breton's serenade, "In the Alhambra," and the curtain rose for
the second act on so natural a scene-painting of the famous fortress
that the audience went wild with enthusiasm, and the blushing artist,
also a Granadine, had to be literally shoved from the wings upon the
stage to receive his plaudits.
Between the second act, "Love," and the last act, "Death," came an
_andante elegiaco_, "written expressly for this artistic solemnity" by
a Granada composer. Here, again, the appreciation of the audience was
unbounded, and nothing would do but the reluctant master must leave
his box, struggle through the packed multitude to the conductor's
stand, and take the baton himself for a second rendering from the
first chord to the last. At the close of the third act the orchestra
did its part once more, and the celebration ended, somewhat
incongruously, with a lively bit of modern comedy.
There was imperfection enough, had one been disposed to look for it.
The fifty members of the impromptu orchestra had hardly brought
themselves into accord, the acting was not of the best Spanish
quality, and the players had not half learned their parts. Every long
declamation was a duet, the prompter's rapid undertone charging along
beneath the actor's voice like a horse beneath its rider. But the
audience understood, forgave, were grateful, and sat with sublime
patience through the long pauses between the acts, repeating one to
another, "They say Fuentes is studying his speeches." As the caustic
old scholar had predicted, most of them, apparently, did not try to
understand the allegory. They applauded the obviously poetic touches,
the palpably dramatic situations, and when, in the Alhambra act, a
gypsy air was sung, the galleries delightedly caught it up and
chorused it over again.
But in general that nondescript assembly looked on in passive gravity
while _El Escultor de su Alma_ was rendered, as their poet had
bidden, in their own theatre and for them. They may have gathered
hints and snatches of that mystical message from the dead, whose lofty
look, fixed in shining marble, dominated all the house.
The restless Spirit of Man, seeking the perfect Truth, tears himself
loose from the bride of his youth, Heavenly Faith, and wanders in
beggary through the world. Yet Truth for him can only be the child of
his union with Faith, and in parting from one he has parted from both.
In old age, almost maddened by his wanderings and woes, he meets his
Truth again, full-grown and beautiful, but is so fierce and wild in
his desire to possess her that only Death can reconcile them--Death
and that Heavenly Faith who could not abandon him, though he had
forsaken her.
Ganivet's mother, who, with his brothers, witnessed the play from
behind the scenes, is said to have rejoiced in it as a last solemn
assurance from her son of his secure repose in the Catholic faith of
his fathers. It may not have meant so much to that great audience,
many of whom could neither read nor write, but those tiers upon tiers
of dark Spanish faces were full of earnestness and of a proud content.
However it may have baffled their heads, this legacy of a play, in its
Alhambra setting, spoke clearly to their hearts. One ragamuffin said
to another, as an all-sufficient criticism, "He was thinking of
Granada when he wrote it."
A few days later, I found and eagerly read Angel Ganivet's most
significant booklet, _Idearium_, published in the autumn of 1896, in
which he sets forth his dream for the future of his beloved country.
Ganivet claims that the deepest moral element in Spanish character is
stoicism, "not the brutal and heroic stoicism of Cato, nor the serene
and majestic stoicism of Marcus Aurelius, nor the rigid and extreme
stoicism of Epictetus, but the natural and humane stoicism of Seneca."
He holds that Seneca, himself a Spaniard, found his philosophy in the
inherent genius of the country, and only gave voice to the indwelling
soul of Spain. The Spanish church, cherishing this element, became a
thing apart from the general Catholicism of Europe. The long warfare
and incidental intercourse with the Moors stamped Spanish Christianity
with its two other characteristic features of mysticism and
fanaticism. "Mysticism was like a sanctification of African
sensuality, and fanaticism was a turning against ourselves, when the
Reconquest ended, of the fury accumulated during eight centuries of
combat."
The author, _muy espanol_, is naturally _muy catolico_, yet he
protests against violence in the repression of other forms of
religion. "Liberty should bring with it no fear." He believes that
Spain is, above all, _sui generis_, independent and individual. The
representative Spaniard is a free lance, striving and conquering by
his own impulse and under his own direction, like the Cid of old or
Cortes in the field of arms, like Loyola in the church, like Cervantes
in letters. He lays stress on the achievements of Spanish art--the
master paintings of Velazquez and Murillo, the master dramas of Lope
de Vega and Calderon, as expressing, better than political history has
expressed, that intensification of Spanish life resulting from the
struggle against the Arabs "and making of our nation a Christian
Greece."
[Illustration: THE COLUMBUS MONUMENT IN GRANADA]
He finds it logical and right that Spain, after her successive
periods of Roman influence, Visigothic influence, Arab influence,
and her modern era of colonial expansion, should now abandon foreign
policies and concentrate all her vitality within her own borders. Not
by the sword, but by the spirit, would he have Spain henceforth hold
sway over mankind, and especially over the Spanish-descended peoples
of South America.
He winces under the monopoly of the term "American" by the citizens of
the United States--"a formidable nation," he admits, "very populous,
very rich, and apparently very well governed." He notes, in contrast,
the poverty and comparative anarchy of the South American republics,
but he urges still that the Spanish character, shaped through such
eventful centuries, is an entity, clear and firm, with qualities well
defined, whereas the Yankees are yet in the fusing pot. He would have
all the peoples of Hispanian descent recognize and realize in
themselves this Spanish individuality, effecting not a political
union, but a "confederation, intellectual and spiritual," whose first
aim should be the preservation of Spanish ideas and ideals, and the
second, the free gift of these to all the nations of the earth.
The ancient glory of Spain, he says, has vanished like a dream; let a
new and whiter glory dawn. Her career of material conquest is ended.
Those savage struggles have left her faint and spent. Let her now seek
to attain, through purification and discipline, such fresh fulness of
life as shall insure the triumph of her spiritual forces--her fervent
faith and her unworldly wisdom. "Our Ulysses is Don Quixote."
V
IN SIGHT OF THE GIRALDA
"We were nearing Seville. I felt the eager throbbing of my
heart. Seville had ever been for me the symbol of light, the
city of love and joy."--VALDES: _La Hermana San Sulpicio_.
One of the wise sayings of Andalusia runs, "Do not squeeze the orange
till the juice is bitter." And so we said good-by to Granada before we
were ready to go, and persuaded ourselves, in defiance of maps and
time-tables, that our shortest route to Seville led by Ronda. The
weather did its very best to dampen our enthusiasm for this wildest of
crag aeries, equally famed for romantic beauty of outlook and
salubrity of air. Men live long in Ronda, unless, indeed, they hit
against a bullet while practising their hereditary trade of
_contrabandista_. They have a saying that octogenarians there are only
chickens, but one should not believe all that they say in Ronda. Did
we not clamber, slipping on wet stones, down a precipitous path to
peer, from under dripping umbrellas, at what our guide declared was an
old Roman bridge? "It doesn't look old and it doesn't look Roman," was
the artist's dubious comment, but our highly recommended conductor, a
Gib, as the English-Spanish natives of Gibraltar Rock are called,
assured us that it was built in the days of Julius Caesar, but had been
wonderfully well preserved. We eyed him thoughtfully, bearing in mind
that he had already pointed out the statue of a long-dead poet as a
living politician; but we meekly continued through the lashing rain to
follow his long footsteps over the breakneck ways of that natural
fortress where race after race has left its autograph. The Roman
columns of the church make the Arab cupolas look young, and put the
Gothic choir altogether out of countenance. A bright-shawled peasant
woman, who we fondly hoped might be a smuggler's wife, drew us
delicious water from a Roman well in a Moorish patio, where a mediaeval
king of gentle memory used to drink his wine from cups wrought of the
skulls of those enemies whom he had beheaded with his own sword. But
not all this, and more, could efface our doubts of that Roman bridge,
which, indeed, we found, on a belated perusal of our guide-books, had
been erected by a Malaga architect in the last century.
The street rabble of Ronda was the rudest and fiercest we encountered
anywhere in Spain. Several times our guide wheeled suddenly to
confront some gypsyish lad, creeping up behind us with stone all ready
to throw, and when, at a glint of sunset through the stormy clouds, we
tried to slip out unattended to the neighboring _alameda_, with its
far-sweeping prospect of folded mountain ranges and its vertical view
of gorge and rushing river, the children actually hounded us back to
the hotel. Their leader was a scrofulous boy, with one cheek eaten
away, who had been taught to press his face so closely upon strangers
that, in fear of his open sore, they would hastily give money to keep
him back. He was a merry scamp and got a world of sport out of his
sickening business, laughing at the top of his voice to see himself
"avoided like the sun."
Although the tempest had lulled by evening, Ronda, still inhospitable,
would not let us sleep. All up and down the window-grated street
sounded, from midnight to morning, a tinkling of guitars. It was,
forsooth, St. Joseph's Day, and every Don Jose, every Dona Josefa,
every little Pepe, every pretty Pepita, must be saluted by a serenade.
All Andalusians are musical, taking much pleasure, moreover, in one of
their own bits of philosophy, "The poorest player has his uses, for he
can at least drive the rats out of the house." Rats or no, we left
Ronda by the morning train.
Our carriage was crowded with several Spaniards and a "Jew-Gib," who,
without saying "_oxte ni moxte_," assumed full charge of us and our
belongings for the journey. This unceremonious but really helpful
escort put every one of his fellow-travellers through a sharp
catechism as to birthplace, business, destination, and the like. Our
turn came first of all. "You are English?" "We speak English." "Ha!"
He fell into our own vernacular. "Came about three thousand miles to
Spain?" "Across the channel." He chuckled with prompt appreciation of
the situation and mendaciously translated to the carriage at large,
"The ladies are distinguished Londoners, on their way to visit
relatives in Seville," whereat the Andalusians smiled sleepily upon us
and asked permission to smoke. We consented cheerfully, as our Spanish
sisters had taught us that we should. "I like it," one pallid senora
had said on an earlier trip. "It makes me sick, yes, but men ought to
be men."
We were journeying toward the very palace of the sun, with gray ranks
of olive trees standing guard on either hand. "And posted among them,
like white doves, could be seen now and again a few mills where the
bitter olive is wont to pour its juice." Orange plantations and hedges
of the bluish aloe, fig trees, palms, and all manner of strange,
tropical flowers gladdened our approach to Seville. And when, at last,
we saw from afar the world-praised Giralda, the Moorish bell-tower of
the cathedral, soaring pink into a purple sky, we felt as if we were
really arrived in fairyland.
Our friendly Gib put his tall figure between us and the howling press
of swarthy porters and cab-drivers, scolded, expostulated, threatened,
picked out his men, beat down their prices, called up a policeman to
witness the bargain and take the number of our cab, raised his hat,
and vanished into grateful memory.
Six weeks in Seville! And six weeks in a Seville home, where evening
after evening the gay youth of Andalusia laughed and sang, danced and
rattled the castanets, and cast about our wondering Western souls
strange witcheries from which we shall never more go free. It was all
as Oriental as a dream. The Sultana of the South lifted her gleaming
coronet of domes and pinnacles above such a kingdom of idle, delicious
mirth as has permanently unfitted us for considering it important to
do our duty. Our hereditary bits of Plymouth Rock were melted up in
that fervent heat. Right or wrong? "Where there is music, there can be
no harm." True or false?
"In this world, my masters,
There's neither truth nor lie,
But all things take the color
Of the glass before the eye."
Only six weeks, and yet we shall ever go homesick for Seville, for her
palm trees and orange gardens, her narrow streets like lanes of
shadow, her tiled and statued patios, with caged birds singing answer
to the ripple of the fountain, the musical midnight cry of her
_serenos_, "her black and burning eyes like beacons in the dark," her
sighing serenaders, "lyrical mosquitoes," outside the grated window or
beneath the balcony, her fragrances of rose and jessamine, her poetic
sense of values. A homeless Andalusian, dinnerless and in rags, strums
on his guitar, a necessity which he would not dream of selling for
such a mere luxury as bread, and is happy. There is always sun to
sleep in. There are always piquant faces and gliding forms to gaze
after. What more does a mortal want? Exquisite Seville! No wonder that
her exiled sons still sing, after years of "comfortable living" in
foreign cities:--
"When I am missing, hunt me down
In Andalusia's purple light,
Where all the beauties are so brown,
And all the wits so bright."
Yet the old Arabian enchantment casts a glamour which the Anglo-Saxon
vision dimly recognizes as such and faintly strives against. To the
clear survey all is not charm. Grace, mirth, and music, on the one
hand, are offset by ignorance, suffering, and vice on the other. Many
evil things were told us, and some ugly things we saw, but to look on
Andalusia is to love her, even while realizing that to live with her
would put that love to a very stringent test.
The lordly Guadalquivir, for instance, so fair to see from the
picture-making summit of the Giralda, as he lingers through his
blooming Paradise, forgetful of the ocean, is not altogether goodly.
"Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds
To plague the decent body of mankind!"
The Andalusian leisure was a perpetual delight to us. A typical
Seville shop reaches far along the street front, with many open doors,
and a counter running the full length. Here ladies sit in pairs and
groups, never singly, to cheapen fans and mantillas, while the smiling
salesmen, cigarette in hand, shrug and gesticulate and give back
banter for banter as gayly as if it were all a holiday frolic. Scraps
of the graceful bargaining would float to our ears.
