Part 5

A fanfare of trumpets rang out above the babble and the laughter. Fans were closed, flirtations broken off. Luz turned in her seat; all eyes were fixed on the corner where the Calle de Serpientes turns into the plaza. Down the narrow street, out into the full light of the square, rode a troop of resplendent cavalry,--white Andalusian horses with delicate, high-stepping feet, men who sat straight in the saddle, in spite of rich trappings and gorgeous uniforms. The _penitentes_ followed, sombre, masked men in long, purple velvet gowns, the train folded over the arm, showing violet silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes. From their tall, pointed caps hung down the antefaces covering the entire head, falling low upon the breast: through the eyeholes one caught the flash of dark eyes. In their gloved hands they carried silver staffs of office ten feet high. Behind walked the _Nazerenos_. The foremost carried a large cross; the others, standards of the order, or flaming torches that smoked and flickered as they walked. Before the _penitentes_ passed in front of the grand stand, they spread out their trains that trailed behind them on the ground. In the midst of these maskers strode a band of Roman centurions,--helmets, cuirasses, spears, and standards with the familiar S P Q R glancing in the sun. The music to which they marched had a melancholy refrain, a sort of insistant grieving that knocked at the heart.

“The funeral march of Eslava; you will know it well before Easter,” said Pemberton.

“_Ai, ai!_” A great sigh breathed by a thousand people as the first _paso_ came in sight,--a huge float moving, as if miraculously, down the Street of Serpents out into the plaza. On a base of wrought silver, at the height of a man’s shoulder, stood a life-sized statue of the Virgin.

“_Nuestra Señora de la Vittoria_,” murmured Concepcion.

The statue, of painted wood, was sumptuously dressed. The front of her robe was of costly lace; over this fell from the shoulders a train of black velvet, two yards long, heavily embroidered in gold arabesques. The hair was real. On the head sparkled a stupendous diamond crown. Slowly, slowly the float drew near, wrapped in a cloud of incense from the censers of the _penitentes_. A rain of flowers fell from window and balcony; the velvet and gold baldequin over the Virgin’s head was almost hidden by lilies and roses. At her feet were flaunting daffodils in silver vases, and row on row of blazing candles at various heights. She was covered from throat to waist with superb jewels, strings of pearls, diamonds, and sapphires. Her wrists were laden with bracelets, in her hand she carried a lace pocket handkerchief. As she entered the plaza a tremendous peal shook the soft air; the vast green bells of the Giralda seemed to fling themselves like live creatures towards Mary. The glitter of the gewgaws, the glow of the candles lighted up the face, showed the tears (pearls of great price) on the cheeks, the beauty and tenderness of the expression.

“A masterpiece by the sculptor, Montañes, the friend of Velasquez,” said Pemberton. In spite of all the frippery of the dress you feel the hand of the master sculptor in the painted statue. The

loving, tender face, the feminine outstretched arms divinely express the eternal womanly.

“_Miré, Miré, Vd! el Rey y la Reina!_” whispered Concepcion. She had not been too much engrossed to see the young King and his mother take their places. The _paso_ turned slowly as if on a pivot till the queen celestial faced the queen terrestrial. The King uncovered and saluted, the Queen Mother, Cristina Maria, courtesied,--so they stood facing each other for a single heart-beat, then the King left the dais, walked down into the plaza, and took his place at the head of those masked men.

“Don Alfonzo is the Elder Brother of the Confraternity of the Cigar Makers,” whispered Concepcion. “See, he escorts their patron, our Lady of Victory, through the plaza.”

To the mournful grieving of Eslava’s dirge, the Virgin of the cigar makers, escorted by the King, disappeared on the way to her station in the cathedral.

“_Te dea major eris!_” murmured Pemberton, “so they carried Salambo through Seville. I hope you admired the dress; it was new this year, a present from the ladies of Seville. It cost one hundred and fifty thousand _pesetas_; I know because I helped pay for it. You saw there were bread riots last week, not fifty miles from here? It’s the old spirit of Seville, the spirit that built the cathedral during the hundred years when Spain was pouring out blood and money like water in defence of the faith. We can always get what we really want in Seville, and most other places!”

