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diff --git a/38767-h/38767-h.htm b/38767-h/38767-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89e956f --- /dev/null +++ b/38767-h/38767-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16505 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Spanish Highways and Byways, by Katharine Lee Bates. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: left; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size:.7em; + text-align: right; +} +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +hr.l15 { + width: 15%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold; + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + text-align: center; + margin-bottom: 2em;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.left65 {margin-left: 65%;} + +.poem {font-size: 95%; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; + margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; } +.poem .stanza { margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; } +.poem p { margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; } +.poem p.o1 {margin-left: -.4em;} +.poem p.o2 {margin-left: -1.4em;} +.poem p.o4 {margin-left: -5em;} +.poem p.o5 {margin-left: -5.4em;} +.poem p.i1 { margin-left: 1em; } +.poem p.i-6 {margin-left: .6em; } +.poem p.i1-6 {margin-left: 1.6em; } +.poem p.i2 { margin-left: 2em; } +.poem p.i2-6 {margin-left: 2.6em;} +.poem p.i3 { margin-left: 3em; } +.poem p.i3-6 {margin-left: 3.6em; } +.poem p.i4 { margin-left: 4em; } +.poem p.i5 {margin-left: 5em; } +.poem p.i10 { margin-left: 10em; } +.poem p.i14 {margin-left: 14em; } +.poem p.i7 {margin-left: 7em;} + +.iambo {margin-left: .9em;} +.i2 {margin-left: 2em;} +.i3 {margin-left: 3em;} +.i4 {margin-left: 4em;} +.icw {margin-left: 3.2em;} +.i10 {margin-left: 10em;} +.o1 {margin-left: -.4em;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +.b20 {font-size:2.0em;} +.b15 {font-size:1.5em;} +.b13 {font-size:1.3em;} +.s09 {font-size:.9em;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 90%; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + empty-cells: show; +} +.tdc {text-align: center;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdl {text-align: left;} + +.tnbox {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-bottom: 8em; + margin-top: auto; + text-align: center; + border: 1px solid; + padding: 1em; + color: black; + background-color: #f6f2f2; + width: 25em;} + +.dropcap {float: left; padding-right: 3px; font-size: 250%; line-height: 83%;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Spanish Highways and Byways, by Katharine Lee Bates + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spanish Highways and Byways + +Author: Katharine Lee Bates + +Release Date: February 4, 2012 [EBook #38767] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="tnbox"> +<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original +document have been preserved.</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="" /> +</div> + +<h1 class="p6">SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS</h1> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="126" height="44" alt="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter p6"><a name="fp" id="fp"></a> +<img src="images/i_004.jpg" width="616" height="413" alt="San Sebastian" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">San Sebastian</span></p> +</div> +<p class="b20 center p6">SPANISH HIGHWAYS<br /> +AND BYWAYS</p> +<p class="center p4">BY<br /> + +<span class="b13">KATHARINE LEE BATES</span><br /> + +<i>Author of "American Literature" +"The English Religious Drama," etc.</i></p> + +<p class="center p2">ILLUSTRATED WITH MANY +ENGRAVINGS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS</p> +<p class="center p4"><i>Published by</i> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center"><i>New York <span class="smcap">Mcm</span></i></p> + +<p class="center">LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED</p> + +<p class="center p6"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1900,</span><br /> +<span>By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</span></p> + +<p class="center p4"><i>Norwood Press<br /> +J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith<br /> +Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.</i></p> + +<p class="center p6 b13">Madre Mia</p> + +<p class="center">AQUI TIENES TU LIBRO</p> + +<h2 class="p6">Preface</h2> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2 class="p6">Contents</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">ix</a></span></p> +<table summary="Table of Contents"> +<col width="50" /> +<col width="250" /> +<col width="100" /> +<tr> +<td class="tdl" colspan="2"><span class="s09">Chapter</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><span class="s09">Page</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">I.</td> +<td class="tdl"> "The Lazy Spaniard"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">II.</td> +<td class="tdl">A Continuous Carnival</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">III.</td> +<td class="tdl">Within the Alhambra</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">IV.</td> +<td class="tdl">A Function in Granada</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">V.</td> +<td class="tdl">In Sight of the Giralda</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VI.</td> +<td class="tdl">Passion Week in Seville</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VII.</td> +<td class="tdl">Traces of the Inquisition</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">VIII.</td> +<td class="tdl">An Andalusian Type</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">IX.</td> +<td class="tdl">A Bull-fight</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">X.</td> +<td class="tdl">Gypsies</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XI.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Route of the Silver Fleets</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XII.</td> +<td class="tdl">Murillo's Cherubs</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XIII.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Yolk of the Spanish Egg</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XIV.</td> +<td class="tdl">A Study in Contrasts</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XV.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Patron Saint of Madrid</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XVI.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Funeral of Castelar</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XVII.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Immemorial Fashion</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XVIII.</td> +<td class="tdl">Corpus Christi in Toledo</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XIX.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Tercentenary of Velázquez</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_283">283</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XX.</td> +<td class="tdl">Choral Games of Spanish Children</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_297">297</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXI.</td> +<td class="tdl">"O la Señorita!"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_338">338</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">x</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXII.</td> +<td class="tdl">Across the Basque Provinces</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_362">362</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXIII.</td> +<td class="tdl">In Old Castile</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_376">376</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXIV.</td> +<td class="tdl">Pilgrims of Saint James</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_394">394</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXV.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Building of a Shrine</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_409">409</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXVI.</td> +<td class="tdl">The Son of Thunder</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_423">423</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">XXVII.