Part 8

That afternoon, Concepcion called for us in a smart two-seated cart drawn by fawn-colored mules with silken ears, varnished hoofs, and jingling bells. It was “up to her,” Pemberton said, to show us the social end of the _Feria_.

“_Estoy vestida de maya!_” she cried gleefully; “does it please them?”

“How well dressed she is, a preciosity!” Patsy’s vocabulary was growing. To be _vestida de maya_ means to wear the lovely old Andalusian costume, still good form for _Feria_ and bull-fights. Concepcion wore a yellow crape _manton de Manilla_ (the fringe was ten inches long) embroidered with butterflies and roses; a white, blond lace mantilla, gold satin skirt with overdress of black net and chenille dots, lace mittens and tiny gold shoes. She carried the sort of fan collectors outside of Spain keep in a glass case,--the sticks of delicately carved mother-of-pearl; the painting, charming, eighteenth century miniature work. The artist had represented the two serious affairs in woman’s life: religion,--illustrated by a scene from sacred history, Jerusalem with David standing before Saul; and love-making,--illustrated by an Arcadian vale, where a patched and powdered shepherdess and a silk-stockinged shepherd looked fondly at each other.

Concepcion took us first to the Parque Maria Luisa, once royal property; now a people’s pleasure ground, more garden than park, with thickets of camelias, white, red, and pink, and wildernesses of roses climbing over rustic arbors, hiding dead trees, or blooming sedately in well-trimmed beds. We would have lingered in this paradise among the palms and orange trees--from an ilex grove the long, trilling cadence of a nightingale gave warning that the evening service of song was beginning--but Concepcion objected that there was nobody there, and gave the order: “To Las Delicias.”

Four lines of carriages moved at a foot pace up and down the wide _paseo_. Groups of horsemen, officers and civilians picked their way through the throng. The promenades on either side were crowded with pedestrians. The defile of beauty was dazzling; the _señoritas_ were all smiles and animation, using their eyes to deadly purpose; in Andalusia flirtation is not a lost, even a decadent art. Patsy, wounded on every side, groaned aloud, “I wish I was a Turk, I wish I was the Sultan of Turkey!”

“In his heart, every man is a Turk!”

“Starts so,--some learn that the best of all is to come home from a flower show, and find the single rose in the flower-pot on the window-sill, sweeter than all the rest.”

So they gossipped in the carriage, while the mouse-colored mules fretted at the slow pace!

The west end, the fashionable quarter of the toy city of the _Feria_, has neat toy streets, dainty _casetas_ like dolls’ houses, cafés, and clubs. From Conception’s account, it would seem that the Alcalde had merely waved his wand, and from the bare ground of the old _quemadero_ the fairy city had sprung complete.

“You hire your _caseta_ for the week,” Pemberton explained, “and send out what furniture you need from your town house.” As it grew dark, garlands of many-colored lights festooned the way; firefly lamps twinkled among the shrubbery, lanterns like great, illuminated fruits bloomed out from the dark trees; it seemed that we were wandering in Aladdin’s palace. Between the Moorish arches of the Circole de Labradores we caught a glimpse of a pretty ball-room, where a crowd of waltzers swayed to the music of the Thousand and One Nights. Outside a private _caseta_ painted like a Japanese tea house, Patsy halted and stood immovable, till, as one by one the crowd moved on, we edged our way to the front. The _caseta_ was open to the street. Across a tiny verandah we saw the charming interior. An elderly, bald gentleman sat at a piano playing the letter air from La Perichole. In a corner a group of ladies talked together; a little girl in white came and hung over the piano, watching the musician’s fingers.

A tall young officer with a roving blue eye and gold hair lying in crisp little curls on an ivory forehead, stood leaning against the wall, talking with a small, dark youth with a hawk nose, and black, impenetrable eyes where the fire smouldered but did not flash.

“That good-looking boy is Martin O’Shea,” said Pemberton; “Irish--need you ask? The family has been settled here a hundred, perhaps three hundred years; his eye has not lost the Celtic light, or his tongue the edge. The other is Benamiel, Moorish descent, of course; they’re both dangling after a certain girl, a friend of Concepcion’s. Oh! that is part of the fascination of this wonderful, aloof, old Spain; you can trace the races here so clearly; somehow the strains don’t seem to have become so blurred, so mixed, as in most parts of Europe.”