"Is the quality good?"
"As good as God's blessing."
Among the tempting wares of Seville are Albacete knives, with gorgeous
handles of inlaid ebony, tortoise, or ivory. The peasant women of
Andalusia so resent the charge of carrying these knives in their
garters that the Seville gamin dodges offence by asking them in an
unnecessarily loud voice if they carry garters in their knives. The
irascible dames do not stand upon fine points of rhetoric, however,
and when the small boy has delivered his shot, he does well to take to
his heels. We once saw one of these sturdy women, while a line of
soldiers, bristling with steel, was holding a street, seize a gallant
son of Mars by the shoulder and swing him, amid the laughter of his
comrades, out of her path as if he were a cabbage. Nobody knew how to
stop her, and she trudged serenely on, her broad back to those
helpless bayonets, down the forbidden way.
The beggars of Seville are gentler than those of Ronda and Granada,
but hardly less numerous. Mendicant figures are thick as Guadalquivir
mosquitoes in my memory of Andalusia. Some of those pitiful children
will haunt me till I die. There was a forlorn urchin, with filmy,
frightful eyes, to be seen in all weathers crouching on one side of
the road leading up to the Alhambra, so dull and dreary a little
fellow that he hardly grasped the coppers when they were thrust into
his weakly groping hands, and hardly stayed his monotonous formula of
entreaty for his other monotonous formula of thanks. There was an
idiot child in Seville--a mere lump of deformity--that would rush out
upon the startled stranger with an inarticulate, fierce little yell,
clutching at charity with a tiny, twisted claw. He seemed the very
incarnation of childish woe and wrong. Almost every hand dived into
pocket for him, and he was probably worth far more to his proprietors
than his rival on the street, a crafty little girl, with the most
lustrous eyes that painter ever dreamed. They were not blue nor gray,
but a living light in which both those colors had been melted.
The economists, who say so firmly that "nothing should ever be given
to mendicant children," can hardly have had the experience of seeing
Murillo's own cherubs, their wings hidden under the dirt, fluttering
about the car windows at Andalusian stations. I have it still on my
conscience that I occasionally gave away my comrade's share of our
luncheon as well as my own. She was too young and too polite to
reproach me, but too hungry to be comforted by the assurance that I
reproached myself. Sometimes a foreign traveller, very sure of his
Spanish, would attempt remonstrance with these small nuisances. I
remember one kindly Teuton in particular. Commerce had claimed him for
its own, but the predestined German professor shone out of his mild
blue eyes. A ragamuffin had mounted the car steps to beg at the
window, and Mein Herr delivered him such a lecture that the youngster
clung to his perch, fascinated with astonishment at the novel
doctrine, until the train was in alarmingly swift motion.
[Illustration: THE ALHAMBRA. HALL OF JUSTICE]
"This is a very bad habit of thine. I told thee so a month ago."
"Me, sir?"
"Thee, boy. When I passed over this road last, thou wert begging at
the windows, to my shame if not to thine. Tut, tut! Go thy ways. Look
for work, work, work."
"Work, sir?"
"Work, boy. And when thou hast found it, love it, and do it with a
will. Learn to read and write. Wash thy face and change thy customs,
and when thou art richer than I, then will I give thee a _peseta_."
Mendicancy is bred of ignorance, and in the seventeen and a half
millions that make up the population of Spain, more than twelve
millions do not read nor write.
Seville sight-seeing is no brief matter. You must climb the Giralda,
walk in the parks, view the yellowed fragments of the ancient city
wall, visit the tobacco factory, shop in _Las Sierpes_, buy pottery in
Triana, see the gypsy dances in the cafes, attend the Thursday
rag-fair, do reverence to the Columbus manuscripts in the _Biblioteca
Columbina_, look up the haunts of Don Juan, Figaro, Pedro the Cruel,
and explore the curious "House of Pilate," which, tradition says, was
built by a pilgrim noble after the Jerusalem pattern. You must lose
your heart to the Alcazar, the Alhambra of Seville, a storied palace
embowered in fountain-freshened gardens of palm and magnolia, oranges
and cypresses, rose and myrtle, with shadowy arcades leading to marble
baths and arabesqued pavilions. You must follow Murillo from gallery
to gallery, from church to church, above all, from the _Hospital de la
Caridad_, where hang six of his greatest compositions, to the _Museo
Provincial_, where over a score of the Master's sacred works, lovely
Virgins, longing saints, deep-eyed Christ-Childs, rain their sweet
influence. And first, last, and always, there is the cathedral. We had
been stunned at Burgos, blind to all save the Moorish features of
Cordova, almost untouched by the cold splendors of Granada, but to
Seville, as later to Toledo, we surrendered utterly. Beauty, mystery,
sublimity--these are Seville cathedral. Five centuries have gone to
the rearing and enriching of those solemn aisles and awful choir. The
colossal structure, second in size only to St. Peter's, is a majesty
before which Luther himself might well have trembled. Within a Spanish
cathedral one begins to understand the mighty hold of Roman
Catholicism on Spain. "I love," says Alarcon, whose jest and earnest
are as closely twined as fibres of the same heart, "the clouds of
incense which rise to the cupola of the Catholic temple, amid the
harmonies of the holy organ. (For this I am not a Protestant.)" And
elsewhere, writing of his childhood, he speaks of receiving in the
cathedral of Guadix all his first impressions of artistic
beauty,--beauty of architecture, music, painting, processional
splendors, tissue of gold and silver, cunning embroideries and
jewel-work, his first sense, in short, of poetry. And all these
impressions were inextricably blent with his first yearnings of holy
aspiration, his first passion of mystical devotion. But not even
Seville cathedral could win over our full sympathy. Too heavy were the
faces of the priests who "sang the gori gori," too selfish that wigged
and jointed doll, "Our Lady of Kings," with her sixty gorgeous
mantles, a few of which would have clothed all the poor of Andalusia.
Who shall draw the line between faith and superstition?
But let not the tourist suppose he can escape his tyrant Baedeker even
at the top of the Giralda. There are excursions that must be taken to
points of interest outside the city. Most imperative of all is the
trip to the ruined Roman amphitheatre of Italica, guarded by the
mighty names of Scipio Africanus, Trajan, Hadrian, and Theodosius. Off
we start, a dozen strong, in a great, open carriage, all the
women-folk with fans and veils and with flowers in the hair. We rattle
past the cathedral, over the bridge to Triana and out into the
sweet-breathed country, passing many a picturesque group on the
road,--these two peasants, for example, with their yellow-handled
knives thrust into scarlet girdles, tossing dice under a fig tree. Our
meditations among the crumbling blocks of that savage play-house would
perhaps interest the reader less than our luncheon. Such Andalusian
dainties as we swallowed,--cold soups like melted salads, home-made
fig marmalade, cinnamon pastes of which the gypsies know the secret,
and sugared chestnuts overflowed by a marvellous syrup wherein could
be detected flavors of lemon peel, orange peel, and a medley of
spices! In that scene of ancient bloodshed, of the lion's wrath and
the martyr's anguish, we ate, drank, and were merry, but our banquet
tasted of ghosts.
VI
PASSION WEEK IN SEVILLE
"All that was gracious was bestowed by the Virgin, and she was
the giver of all that human creatures could ask for. God
frowned, while she smiled; God chastised, but she forgave;
this last notion was by no means a strange one. It is accepted
with almost absolute faith among the laboring classes of the
rural parts of Spain."--GALDOS: _Marianela_.
Holy week throngs Seville to overflowing. The devout no longer scourge
themselves in public, sprinkling the pavements with their blood, but
Spaniards flock from all Andalusia, from Madrid, and even from the
northern provinces to the sunny city on the storied Guadalquivir.
Hotel charges run from twelve dollars a day up to incredible figures;
a mere bed in a lodging house costs its three dollars, four dollars,
or five dollars a night, and fortunate are those who enjoy the
hospitality of a private home.
The ceremonies opened Sunday morning with the procession of palms. We
had been told by our cathedral guide the day before that this
procession would take place at seven or half-past seven at the latest,
and had asked the maid to call us at half-past six. As the chiming
bells should have warned us, her knock was an hour tardy, but when,
breakfastless and eager, we reached the cathedral a few minutes after
eight, there was as yet no sign of a procession. Mass was being said
in the Sagrario and in several chapels, and the morning light poured
in through the rich-colored windows upon groups of kneeling figures
before every shrine. The women wore black mantillas, for, although
this most graceful of headdresses is losing credit on the fashionable
promenades of Seville, and is almost never seen in open carriages,
Holy Week demands it of all the faithful.
We asked a white-robed young chorister when the procession would form.
He answered with encouraging precision, "In twenty minutes." We roamed
about for a half hour or more through those majestic spaces, beneath
those soaring arches, aspiration wrought in stone, until by chance in
that shifting multitude we came face to face with our guide of the day
before. We asked how soon the procession would form. He said, "In
twenty minutes," and we went home for coffee.
When we returned the procession was streaming out of the cathedral
into the street of the _Gran Capitan_. It was simple and all the more
attractive for that simplicity. The colors of standards and vestments
were mainly purple and gold, and the long, yellow fronds of palm,
blown by the fresh breeze from the river, gleamed brighter than the
sheen of candle or of mitre. Turning the corner, the procession, now
facing the beautiful Giralda, entered by the ample Door of Pardon,
still incrusted with its Arabic decorations, into the Court of
Oranges, whose ripe fruit gave new touches of gold to the picture.
Venders of palm were stationed in every sheltered corner, selling
their wares, more than twice the height of a man, at fifteen cents
the frond, while boys, darting about with armfuls of olive, were glad
to take a cent the branch, and not have the best of their leafy store
filched from them by sly old women, more intent, like the rest of us,
on getting a blessing than deserving it.
Through the multitude the glittering palms and purple robes swept on
back into the cathedral, where the silent and remote archbishop, an
image of gold in his splendid apparel, shed his benediction not only
over the proud palms, but over every spray of "little gray leaves,"
like those of Gethsemane. These blessed palms, sprinkled with holy
water and wafting strange fragrances of incense, would be carried home
and kept in myriad balconies all the year through, to protect the
house from "the all-dreaded thunder-stone."
That Sunday afternoon at five o'clock we were leaning out expectantly
from our host's best balcony. With the constant Spanish courtesy, he
had betaken himself, with the children of the household, to a less
commanding balcony below, and his eldest son had considerately
withdrawn, accompanied by his fiancee, to a mere speck of a balcony
above. This left a dozen of us, Spanish, English, and American, to
enjoy as good a view as the city afforded of the processional
tableaux.
The oblong _Plaza de la Constitucion_, the scene in days gone by of
many a tournament, _auto de fe_, and bull-fight, is bounded on one
side by the ornate Renaissance facade of the city hall, and on the
other, in part, by the plain front of the court-house, before which
criminals used to be done to death. Private dwellings, with their
tiers of balconies, one of which had fallen to our happy lot, cross
the wider end of the _plaza_, while the other opens into the brilliant
street of _Las Sierpes_, too narrow for carriages, but boasting the
gayest shop windows and merriest cafes of all the town.
The _plaza_, always animated, fairly rippled with excitement this Palm
Sunday afternoon. The grand stand, erected in front of the city hall,
was filled, although many of the camp-chairs and benches placed in
thick-set rows on the farther side of the line of march were not yet
rented. Thursday and Friday are the days that draw the multitudes. The
crowd was bright with uniforms, most conspicuous being the spruce
white-edged, three-cornered hats and dark-blue, red-faced coats of the
civil guard. Venders of peanuts, peanut candy, macaroons, caramels,
and all manner of _dulces_ swung their baskets from one sweet-toothed
Spaniard to another, while wisely the water-seller went in their wake,
with the artistic yellow jar over his shoulder. One young pedler was
doing a flourishing business in crabs, the customers receiving these
delicacies in outstretched pocket handkerchiefs.
Busy as our eyes were kept, we were able to lend ear to the
explanations of our Spanish friends, who told us that the church
dignitaries, after the procession of palms, took no official part in
the shows of Passion Week, although many of the clergy belonged, as
individuals, to the religious brotherhoods concerned. The church
reserves its street displays for Corpus Christi. These brotherhoods,
societies of ancient origin, and connected with some church or chapel,
own dramatic properties often of great intrinsic value and
considerable antiquity.
For days before Holy Week one may see the members busy in the churches
at the task of arranging groups of sacred figures, vested as richly as
possible in garments of silk and velvet, with ornaments of jewels and
gold, on platforms so heavy that twenty-five men, at the least, are
needed to carry each. These litters are escorted through the principal
streets and squares of the city by their respective societies, each
brotherhood having its distinctive dress. It is customary for every
_cofradia_ to present two pageants--the first in honor of Christ; the
second, and more important, in honor of Mary, to whom chivalrous Spain
has always rendered supreme homage; but sometimes the two tableaux are
combined into one.
After long watching and waiting we saw, far down _Las Sierpes_, the
coming of the first procession. A line of police marched in advance to
clear the road. Then appeared a loosely ordered company of fantastic
figures in blue capes and blue peaked caps, absurdly high and reaching
down to the shoulder, with holes cut for the eyes. From beneath the
capes flowed white frocks, and the gloves and sandals were white.