</td> +<td class="tdl">Vigo and Away</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_439">439</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<h2 class="p6">List of Illustrations</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">xi</a></span></p> + +<table summary="List of Illustrations"> +<col width="300" /> +<col width="100" /> +<tr> +<td>San Sebastian</td> +<td class="tdr"><i><a href="#fp">Frontispiece</a></i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr s09" colspan="2">Facing Page</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Pasajes</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_025">8</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +An Arab Gateway in Burgos</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_042">23</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Playing at Bull-fight. From painting by Bayeu</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_051">30</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Mosque of Cordova</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_062">39</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Columbus Monument in Granada</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_071">46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Alhambra. Hall of Justice</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_082">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Filling the Water-jars</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_091">62</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Off for the War. From painting by Rubio</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_102">71</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Looking toward the Darro</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_111">78</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +A Milkman of Granada</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_136">101</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +A Roman Well in Ronda</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_149">112</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Giralda</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_170">131</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Passing of the Pageants</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_187">146</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Pageant of Gethsemane</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_210">167</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +"Jesus of the Passion"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_219">174</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +"Christ of the Seven Words"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_242">195</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Maria Santisima</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_259">210</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +A Spanish Monk. From painting by Zurbarán</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_266">215</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +A Seville Street</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_275">222</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +An Old-fashioned Bull-fight. From painting by Goya</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_298">243</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Bull-fight of To-day</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_315">258</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">xii</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The King of the Gypsies</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_334">275</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Gypsy Tenants of an Arab Palace</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_351">290</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +From the Golden Tower down the Guadalquivír</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_374">311</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Cadiz, from the Sea</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_383">318</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Divine Shepherd. From painting by Murillo</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_406">339</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Royal Palace in Madrid</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_423">354</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Royal Family</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_430">359</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Manzanares</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_439">366</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +A Spanish Cemetery</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_450">375</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Toledo</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_459">382</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Toledo Cathedral. Puerta de los Leones</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_470">391</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +St. Paul, the first Hermit. From painting by Ribera</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_479">398</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Maids of Honor. From painting by Velázquez</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_490">407</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Dancing the Sevillana</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_499">414</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Within the Cloister</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_410">423</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +The Trampler of the Moors</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_519">430</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +Santiago Cathedral. Puerta de la Gloria</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_530">439</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +St. James. From painting by Murillo</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_539">446</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p class="p6 center b15">Spanish Highways and Byways</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">1</a></span></p> + +<p class="b13 center p2">I</p> + +<p class="center">"THE LAZY SPANIARD"</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2">"There is a difference between Peter and Peter."—<span class="smcap">Cervantes:</span> <i>Don Quixote</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">"S</span>pain 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 +<i>mezcla</i>, 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."</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">2</a></span></p> + +<p>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 +<i>sombrero</i>, 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 <i>pesetas</i>, 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 <i>pesetas</i>. 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">3</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Above the uneven roofs, on the precipitous hillside, sleep +the dead, watched over by Santa Ana from her neglected hermitage. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">4</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 châlet on +that artistic bay called the <i>Concha</i> or Shell. It is a crescent of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span> +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 <i>alpargatas</i>, 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!</p> + +<p>One of their favorite games, for instance, is this: An especially +active child, by preference a boy, takes the name of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">6</a></span> +<i>milano</i>, or kite, and throws himself down in some convenient +doorway, as if asleep. The others form in Indian file, the +<i>madre</i>, or mother, at the head, and the smallest girl, Mariquilla, +last in line. The file proceeds to sing:—</p> + +<table summary="Kite_1"> +<col width="100" /> +<col width="300" /> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>"We are going to the garden,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Although its wicked warden,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Hungry early and late,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Is crouching before the gate."</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p>Then ensues a musical dialogue between the mother and +Mariquilla:—</p> + +<table summary="Kite_2"> +<col width="100" /> +<col width="300" /> +<tr> +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>Little Mary in the rear!</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Little Mary.</i></td> +<td>What's your bidding, mother dear?</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>Tell me how the kite may thrive.