During the long waits between the acts of the drama of the Passion, the little dramas of every-day life went on all around us. In the boxes the young people looked into each other’s eyes, the _duennas_ manœuvred, encouraged the eligible, frowned on the ineligible. A slim young officer in a cloak slipped a note into Luz’s hand as he passed her box, and only the Franciscan saw it. In the crowd below, the flirt of an orange skirt challenged beauty in the grand stand.

“Imperio, the dancing girl,” said Pemberton. “She’s come home for the fêtes. That old fellow, her father, is the crack matador tailor; he makes all Bombito’s toggery.”

“_Miré_,” whispered Concepcion, “The Lord dressed in a handsome tunic of cloth of silver, embroidered in gold.”

The entry into Jerusalem, a realistic float, was passing. It represented the Master mounted on an ass, Peter, John, and Sant Iago kneeling before him. This was followed by a large _paso_, illustrating the Betrayal in the Garden. Peter, sword in hand, Judas--he was always dressed in yellow, the color of treachery--the Roman soldiers as well as the Christ, are all the work of Montañes. It is said that Montañes while he was at work on this, often got up at night to look at it, and was once overheard to say, “How could I have done anything so beautiful?” In spite of the Master’s ruby velvet robe and the tawdry gilt rays behind his head, the thing took hold of one, the picture “bit” into the memory plate and will not easily be erased. There was a moment of silence as the scenes of the Passion were presented in these wonderful vivid pictures, but as soon as each paso swung by the grand stand, the laughter and flirtation began again. The tragic _paso_ of the Crucifixion was escorted by a brotherhood of boy _penitentes_ followed by a band of child musicians. Directly behind the cross marched a tiny drummer in uniform, beating a big drum. If he was not a dwarf, he could not have been more than four years old.

“What a funny little boy!” murmured Concepcion, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. The supreme scene of the Crucifixion, the figures all by Roldan, the sculptor who spares no grim detail of pain, was followed by stifled laughter. The merriment struck an awful anti-climax.

“Remember,” Pemberton explained, “you are seeing this thing for the first time; these people have seen it all their lives; familiarity breeds, not contempt, but a certain callousness. The young women are so strictly guarded, you must not blame them if they ‘make eyes’ a little. This is one of their few chances to see and be seen.”

“Do you make as much of Christmas as of Holy Week?” I asked Concepcion, to turn the conversation. “Which is the greater _fiesta_?”

“There are three great _fiestas_ of the Church,” she answered, “but Christmas is, undoubtedly, the greatest. There is a saying, ‘Who does not fast on the vigil of Christmas is either a Turk or a dog.’ This is true for people of our religion, for at midnight the Niño Jesus was born. I do not know how it is with you, for we are Catholics and you are Christians.”

“In what does the difference lie?”

“In the manner of baptism. You are baptized all over in a great vat with water only; we, with water, oil, and salt that is put in the mouth. There are also other ceremonies,--there is the godmother who holds the candle.”

“What are the Christmas services like?”

“Ah, you must return, if only to see the dancing of the _seises_ in the cathedral. I am told this can be seen only at Seville. The _seises_ are boys, who wear curious dresses and long blond curls. It is an ancient custom,--my husband says, in memory of the Israelites dancing before the ark, but I think differently.”

“At one time there was an effort to break up the dance of the _seises_,” Pemberton interrupted. “Some busybody complained to the Pope that it was a heathenish thing. The result of the meddling was a papal bull ordering that the dancing should stop when the dresses were worn out. That was long and long ago; the dresses have not worn out yet. They are renewed a piece at a time, one year a sleeve, another year a cap, so the day has never come when they are completely outworn. Our _seises_ still dance at Christmas, Corpus Christi, and the feast of the Conception--that’s my wife’s _fiesta_, you know.”

“The Christmas ceremonies in the villages are also interesting,” said Concepcion. “I once saw a procession when the Niño Jesus was carried through the streets. It was a very large image, the size of a big baby. It had a beautiful head, and was nicely swaddled. One Christmas as they were carrying him on his procession (this was years and years ago), there was a quarrel in the crowd and one man stabbed another. The Niño Jesus grew pale and turned his head on one side, so that he might not see that dreadful sight. He has remained in that attitude ever since. I myself have seen the Niño. Yes, it was a wonderful happening. It is a much venerated image and has always remained in the care of the good Franciscan monks.”