These "Nazarenes," who looked like a survival of the Carnival,
conducted in silence a litter upon which was erected an image of the
crucified Christ, with face uplifted as if in prayer.
The pageant halted before the doors of the city hall to greet the
Alcalde, who rose from his red velvet chair and bared his head. Men
uncovered, and people stood all along the route, but acclamations were
reserved for Our Lady of the Star. Her attendant troop was dressed
like the preceding, with a star embroidered in white on the shoulder
of the blue tunic. Her litter was ablaze with candles and laden with
flowers; her outsweeping train was upborne by four little pages, and a
brass band followed her with unceasing music.
[Illustration: FILLING THE WATER-JARS]
Sunset colors were in the sky before the procession of the second
brotherhood arrived. At last, far down the _Sierpes_, the dusk was
dotted with the gleam of many tapers, and above these, most impressive
in the dim distance, glimmered a white figure high upon the cross. As
the pageant drew near, waves of incense rolled out upon the air. The
crash of trumpets and deep boom of drums announced that Our Lady of
the Angels was advancing upon the same platform with her Son, for
music in these Passion Week processions is always a sign of the
presence of the Virgin. The brothers of this retinue wore black, save
that their peaked caps were purple.
As twilight gathered, a company of strange dark shapes bore past in
solemn hush the Most Holy Christ of the Waters. The Saviour hung upon
the cross, an angel receiving in a golden cup the blood from his
wounded side. Then her great banner of white and blue heralded the
approach of Our Lady of the Utter Grief, who passed with her
accustomed pomp of lights and music, holding to her eyes a
handkerchief said to be of the most exquisite lace.
Night had fallen when, at eight o'clock, a maid left on vigil called
us all from the dinner table to see the beautiful procession of
white-robed figures conducting Our Father Jesus of the Silence. The
figure of Christ, resplendent in gold and purple, stood before Herod,
whose mail-clad soldiers guarded the prisoner. The Roman costumes were
so well copied, and all the postures and groupings so startlingly
natural, that _vivas_ went up all along the crowded square. As the
banner of the Virgin saluted the Alcalde, her attendants let fall
their long white trains, which swept out quite six yards behind,
reaching from one brother to the next and yielding a wonderfully fine
effect in the slow march. Our Lady of the Bitterness, toward whom
leaned the tender look of St. John, was robed in superb brocade, so
precious that her train, which stood stiffly out behind, was guarded
by a soldier with drawn sword.
This closed the ceremonies of Palm Sunday, and the throng, catching
one from another the blithe, sweet Andalusian melodies, went singing
softly through the darkness on their various ways.
After Palm Sunday a secular quiet fell upon Seville, not broken until
Wednesday. At five o'clock this March afternoon it was still so hot
that few people were rash enough to move about without the shelter of
parasols. Sevillian priests, sombre-robed as they were, sauntered
cheerily across the _plaza_ under sunshades of the gayest hues,
orange, green, azure, red, and usually all at once, but the shamefaced
Englishmen flapped up broad umbrellas of an uncompromising black.
There was a breezy flutter of fans on the grand stand, the
water-sellers had to fill their jars again and again, and the
multitude of smokers, puffing at their paper cigarettes to cool
themselves, really brought on a premature twilight.
It was nearly seven before a score of gendarmes, marching abreast,
cleared the way for the procession. Then appeared, in the usual guise,
some twenty feet apart, two files of those strange shapes, with high,
peaked caps, whose visors descended to the breast, slowly advancing,
with an interval of about six feet from man to man. Their caps and
frocks were black, but the long capes glowed a vivid red. They carried
the customary lighted tapers, so tall that, when rested on the ground,
they reach to the shoulder. Midway between the files walked a
cross-bearer, followed by a Nazarene, who uplifted the standard of
St. Andrew's Cross in red on a black ground. Bearers of other insignia
of the order preceded the great litter, on which, under a golden palm
tree, was represented by life-size effigies the arrest of Christ among
His Disciples, St. Andrew having the foremost place. The second
pageant presented by this brotherhood was accompanied by bevies of
white-robed boys swinging censers and chanting anthems. Then came, in
effulgence of light, the Most Holy Virgin, escorted, as if she were
the earthly Queen of Spain, by a detachment of the Civil Guard, whose
white trimmings and gold belts gleamed in the candle rays.
The remaining three _cofradias_ that had part in the Wednesday
ceremonies exhibited but one pageant each. A troop in black and gold
conducted a Calvary, with Mary Mother and Mary Magdalene both kneeling
at the foot of the cross, robed in the richest velvet. Figures in
white, with stripes of red, came after, with a yet more costly
Calvary. The well-carved crucifix rose from a gilded mound, and Our
Mother of Healing wore a gold crown of exceeding price. But the third
Calvary, all wrought in black and gold, the colors of the brotherhood,
which were repeated in standard and costume, won the plaudits of the
evening. Here Longinus, the Roman centurion, mounted on a spirited
horse, was in the act of piercing with his lance the Saviour's side.
Amid _vivas_ and _bravos_ this Passion picture passed, like its
predecessors, in clouds of incense and peals of solemn music.
On Thursday the wearing of black was almost universal. We rummaged our
shawl straps for some poor equivalent of the Spanish black silks and
black mantillas. The Civil Guard was more superb than ever in
full-dress uniform, with red vests and white trousers. No sound of
wheels was suffered within the city limits, and late arrivals had to
commit their luggage to a porter and follow him on foot.
At three o'clock, in the Sagrario of the cathedral, the archbishop
washed the feet of thirteen old paupers, who sat in two confronting
rows, looking neat as wax and happy as honey, each dressed in a
brand-new suit, with a long-fringed damask towel over his shoulder.
Their old blood had been warmed by the archbishop's own wine, for they
had just come from luncheon in the ecclesiastical palace, where they
had been served by the highest dignitaries of the church and the
proudest nobles of the city. The function of foot washing was not
taken too seriously. The fat canons smiled good-humoredly on their
archbishop, as his group of attendants lowered him to his knees and
lifted him again before every old man in turn, and the acolytes nudged
one another with boyish mirth over the rheumatic, embarrassed efforts
of the beneficiaries to put on their stockings.
A Franciscan friar mounted the pulpit, however, and turned the
congregation, thickly sprinkled with English visitors, serious enough
by a succinct and fiery sermon, saying, in a nutshell, that love is
the glory of the religious life, but is the fruit only of Catholicism,
for nowhere, though one searches the world over, can there be found a
work of mercy--hospital, asylum, endowed school, charity of any sort
or kind--due to Protestantism. And the old paupers, glancing down at
their new suits and feeling the glow of their banquet, were glad to
the tips of their purified toes that their lots had been cast in
Catholic Spain.
By six o'clock the squares and streets along the processional route
were thronged again, although our Spanish friends assured us that the
numbers were less than usual. The war feeling kept the Americans and,
to some extent, the English away, while many of the Spanish of the
provinces, who were accustomed to take their annual outing in Seville
during the _Semana Santa_, were held at home this year by poverty or
mourning.
The first two pageants of the afternoon, those of the bull-fighters
and the cigarette-makers, were awaited with especial eagerness. For
these Seville brotherhoods, more than thirty in all, still maintain
something of the mediaeval structure of the guilds. Just as in England
and France, from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, or
thereabouts, organized companies of craftsmen used to present in
Passion Week successive scenes from the life of Christ, these Spanish
_cofradias_ to-day maintain such general lines of division in
performing a similar function. Yet any Catholic Sevillian may, if he
chooses, secure admission to any of these societies, irrespective of
his occupation. The young _caballero_ who chanced to be our prime
source of information this Thursday afternoon was himself of a
prominent family, a protege of the archbishop, and a student of law,
yet he belonged to the brotherhood of Fruit Venders, although his
devotion seemed a little languid, and he had excused himself on this
occasion from the long march in the breathless Nazarene garb.
Not all the brothers feel bound to perform this penitential service
every Passion Week, and, indeed, not all the brotherhoods. Several of
the most elaborate pageants were missing from the ranks this year.
Such omissions are not as disastrous to the processional effect as
they would have been in England, for example, some six centuries ago.
Then the gilded and tapestried platforms, set on wheels, which the
processions conducted through the streets, were really stages, and at
the halting places the best actors of each guild played upon its
particular platform an appointed scene from the sacred drama. The
sequence of events was duly observed, and the spectator, standing in
market-place or at street corner, while one theatre after another
rolled by him, saw acted out with much finery of wardrobe and
ingenuity of machinery, with tragic dialogue and declamation, relieved
by comic interludes, all the Bible story, from the revolt of Lucifer
to the Day of Judgment. But modern Spain, abandoning the acting and
recitation and substituting puppets for living men, has let slip the
dramatic sequence, so that a few pageants less means only so much
abatement in the general splendor of the spectacle.
The bull-fighters of Andalusia are eminently religious and are said,
likewise, to be remarkable for their domestic virtues. All their manly
fury is launched against the bull, and they have only gentleness left
for wives and children. I have heard no better argument for the bull
ring. At all events, these _toreros_, marching soberly in black, with
yellow belts, escorted with well-ordered solemnity an image of the
crucified Christ, followed by a queenly effigy of Our Lady of Refuge,
erect behind terraced ranks of candles on a flower-strewn litter,
under a costly canopy of black velvet embroidered with gold. The
cigarette-makers came after with their two pageants, Christ fastened
to the pillar, and Our Lady of Victory.
It was, as usual, the second upon which the main expense had been
lavished. A great company of acolytes, richly clad and swinging
censers of pure silver, went in advance of the Virgin, and three bands
of music followed her with continuous acclaim, while a regiment of
soldiers attended as a guard of honor. Immediately in front of the
_paso_ went, surrounded by officers and aides, General Ochando, his
head uncovered and his breast glittering with decorations, for the
young king of Spain is a member of this _cofradia_, and had sent the
distinguished military governor of the Provinces, who has a palace in
Seville, to represent him. Especial enthusiasm was called out by this
image of Mary, for the cigarette-makers had just presented her with a
new mantle at a cost of nine thousand dollars. The brothers were
willingly aided by the seven thousand women who work in the immense
tobacco factory, the average contribution of each donor being two
_centimos_ (two-fifths of a cent) a week during the preceding year. No
wonder that the Virgin seemed to stand proudly upon her silvered
pedestal, her gorgeous new mantle streaming out until it almost
touched the head of a white-vested girl who walked barefoot close
behind the litter, so fulfilling a vow made in extremity of illness.
Black and white were the banners and costumes of the third procession,
very effective through the deepening dusk. Their leading pageant was a
Gethsemane, famous for the beauty of the carving. Christ is
represented in prayer before an angel, who bears in one hand the cross
and in the other the cup of bitterness, while Peter, James, and John
are sleeping near their Master. These Passion groups are, with a few
exceptions of still earlier date, works of the seventeenth century,
the glorious period of Spanish art, the day of Murillo and Velazquez.
The most and best are from the hand of the Sevillian Montanes, of
chief repute in the Spanish school of polychrome sculpture, but this
Gethsemane was carved by his imitator, Roldan, whose daughter, La
Roldana, is accredited with the figure of the angel and with the
reliefs that adorn the pedestal.
Another Virgin, who, like all the rest, seemed a scintillation of gold
and jewels, swept by, and a new troop of Nazarenes, this time in
purple and white, passed with two august pageants,--the Descent from
the Cross and the Fifth Anguish of Mary. Then came two files of
ash-colored figures, who marshalled, between their rows of starry
tapers, each taper bending toward its opposite, a vivid presentation
of the Crowning with Thorns; and, after this, their Mary of the
Valley, noted for the gracious sweetness of her countenance. This
image is held to be one of Montanes's masterpieces in wood-carving.
Five processions had now passed, with their two pageants each, and the
hour was late, but we could not leave the balcony for anything so
commonplace as dinner. Far down the street of _Las Sierpes_ waved a
river of lights, announcing the advent of the most ancient of all the
Sevillian brotherhoods, Jesus of the Passion. The crowded _plaza_ rose
in reverence as the Crucifixion _paso_ was borne by, and Our Lady of
Mercy, too magnificent for her name, was greeted with rapturous
outcries.
[Illustration: OFF FOR THE WAR]
Just how and when and where something in the way of food was taken, I
hardly know, but as this, the last of the Thursday evening
processions, passed in music out of the _plaza_, a few of us made
speed by a deserted side street to the cathedral. We were too late for
the _Miserere_, which was just closing in that surprising hubbub,
the stamping of feet and beating of canes and chairs against the
floor, by which Spanish piety is wont to "punish Judas." But we took
our station near by the entrance to the Royal Chapel, wherein had been
erected the grand Holy Week monument, in white and gold, shaped like a
temple, and shining with innumerable silver lamps and taper lights.
Within this monument the Host, commonly spoken of in Spain as _Su
Majestad_, had been solemnly placed the night before, much as the
mediaeval church used to lay the crucifix, with requiems, under the
High Altar on Good Friday, and joyously bring it forth again Easter
morning. But Spanish Catholicism is strangely indifferent to dates,
burying the Host on Wednesday and celebrating the Resurrection
Saturday.
All day long the Royal Chapel had been filled with relays upon relays
of kneeling worshippers, and the hush there had been so profound that
the hum of the tourist-haunted nave and the tumult of the streets
seemed faint and foreign to the hearing, like sounds a universe away.