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><i>Little Mary [after cautiously sidling up to the doorway and +inspecting the prone figure there].</i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>He's half dead and half alive.</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p>Then the file chants again:—</p> + +<table summary="Kite_3"> +<col width="100" /> +<col width="300" /> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>"We are going to the garden,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Although its wicked warden,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Hungry early and late,</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Is crouching before the gate."</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>Little Mary in the rear!</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Little Mary.</i></td> +<td>What's your bidding, mother dear?</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>Of the kite I bid you speak.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><i>Little Mary [after a second reconnoissance, which sends her +scampering back to her own place].</i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>He whets his claws and whets his beak.</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">7</a></span> +Here the enemy advances, beating a most appalling tattoo:—</p> + +<table summary="Kite_4"> +<col width="100" /> +<col width="300" /> +<tr> +<td><i>Kite.</i></td> +<td>Pum, pum! Tat, tat!</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>Who is here and what is that?</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><i>Kite.</i></td> +<td>'Tis the kite.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td class="tdr">What seeks the kite?</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><i>Kite.</i></td> +<td>Human flesh! A bite, a bite!</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><i>Mother.</i></td> +<td>You must catch before you dine.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Children, children, keep the line!</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p>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 <i>madre</i> the angel Michael defending +a troop of souls. In Cuba we have a hawk pitted against +a hen with her brood of chickens.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">8</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 señora, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">9</a></span> +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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 635px;"><a name="i_025" id="i_025"></a> +<img src="images/i_025.jpg" width="635" height="424" alt="Pasajes" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Pasajes</span></p> +</div> + +<p>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 <i>capa</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>"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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">10</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">II</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span></p> +<p class="center">A CONTINUOUS CARNIVAL</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"This periodical explosion of freedom and folly."—<span class="smcap">Becquer</span>: <i>El Carnaval</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">H</span>aving 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 <i>repatriados</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span></p> + +<p>The parks of San Sebastian were gay with maskers and +music, tickling brushes and showers of <i>confetti</i>, 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 <i>Plaza de la Constitución</i>, 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 <i>Plaza de la Constitución</i>, 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 <i>plaza</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>At first, beaten and pricked by his tormentors, he tore +blindly round and round the <i>plaza</i>, 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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>plaza</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span> +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 <i>toro de fuego</i> 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.</p> + +<p>But Carnival Tuesday found us no longer in sunny San +Sebastian. We were shivering over a <i>brasero</i> in storied +Burgos, a city chill as if with the very breath of the past. +And the Spanish <i>brasero</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>Our Monday had been spent in a marvellous journey +through the Pyrenees, whose rugged sublimities were bathed +in the very blue of Velázquez, 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 mediæval 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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 "<i>Jesús, Maria y José!</i>" 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>Fulfilled with amazement, we searched our way back to the +hotel through the sleety rain, ate a shivering luncheon at the +"<i>mesa redonda</i>," 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.</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"With sixty lances in his train my Cid rode up the town,</p> +<p>The burghers and their dames from all the windows looking down;</p> +<p>And there were tears in every eye, and on each lip one word:</p> +<p>'A worthy vassal—would to God he served a worthy lord!'</p> +<p>Fain would they shelter him, but none durst yield to his desire.</p> +<p>Great was the fear through Burgos town of King Alphonso's ire.</p> +<p>Sealed with his royal seal hath come his letter to forbid</p> +<p>All men to offer harborage or succor to my Cid.</p> +<p>And he that dared to disobey, well did he know the cost—</p> +<p>His goods, his eyes, stood forfeited, his soul and body lost.</p> +<p>A hard and grievous word was that to men of Christian race;</p> +<p>And since they might not greet my Cid, they hid them from his face."</p> +</div> +<p>Meanwhile the streets were a living picture-book. Muffled +cavaliers, with cloaks drawn up and hats drawn down till +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span> +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 <i>caballeros</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>But that teeth-chattering cold, "<i>un frio de todos los demonios</i>," +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, señora!" +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.</p> + +<p>We had only a few days to give to "the crowned city" +then, but those sufficed for business, for a first acquaintance +with the <i>Puerta del Sol</i> and its radiating avenues, a first joy in +the peerless <i>Museo del Prado</i>, and a brilliant glimpse of Carnival. +We found the great drive of the <i>Prado</i>, 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 <i>confetti</i> by +the fascinating panorama before their eyes. The privileged +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span> +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 régime, 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>confetti</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yet this jocund day did not set without its tragedy. A +hot-tempered Madrileño, 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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span> +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 +<i>caballeros</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 Mihrâb, or Prayer-Niche, an +octagonal recess whose shell-shaped ceiling is hollowed from +a single block of pure white marble. This Holy of Holies +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span> +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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_042" id="i_042"></a> +<img src="images/i_042.jpg" width="421" height="620" alt="An Arab Gateway in Burgos" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Arab Gateway in Burgos</span></p> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +Guadalquivír? It must all have been a morning dream, for +the early afternoon saw us tucked away in another second-class +carriage speeding toward Granada.