The two young men cast impatient looks at a curtained door at the back. “_Pronto_,” the signal came from the inner room. The music changed to a throbbing _seguidilla_, the curtain trembled, and out tripped two pretty girls _vestida de maya_.

“Do you see who it is?” whispered Patsy.

The taller was Luz, the other could only be her sister. Their castanets clicked, almost as naturally as fingers snap, as they took the first pose of the dance. One foot advanced, the other behind supporting the weight of the body; the right arm raised, the left extended, just as you see it in the dancing faun of Herculaneum. O’Shea took down a guitar from the peg where it hung, and swept the chords with that curious ringing touch of the Spaniard; Benamiel marked time by beating with his feet, clapping with his hands. The dance began. It was very graceful, above all very expressive, that was the great quality; it seemed the natural, spontaneous expression of those two lovely young creatures’ joy in life, of their super-abundant vitality, of the young blood coursing through their veins. Though every posture, each bold advance and timid retreat was old as Egypt, the dance had all the beautiful freshness of a primitive art.

“_Viva la gracia!_” The cry came from a man in the crowd, Miquel, the farmer of Huelva.

“Good work for amateurs,” said Pemberton, “but wait till you’ve seen the Imperio, then you will have an idea of what Spanish dancing is!”

“Why,” Patsy asked, “doesn’t that other girl dance?”

“Just because she is not a girl; she was married two years ago. It would not be good form; she has had her turn, now she must take a back seat and give the others a chance. Thank God we’re still at that stage of social development.” The young woman, a small _morena_ (brunette) with a skin like a creamy magnolia blossom just beginning to turn brown, was very little older, and quite as pretty as the twin dancing stars; her foot tapped the floor, while her sisters danced and she sat talking with the elders.

“I think this could not happen outside of Spain, the most democratic of all countries,” Pemberton went on. “Here every man is equal, not merely in the law’s eye, but--what’s far more important--in his own eyes, and proves it by allowing no other man to show better manners than he. These girls, the fine flower of Seville, may safely take their part, add their beauty and their grace as the crowning attraction of the _Feria_, because the man in the street will be as polite to them as the gentleman in the drawing-room.”

“_Bendita sea la madre que ti pario_,” blessed be the mother that bore thee. It was Miquel’s parting compliment to the señoritas, as he made his way out of the crowd. In the _caseta_ visitors came and went; Luz was surrounded by admirers. An old man servant handed a tray with _agraz_, a drink made of pounded unripe grapes, clarified sugar and water, and _bolardos_, little sugar cakes to dissolve in this nectar of Andalusia. The _seguidilla_ was followed by a _sevilliana_. When the buoyant feet seemed tired O’Shea sang _copla_ after _copla_: the last he might have learned from his mother. It is at least as old as he:

“_Dos besos tengo en el alma_ _que no se apartan de mi;_ _el ultimo de mi madre,_ _y el primero que te di._”

Two kisses I have in my soul That will not part from me; The last my mother gave me, And the first that I gave thee.

VI

A HOUSE IN SEVILLE

Rodrigo, Pemberton’s son, a grave child with eyes of brown fire, met us at the gate of the patio; by his side stood a white lamb, with a wreath of yellow primroses round its neck.

“You recognize the fleece of Huelva?” said Pemberton, “this is one of Miquel’s flock; every child must have its pet lamb at Easter, you know.” He opened the ancient iron gate,--the bars were lilies, tenderly wrought as if of a more precious metal,--and we passed through the _Zaguan_ (vestibule) into the patio paved with marble, surrounded on all four sides by a corridor like a cloister. Behind the Moorish columns, graceful as palm trees, were walls lined with _azulejos_, blue, green, yellow glazed tiles of fascinating design, bewildering color. In the middle of the patio a jet of water leapt from an urn, danced in the sun, broke into a shower of living diamonds, fell laughing to a marble basin.

“In summer we practically live in this patio, that long bamboo chair is my favorite place. I lie there and read, or puzzle out the designs on those tiles,--they’re over a hundred,--and listen to the fountain and the birds. What more does a man want in hot weather? Take care, Rodrigo, don’t drown him!”