Before this chapel entrance all the pageants, as they were borne in
silence through the cathedral, paused and did homage to the Host.
Having outstripped the procession, we had arrived in season to witness
three of these salutations. The Nazarenes, in passing, fell upon their
knees in the light of the great, gleaming monument, and each of the
heavy platforms was slowly swung about so that it faced this symbol of
Christ's sepulchre.
Yet there was something besides devotion in the cathedral. As the
crowd pressed close, we felt, more than once, a fumbling at our
pockets, and the little artist lost her purse. The rest of us
comforted her by saying over and over that she ought to have known
better than to bring it, and by severally relating how cautious we had
been on our own accounts.
It was hard upon eleven when we returned to the house, but the streets
were all alive with people. I went to the balcony at midnight, and
again at the stroke of one, and both times looked down upon a _plaza_
crossed and recrossed in all directions by talkative, eager groups.
Many of these restless promenaders had been able to get no lodgings,
and were walking to keep warm. The pressure upon the hotels was so
great that one desperate stranger this Thursday night paid twenty
dollars for a cot from ten o'clock till two, and private hospitality
was taxed to a degree that nothing but Spanish courtesy and
good-nature could ever have endured. In the house which harbored us,
for instance, we were all fitted in as compactly as the pieces of a
puzzle, when the unexpected friends began to arrive.
On Wednesday there appeared from the far north a man and wife,
acquaintances of ten years back. Our host and hostess greeted this
surprise party with Andalusian sunshine in their faces, and yielded up
their own room. Thursday morning there walked gayly in one of the
son's university classmates from Madrid. Don Pepe embraced him like a
brother, and surrendered the sofa, which was all he had left to give.
And this Thursday midnight, as a crowning touch, three more chums of
college days came clattering at the bell. Their welcome was as cordial
as if the household were pining for society. The tired maids, laughing
gleefully over the predicament, contributed their own mattresses and
pillows, and made up beds on the study floor, where Don Pepe camped
out with his comrades, to rise with a headache that lasted for days
after.
By two o'clock I had taken my station on the balcony for an all-night
vigil. The most of the family bore me company for the cogent reason
that they had nowhere to sleep, but the other guests of the house held
out for only an hour or two, and then went blinking to their repose.
My memory of the night is strangely divided between the dreamlike,
unearthly pomps and splendors streaming through the square below and
the kindly, cheery people who came and went about me. The senora,
still fresh and charming, although she has wept the deaths of fourteen
out of her nineteen children, was merrily relating, with weary head
against her husband's shoulder, her almost insuperable difficulties in
the way of furnishing her table. The milkman roundly declared that if
she wanted a double quantity of the precious fluid (and goat's milk at
that), she must make it up with water. There was no meat to be had in
the Catholic city during these holy days, and even her baker had
forsaken his oven and gone off to see the sights. And the
black-bearded senor, who, like his wife, had not been in bed for forty
odd hours, laughed at her and comforted her, puffed harder than ever
at his cigarette, and roguishly quoted the saying, "He whom God loves
has a house in Seville."
By two o'clock the seats on the grand stand were filling fast, the
_plaza_ hummed with excitement, the balconies resounded with song and
laughter, and the strong electric lights in front of the city hall
cast a hard, white brilliance over all the scene. The frying of
_calientes_, an Andalusian version of twisted doughnuts, was in savory
progress here and there on the outskirts of the throng, and our ever
thoughtful hostess did not fail to keep her balcony well supplied
with these crisp dainties.
The twinkling of taper lights, so warm and yellow under those pallid
globes of electric glare, appeared while people were still hurrying to
their places; but hundreds upon hundreds of black and gold figures had
paced by before the first of their _pasos_ came into view. For these
processions of the dawn, _de madrugada_, call out great numbers of the
devout, who would thus keep the last watch with their Lord. The clocks
struck three as the leading pageant, a very ancient image of Christ,
bearing a silver-mounted cross of tortoise-shell, halted before the
Alcalde. A white banner wrought with gold heralded the Virgin, who
rose, in glistening attire, from a golden lake of lights.
The wealthy _cofradia_ of San Lorenzo followed in their costly habits
of black velvet. They, too, conducted a pageant of Christ bearing His
cross, one of the most beautiful groups of Montanes, the pedestal
adorned with angels in relief. To the Christ, falling on the Via
Dolorosa, the brotherhood, with the usual disregard of historic
propriety, had given a royal mantle of ermine, embroidered with gold
and pearls. A large company of black-clad women, carrying candles,
walked behind the _paso_, on their penitential march of some eight
hours. Many of them were ladies delicately bred, whose diamonds
sparkled on the breast of the approaching Mary. For the Sevillian
senoras are accustomed to lend their most valuable gems to their
favorite Virgins for the _Semana Santa_, and San Lorenzo's Lady of
Grief is said to have worn this night the worth of millions. She
passed amid a great attendant throng, in such clouds of incense that
the eye could barely catch the shimmer of her silver pedestal, the
gleam of the golden broideries that almost hid the velvet of her
mantle, and the flashes and jets of light that shot from the
incredible treasure of jewels that she wore.
The third troop of Nazarenes, robed in white and violet, bore for
banner a white cross upon a violet ground. Their Christ-pageant
pictured Pilate in his judgment seat in the act of condemning the Son
of God to death. Jesus, guarded by armed soldiers, calmly confronts
the troubled judge, at whose knee wait two little pages with a basin
of water and towels.
And now came one of the most gorgeous features of the Holy Week
processions--a legion of Roman soldiers, attired as never Roman
soldiers were, in gold greaves and crimson tunics, with towering
snow-white plumes. But a splendid show they made as, marching to drum
and fife, they filed down _Las Sierpes_ and stretched "in never ending
line" across the _plaza_. Our most Holy Mary of Hope, who followed,
wearing a fair white tunic and a gold-embroidered mantle of green, the
color of the hopeful season, drowned the memory of that stern military
music in a silver concert of flutes.
After this sumptuous display, the fourth band of Nazarenes, gliding
through the _plaza_ between night and day in their garb of black and
white, could arouse but little enthusiasm, although their Crucifixion
was one of the most artistic, and their Lady of the Presentation had
her poorest garment of fine satin.
A pearly lustre was stealing through the sky, and the chill in the air
was thinning the rows of spectators on the grand stand, when
mysterious, dim-white shapes, like ghosts, bore by in utter silence a
pageant of Christ fainting beneath the burden of the cross. But soon
the clamor of drums and fifes ushered in another long array of Roman
soldiers, a rainbow host in red and pink and blue, crimson plumes
alternating with white, and golden shields with silver. The electric
lights, globed high overhead, took one look at this fantastic
cavalcade and went out with a gasp.
It was now clear day. Canaries began to sing in their cages, and
parrots to scream for chocolate. Sleepy-eyed servant-maids appeared on
the balconies, and market women, leading green-laden donkeys, peered
forth from the side streets into the square. The morning light made
havoc with the glamour of the pageants. Something frank and practical
in the sunshine stripped those candle-lighted litters of their
dignity. Busy people dodged through the procession lines, and one
Nazarene after another might be seen slipping out of the ranks and
hurrying awkwardly, in his cumbersome dress, with the half-burned
taper under his arm, to the refuge of his own mosquito-netting and
orange tree. The tired crowd grew critical and irreverent, and openly
railed upon the Virgin of this ghostly _cofradia_ because her velvet
mantle was comparatively plain. "Bah! how poor it is! Are we to sit
here all the night for such stingy shows as that?"
But the last brotherhood in the _madrugada_ processions had, with
their white frocks and blue caps and capes, suited themselves to the
colors of the day. The stumbling children, blind with sleep, whom
fathers were already leading off the square, turned back for a drowsy
gaze at the resplendent tunic of the Christ in the Via Dolorosa
_paso_, a tunic claimed to be the richest of all the garments worn by
the effigies of Jesus. So lovely was this trooping company in their
tints of sky and cloud, bearing a great blue banner and a shining
ivory cross, that they brought order and decorum with them.
The division that escorted the Virgin marched on with especial
steadiness, not a peaked cap drooping, nor a boyish acolyte faltering
under the weight of his tall gilded censer. This most Holy Mary of
Anguish, whose litter and canopy were all of white and gold, swept by
in triumphal peals of music while the clocks were striking six. In
some mental confusion, I said good night to the people I left on the
balcony, and good morning to the people I met on the stairs, and ate
my breakfast before I went to bed.
It seemed as if human nature could bear no more; the eyes ached with
seeing, and phantasmal processions went sweeping through our dreams;
yet Friday afternoon at five o'clock found our balcony, like all the
rest, full to overflowing. Some twenty thousand people were massed in
the _plaza_, and it was estimated that over one hundred thousand
waited along the line of march. Our Spanish entertainers, still
unrefreshed by any chance for sleep, were as gayly and punctiliously
attentive to their guests as ever, from our gallant host, who
presented the ladies with fragrant bouquets of roses and orange
blossoms, to the little pet of the household, who at the most
engrossing moments in the ceremonial would slip away from her
privileged stand on a footstool against the railing to summon any
member of the party who might be missing the spectacle.
The Spanish colors floated out from city hall and court-house, but the
great concourse below was all in hues of mourning, the black mantillas
often falling over dresses of plain purple. The senoritas in the
balconies had substituted knots of black ribbon for the customary
flowers in the hair. Jet trimmings abounded, and the waving fans were
black.
The coming procession, we were assured on every hand, would be the
most solemn of all and the most sumptuous. The habits of the Nazarenes
would be of satin, silk, and velvet. The images of Christ and the
Virgin would be attired with all possible magnificence of damask and
ermine, gold and jewels. Brotherhood would vie with brotherhood in
splendor, and one prodigy of luxury would succeed another.
The leading company, whose far-trailing robes carpeted the street with
fine black velvet, stood for the olive industry. This _cofradia_ had
been poor and unimportant for generations, but in recent years a
devoted brother, a manufacturer of olive packing-barrels, had poured
forth his accumulated fortune upon the society, with the result that
their _pasos_ are now second in ostentation and expense to none. The
donor, long since too feeble to bear his taper in the line, lives in
humble obscurity, but his old heart swells with joy this great day of
the year when he sees, following the elaborate carving of the
Crucifixion, the dazzling chariot of Our Lady of Solitude. Upon her
mantle, which enjoys the proud distinction of being the very costliest
of all, he has lavished twenty thousand dollars. Longer by a yard than
any of the others, it was yet unable to find place for all the gold
which the zealous Nazarene had given for it, and the residue was
bestowed about the pedestal and canopy. The _paso_ is so heavy with
gold that it requires a double force of men to carry it; but each of
these hidden bearers, getting air as best he can through a silver
breathing-tube, is sure of a dollar for his recompense as well as two
glasses of good wine.
[Illustration: GRANADA. LOOKING TOWARD THE DARRO]
All the adornment of the litter is of pure gold, and such wealth of
jewels glinted from the Virgin's glorious raiment that a triple force
of Civil Guards was detailed for her protection. Her ardent worshipper
has denied her nothing. The very columns that uphold her canopy are
exquisite in carving, and it is his yearly pride to see that her
clouds of incense are the thickest, and her train of musicians the
most extended, in all that glittering line.
The second _cofradia_ exhibited but a single pageant, relying for
effect upon the beauty of the sculpture. The Mater Dolorosa was bowed
in her desolation at the foot of the Holy Rood, from which hung only
the white folds of the winding-sheet.
But the third brotherhood had bethought themselves to introduce,
between their austere Crucifixion and their shining image of Mary,
another preposterous parade of Roman soldiers--flower-colored,
plume-tossing, butterfly creatures far too bright, if not too good,
"for human nature's daily food." One whiff from Caesar's iron breast
would have blown them away like soap bubbles.
The silversmiths trooped by in graver, more majestic state, their
purple velvet habits girded with gold cords. Upon a gilded pedestal,
wrought with high relief, was seen their Christ, bowed beneath a
precious cross of tortoise-shell and silver. Our Lady of Expectation
gleamed with gold and gems, and this haughty brotherhood received a
full meed of applause.
Black from top to toe was the fifth procession. Their Jesus of the Via
Dolorosa bent beneath a sombre cross of ebony embossed with gold, but
the blithe young voices of the countless choir-boys, singing like
birds before the dawn, ushered in a sun-bright image of Mary.
But something was amiss with the processional order. Where were the
stately ranks of Montserrat? Alas and alas! Scarcely had this
aristocratic _cofradia_ gone a hundred paces from their chapel when,
in the narrow street of Murillo, a leaning candle touched the lace
skirt of the Virgin and instantly all the front of the litter was in
flames. It was hardly a matter of minutes. From the balconies above
were dashed down pailfuls and pitcherfuls of water. The Nazarenes,
wrenching away the blue velvet mantle wondrously embroidered in gold
with castles, lions, and _fleurs de lis_, succeeded in rescuing a
ragged half of it, and the Civil Guards, drawing their swords and
forming a circle about the smoking litter, saved the jewels from
robbery. Perhaps the other _paso_, too, Christ of the Conversion of
the Penitent Thief, had some protecting influence. But in all this ado
about her finery, the poor Virgin's face, beloved for its winsome
look, was completely burned away. In sorry plight Our Lady of
Montserrat was hurried back to her chapel, and the swift rumor of the
disaster sent a superstitious trouble through the city.