</p> + +<p>We were in beautiful Andalusia, <i>la tierra de Maria Santisima</i>. +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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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," +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>serpentinas</i>, curly lengths +of paper that crisp themselves in gaudy fetters about their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span> +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 <i>fiesta</i> of pickpockets. Finding ourselves, +on the superb <i>Paseo del Salón</i>, in the midst of a hooting, +jostling, half-gypsy mob, rained upon with <i>confetti</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">III</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span></p> +<p class="center">WITHIN THE ALHAMBRA</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"The Sierra Nevada, an enormous dove which shelters under its most spotless +wings Saracen Granada."—<span class="smcap">Alarcón</span>: <i>Los Seis Velos</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">O</span>ur 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>dulces</i> +for the little ones, who, even the dirtiest, have their own pretty +standard of manners.</p> + +<p>Some half-dozen <i>pequeñitos</i>, 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, +señora." One chubby hidalgo tipped over with the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span> +profundity of his obeisance, but the others righted him so +solemnly that the dignity of the ceremonial was unimpaired.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"A little money for our Blessed Lady's sake, señora. I +am starving."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you rather have a cigarette?"</p> + +<p>"And that I would."</p> + +<p>"Then you are not starving, little brother. Run away. +I have no cigarettes."</p> + +<p>"But you have money for me, señora."</p> + +<p>"No, nor enough for myself, not enough to buy one tile +of the Alhambra."</p> + +<p>"Then may God take care of you!"</p> + +<p>"And of you!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_051" id="i_051"></a> +<img src="images/i_051.jpg" width="600" height="410" alt="Playing at Bull-Fight" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Playing at Bull-Fight</span></p> +</div> + +<p>But the wild-haired, jet-eyed gypsy girl from the Albaicín +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.</p> + +<p>"Five <i>centimos</i> to buy me a scarlet ribbon! Five <i>centimos</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Not to-day, excuse me. I have no change."</p> + +<p>"Hoh! You have change enough. Look in your little +brown bag and see."</p> + +<p>"I have no change."</p> + +<p>"Then give me a <i>peseta</i>. Come, now, a whole <i>peseta</i>!" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span></p> + +<p>"But why should I give you a <i>peseta</i>?"</p> + +<p>The girl stares like an angry hawk.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Beg, Isabelita! Beg of the lady, little Conception! Beg, +Alfonsito! Beg, beg, beg! Beg five <i>centimos</i>, ten <i>centimos</i>! +Beg a <i>peseta</i> for us all!"</p> + +<p>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 <i>dulces</i>.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>Generalife</i>, 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 +Albaicín; 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span> +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 <i>Torre de la Vela</i>, 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 Albaicín, 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.</p> + +<p>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:— +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"I like to live in Granada,</p> +<p class="i1">It pleases me so well</p> +<p>When I am falling asleep at night</p> +<p class="i1">To hear the <i>Vela</i> bell."</p> +</div> + +<p>There is the proud young mother, too, whom we came upon +by chance over behind the Tower of the Princesses, where +her pot of <i>puchero</i> 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 <i>La Virgen de las Angustias</i>, the venerated +<i>Patrona</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Their especial spokesman was a shambling orphan lad of +some fifteen summers, with shrewd and merry eyes. Nothing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't say that! Spain has the Alhambra, and beautiful +churches, beautiful pictures."</p> + +<p>"Can one eat churches and pictures, my lady?"</p> + +<p>"And a fertile soil. What country outblooms Andalusia?"</p> + +<p>His half-shod foot kicked the battle-trampled earth of the +immortal hill contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"Soil! Yes. All the world has soil. It serves to be +buried in."</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span> +pockets. But his talk, however angry, would always end in +throwing out the hands with a gesture of despair.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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: +"<i>Hungry Repatriados</i>." 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 <i>repatriado</i>." There was no glamour here, but the courage +and sacrifice, the love and anguish, held good.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>Among the new tales of Spanish valor told us on the +Alhambra hill was this:—</p> + +<p>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, <i>peseta</i> by <i>peseta</i>, the sum of sixteen dollars, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span> +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, señora. 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<i>No importa.</i> There must be something better than glory for +the man who does more than his duty. +</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"><a name="i_062" id="i_062"></a> +<img src="images/i_062.jpg" width="417" height="554" alt="The Mosque of Cordova" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Mosque of Cordova</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">IV</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span></p> +<p class="center">A FUNCTION IN GRANADA</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"O Love Divine, Celestial Purity,</p> +<p class="i2">Pity my cries!</p> +<p>My soul is prone before a clouded throne.</p> +<p class="i2">Let thy keen light arise,</p> +<p>Pierce this obscurity</p> +<p class="i2">And free my dream-bound eyes!"</p> +<p class="i10">—<i>Ganivet's Last Poem.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he 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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span> +first of all, to our table waiter, whose keen black eyes instantly +turned sad and tender.</p> + +<p>"<i>Pobre! Pobre!</i> 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 <i>caballero</i> who cared greatly +for Spain."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span></p> + +<p>My next authority was an aged Granadine, a man of letters; +but he had not read Ganivet's books.</p> + +<p>"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. <i>Bueno!</i> 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."</p> + +<p>The "function" took place in the <i>Gran Teatro de Isabel +la Católica</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>The official in charge, deaf, slow, and courteous, invited +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span> +us into a private room and gave us rocking-chairs by the +<i>brasero</i>, while he, with paper and pencil, laboriously added the +price of our <i>entradas</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Paraiso</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Bretón'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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>Between the second act, "Love," and the last act, "Death," +came an <i>andante elegiaco</i>, "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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But in general that nondescript assembly looked on in +passive gravity while <i>El Escultor de su Alma</i> was rendered, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>A few days later, I found and eagerly read Angel Ganivet's +most significant booklet, <i>Idearium</i>, published in the autumn +of 1896, in which he sets forth his dream for the future of +his beloved country.</p> + +<p>Ganivet claims that the deepest moral element in Spanish +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>The author, <i>muy español</i>, is naturally <i>muy católico</i>, 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, <i>sui generis</i>, 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 Velázquez 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."