The child was trying to make the lamb drink; the gold fish darted from side to side in fright as its pink nose ruffled the water.

“We’re still living up-stairs; by Corpus Christi we shall have _embajado_, as they say here. That means, moved down-stairs. It’s the universal custom--the poorest house in Seville has two stories, the upper for cold weather, the lower for hot; you can’t fancy the difference in the climate. When moving day comes, the awning is drawn over the patio, we bring all the furniture from the upper to the lower rooms--exactly the same size and shape, so everything fits--hang pictures and mirrors in the corridor; put the piano here, the plants from the terrace there between the columns. We’ll have a look at the summer quarters, if you like; it may give you some idea of how we live in Seville in hot weather.”

We followed him through large, dark rooms, high-ceiled and airy; caught glimpses of a mighty marble bath in a cool green chamber, of a kitchen where they cook with charcoal, and finally halted in a place mysterious as an alchemist’s laboratory. There were cauldrons of beaten copper, measures for wet and dry, an antique balance with brass weights, strange glass vessels, a press, an old still. As we stood admiring a huge marble mortar, Concepcion came into the laboratory. She wore a short white dress and apron, and, on her chatelaine, a bunch of big keys.

“Always on time!” Pemberton exclaimed. “At half past nine every morning Concepcion unlocks the _despensa_, and gives out whatever is needed for the day.”

“The grapes for the _agraz_ are pounded in that mortar,” said Concepcion, who saw I was interested in the strange vessels, “and those big stone rollers are used for crushing and grinding the chocolate.”

“Do you remember how good the smell of chocolate is, when they are making you a cup at home?” said Pemberton. “Imagine what it must be to have the whole house filled with it! Ah! the making of the chocolate is an important event. Rodrigo and I are always impatient for it to begin.”

“When the time has come to make the chocolate,” Concepcion went on, “the cacao is bought. It comes in great sacks,--the best from the Havana, cinnamon from Ceylon--being sure it is the most fresh--sugar the finest, and supreme vanilla. When all is ready, we call the _chocolateros_, two good men, who make the chocolate under my direction, according to a family recipe. When it all is finished, it is poured out into those large troughs to cool. Then it is cut in squares; each large square is just big enough to make a cup of chocolate for grown-up people; and the little squares to make the children’s chocolate. When hard, it is put away on these shelves; as the cupboard is airy it keeps itself for a year.” When she learned that some housekeepers bought their chocolate ready made, Concepcion was scandalized. “It will be mixed with flour of chestnuts, or other inferior things; there is no chocolate like the Andalusian!” she declared.

In the _despensa_, a cool, stone grotto, hams, sausages, dried herbs, onions, and scarlet peppers hung from the roof; a dozen bloated goatskins leant against the wall.

“The oil,” Pemberton explained, “was brought in from the farm on mule-back this morning. When it settles, we shall draw it off in those _amphoræ_;” he pointed to a row of two-handled, red clay jars. “Those _tarros_ are full of pork,--we killed a hundred pigs last November. The best of the meat is sent in town to us, the rest is kept at the farm for our work people; we feed our laborers in Andalusia, you know, and feed them well.”

Concepcion told us that she herself always gave out the day’s provisions; this was important, else disastrous things might happen. She stood by and saw cook take the pork from the _tarro_, where it was packed in the “butter of pig,” or the game from the smaller barrels. These lower ones were full of the partridges Pemberton shot last season; some days he got a dozen, some days twenty. Those that were not eaten or given away were slightly boiled and packed in the butter of pig. They would keep six months if great care were used in taking them out, and only the wooden spoon touched the pig butter. If, as had happened, a careless servant puts in her hand to take out a partridge or a bit of pork, the whole _tarro_ is lost; nothing can save it from going bad. The same is true of olives, put up in those tall _tinajas_. Once a human hand,--a metal spoon is almost as bad,--is dipped into that home-made pickle of vinegar, water, lemon, salt, and laurel leaves, the whole _tinaja_ is ruined.