Concepcion saw that I was interested, that Pemberton was busy explaining things to the others, and, out of the immense goodness of her heart, she went on to speak to me of religious matters.

“I have always heard it said,” she began, “that there are seven religions.”

“I, too, have heard it, indeed, my pastor has written a book on the subject;[1] can you tell me their names?”

“Not all of them. There are Catholics, Christians, and those who worship Mahomet. There are the Israelites,--they have the strangest religion! They worship a calf’s head. In their church they put on the queerest garments, gather round a great calf’s head in the middle, and sing such a curious hymn, ‘Wow, Wow!’ It sounds like that. It would make you laugh, only they will not let you into the synagogue, and if you do just manage to peep in, they drive you out.”

I told her of the wailing of the Jews outside the wall of Jerusalem, hoping to rouse some sympathy for them, but Concepcion could feel none.

“Though,” she acknowledged, “our Lord _was_ an Israelite. He did not become a Catholic till he was thirty-three years old, when He had Himself baptized by San Juan Battisto. Before that He occupied Himself with preaching His religion.”

I asked Concepcion which of the saints was her especial patron.

“The blessed saints are all very good,” she answered, “but I myself do not put much dependence on them. I place all my hopes on the Virgin.”

As Concepcion talked, the sun went down; long shadows fell across the plaza. The pale rose-colored Giralda glowed a deeper pink in the sunset, and then faded. The new moon came up in the faint lavender sky and hung, a golden scimitar, the evening star beside it, over the tower. In the minaret where the muezzin once cried his shrill “_Allah il Allah_,” San Miquel and el Cantor, rocked and pealed, saluting each float as it passed.

“See, the crescent and the star over the Giralda,” said Pemberton; “the cross gleams red on the cathedral. Mary reigns in Mahomet’s place, and her robe is worked in the arabesques of the Moors.”

Walking home, we came upon a _paso_ at rest in a side street. The velvet hangings that fall from the base to the ground were parted. We caught a glimpse of the hidden motive power, twenty-five or thirty men, with quaint, padded turbans on their heads, the ends hanging down and covering the shoulder. The water seller in his white garments was in attendance. He filled and refilled his glass, passing it to the thirsty bearers, who drank, and mopped their faces silently. The masked _penitentes_ stood at ease, fanning themselves, the _Nazerenos_ trimmed their torches.

“_Vamos!_” The leader struck the ground with his silver staff; the velvet hangings fell in place (the embossed pattern was so contrived that the air holes were invisible), and the heavy _paso_ moved steadily down the _calle_ on the heads and shoulders of those hidden men.

In the processions of Holy Thursday and Good Friday afternoons, the mysteries of the Passion were represented again and again with endless variations. The _pasos_ seemed to grow more splendid, the dresses and accessories more lavish. The brotherhoods, called _hermandads_ or _cofradias_, have charge of the floats, called _pasos_ or _andas_, the statues, and all the paraphernalia of the pageants. There is a certain rivalry between them; some excel in one particular, some in another. One of the treasures I remember was a huge and very beautiful crucifix of tortoise shell and silver. The dresses of _penitentes_ and _Nazerenos_ were never alike; some were in white with blue masks, some in black and silver. They all followed the same plan, the head and face were so disguised that it was impossible to recognize the man in the penitent’s dress. The _Hermandad_ of _Nuestro Padre Jesus de la Passion_, founded in the sixteenth century, is the oldest brotherhood. In its early days the _Hermanos de Sangue_ scourged themselves as they walked barefoot through the streets. Those who carried the torches were distinguished from the flagellants by the title _Hermanos de Luz_.

“Brothers of light,” Pemberton translated it. “Who would not be glad to deserve such a title? To be a true ‘Brother of light!’”

IV

THE BLACK VEIL

_Tres jueves hay en el año_ _que relumbran mas que el sol;_ _Corpus Christi, Jueves Santo,_ _y el dia de la Ascencion._

Three Thursdays in the year Shine brighter than the sun; Corpus Christi, Holy Thursday, And the day of the Ascension.