But more and more solemnly the taper-bearing troops of Nazarenes
poured by with the culminating pictures of the Passion. These last
three _cofradias_ presented each a single pageant. An escort in dark
purple conducted an impressive Descent from the Cross. The Virgin, her
crowned head bowed in anguish, clasps the drooping body of Christ to
her heart, while John and Mary Magdalene look on in hopeless sorrow.
Figures in black and white came after, with their sixteenth-century
carving, Christ of the Dying Breath, beneath the cross standing Our
Lady of Tears. And last of all, in slow, sad movement, their white
trains streaming like a line of light along the stone-paved way,
passed the second brotherhood of San Lorenzo, bearing the Most Blessed
Virgin in her Solitude. The gold of her mantle seemed one with the
gold of the candle rays, and, for many a silent watcher, those
gliding, gleaming, spiritlike forms will move forever down a shining
path in memory. So closed the Holy Week processions.
"How sorry I am," said our host, with the Andalusian twinkle in his
eye. "It is almost eleven o'clock. Ladies and gentlemen, will you
please walk out to dinner?"
On Saturday morning we went early to the cathedral for the closing
rite. The Sagrario was thronged. Some of the senoras had brought low
folding chairs with them, others sat upon the floor, but most of that
innumerable congregation knelt or stood. We were all facing the great
purple veil which concealed the high altar, with Roldan's retablo of
the Descent from the Cross. There was an hour or more of expectation,
during which rosaries slipped through the fingers of many a veiled
nun, and the soft murmur of prayer came from strong men as well as
from pale-faced women. Suddenly, while a shock of thunder crashed from
the organ, hidden ministrants sharply drew on hidden cords, the purple
curtain parted in the midst, and the two folds rolled asunder,
revealing the high altar, with its carving of the accomplished
Passion. The organ poured forth jubilees of victory, all the bells of
the cathedral pealed together, _Gloria in Excelsis_ soared in choral
chant, and amid the awe-stricken multitudes fallen to their knees, _Su
Majestad_ was borne in priestly procession from the tomb in the Royal
Chapel to the candles and incense which awaited at the high altar that
triumphal coming.
Easter Sunday was celebrated by a bull-fight.
VII
TRACES OF THE INQUISITION
"I live a life more great than I.
The life I hope is life so high,
I die because I cannot die."
--_Santa Teresa de Jesus._
All Spaniards venerate the name of _Isabel la Catolica_, nor is the
impressionable De Amicis the only foreigner who has trembled and wept
at Granada before the enshrined memorials, jewel box, mirror, missal,
and crown, of her royal womanhood. She is a precious figure in Spain's
sunset revery--a saint beneath a conquering standard, a silken lady in
a soldier's tent. Yet this peerless queen, merciful, magnanimous,
devout, "the shield of the innocent," caring supremely for the glory
of God and the good of her country, gave consent, albeit reluctant, to
the establishment of the Inquisition, Christianity's chief scandal and
Spain's most fatal blight. So ironic were the stars of Isabel.
The Inquisition, it is true, originated in Italy early in the
thirteenth century and followed the flight of some of the Albigenses
into Aragon, but its work in Spain had been comparatively slight and
merciful until the "Catholic Kings," in the interests of religious
reform, for the purification of the national faith, let its horrors
loose. Wherever one moves in Spain the sickening breath of the _auto
de fe_ lingers in the air. In such a square, we read, was once a
mighty bonfire of Jews; beneath our feet, we are told, is a mass of
human bones and cinders. This sunshiny Seville, with her parks and
patios, her palms and orange groves, a city seemingly fashioned only
for love and song, had her army of nearly twoscore thousand martyrs,
who, dressed in the hateful _San Benitos_, yellow coats painted with
flames and devils, were burned to death here in our gay _Plaza de la
Constitucion_, then known as the _Plaza de San Francisco_, and in the
_Quemadero_ beyond the walls. As one mingles with some outdoor throng,
all intent on pageant, dance, or other spectacle, one shudders to
remember that just such dark, eager faces were ringed about the
agonies of those heroic victims. For there are two sides to the
Spanish Inquisition. If Spaniards were the inquisitors, Spaniards,
too, were the dauntless sufferers. The sombre gaze of the torturer was
met, as steel meets iron, by the unflinching eye of the tortured. But
"the unimaginable touch of Time" transforms all tragedy to beauty, and
red poppies, blowing on the grassy plain of the _Quemadero_, translate
into poetry to-day that tale of blazing fagots.
Sometimes the victims were of foreign blood. Hakluyt has preserved the
simple narratives of two English sailors, who were brought by their
Spanish captors from the Indies as a sacrifice to the Holy House of
Seville. One, a happy-go-lucky fellow, Miles Phillips, who had been
too well acquainted in Mexico with the dungeons of the Inquisition,
slipped over the ship's side at San Lucar, made his way to shore, and
boldly went to Seville, where he lived a hidden life as a silk-weaver,
until he found his chance to steal away and board a Devon
merchantman. The other, Job Hortop, added to his two years of Mexican
imprisonment two more years in Seville. Then "they brought us out in
procession, every one of us having a candle in his hand, and the coat
with S. Andrew's cross on our backs; they brought us up on an high
scaffold, that was set up in the place of S. Francis, which is in the
chief street of Seville; there they set us down upon benches, every
one in his degree, and against us on another scaffold sate all the
Judges and the Clergy on their benches. The people wondered, and gazed
on us, some pitying our case, others said, burn those heretics. When
we had sat there two hours, we had a sermon made to us, after which
one called Bresinia, secretary to the Inquisition, went up into the
pulpit with the process, and called Robert Barret, ship-master, and
John Gilbert, whom two Familiars of the Inquisition brought from the
scaffold before the Judges, where the secretary read the sentence,
which was that they should be burnt, and so they returned to the
scaffold, and were burnt.
"Then I, Job Hortop, and John Bone, were called, and brought to the
place, as before, when we heard our sentence, which was, that we
should go to the Galleys, and there to row at the oar's end ten years,
and then to be brought back to the Inquisition House, to have the coat
with S. Andrew's cross put on our backs, and from thence to go to the
everlasting prison remediless.
"I with the rest were sent to the Galleys, where we were chained four
and four together.... Hunger, thirst, cold, and stripes we lacked
none, till our several times expired, and after the time of twelve
years, for I served two years above my sentence, I was sent back to
the Inquisition House in Seville, and there having put on the coat
with S. Andrew's cross, I was sent to the everlasting prison
remediless, where I wore the coat four years, and then upon great suit
I had it taken off for fifty duckets, which Hernando de Soria,
treasurer of the king's mint, lent me, whom I was to serve for it as a
drudge seven years."
But this victim, too, escaped in a fly-boat at last, and on a certain
Christmas Eve, about the time when people in London were beginning to
like the comedies of a certain poor player, one Will Shakespeare, did
Job Hortop, Powder-maker and Gunner, walk quietly, after twenty-three
years of martyrdom, into the village of Redcliffe, where he had been a
ruddy English boy with no dream of the day when he should be "prest
forth" by Sir John Hawkins and compelled, sore against his will, to
embark for the West Indian adventure.
Religious liberty now exists under the laws of Spain, although the
administration of those laws leaves much to be desired. In three old
conventual churches of Seville gather her three Protestant
congregations. Beneath the pavements of two of these heretic
strongholds old inquisitors sleep what uneasy sleep they may, while
one of the Protestant pastors, formerly a Catholic priest, has quietly
collected and stored in his church-study numerous mementos of the Holy
Office. Here may be seen two of those rare copies of the 1602 revision
of the Spanish Bible, by Cipriano de Valera, whom the Inquisition
could burn only in effigy, since the translator, who had printed his
book in Amsterdam, did not return to accompany the Familiars to the
_Quemadero_. Here are old books with horrible woodcuts of the
torments, and time-stained manuscripts, several bearing the seal and
signatures of the "Catholic Kings," these last so ill written that it
is hard to tell the name of Ferdinand from that of Isabella. Among
these are royal commissions, or licenses, granted to individual
inquisitors, records of _autos de fe_, and wills of rich inquisitors,
the sources of whose wealth would hardly court a strict examination.
Here, too, is the standard of the Holy Office, the very banner borne
through Seville in those grim processions. Its white silk is saffroned
now, but the strange seal of the Inquisition, a bleeding Christ upon
the cross, is clearly blazoned in the centre, while the four corners
show the seal of San Domingo.
The Inquisition prison, the dreaded Holy House of Seville, is used as
a factory at present, and heresy no longer secures admission there;
but I looked up at its grated windows, and then, with a secret shiver,
down on the ground, where the Spanish pastor of antiquarian tastes was
marking out with his cane the directions of the far-branching
subterranean cells. We slipped into an outer court of the _fabrica_,
where the two gentlemen, effectively aided by a couple of sturdy lads,
pried up and flung back a sullen door in the pavement and invited me
to grope my darkling way down some twenty crumbling steps, overgrown
with a treacherous green mould. There was no refusing, in face of the
cloud of witnesses whose groans these stones had heard, and I took a
heart-breaking plunge into the honeycomb of chill, foul-smelling,
horror-haunted dungeons, whose roofs let fall a constant drip of water
and from whose black recesses I was the unwilling means of liberating
a choice variety of insects.
"But even yet one cannot call one's self a Protestant in Spain, you
know," said an English diplomat to us in another city of Andalusia.
"It's not socially respectable. Spanish Protestants are the very scum
of the earth--illiterate, dirty, boorish. You couldn't associate with
them for a minute."
"But that Spanish pastor who called on us yesterday was entirely a
gentleman," we remonstrated. "He has studied for seven years in
Switzerland and Scotland, seems more open-minded and intelligent than
most Spaniards we have met, and was so courteous and graceful in his
bearing--not to mention the whiteness of his linen--and so
entertaining in his talk, that the Spanish ladies in the room
chorussed his praises, after he had bowed himself out, and declared
him most delightful company."
The diplomat twirled his mustache and smiled, as only diplomats can.
"And you owned up that he was a Protestant? And their faces darkened
as if a storm-cloud had blown over from the Sierras?"
"Precisely so," we admitted, "and after that the best they could say
for him was that they never would have thought it."
The diplomat claimed that he had made his point, while we protested
that the incident only went to show how unreasonable was the prejudice
of whose existence throughout Spain there can be no manner of doubt.
Perez Galdos, for instance, the most popular novelist of the day,
stated to an American friend, who repeated it to us, that he frankly
could not afford to introduce the figure of a Protestant into one of
his stories. "It would not only kill that book," he said, "but it
would hurt the sale of everything I have in the market and embarrass
all my future undertakings. I should simply be risking the loss of my
reading public." And yet Senor Galdos is the author of "Dona
Perfecta," that artistic study of the conflict between new ideas and
old in Spain. In this significant novel, a civil engineer, a man of
thirty, whose scientific education in the large cities of Seville and
Madrid has been supplemented by study in Germany and England, comes to
one of those mediaeval towns, or corpses of towns, that rise so
spectre-like from the ash-colored plains of Old Castile. Crumbling
walls and blackened towers jealously guard the life of ages since,
that feudal life of high and low, pride of station, pride of animal
prowess, pride of holiness, pride of idleness, pride of ignorance; the
life of superstition, of family exclusiveness resulting in
intermarriage to the point of insanity; of that fierce local bigotry,
peculiarly Spanish, which dreads and hates all foreign intrusion. The
streets, devoid of business activity, swarm with vigorous mendicants,
who have no better shift, when times grow hard, than to deform the
children who are born to them like kittens in their mud-walled hovels.
The casino, where half the town smokes half its time away, hums with
malicious gossip. The university languidly pursues the studies of
Latin, scholastic divinity, Church history, and all that savors of the
past. Under the gray vault of the cathedral women kneel before the
image of the Christ Child, bringing Him a new pair of embroidered
pantalets and entreating of His rosy simplicity what they would not
dare ask from the "Ecce Homo"; or they kiss the satin-slippered feet
of the miracle-working Virgin and vow her, if their prayer is granted,
seven bright new swords of the finest Toledo workmanship to pierce her
patient heart. The man of scientific training, fresh from the modern
world, is brought into sharp collision with this dim old town. High
principles and essential, spiritual Christianity count him for
nothing; he is speedily denounced as no better than "a murderer, an
atheist, or a Protestant," and his strong young life is actually
beaten out by that blind, terrible force of Spanish fanaticism. So far
the novelist can go; such a hero he dares paint; but not a Protestant.
The notions of Protestantism prevalent among the people, not the
peasants only, but the gentry, are little short of ludicrous. A
black-eyed lady of Cadiz was amazed at our assertion that Protestants
prayed. A Madrid senorita asked us, in friendly confidence, if it were
true that Protestants "denied Christ and spat on the Virgin." The
popular identification of Protestantism with all that is impious and
criminal we encountered as early as our second afternoon in Spain. We
were visiting, in the picturesque fishing-hamlet of Pasajes, a gaunt
Basque church, where the old dame who served as caretaker showed us a
waxen image of a sleeping girl, said, not without probability, to have
been brought from Rome. Beneath the figure is a burial stone, whose
inscription would locate it in the Catacombs. When friends of ours
were at Pasajes some three years before, the grandam's story ran that
the image was the likeness of a Christian martyr, slain by her pagan
father at Rome in the time of the Imperial persecutions; but the tale
glibly recited to us was this: "_Ay de mi!_ The poor young lady! Her
father was a Protestant, and, of course, hated religion, and when his
daughter, so beautiful, was on her way to her first communion, he hid
behind a corner, with an axe, and of a sudden jumped out on her and
struck her dead."