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_071" id="i_071"></a> +<img src="images/i_071.jpg" width="587" height="416" alt="The Columbus Monument in Granada" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Columbus Monument in Granada</span></p> +</div> + +<p>He finds it logical and right that Spain, after her successive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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." +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p2">V</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span></p> +<p class="center">IN SIGHT OF THE GIRALDA</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2">"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."—<span class="smcap">Valdés</span>: <i>La Hermana San Sulpicio</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">O</span>ne 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 <i>contrabandista</i>. 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 Cæsar, but had been wonderfully +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span> +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 mediæval 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>alameda</i>, 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." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span></p> + +<p>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 José, every Doña 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.</p> + +<p>Our carriage was crowded with several Spaniards and a +"Jew-Gib," who, without saying "<i>oxte ni moxte</i>," 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 señora had said on an earlier +trip. "It makes me sick, yes, but men ought to be +men."</p> + +<p>We were journeying toward the very palace of the sun, +with gray ranks of olive trees standing guard on either hand. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span> +"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"In this world, my masters,</p> +<p class="i1">There's neither truth nor lie,</p> +<p>But all things take the color</p> +<p class="i1">Of the glass before the eye."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span></p> + +<p>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 <i>serenos</i>, "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:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"When I am missing, hunt me down</p> +<p class="i1">In Andalusia's purple light,</p> +<p>Where all the beauties are so brown,</p> +<p class="i1">And all the wits so bright."</p> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The lordly Guadalquivír, for instance, so fair to see from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span> +the picture-making summit of the Giralda, as he lingers through +his blooming Paradise, forgetful of the ocean, is not altogether +goodly.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds</p> +<p>To plague the decent body of mankind!"</p> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is the quality good?"</p> + +<p>"As good as God's blessing."</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span></p> + +<p>The beggars of Seville are gentler than those of Ronda and +Granada, but hardly less numerous. Mendicant figures are +thick as Guadalquivír 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span> +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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_082" id="i_082"></a> +<img src="images/i_082.jpg" width="418" height="531" alt="The Alhambra" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Alhambra. Hall of Justice</span></p> +</div> + +<p>"This is a very bad habit of thine. I told thee so a month +ago."</p> + +<p>"Me, sir?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Work, sir?"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>peseta</i>."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>Las Sierpes</i>, buy pottery in Triana, see the gypsy dances in +the cafés, attend the Thursday rag-fair, do reverence to the +Columbus manuscripts in the <i>Biblioteca Columbina</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span> +your heart to the Alcázar, 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 <i>Hospital de la Caridad</i>, +where hang six of his greatest compositions, to the <i>Museo Provincial</i>, +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 Alarcón, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span> +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?</p> + +<p>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. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">VI</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">PASSION WEEK IN SEVILLE</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"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."—<span class="smcap">Galdós</span>: +<i>Marianela</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">H</span>oly 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 +Guadalquivír. 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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>When we returned the procession was streaming out of the +cathedral into the street of the <i>Gran Capitán</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>Venders of palm were stationed in every sheltered corner, +selling their wares, more than twice the height of a man, at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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 fiancée, 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.</p> + +<p>The oblong <i>Plaza de la Constitución</i>, the scene in days gone +by of many a tournament, <i>auto de fe</i>, and bull-fight, is bounded +on one side by the ornate Renaissance façade 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 <i>plaza</i>, +while the other opens into the brilliant street of <i>Las Sierpes</i>, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span> +too narrow for carriages, but boasting the gayest shop windows +and merriest cafés of all the town.</p> + +<p>The <i>plaza</i>, 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 <i>dulces</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span> +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 <i>cofradia</i> 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.</p> + +<p>After long watching and waiting we saw, far down <i>Las +Sierpes</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_091" id="i_091"></a> +<img src="images/i_091.jpg" width="406" height="625" alt="Filling the Water-Jars" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Filling the Water-Jars</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Sunset colors were in the sky before the procession of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span> +second brotherhood arrived. At last, far down the <i>Sierpes</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>vivas</i> 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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>plaza</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>The remaining three <i>cofradias</i> 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 <i>vivas</i> +and <i>bravos</i> this Passion picture passed, like its predecessors, +in clouds of incense and peals of solemn music.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>By six o'clock the squares and streets along the processional +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span> +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 <i>Semana Santa</i>, were held at home this year by +poverty or mourning.</p> + +<p>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 mediæval 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 +<i>cofradias</i> 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 <i>caballero</i> who +chanced to be our prime source of information this Thursday +afternoon was himself of a prominent family, a protégé 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>toreros</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>It was, as usual, the second upon which the main expense +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span> +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 <i>paso</i> 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 <i>cofradia</i>, 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 <i>centimos</i> +(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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span> +Velázquez. The most and best are from the hand of the +Sevillian Montañés, 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.</p> + +<p>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 Montañés's masterpieces in wood-carving.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Las Sierpes</i> waved a river of lights, announcing the +advent of the most ancient of all the Sevillian brotherhoods, +Jesus of the Passion. The crowded <i>plaza</i> rose in reverence +as the Crucifixion <i>paso</i> was borne by, and Our Lady of Mercy, +too magnificent for her name, was greeted with rapturous outcries.