“These nice comfortable-looking round jars are made especially to hold Manchegan cheeses,” said Pemberton. “They’re like Parmesan, only better, made of sheep and goats’ milk mixed. Once a year they bring them from La Mancha to sell; we always lay in a large stock; packed in those jars, with enough oil poured in to cover them, they keep indefinitely. Here is the cook. The momentous council of the day is about to open. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house, while Concepcion gives the orders. We’ll have a look at the roses first.”

Behind the patio was a second court, with orange and lemon trees; at one end grew an ancient cedar with hollow trunk and strange roots, like splay feet, that gripped the earth. A whiff of orange blossoms, the tinkle of a guitar, the voice of an unseen singer chanting a low wailing _malageña_ greeted us as we entered. The walls were a living glory of roses; the yellow Bankshires hung in starry bunches; the white rose vines flung out floating banners of green, thick sprinkled with rose snow. A golden pheasant strutted and preened itself in the sun; from an aviary came the chatter of a happy family of birds.

“_Hijo de mi alma_,” Pemberton said to Rodrigo, “you may not take the lamb up-stairs; stay with him till we come down.”

Rodrigo, nothing disappointed, drew out a little cart, and seating himself in it turned the wheels so that the cart slid along the stone path in the middle of the garden, the lamb trotting beside; back and forth, back and forth, we heard the rattling of those wheels (I can hear them still) as the lonely boy and the lamb played together.

“Did you ever see a game of football?” Patsy asked the child. Rodrigo had only seen pictures of football, but he had seen _pelota_, and he could hit the bull’s-eye with his arrow three times out of five.

“Rodrigo is a Spaniard; he is going into the army,” Pemberton said, as he led the way up-stairs to the winter quarters. “My grandmother was a Spaniard; my parents called themselves ‘cosmopolitans’; some other people called them disgruntled Americans. I’m a man without a country,--one of that kind is enough in a family!”

He flared up with sudden passion. To make a diversion J. complimented him on the winter parlor, a bare, comfortable room with a few good pictures, the necessary furniture and a refreshing absence of junk.

“No little tables of jointed silver fish and jade idols here?” he said. “We’re still half Orientals in Seville; we don’t suffer from the dreadful ‘too much’ that is stifling you in America!”

The winter kitchen, all white marble and tiles, had a gas range, the most modern thing in the house, and deal tables scrubbed with soap and sand till you saw the grain of the wood. Something was said about the exquisite neatness of the house.

“Andalusians,” Pemberton assured us, “are remarkably clean people. Did you notice our _calle_? You don’t often see a street so well kept. Each householder is obliged to take care of the part before his house; competition is a good principle in street cleaning.”

The upper corridor, giving access to the winter rooms, was shut in with glass; it led to the _azotea_, a terrace that overhung the court of roses. The flowers here had more sun and air than in the patio; the carnations were as big as coffee cups, the damask roses as large as saucers. A second flight of stairs led up to the winter bed and dressing-rooms.

“These mattresses are of carded wool,” said Pemberton; “the blankets,--feel how light and soft they are,--were made at the farm, spun and woven by an old woman, the last survivor of my grandmother’s servants. These sheepskins are spread under the mattresses for warmth, for tiled floors are cold. The fleece is of three years’ growth; see, it is as fine as silk.”

Laundry, drying-room, and terrace for bleaching and airing, were at the top of the house. The keen smell of good gum camphor met us on the stair; it came from a brass-bound cedar chest, standing open on the terrace. A dozen of Concepcion’s feather fans dangled from a line.

“Now that you’ve seen the house in Seville God has given me,” said Pemberton, “look at the view; it’s the best thing about it!”

Below us lay the city with its narrow _calles_, sunny plazas, shining houses. In every patio, on every terrace and roof garden were flowers and caged birds. The air was musical with bells, song, laughter. Outside the old Roman city walls, spread the green Andalusian _vega_, with the yellow river, gleaming, where the sun touched it, like clouded amber. In the distance the _vega_ was shut in by a circle of blue Sierras; snow lay on the shoulders of the hills, at whose feet the fruit trees were in blossom.

“Can anybody ever be sad in Seville?” cried Patsy. “Do people ever die or grow old here? Are there such things as tears?”