It is such prejudice that goes far toward justifying the maintenance
by foreign societies of Protestant churches in Spain. They cannot
stand alone, in face of all this hostility, and yet the country has
need of them. No European nation can nowadays be shut in to any single
channel of religious life, and doubtless, apart from all questions of
creed, there are Spanish temperaments to which the simpler _culto_ is
more natural than the elaborate ritual of Rome; but, waiving
discussion as to the relative gifts and graces of these two great
divisions of Christ's fellowship, the new seems essential, not for
itself alone, but as a stimulus and corrective to the old. Time may
make it clear that a purified Roman Catholicism is better suited to
the Latin races in general than plainer rites and less symbolic
worship, but there are heavy counts against the Roman Catholic Church
as it exists in Spain. The private lives of the clergy, as a class,
have been so open to reproach that even the finger-games and nonsense
songs of the little children, learned with their baby lispings, mock
priestly immorality. The Church, steward of untold wealth, has endowed
many charities, but the fundamental trust of knowledge it has most
sluggishly and inadequately dispensed. Santiago de Compostela, for
example, is a very nest of religious foundations. Thirty-six Christian
fraternities are gathered there, yet we were told on good authority
that not one peasant in a hundred of those within hearing of
Santiago's fivescore and fourteen holy bells can read and write. In
matters of State, the Church has utterly lost the allegiance of the
progressive party and, to a large extent, the political confidence of
the nation. As Spaniards study the history of their country, they
realize more and more that her colossal mistakes and misfortunes have
been due in large measure to Jesuit and Dominical policy--to the
father confessor in the royal chamber, the inquisitor in shadow of
the throne. With reference to the success of the Church in promoting
spiritual life, a beautiful young nun, her eyes glistening like happy
stars, assured us that there was more devotion in Catholic Spain than
in all the rest of Christendom. A scientist of repute, his voice
choking with grief and wrath, declared to us that the fetters of
superstition had become hopelessly riveted, during these ages of
Church control, on the Spanish mind. But call it what you will,
devotion or superstition, and admitting, as the tourist must, that it
is a most conspicuous and impressive feature of Spanish life, there
are nevertheless thousands of Spaniards, especially the younger men,
over whom it has lost sway. These are the _indiferentes_, many of whom
might find, as some have found, in a fresh presentation of
Christianity, the Godward impetus which they no longer gain from the
Church of Rome.
The most cheerful _indiferente_ I encountered in Spain was a whimsical
old philosopher, well on his way to the nineties, yet so brisk and
hardy as almost to vie with Borrow's Portuguese dame whose hair "was
becoming gray" after a life of one hundred and ten years. His hair,
indeed, is white, and extreme age has written its deforming marks on
face and figure, yet he runs up the steepest stairs, reads the finest
print, fills his days with a close succession of labors and
amusements, and scoffs at religion as airily as if Death had passed
him on the crowded way and would never turn back to look for him
again.
At our first meeting he offered, with characteristic kindness, to come
and read Spanish with me. As I had invaded Spain for the express
purpose of studying the Spanish drama, I took a volume of Calderon
from my trunk and hopefully awaited his visit. But it was a matter of
several visits before I could open my Calderon. The jaunty old
cavalier arrived, brimming over with chat and anecdote, and when at
last I hinted at the reading, produced with pride from his inner coat
pocket a little, paper-bound _geografia_ that he had written himself
for use in the Spanish schools, and proceeded to regale me with
extracts from its pages. I looked severely at the little artist, whose
eyes were dancing in a demure face, and endeavored to profit by this
unexpected course of instruction. The author chuckled much over his
sagacity in having arranged the subject-matter of his book in
paragraphs and not by question and answer. In the latter case, he
explained, the children would learn the answers without reading the
questions, a process bound to result in geographical confusion. The
little volume, as is the wont of school books in other lands, tended
to give to its students a disproportionate idea of the importance of
their own country. Spain and her colonies were treated in seventy
pages, Great Britain and her colonies in three, France in four, while
America, from Greenland to Patagonia, was handled as a single entity,
one figure each, and those absurdly small, being set for "her
population, army, and navy." The _Confederacion de los Estados Unidos_
was barely mentioned as one of the five "States" of North America.
But the only feature of his book for which the author felt called upon
to apologize, was the catering to popular superstition, as in stating,
for instance, that in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela is
adored the veritable body of St. James. He cast a quizzical glance at
me in reading this, and then laughed himself purple in the face. "One
has to say these things in this country," he gasped, still breathless
from his mirth. "Drops of water must run with the stream. If only
there were a shrine where people might be cured of being fools!"
Quick-witted as the old gentleman was, he presently detected a lack of
geographical enthusiasm in his audience. His literary vanity smarted
for a moment and then he fell to laughing, declaring that ladies
always had a distaste for useful information. "That old wife of mine"
could not abide arithmetic. He digressed into an explanation of the
Roman notation, making it quite clear to us wherein IX differs from
XI, and with antiquated courtliness of phrase, even for Spain, asked
our gracious permission to cause himself the pain of departure.
He often reappeared. His wiry arm, reached through the Moorish bars of
the outer door, would give its own peculiarly energetic twitch to the
bell chain looped within. A maid, leaning over the railing of an upper
story, would call down the challenge inherited from good old fighting
times, "Who comes here?" And his thin voice would chirp the Andalusian
answer, "Peace."
On his second visit he fairly gurgled with pleasure as he placed
another volume with his name on the title-page before me. Since I did
not incline to solid reading, behold him equally ready to supply me
with the sweets of literature! This, too, was a school book, a
somewhat haphazard collection of Castilian poems, with brief
biographies of the authors represented. Its novel educational feature
was the printing of each poem in a different type. The result was a
little startling to the eye, but the editor was doubtless right in
claiming that it made the reading harder for the children, and so
developed their powers through exercise. Here, again, he was ashamed
of the fact that fully two-thirds of the poems were religious.
"But what can one do in this country?" he asked testily. "All the
reading books have to be like that. Bah! But we will not read these
pious verses. The others are much more entertaining."
Determined not to wound him again by any lack of interest in books of
his own shaping, we sat patiently through page after page of that
juvenile school reader; but when, with a pamphlet on spelling and
punctuation, we had completed the list of his works, I once more
called his attention to Calderon.
This struck him as a capital joke. He had never read Calderon himself,
he had hardly heard of Calderon, and that a foreigner, a woman at
that, should insist on reading Calderon, was funny enough to make his
old sides ache. There were modern authors in plenty who must certainly
write much better than an out-of-date fellow like that. He had books
that he could lend me. He had friends from whom he could borrow. But
nothing would please me but Calderon! Why under the fanciful moon
should I set my heart on Calderon?
"_Bueno!_" he cried at last, whisking the mirthful tears from his
eyes. "_Vamos a ver!_ Let us go on and see!"
We opened the classic volume at the Catholic Faust-drama, _El Magico
Prodigioso_, and began to read, soon passing into the great argument
between Cipriano and Lucifer as to the nature of God. Our guest,
sensitive to all impressions as he was, became immediately amazed and
delighted.
"But this is lofty!" he exclaimed. "This is sublime! Good, Cipriano,
good! Now you have him! What will the devil say to that? _Vamos a
ver!_"
At the close of that tremendous scene he shut the book, fairly panting
with excitement. But nevertheless there was a twinkle in his eye. He
knew now why I craved this Calderon. He was evidently a religious
writer, and women were all religious. It was an amiable feminine
weakness, like the aversion to geography and arithmetic. But his
indulgent chivalry rose to the occasion. Having learned my taste, such
as it was, he would gratify it to the utmost.
"If you would only come and see my library!" he proposed. "I have
exactly the book there that will please you. I have not read it
myself, but it is very large, with most beautiful pictures, and it
tells these old stories about Lucifer and all that. I am sure it is
just what you would like. Will you not do your humble servant the
honor of coming to-morrow afternoon?"
I ran over in my mind our engagements for the morrow. He mistook the
cause of my hesitation.
"Indeed you need not be afraid to come," he urged. "My house is as
safe as a convent. That old wife of mine, too, will be sure to be
somewhere about. And you can bring the silent senorita with you."
I was aware of a slight convulsion in "the silent senorita." She could
speak all the Spanish she chose, but she found the eccentricities of
this visitor so disconcerting that she affected ignorance, and he
supposed her mute presence at our interviews to be purely in deference
to the Spanish proprieties.
My youthful chaperon, much elated by this reversal of our natural
positions, duly attended me the next day to our friend's surprisingly
elegant home. He was forever crying poverty and telling us, with the
tears that came to his old age as easily as the laughter, how the
hardships of life had beaten out of him every ambition save hope to
"gain the bread" until his death, but we found him luxuriously housed,
and I was afterward informed that he was one of the richest men in the
city.
He ran with that wonderful sprightliness of his across the marbled
court to meet us, and ceremoniously conducted us up the handsome
staircase. He led us through all "our house," typically Andalusian,
with statues and urns of blossoming trees set in the open patios, with
Moorish arches and bright-hued tiles, shaded balconies, tapestried and
curtained beds, _braseros_, and rocking-chairs, and in every room
images and paintings of the saints, at which he made irreverent
grimaces.
There were family portraits, too, before three of which he broke down
into weeping--the son who had died in the prime of manhood, the
daughter lost in her fair maidenhood, and, where the stormy sobs shook
him from head to foot, the Benjamin of his heart, a clear-eyed young
officer who had fallen in the Cuban war. The tears were still
streaming down the quivering old face when we turned silently
away--for what word of comfort would Americans dare to speak?--and
followed him to his study.
He was of extravagant repute in his locality as a scholar and a man of
letters, and his study was what a study ought to be,--well furnished
with desk, pigeon-holes, all the tools of literary labor, and walled
with books. Among these was an encyclopaedia in which, to his frank
astonishment, he found an article of fifteen pages on Calderon. The
great volume we had come to see lay open on a reading stand. It was a
Spanish Bible, with the Dore illustrations. I wanted to look at the
title-page, but our eager host, proud to exhibit and explain, tossed
over the leaves so fast that I had no opportunity.
As he was racing through the Psalms, impatient because of their dearth
of pictures, my eye was caught by the familiar passage, "As the hart
panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God."
With prompt curiosity, he popped down his white head, in its
close-fitting skullcap, to see what I was noting, and instantly went
off into an immoderate gust of laughter.
"_Muy bien!_" he wheezed, as soon as he could recover anything like a
voice. "But that is very cleverly put. He was a witty fellow who wrote
that. Just so! Just so! The deer goes to the water because he means to
get something for himself, and that is why the young men go into the
priesthood, and why the women go to mass. It's all selfishness, is
religion. But how well he says it!"
"No, no!" I exclaimed, for once startled into protest. "He is saying
that religion is the impulse of thirst."
The incorrigible old worldling took this for another jest, and, as in
gallantry bound, laughed harder at my sally than at poor King David's.
"Excellent! Perfect! So it is! So it is! Religion is the impulse to
fill one's own stomach. Just what I have always said! 'As the hart
panteth after the water brooks'--ho, ho! I must try to remember that."
His enthusiasm for Calderon soon kindled to a flame. As the plot
thickened he ceased to be of the slightest help in any difficulties
that the text might offer. In vain I would beseech him to clear up
some troublesome passage.
"Oh, never mind!" he would say, vexed at the interruption. "They
didn't write very well in those old days. And I want to know which of
her three suitors Justina took. Three at once! What a situation!
_Vamos a ver!_ I hope it will be Cipriano."
As the spell of Calderon's imagination passed more and more strongly
upon him, this most sympathetic of readers quite accepted, for the
time being, the poet's Catholic point of view, trembling for Cipriano
and almost choking with agitated joy when Justina, calling in her
extremity upon the name of God, put Lucifer to flight. But after we
had read the drama to the end, through its final scene of triumphant
martyrdom, he sat silent for several minutes, and then shook his head.