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_102" id="i_102"></a> +<img src="images/i_102.jpg" width="624" height="372" alt="Off for the War" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Off for the War</span></p> +</div> + +<p>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 +<i>plaza</i>, a few of us made speed by a deserted side street to the +cathedral. We were too late for the <i>Miserere</i>, which was just +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span> +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 <i>Su Majestad</i>, had been solemnly +placed the night before, much as the mediæval 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>plaza</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span> +out with his comrades, to rise with a headache that lasted for +days after.</p> + +<p>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 +señora, 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 señor, 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."</p> + +<p>By two o'clock the seats on the grand stand were filling +fast, the <i>plaza</i> 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 <i>calientes</i>, an Andalusian version of +twisted doughnuts, was in savory progress here and there on +the outskirts of the throng, and our ever thoughtful hostess +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span> +did not fail to keep her balcony well supplied with these +crisp dainties.</p> + +<p>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 <i>pasos</i> came into view. For these processions of the +dawn, <i>de madrugada</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>The wealthy <i>cofradia</i> 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 Montañés, 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 <i>paso</i>, 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 señoras are accustomed to lend +their most valuable gems to their favorite Virgins for the +<i>Semana Santa</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Las +Sierpes</i> and stretched "in never ending line" across the <i>plaza</i>. +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.</p> + +<p>After this sumptuous display, the fourth band of Nazarenes, +gliding through the <i>plaza</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>cofradia</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>But the last brotherhood in the <i>madrugada</i> 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 <i>paso</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span> +cloud, bearing a great blue banner and a shining ivory cross, +that they brought order and decorum with them.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>plaza</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 señoritas in the balconies had substituted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span> +knots of black ribbon for the customary flowers in the hair. +Jet trimmings abounded, and the waving fans were black.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The leading company, whose far-trailing robes carpeted the +street with fine black velvet, stood for the olive industry. +This <i>cofradia</i> 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 <i>pasos</i> 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 <i>paso</i> 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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_111" id="i_111"></a> +<img src="images/i_111.jpg" width="424" height="541" alt="Looking toward the Darro" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Granada. Looking toward the Darro</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>The second <i>cofradia</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 Cæsar's iron breast would have blown them +away like soap bubbles.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span></p> + +<p>But something was amiss with the processional order. +Where were the stately ranks of Montserrat? Alas and +alas! Scarcely had this aristocratic <i>cofradia</i> 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 <i>fleurs de lis</i>, 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 +<i>paso</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>But more and more solemnly the taper-bearing troops of +Nazarenes poured by with the culminating pictures of the +Passion. These last three <i>cofradias</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>On Saturday morning we went early to the cathedral for +the closing rite. The Sagrario was thronged. Some of the +señoras 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, <i>Gloria in Excelsis</i> soared +in choral chant, and amid the awe-stricken multitudes fallen +to their knees, <i>Su Majestad</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Easter Sunday was celebrated by a bull-fight.</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">VII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span></p> +<p class="center">TRACES OF THE INQUISITION</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"I live a life more great than I.</p> +<p>The life I hope is life so high,</p> +<p>I die because I cannot die."</p> +<p class="i10">—<i>Santa Teresa de Jesús.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">A</span>ll Spaniards venerate the name of <i>Isabel la Católica</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span> +Spain the sickening breath of the <i>auto de fe</i> 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 <i>San Benitos</i>, yellow coats +painted with flames and devils, were burned to death here in +our gay <i>Plaza de la Constitución</i>, then known as the <i>Plaza de +San Francisco</i>, and in the <i>Quemadero</i> 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 <i>Quemadero</i>, translate into poetry to-day +that tale of blazing fagots.</p> + +<p>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 Lúcar, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Quemadero</i>. Here are old +books with horrible woodcuts of the torments, and time-stained +manuscripts, several bearing the seal and signatures +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span> +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 <i>autos de fe</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>fabrica</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>"But even yet one cannot call one's self a Protestant in +Spain, you know," said an English diplomat to us in another +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Precisely so," we admitted, "and after that the best they +could say for him was that they never would have thought it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Perez Galdós, 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 Señor Galdós is the author of "Doña +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span> +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 mediæval +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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 señorita 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: +"<i>Ay de mi!</i> 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."</p> + +<p>It is such prejudice that goes far toward justifying the maintenance +by foreign societies of Protestant churches in Spain. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span> +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 <i>culto</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span> +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 <i>indiferentes</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>The most cheerful <i>indiferente</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span> +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 <i>geografia</i> 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 <i>Confederación de los Estados +Unidos</i> was barely mentioned as one of the five "States" +of North America.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span> +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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"<i>Bueno!</i>" he cried at last, whisking the mirthful tears +from his eyes. "<i>Vamos á ver!</i> Let us go on and see!"</p> + +<p>We opened the classic volume at the Catholic Faust-drama, +<i>El Mágico Prodigioso</i>, 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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span></p> + +<p>"But this is lofty!" he exclaimed. "This is sublime! +Good, Cipriano, good! Now you have him! What will +the devil say to that? <i>Vamos á ver!