“Hark, Pan pipes!” said J., “don’t you hear that lovely thin music of the shepherd’s flute?”

“Here in Seville? Is it possible?”

“Why not? All things are possible when you are living half in the tenth century, half in the twentieth!”

The sylvan melody, shrilling louder, pierced the city’s drone. At our gate the piper paused and played his little tune again. He was a tall young man with a bold eye and a gay lilt of the head. His blue apron was tucked under his jacket, he wore a red rose behind his ear. There was something free and debonair about him that spoke the youth of the world; his music stirred the blood. I could have followed him and his pipe through the streets without a thought of the business of the day.

“A wandering knife grinder from La Mancha,” said J., pulling out his sketchbook. “Find some scissors or something for him to sharpen. Can’t you keep him busy a moment, while I try to draw him?”

He would not stay; you cannot deceive a Manchegan. He saw at a glance there was “nothing doing” for him in our patio; sounded his flute and went lightly on his way, his wheel at his back. If knives were to grind, he was ready to grind them even on a _fiesta grande_ like Holy Thursday.

Before his music was out of earshot, Concepcion appeared at the gate, a pink japonica in her hair, her fan the same color, a shade darker. Behind her, like a tall, thin shadow, came Pemberton.

“Another fan? Do you never carry the same twice?”

“Oh, yes, she has to, poor child,” said Pemberton. “She possesses only fifty-five fans; Luz, I hear, owns three hundred and fifty. You’re feeling fit, I hope? We have a long day before us. We go first to San Lorenzo to see the monument,--sepulchre you call it in Italy. Concepcion says we shall be in time to see the arrival of the royal party. They must go on foot like the rest of us to-day; not a bell may ring, not a wheel turn in all Seville, this week, from Wednesday night till Saturday noon.”

Only the wheel of the Brother of Light, the wandering knife grinder of La Mancha!

The Plaza San Lorenzo was filled with people, the trees with small boys; a mannerly crowd with no hoodlums; indeed, I think the genus does not exist in Spain. Soon the word was passed: “They are coming.” The throng shifted, a way was made for the king’s halberdiers, fierce men with twisted moustachios and bronzed skins, the very flower of the army. Their duty is to guard, day and night, the person of the King. The civil governor, Lopez Balesteros, followed with his aides, and the Alcalde of Seville, a bulky, puffing man. His gown and his fat made it hard for him to keep the pace of those tough, quick-marching swashbucklers. Last, surrounded by his major domos of the week and his gentlemen of the chamber, the King, long of leg, slender of body, with the heavy, underhung jaw, the slovenly nether lip of the Hapsburgs, a boyish dignity, and a frank smile all his own. He wore a smart uniform with a white plumed helmet.

“Don Alfonzo has as many incarnations as Jupiter,” said Pemberton. “To-day he is a major general of cavalry. Notice that gold chain and tell me, if you can, what it is.”

The chain, wide and flat, with elaborately wrought links, was flung over the King’s shoulders. From it hung a little gold animal uncomfortably tied by the middle; its head and legs all flopping down in a dreadful way, like a horse being hoisted on board ship.

“By the great horn spoon!” cried Patsy; “it’s the grand order of the Golden Fleece! I would rather own that than be King of Spain.”

The golden toy hung on the young King’s breast just as it hangs in Alonzo Coello’s portrait of Philip II. Beside the King walked his mother--she looks a bigot worthy of Philip’s house--and his sister, the Infanta Maria Teresa, enough like him, in spite of her white mantilla, to be his twin.

Sanchez Lozano, Elder Brother of the Parish Confraternity, José Ponce, the archpriest, and half a dozen other bigwigs met the royalties at the door of San Lorenzo. The bigwigs made oration, long and loud, the King took off his helmet and mopped his crimson face. It was a cruelly hot day for the season.

“They work the boy hard,” said Pemberton. “He was at the cathedral at half past nine, this morning, and led the procession to deposit the Host in the monument. Next he went to the church of San Salvador; this is his third sepulchre. They have walked him all over the place; warm work in that thick uniform. If every Spaniard earned his salt as honestly as Don Alfonzo, Spain would not be where she is to-day.”