"Not true; it is not true. There is no devil but the evil passions of
humanity. And as for Cipriano's definition of God--it is good, yes; it
is great, yes; but who can shut God into a definition? One might as
well try to scoop up the ocean in a cocoanut shell. No! All religions
are human fictions. We have come, nobody knows whence or why, into
this paltry, foolish, sordid life, for most of us only a fight to gain
the bread, and afterward--_Bueno!_ I am on the brink of the jump, and
the priests have not frightened me yet. Afterward? _Vamos a ver!_"
This man had heard of Protestantism simply as an ignorant notion of
the lower classes. For the typical Spanish Protestant of to-day
presents a striking contrast to the typical Spanish Protestant of the
Reformation. When heresy first entered the Peninsula, it gained almost
no footing among the common people, who supposed Luther to be another
sort of devil and the Protestants a new variety of Jews or Moors; but
the rank and learning of Spain, the youthful nobility, illustrious
preachers and writers, officers and favorites of the Court, even men
and women in whose veins flowed the blood royal, welcomed with ardor
the wave that was surging over Europe. The very eminence of these
heretics sealed their doom. The Inquisition could not miss such
shining marks. The Holy Office did its work with abominable
thoroughness. Apart from the countless multitudes whom it did to death
in dungeon and torture-chamber, it burned more than thirty thousand of
the most valuable citizens of Spain and drove forth from the Peninsula
some three millions of Jews and Moors. The _autos de fe_ were
festivals. Among the wedding pomps for the French bride of Philip II,
a girl thirteen years old, was one of these horrible spectacles at
Toledo. The holiday fires of Seville and Valladolid drank the most
precious blood of Andalusia and Castile. Though Saragossa had a mind
to Huguenot fuel; though Pamplona, on one festal day, heaped up a
holocaust of ten thousand Jews; though Granada, Murcia, and Valencia
whetted their cruel piety on the Moors who had made the southern
provinces a garden of delight; yet in all these cities, as in Toledo,
Logrono, and the rest, the Spanish stock itself was drained of its
finest and most highly cultivated intelligence, its sincerest
conscience, purest valor, its most original and independent thought.
Spain has been paying the penalty ever since. Her history from Philip
II has been a judgment day.
No root of the Lutheran heresy survived in the Peninsula. The new
Protestantism does not spring from the old. The blood of the Spanish
martyrs was not the seed of the Spanish church. The Protestant of
to-day is far removed, socially and politically, from the courtiers,
marquises, knights of Santiago--those gallant cavaliers who were
stripped upon the scaffold of their honorable decorations and clad in
the yellow robe of infamy. This nineteenth-century Protestant may be a
lawyer or a journalist, but by exception. Ordinarily he is a petty
farmer, a small shop-keeper, mechanic, miner, day-laborer, of humble
calling and of lowly life. In politics he is almost surely a
republican. When the monarchy was overthrown, in '68, Protestantism
was, for the moment, in favor, and hundreds of the triumphant party
hastened to profess the reformed faith. With the return of a Roman
Catholic court and perhaps upon the discovery that the new
Christianity, too, has its burden and its yoke, many fell away.
Yet Protestantism has now an assured footing in Spain. Protestant
churches may be found in most of the important cities. There are some
fifty foreign preachers and teachers in the field, aided by nearly
eighty Spanish pastors and colporteurs. The number of Spanish
communicants is between three and four thousand, the church attendance
is reckoned at nine thousand, and there are five thousand Spanish
children in the Protestant schools. Several centres have been
established for the sale of Bibles and Protestant books, and six or
seven Protestant periodicals are published and circulated. In answer
to the continual Romish taunt that Protestantism is a war of sects, a
house divided against itself, a Protestant Union was organized at
Madrid in the spring of 1899. All, save two, of the fifteen missions,
supported by various societies of Great Britain, Germany,
Switzerland, and America, joined hands in this. Only the Plymouth
Brethren and the Church of England held aloof.
[Illustration: A MILKMAN OF GRANADA]
The Inquisition exists no longer. Religious liberty, even in Spain,
has the support of law. Yet still the Spanish Protestant, this poor,
plain Protestant of to-day, as obscure as those Galilean fishermen
whom the Master called, is harassed by petty persecutions. Children
sing insulting verses after him in the street, especially that pious
ditty:--
"Get away with you, Protestants,
Out of our Catholic Spain,
That the Sacred Heart, the Sacred Heart,
May love our land again."
He is jealously watched on the passing of "His Majesty the Wafer" and
pursued with mud and spittings if he fails to do it homage. College
boys rub charcoal over the front of his chapel and stone his
schoolroom windows; work is refused him; promotion denied him; his
rent is higher than his neighbor's, yet not his neighbor's family nor
his landlord's cross his threshold. If scorn can burn, he feels the
_auto de fe_.
VIII
AN ANDALUSIAN TYPE
"'True,' quoth Sancho: 'but I have heard say there are more
friars in heaven than knights-errant.' 'It may be so,' replied
Don Quixote, 'because their number is much greater than that
of knights-errant.' 'And yet,' quoth Sancho, 'there are
abundance of the errant sort.' 'Abundance indeed,' answered
Don Quixote, 'but few who deserve the name of
knights.'"--CERVANTES: _Don Quixote_.
It might have been in Seville, though it was not, that I met my most
_simpatico_ example of the Andalusian. He was of old Sierra stock,
merry as the sunshine and gracious as the shadows. Huge of build and
black as the blackest, he was as gentle as a great Newfoundland dog,
until some flying spark of a word set the dark fires blazing in his
eyes. This was no infrequent occurrence, for the travelling
Englishman, as frank as he is patriotic, cannot comprehend the zest
with which well-to-do Spaniards, even in time of war, escape military
service by a money payment. Not the height and girth of our young
giant, nor his cordial courtesy and winning playfulness, shielded him
from the blunt question, "Why didn't you go over to Cuba, a great
fellow like you, and fight for your flag?" His usual rejoinder was the
eloquent Southern shrug of the shoulder, twist of the eyebrow, and
waving lift of the hand, with the not easily answerable words, "And to
what good?" But now and then the query came from such a source or was
delivered with so keen a thrust that his guarded feeling outleaped
reserve. The sarcasms and mockeries that then surged from him in a
bitter torrent were directed chiefly against Spain, although the
American eagle rarely went scot-free. "Ah, yes, it is a fine fowl,
that! He has the far-seeing eye; he has the philanthropic beak and
claw!" But it was the golden lion of Spain against which his harshest
gibes were hurled--"_un animal domestico_, that does not bite."
No one of the party was a tithe as outspoken as our Spaniard himself
in condemning the errors of the Spanish campaign or censuring the
methods of the Spanish Government. If he turned angrily toward a
criticism from a foreigner, it was only, in the second instant, to
catch it up like a ball and toss it himself from one hand to the
other--like a ball that burns the fingers.
Such wrath can easily be the seamy side of love, and, in a way, the
man's national pride was measured by his national shame; but always
over these outbursts there brooded that something hopelessly resigned,
drearily fatalistic, which seems to vitiate the Spanish indignation
for any purposes of practical reform. To suggestions of sympathy he
responded with a pathetic weariness of manner, this handsome young
Hercules, so radiant with the joy of life, who, in his normal mood,
sprinkled mirth and mischief from him as a big dog shakes off water
drops.
"What can one do? I am a Spaniard. I say it to myself a hundred times
a day. I am a Spaniard, and I wish my country were worth the fighting
for, worth the dying for. But is it? Is it worth the toothache? God
knows the truth, and let it rest there. Oh, you need not tell me of
its past. It was once the most glorious of nations. Spaniards were
lords of the West. But--ah, I know, I know--Spain has never learned
how to rule her colonies. He who sows brambles reaps thorns. The
Church, too, has done much harm in Spain--not more harm than another.
I am a Catholic, but as I see it, priests differ from other men only
in this--in the cafe sit some bad men and many good, and in the choir
kneel some good priests and many bad. The devil lurks behind the
cross. But Spain will never give up her Church. It is burned in. You
are a heretic, and like my figure, do you not? It is burned in. There
is no hope for Spain but to sink her deep under the earth, and build a
new Spain on top. And why do I not work for that new Spain? How may a
man work? There is talk enough in Spain as it is. Most Spaniards talk
and do no more. They go to the cafes and, when they have emptied their
cups, they draw figures on the tables and they talk. That is all. The
new Spain will never come. What should it be? Oh, I know better what
it should not be. It should have no king. A republic--that is right.
Perhaps not a republic precisely like America. It may be," and the
melancholy sarcasm of the tone deepened, "there could be found
something even better. But Spain will not find it. Spain will find
nothing.
"What can one do? I know Spain too well. Now, hear! I am acquainted
with a _caballero_. I have been his friend ten years and more. But he
has had the luck, not I. For, first, when we were at the university,
he had a fortune left to him. He became betrothed to a senorita whom
he loved better than his eyelashes. He travelled for his pleasure to
Monte Carlo, and played his fortune all away in one week. He came back
to Madrid, and went to one of the Ministers, to whom his father had in
former days done a great service. My friend said: 'I am to marry. The
lady expects to share the fortune which I have lost. My position is
not honorable. I must have an opening, a chance to redeem myself, or I
shall stand disgraced before her.' The Minister sent him to one of the
Cuban custom-houses, and in two years he returned with great wealth.
On his wedding journey he spent a night at Monte Carlo and gambled it
away to the last _peseta_. A stranger had to lend him money to get
home with his bride. Was he not ashamed and troubled? Ashamed? I do
not know. But troubled? Yes, for he wanted to play longer. Every one
is as God has made him, and very often worse. Again he went to the
Minister, whose heart was softer than a ripe fig and who found him a
post in the Philippines. This time he made a fortune much quicker than
before, knowing better how to do unjustly, but a few weeks before the
war he came home and lost it all again at Monte Carlo. And now he is
horribly vexed, for it is another Minister, and, besides, there are no
colonies to enrich him any more.
"What use to care for Spain? No, no, no, no, no! Spain is a good
country to leave--that is all. And you do well to travel in Spain.
American ladies like change, and Spain is not America. Here you are
not only in a different land, but in a different century. You can say,
when you come out, that you have been journeying a hundred years ago."
On another occasion one of those pleasant individuals who would, as
the Spaniards say, "talk of a rope in the house of one who had been
hanged," saw fit to entertain the dinner-table with anecdotes of
Spanish cruelty.
"But Spaniards are not cruel," protested our young blackamoor in his
softest voice an hour later, stroking with one great hand the head of
a child who nestled against his knee. "What did that English fellow
mean? Why should any one think that Spaniards are cruel?"
I ran over in mind a few of the frightful stories of Las Casas, that
good Dominican friar who would not hold his peace when he saw the
braining of Indian babies and roasting of Indian chiefs. I remembered
how De Soto tossed his captives to the bloodhounds, and what
atrocities were wrought in the tranquil realm of the Incas; I recalled
the horrors of the Inquisition, but these things were of the past. So
I answered, "Perhaps the bull-fights have done something to give
foreigners that impression."
Unlike many educated Spaniards who would rather attend the bull-fights
than defend them, he squared his shoulders for an oration.
"The bull-fights? But why? Bull-fights are not cruel--not more cruel
than other sports in other countries. I have been told of prize-fights
in America. I beg your pardon. I see by your look that you do not like
them. And, in truth, I do not altogether like the bull-fights. The
horses! They are blindfolded, and it is short, but I have seen--ah,
yes! You would not wish to hear what I have seen. I have been often
sorry for the horses. Yet some pain is necessary in everything, is it
not? In nature, perhaps? In society, perhaps? Even, if you will pardon
the illustration, in the deliverance of the Filipinos from Spanish
tyranny?"
I briefly suggested that there was no element of necessity in
bull-fights.
The waving hand apologized gently for dissent.
"But, yes! The bulls are killed for food. That is what foreigners do
not seem to understand. It may be ugly, but it is universal. To supply
men with meat, to feed great cities with the flesh of beasts--it is
not pleasant to think of that too closely. But how to help it? Do you
not have slaughter-houses in America? These also we have in Spain. I
have visited one. It seemed to me much worse than the bull-ring.
Faugh! I did not like it. The cattle stood trembling, one behind
another, waiting for the blow. I should not like to die like that. I
would rather die in the wrath of battle like a _toro bravo_. Oh, it is
not cruel. Do not think it. For these bulls feel no fear. It is fear
that degrades. They may feel pain, but I doubt--I doubt. They feel the
wildness of anger, and they charge and charge again until the
_estocada_, the death stab. That is not so bad a way to die, is it?
Any man would choose it rather than to stand in terror, bound and
helpless, hearing the others fall under the axe and seeing his turn
draw near. Yes, yes! The bull-ring rather than the slaughter-house for
me!"
This was a novel view of the case to the auditor, who ignominiously
shifted her ground.
"But what country uses the slaughter-house as a spectacle and a sport?
It is one thing to take life for food, and another to make a holiday
of the death struggle."
Again that deprecatory waving of the hands.
"I beg your pardon. I do not know how it is in America. Perhaps"
[circumflex accent] "all is merciful and noble there. But when I was
in England I saw something of the chase and of the autumn shooting. I
saw a poor little fox hunted to the death. It was not for food. The
dogs tore him. I saw wounded birds left in the cover to die. It was
too much trouble to gather them all up. And the deer? Does not the
stag suffer more in his flight than the bull in his struggle? I
believe it. To run and run and run, always growing weaker, while the
chase comes nearer--that is an agony. The rage of combat has no terror
in it. I would not die like the deer, hunted down by packs of dogs and
men--and ladies. I would die like the bull, hearing the cheers of the
multitude."
The big fellow bent over the baby that was dropping to sleep against
his knee, and slipped the drowsy little body, deftly and tenderly, to
a sofa. Such sweetness flooded the soft black eyes, as they were
lifted from the child, that it was hard to imagine them sparkling with
savage delight over the bloody scenes of the _corrida de toros_. I
asked impulsively how long it was since he had seen a bull-fight.
Brows and hands and shoulders were swift to express their appreciation
of the bearings of the question, and the voice became very music in
courteous acquiescence.
"Ah, it is four years. Of course, I was much younger then. Yes, yes!