</i>"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>I ran over in my mind our engagements for the morrow. +He mistook the cause of my hesitation.</p> + +<p>"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 señorita with you."</p> + +<p>I was aware of a slight convulsion in "the silent señorita." +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.</p> + +<p>My youthful chaperon, much elated by this reversal of our +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>braseros</i>, +and rocking-chairs, and in every room images and paintings +of the saints, at which he made irreverent grimaces.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 encyclopædia in which, to his frank astonishment, he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span> +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 Doré 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"<i>Muy bien!</i>" 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!"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" I exclaimed, for once startled into protest. +"He is saying that religion is the impulse of thirst."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>His enthusiasm for Calderon soon kindled to a flame. As +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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! <i>Vamos á ver!</i> I hope +it will be Cipriano."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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—<i>Bueno!</i> I am on the brink +of the jump, and the priests have not frightened me yet. +Afterward? <i>Vamos á ver!</i>"</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span> +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 <i>autos +de fe</i> 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, Logroño, 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.</p> + +<p>No root of the Lutheran heresy survived in the Peninsula. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span> +of Great Britain, Germany, Switzerland, and America, +joined hands in this. Only the Plymouth Brethren and the +Church of England held aloof.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_136" id="i_136"></a> +<img src="images/i_136.jpg" width="620" height="401" alt="A Milkman of Granada" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Milkman of Granada</span></p> +</div> + +<p>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:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Get away with you, Protestants,</p> +<p class="i1">Out of our Catholic Spain,</p> +<p>That the Sacred Heart, the Sacred Heart,</p> +<p class="i1">May love our land again."</p> +</div> + +<p>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 <i>auto de fe</i>. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">VIII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span></p> +<p class="center">AN ANDALUSIAN TYPE</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"'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.'"—<span class="smcap">Cervantes</span>: <i>Don Quixote</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t might have been in Seville, though it was not, that I +met my most <i>simpático</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span> +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—"<i>un animal +doméstico</i>, that does not bite."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span> +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 café 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 cafés +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.</p> + +<p>"What can one do? I know Spain too well. Now, +hear! I am acquainted with a <i>caballero</i>. 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 señorita whom he +loved better than his eyelashes. He travelled for his pleasure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span> +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 <i>peseta</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>On another occasion one of those pleasant individuals who +would, as the Spaniards say, "talk of a rope in the house of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span> +one who had been hanged," saw fit to entertain the dinner-table +with anecdotes of Spanish cruelty.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Unlike many educated Spaniards who would rather attend +the bull-fights than defend them, he squared his shoulders for +an oration.</p> + +<p>"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?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span></p> + +<p>I briefly suggested that there was no element of necessity +in bull-fights.</p> + +<p>The waving hand apologized gently for dissent.</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>toro bravo</i>. 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 <i>estocada</i>, 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!"</p> + +<p>This was a novel view of the case to the auditor, who +ignominiously shifted her ground.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Again that deprecatory waving of the hands.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon. I do not know how it is in America. +Perhaps" [circumflex accent] "all is merciful and noble there. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>corrida de toros</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>"Ah, it is four years. Of course, I was much younger then. +Yes, yes! It might not please me now. <i>Quien sabe?</i> 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 café. 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span> +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 <i>corrida</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span> +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:—</p> + +<p>"Ah! But you think we Spaniards make much of little +things. It is true. We are best at what is least useful."</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span></p> + +<p>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. +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_149" id="i_149"></a> +<img src="images/i_149.jpg" width="423" height="596" alt="A Roman Well in Ronda" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Roman Well in Ronda</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">IX</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span></p> +<p class="center">A BULL-FIGHT</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"I wish no living thing to suffer pain."—<span class="smcap">Shelley</span>: <i>Prometheus Unbound</i>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span>rom 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."</p> + +<p>No sight is more common in streets and parks than that of +a group of boys playing <i>al toro</i>—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.</p> + +<p>The <i>corridas de toros</i>, although denounced by some of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span> +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 <i>caballeros</i>, 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 +<i>capas</i> and broad <i>sombreros</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 Madrileño shook with +anger. "And I tell <i>you</i>" he choked, "that Spain would +rather perish with the bull-fight than survive without it." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span> +<i>Isabel la Católica</i>, 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 <i>corridas de toros</i> in their +dominions, more successful. The papal bull, like the bulls of +flesh and blood, was inevitably overthrown.</p> + +<p>Spanish legend likes to name the Cid as the first <i>torero</i>.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Troth it goodly was and pleasant</p> +<p class="i1">To behold him at their head,</p> +<p>All in mail on Bavieca,</p> +<p class="i1">And to hear the words he said."</p> +</div> + +<p>In mediæval times the sport was not without chivalric +features. Knights fought for honor, where professionals now +fight for <i>pesetas</i>. 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; Cándido, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span> +Cándido, perished in the ring; a second Romero, said to have +killed five thousand six hundred bulls; Montés 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"I have a handsome lover,</p> +<p class="i1">Too bold to fear the Devil,</p> +<p>And he's the best <i>torero</i></p> +<p class="i1">In all the town of Seville."