“There is a young lady down-stairs who must have shed a quart of tears since yesterday,” said Pemberton. “Come and help Concepcion comfort her.” He led the way down to the drawing-room. Sitting beside Concepcion, whose hand she had been holding, was a pretty girl, wearing a dress much too large for her.

“_Mi amiga_, Señorita Trinidad Fulano,” Concepcion introduced her friend, who tried to look as if she had not been crying. Our hostess then bustled out of the room, and returned, followed by a neat maid with a tray of preserved sweet potatoes, some _huevos dulces_, a sort of sweetmeat made of sugar and yolk of egg, a delicate decanter, and a straw basket containing twelve long thin glasses no bigger round than a walking stick.

“A _caña_ of manzañilla,” said Pemberton, pouring out a clear amber liquid. “It is light for Spanish wine, no headache in it.” Patsy, Concepcion and Trinidad were already chattering together like three magpies at the other end of the room. In the solemn silence that accompanied the tasting of the manzañilla, Concepcion’s voice rang clear.

“For a woman to call herself beautiful, she must possess the nine essentials of beauty. Three things must she have that be black,--the hair, the eyes, the lashes; three that be red,--the lips, the palms, the cheeks; three that be white,--the hands, the neck, and the teeth.”

Trinidad nodded. “_Claro_,” she said, “she has expressed it divinely.”

“Trinidad could hardly say less,” Pemberton observed, “seeing that she herself possesses the nine indispensables. That is a Moorish proverb, though Concepcion learned it from the nuns, like the saying that the _sal_ a _morena_ wastes in a minute would last a blonde a week and a half. It is a good thing you came in to-day; Trinidad is cheering up already. She has been tremendously harried--had a visit from an angry parent this morning, and a visit from a despairing lover last night. He stood in the _calle_ outside her window, talking with her till past twelve o’clock. You see she’s _en deposito_ with Concepcion.”

At this moment Concepcion glided across the room--she moved with that peculiar poetry of motion of the Spanish woman--and joined us.

“Trinidad is very distinguished, no?” This was always her highest praise. “And intelligent, and instructed; _Ave Maria Purissima!_ she can speak three idioms.”

“You don’t understand what being _en deposito_ means,” Pemberton went on, ignoring the interruption. “Having lately come of age, that is eighteen in Andalusia, Trinidad made application to a magistrate by means of an official document written and signed by herself stating that she wished to marry José Maria Benamiel; that her parents, with no sufficient reason, forbade the marriage; that----”

“_Pobrecitos!_” broke in Concepcion; “they have been making love these four years. He is a youth the most well-bred, the most distinguished----”

“Yesterday,” Pemberton continued, “the magistrate called on Trinidad’s father----”

“He came in a carriage,” Concepcion reminded him.

“And after a heated interview, took Trinidad away from her father’s house and brought her to ours. Here she will stay _en deposito_ for three months. During this time, Concepcion is responsible for her. Trinidad is free to see Benamiel, always in the presence of some responsible third person, and her parents are free to visit her. They----”

“They are people the most egotistical, the most _interested_!” Concepcion burst out. “Can you imagine? they denied her clothes, _por Dios_! it is the truth: that is my dress she is wearing! who ever heard of so great a shame? Not one handkerchief allowed those hard-hearted ones their daughter to take away from their accursed house!”

“It is true, they all lost their tempers,” said Pemberton lightly, “and behaved foolishly. I fancy we shall see a portmanteau before night; between ourselves, Trinidad might very well have kept on the dress she came away in yesterday. It is not a bad system, the _deposito_; it gives time for both love and anger to cool off. The girl is out of coercion here; she has a chance to make up her mind whether or no Benamiel is really the man for her. At the end of the three months, if she still wants him, she may marry him without her parents’ consent.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Pretty safe to. The old people will give in; there is nothing really against Benamiel, only they preferred O’Shea! Small blame to them. O’Shea did not know that Trinidad and Benamiel had already settled things between them. When he found it out he went back to Cordova, where he is stationed, and, Trinidad says, wanted to give to Benamiel a bracelet he had bought for her. Nice boy, O’Shea. Why is it that the nice girls always take the wrong--well, there’s no use opening that chapter, if you must be going--it is time for your Spanish lesson--we’ll tackle it some other time when we have the night before us!”

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