It might not please me now. _Quien sabe?_ And yet--I beg your
pardon--I think I shall go next Sunday in Madrid, on my way to Paris.
It is so weary in London on the Sundays. It was always colder Sunday,
and there was not even a cafe. There was nowhere to go. There was
nothing to do. Why is that good? At the bull-fight one feels the joy
of life. Is it more religious to sit dull and dismal by the fire? I
had no use for the churches. Walking is not amusing, unless the sun
shines and there is something gay to see. I do not like tea, and I do
not care for reading. Spaniards like to laugh and be merry, and when
there is nothing to laugh for, life is a heaviness. There is no
laughter in a London Sunday. I hope Paris will be better, though I
believe there are no bull-fights there as yet. You are not pleased
with me, but let me tell you why I love the _corrida_. It is not for
the horses, you remember. I have sometimes looked away. But why should
I pity the bulls, when they are mad with battle? They do not pity
themselves. They are glad in their fury, and I am glad in seeing it.
But I am more glad in the activity and daring of the men. When they
run risks, that is what makes me cheer. It is not that I would have
them hurt. I am proud to find men brave. And I am excited and eager to
see if they escape. Do you not understand? If you would go
yourself--just once--no? Is it always no? Then let me tell you what is
the best of all. It is to stand near the entrance and watch the people
pass in, all dressed in their holiday clothes, and all with holiday
faces. It is good and beautiful to see them--especially the ladies."
The most attractive qualities of our young Spaniard were his mirth and
courtesy. His merriment was so spontaneous and so buoyant that his
grace of manner, always tempered to time and place and person, became
the more apparent. His humor dwelt, nevertheless, in the borderlands
of irony, and it was conceivable that the rubs of later life might
enrich its pungency at the cost of its kindliness. He was excellent at
games (not sports), especially the game of courtliness (not
helpfulness). The letter was not posted, the message slipped his
memory, the errand was done amiss, but his apologies were poetry. He
made a pretty play of the slightest social intercourse. We would open
our Baedeker at the map which we had already, in crossing Spain,
unfolded some hundred times. He would spring as lightly to his feet as
if his mighty bulk were made of feathers, and stand, half bowing,
arching his eyebrows in appeal, spreading out his hands in offer of
assistance, but not venturing to approach them toward the book until
it was definitely tendered him. Then he would receive it with
elaborate delicacy of touch, unfold the creased sheet with a score of
varied little flourishes, and restore the volume with a whole fresh
series of gesticulatory airs and graces. The next instant he would
peep up from under his black lashes to detect the alloy of amusement
in our gratitude, and drop his face flat upon the table in a boyish
bubble of laughter, saying:--
"Ah! But you think we Spaniards make much of little things. It is
true. We are best at what is least useful."
Light-hearted Andalusian though he was, he had full share of the
energy and enterprise of young manhood. Like the dons of long ago, he
was equipping himself for the great Western adventure. Despite his
Spanish wrath against America, she had for him a persistent
fascination. All his ambitions were bent on a business career in New
York, the El Dorado of his imagination. But it was no longer, at the
end of the nineteenth century, a case of leaping aboard a galleon and
waving a Toledo blade in air. The commercial career demands, so he
fancied, that its knight go forth armed cap-a-pie in the commercial
tongues. Thus he had spent four years of his youth and half of his
patrimony in London and Berlin, and now, after this hasty visit home,
purposed to go to Paris, for a year or two of French. This unsettled
life was little to his liking, but beyond gleamed the vision of a Wall
Street fortune.
Yet even now, at the outset of his task, a frequent lethargy would
steal over his young vigor. It was curious to see, when the March wind
blew chill or the French verbs waxed crabbed, how all his bearing lost
its beauty. There was a central dignity that did not lapse, but the
brightness and effectiveness were gone. His big body drooped and
looked lumpish. His comely face was clouded by an animal sluggishness
of expression. Foreign grimaces twisted across it, and something very
like a grunt issued from beneath his cherished first mustache. His
sarcasm became a little savage. He would sit for hours in a brooding
fit, and, when an inexorable call to action came, obey it with a look
of dreary patience older than his years. It was as if something
inherent in his nature, independent of his will, weighed upon him and
dragged him down. The Spain at which he gibed and from which he would
have cut himself away was yet a millstone about his neck. He was in
the heyday of his youth, progressive and determined, but the torpid
blood of an aged people clogged his veins. Spain will never lose her
hold on him, despite his strongest efforts. His children may be
citizens of the great Republic, but he must be a foreigner to the end.
He must wander a stranger in strange cities, puzzling his Spanish wits
over alien phrases and fashions and ideals, unless, indeed, his spirit
loses edge, and he drifts into chill apathy of disappointment on
finding that his golden castles in America are wrought of that same
old dream-stuff which used to be the monopoly of castles in Spain.
But it is best to leave ill-boding to the gypsies. Good luck may take
a liking to him, if only for the music of his laugh. For even if
blithe heart and courtly bearing bring no high cash value in the
modern business market, they may smooth the road to simple happiness.
Moreover, a Spaniard dearly loves a game of chance, and at the worst,
our fortune-seeker will have thrown his dice. His may seem to the
Yankee onlooker but a losing play, and yet--who knows? "He who sings
frightens away his ills." God's blessing sails in summer clouds as
lightly as in costly pleasure yachts. Out of a shaft of sunshine, a
cup of chocolate, and a cigarette, this Andalusian immigrant, though
stranded in an East Side tenement, may get more luxury than can be
purchased by a multi-millionaire.
[Illustration: A ROMAN WELL IN RONDA]
IX
A BULL-FIGHT
"I wish no living thing to suffer pain."--SHELLEY: _Prometheus
Unbound_.
From our first crossing of the Pyrenees we were impressed, even beyond
our expectation, with the Spanish passion for the bull-fight. The more
cultivated Spaniards, to be sure, are usually unwilling to admit to a
foreigner their pleasure in the pastime. "It is brutal," said a young
physician of Madrid, as we discussed it. "It is a very painful thing
to see, certainly. I go, myself, only two or three times a year, when
the proceeds are to be devoted to some religious object--a charity or
other holy work."
No sight is more common in streets and parks than that of a group of
boys playing _al toro_--one urchin charging about with sticks fastened
to his shoulders for horns, or with a pasteboard bull's head pulled
over his ears, and others waving scarlet cloths and brandishing
improvised swords and lances. It is said that in fierce Valencia
youths have sometimes carried on this sport with knives for horns and
swords, the spectators relishing the bloodshed too well to interfere.
Not easily do such lads as these forgive the little king for crying,
like the sensitive child he is, the first time he was taken to the
bull-ring.
The _corridas de toros_, although denounced by some of the chief
voices in Spain, are held almost a national shibboleth. Loyal
supporters of the queen regent will add to their praises the sigh, "If
only she loved the bull-fight!" Cavaliers and ladies fair reserve
their choicest attire to grace these barbarities. It is a common
saying that a Spaniard will sell his shirt to buy a ticket to the
bull-ring, but whatever the deficiencies of the inner costume, the
dress that meets the eye is brave in the extreme. It is recently
becoming the fashion for _caballeros_, especially in the north of
Spain, to discard those very fetching cloaks with the vivid
linings--cloaks in which Spaniards muffle their faces to the eyebrows
as they tread the echoing streets of cities founded some thousand or
fifteen hundred years ago. But for a good old Spanish bull-fight, the
good old Spanish costumes are out in force, the bright-hued _capas_
and broad _sombreros_, and for the ladies, who also are beginning to
discard the customary black mantilla for Parisian headgear, the
exquisite white mantillas of early times and the largest and most
richly decorated fans.
It is in such places as the grim Roman amphitheatre of Italica, whose
grass-grown arena has flowed so red with martyrdoms of men and beasts,
that one despairs most of Spanish ability to give up the bull-fight.
It is in the air, in the soil, in the blood; a national institution,
an hereditary rage. "But it is the link that holds your country bound
to barbarism. The rest of the world is on the forward move. I tell
you, the continuance of the bull-fight means the ruin of Spain," urged
a gigantic young German, in our hearing, on his Spanish friend. The
slight figure of the Madrileno shook with anger. "And I tell _you_" he
choked, "that Spain would rather perish with the bull-fight than
survive without it." _Isabel la Catolica_, who earnestly strove to
put down these savage contests, wrote at last to her Father Confessor
that the task was too hard for her. The "Catholic Kings" could take
Granada, unify Spain, establish the Inquisition, expel Moors and Jews,
and open the Americas; but they could not abolish bull-fighting. Nor
was Pius V, with his denial of Christian burial to all who fell in the
arena, and his excommunication for princes who permitted _corridas de
toros_ in their dominions, more successful. The papal bull, like the
bulls of flesh and blood, was inevitably overthrown.
Spanish legend likes to name the Cid as the first _torero_.
"Troth it goodly was and pleasant
To behold him at their head,
All in mail on Bavieca,
And to hear the words he said."
In mediaeval times the sport was not without chivalric features.
Knights fought for honor, where professionals now fight for _pesetas_.
When the great Charles killed a bull with his own lance in honor of
the birth of Philip II, the favor of the Austrian dynasty was secured.
The Bourbons looked on the sport more coldly, but as royalty and
nobility withdrew, the people pressed to the fore. Out of the hardy
Spanish multitude rose a series of masters,--Romero the shoemaker,
who, in general, gave to the art its modern form; Martincho the
shepherd, who, seated in a chair with his feet bound, would await the
charging brute; Candido, who would face the bull in full career and
escape by leaping to its forehead and over its back; Costillares, who
invented an ingenious way of getting in the death-stroke; the famous
Pepe Hillo, who, like Candido, perished in the ring; a second Romero,
said to have killed five thousand six hundred bulls; Montes the
brick-layer, and a bloody band of followers. Andalusia is--alas!--the
classic soil of the bull-fight, as every peasant knows, and Seville
the top of Andalusia.
"I have a handsome lover,
Too bold to fear the Devil,
And he's the best _torero_
In all the town of Seville."
The extravagance of the popular enthusiasm for these _fiestas de
toros_ is often ridiculed on the stage, where dramas dealing with
bull-fighting, especially if they bring in the heroes of the arena,
Pepe Hillo, Romero, Costillares, are sure to take. One _zarzuela_
represents a rheumatic old _aficionado_, or devotee of the sport,
trying, with ludicrous results, to screw his courage to the point of
facing the bull. Another spends its fun on a Madrid barber, who is
likewise a brain-turned patron of the ring. Disregarding the shrill
protests of his wife, he lavishes all his time, love, and money on the
_corridas_ and encourages his daughter's _novio_, an honest young
paper-hanger, to throw over his trade and learn to _torear_. After two
years of the provincial arenas, the aspirant, nicknamed in the ring
The Baby, has nothing but torn clothes and bruises to show for his
career, and his sweetheart, eager to recall him from the hazardous
profession, vows a waxen bull, large as life, to the Virgin, in case
he returns to papering, with its humble security and its regularity of
wages. Mary hears. On that great occasion, The Baby's debut at Madrid,
the barber, who has just been lucky in the lottery, rents for him a
gorgeous suit of second-hand finery, but in the _Plaza de Toros_ not
even a rose-and-silver jacket can shield a quaking heart. The Baby is
a coward born, and from the first rush of the first bull comes off
with a bloody coxcomb, crying out his shame on the shoulder of his
Pilar, who shall henceforth have him all her own.
The little artist and I went into Spain with the firm determination
not to patronize the bull-fight. Half our resolution we kept,--her
half. Wherever we turned we encountered suggestions of the _corrida_.
Spanish newspapers, even the most serious, devote columns to _Los
Toros_. Bull-fighting has its special publications, as _El Toril_ and
_El Toreo Comico_, and its special dialect. On the morning after a
holy day the newspapers seem actually smeared with the blood of
beasts. In the bull-fight season, from Easter to All Saints,
_corridas_ are held every Sunday in all the cities of southern and
central Spain, while the smaller towns and villages butcher as many
bulls as they can possibly afford. The May and June that I passed in
the capital gave me a peculiar abhorrence of the Madrid Sunday,--that
feverish excitement everywhere; the rattle of all those extra
omnibuses and cars with their red-tasselled mules in full gallop for
the _Plaza de Toros_; that sense of furious struggle and mortal agony
hanging over the city all through the slow, hot afternoon; those
gaping crowds pressing to greet the _toreros_, a gaudy-suited company,
on their triumphal return in open carriages; that eager discussion of
the day's tragedy at every street-corner and from seat to seat along
the _paseos_, even at our own dainty dinner table and on our own
balconies under the rebuking stars. At this strange Sabbath service
the Infanta Isabel, whose mother's birth was celebrated by the
slaying of ninety-nine bulls, is a regular attendant, occupying the
royal box and wearing the national colors. A French bull-fighter,
visiting the Spanish capital, was invited by the Infanta to an
audience and presented with a diamond pin. Not even the public
mourning for Castelar could induce Madrid to forego the _corrida_ on
that Sunday just before his burial. Past the very senate-house where
his body lay in state rolled the aristocratic landaus, whose ladies
displayed the gala-wear of white mantillas.
But the Sundays were not enough. Every Catholic feast-day called for
its sacrifice. Granada could not do fitting honor to Corp
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