Pemberton heard afterwards, from one of the Brothers, what passed in the church while we waited in the plaza. The King, after praying by the sepulchre, a flower-decked, candle-lighted space before the altar, and admiring the _pasos_ of the Virgin of Solitude and the Christ of Great Power, talked with the elder Brother, asked if he too, walked masked in the procession of penitence. Sanchez Lozano said that he did, and reminded Don Alfonzo that Isabel II, the King’s grandmother, and Ferdinand VII, his great grandfather, had been members of this Brotherhood. The King and the Infanta, without more ado, took the oath and signed the articles of the Brotherhood.

“Of course it had all been cut, dried, and smoked beforehand,” Pemberton added. “Royalty does not often have an opportunity to enjoy the unforeseen!”

When they came out of church, the King had faded to a healthy pink; we no longer feared apoplexy for him. The gorgeous, sweating company crossed the plaza, the crowd cheered, the ladies in the balconies clapped hands and waved ’kerchiefs.

“Come,” said Pemberton, “to see beauty, follow in a monarch’s wake. We shall find the handsomest women of Seville inside the church.”

A dozen ladies, their flushed, excited faces reflecting the royal smile, clustered about the sad Virgin. A señorita, in black gauze with pink camelias in her hair and bodice, tapped a silver money tray with a copper coin:

“Did they desire to purchase a photograph of our Lady?” She spoke to me, she looked at Patsy.

A nun in a coarse habit passed; the rough woolen of her gown caught in the hem of the young lady’s silk dress, and showed a pair of little feet in flesh-colored silk stockings and satin shoes.

“At the feet of the young lady,” said Patsy, “I desire greatly to purchase a photograph. Will she do me the divine favor of choosing?”

“I kiss the hand of the horseman. It appears this large one is the most good; it is, as well, the more dear.”

The slight lisp, the smell of jasmines, the turn of wrist, as the pink fan opened and shut, were all familiar. Where--when--had we seen her? Patsy knew: it was Luz of the agate eyes!

I forget what day it was that Pemberton and I stayed at the cathedral after mass to hear the Archbishop’s sermon, but this seems a good time to tell about it. The Archbishop was a refined, silvery old ascetic, who looked like Cardinal Newman. He preached as the students of the Theatre Français talk, as if speech were first a fine art, second an expression of thought. Pausing now and then from exhaustion, he poured out an eloquent appeal to love the Mother of God. After service the Archbishop was escorted to the episcopal palace near the cathedral, by a sacristan, carrying a silver mace, another with a tall, double cross, and six haughty young priests in new purple silk gowns.

“Do you notice,” asked Pemberton, “the difference between the Italian and the Spanish priests? The Italian looks at you sidelong, when you are not looking; sizes up your feeling about him and his church. Your Spaniard is a bird of a different feather; he doesn’t give a maravedi what you think of him. You are on trial, not he. The only question is, are you what you should be? That he is, there can be no peradventure.”

We joined the crowd of women and beggars following the Archbishop in his fine violet robe, scarlet moire skull-cap, and amethyst cross. A wild-eyed woman with a bruised face threw herself at his feet, holding up a despairing hand as if in appeal. Tired and feeble, the old man paused patiently, and said some words of fatherly comfort. She kissed the great sapphire on his transparent old hand and drew back weeping, as if ashamed.

“The heart of man changeth not,” said Pemberton. “In the days of the Inquisition there were priests tender-hearted as the Archbishop. He could not send a cat to torture or the stake. That big priest, with the brutal jaw, the one who limps, looks cruel as Torquemada; he would condemn a man to la Parra (the dungeon in the Bishop’s Palace over there) as quick as winking--if he could!”

The shadow on the sun-dial over the palace door pointed to twelve. We followed the women into the handsome courtyard, hung with blue and striped hangings, and watched the Archbishop totter feebly up the fine marble stair. At the door he turned and gave the episcopal blessing, two fingers raised, and went indoors with his escort. He was followed by people bearing gifts of fruit and cakes. Four strong men carried up a large tray of yellow frosted pyramids stuck all over with candied cherries.

“Red and yellow, the Spanish colors,” said Pemberton. “I hope Torquemada and the others stay to luncheon and eat up those pyramids; they would not be good for the Archbishop.”