</p> +</div> + +<p>The extravagance of the popular enthusiasm for these +<i>fiestas de toros</i> 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 <i>zarzuela</i> represents a rheumatic old <i>aficionado</i>, +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 +<i>corridas</i> and encourages his daughter's <i>novio</i>, an honest young +paper-hanger, to throw over his trade and learn to <i>torear</i>. +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 début at +Madrid, the barber, who has just been lucky in the lottery, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span> +rents for him a gorgeous suit of second-hand finery, but in +the <i>Plaza de Toros</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>corrida</i>. Spanish newspapers, even the +most serious, devote columns to <i>Los Toros</i>. Bull-fighting has +its special publications, as <i>El Toril</i> and <i>El Toreo Cómico</i>, 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, <i>corridas</i> 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 <i>Plaza de Toros</i>; 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 <i>toreros</i>, 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 <i>paseos</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span> +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 <i>corrida</i> 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.</p> + +<p>But the Sundays were not enough. Every Catholic feast-day +called for its sacrifice. Granada could not do fitting +honor to Corpus Christi with less than three "<i>magnificas +corridas</i>." The royal saint of Aranjuez, Fernando, must have +his pious birthday kept by an orgy of blood. At the <i>fiesta</i> of +Christ's Ascension all Spain was busy staining his earth with +the life-stream of His creatures. Valladolid was, indeed, +ashamed to have torn to death only seven horses, but Segovia +rejoiced in an expert who sat at his work and killed his bulls +with drawing-room ease. Bordeaux improved the occasion, +with aid of two celebrated Spanish <i>espadas</i>, by opening a +French <i>Plaza de Toros</i>, and Valencia had the excitement of +sending to the infirmary one <i>torero</i> with a broken leg and +another with a crushed foot. Such accidents are by no +means uncommon. A <i>matador</i> was mortally wounded in +the Valencia ring that summer, a <i>banderillero</i> was trampled at +the Escorial, and those favorite stabbers, Reverte and Bombita, +were themselves stabbed by avenging horns.</p> + +<p>If there is a temporary dearth of saint days, Spanish ingenuity +will nevertheless find excuse for <i>corridas</i>. Bulls must +bleed for holy charity,—for hospitals, foundling asylums, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span> +families of workmen out on strike. If the French squadron +is at Cadiz, hospitality demands a bull-fight. In the interests +of popular education, an historical <i>corrida</i> was arranged, with +instructed <i>toreros</i> to display the special styles of bull-killing +that have prevailed from the Cid to Guerrita. Again, as a +zoölogical by-play, an elephant was pitted against the bulls. +This, too, had precedent, for did not Philip IV once keep his +birthday by turning in among the horned herd a lion, a tiger, +a camel, and a bear, "all Noah's ark and Æsop's fables"? +A bull of Xarama vanquished them every one and received +the gracious reward of being shot dead by Philip himself.</p> + +<p>It was on a Wednesday afternoon, at one of the three grand +<i>corridas</i> of the Seville <i>Feria</i>, that I became an accomplice in +this Spanish crime. Our friends in Seville, people of cultivation +and liberal views, had declared from the first that we +could have no conception of Spanish life and character without +sharing in the national <i>fiesta</i>. "We ourselves are not +enthusiasts," they said. "In fact, we disapprove the bull-fight. +We regard it as demoralizing to the community at large. It is, +nevertheless, a thing scientific, artistic, heroic, <i>Spanish</i>. Besides, +a large portion of the proceeds goes to charity. We do +not attend the <i>corridas</i>, except now and then, especially when +we have foreign guests who wish to see them. Before going +they all regard bull-fighting as you do, as an atrocity, a +barbarity, but invariably they return from the <i>Plaza de +Toros</i> filled with delight and admiration. They say their +previous ideas were all wrong, that it is a noble and splendid +spectacle, that they want to see it again and again, that +they cannot be too grateful to us for having delivered them +from prejudice." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span></p> + +<p>I winced at the word. I have a prejudice against being +prejudiced, and to the bull-fight I went.</p> + +<p>My yielding came too late for securing places in a box or +in any part of the house from which one can make exit during +the performance. Our gory-looking tickets admitted us to +the uppermost row of high, whitewashed, stone seats of the +circus proper, where we were soon inextricably wedged in by +the human mass that formed around and below us. The +hour of waiting passed merrily enough. The open amphitheatre, +jammed to its full capacity of fourteen thousand, lay +half in brilliant sunlight and half in creeping shadow. Above +us arched the glowing blue sky of Seville, pricked by the rosy +Giralda, and from time to time a strong-winged bird flew +over. The great arena, strewn with yellow sand, was enclosed +by a dark red barrier of wood, about the height of a +man. This was encircled, at a little distance, by a more +secure and higher wall of stone. The concourse was largely +composed of men, both roughs and gentles, but there was no +lack of ladies, elegantly dressed, nor of children. Two sweet +little girls in white-feathered hats were just in front of us, +dancing up and down to relieve the thrills of expectancy. +White mantillas, pinned with jewels, bent from the boxes, +while the daughters of the people dazzled the eye with their +festival display of Manila shawls, some pure white, some with +colored figures on a white ground or a black, and some a rainbow +maze of capricious needle-work. The rich-hued blossoms +of Andalusia were worn in the hair and on the breast. +The sunny side of the circus was brightly dotted by parasols, +orange, green, vermilion, and fans in all the cardinal colors +twinkled like a shivered kaleidoscope. The men's black eyes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span> +glittered under those broad <i>sombreros</i>, white or drab, while +they puffed their cigarettes with unwonted energy, scattering +the ashes in soft gray showers over their neighbors on the +seats below. The tumult of voices had a keener note of +excitement than I had yet heard in Spain, and was so loud +and insistent as often to drown the clashing music of the +band. The cries of various venders swelled the mighty +volume of noise. Water-sellers in vivid blouses and +sashes, a red handkerchief twisted around the neck, on the +left shoulder a cushion of folded carpeting for the shapely, +yellow-brown jar, and a smart tin tray, holding two glasses, +corded to the belt, went pushing through the throng. Criers +of oranges, newspapers, crabs, and cockles, almond cakes, +fans, and photographs of the <i>toreros</i>, strove with all the might +of their lungs against the universal uproar.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Crece el entusiasmo;</p> +<p>Crece la alegría;</p> +<p>Todo es algazara;</p> +<p>Todo es confusión."</p> +</div> + +<p>A tempest of applause marked the entrance in a box above +of a popular <i>prima donna</i>, who draped a resplendent carmine +scarf over the railing before her seat. Immediately the complete +circuit of the rail was ablaze with color, cloaks and +shawls instantly converting themselves into tapestry.</p> + +<p>At last two attendants entered the arena, walked up to a +hydrant in the centre, fastened on a hose, and watered the +great circle. They pulled out the hydrant and raked sand +over the hole. Simple as these actions were, a dreadful quiet +fell on all the circus. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span></p> + +<p>A trumpet blared. Mounted <i>alguaciles</i>, or police, tricked +out in ancient Spanish costume, on blue saddles, and with tall +blue plumes in their hats, rode in and cleared the arena of all +stragglers. A door opened, and forth issued the full circus +troupe, making a fine show of filigree, and urging their +wretched old nags to a last moment of equine pride and +spirit. Amid roars of welcome, they flaunted across the +sanded enclosure and saluted the presiding officer. He +dropped the key of the <i>toril</i>, that dark series of cells into +which the bulls had been driven some hours before. An +<i>alguacil</i> caught the key and handed it to the <i>torilero</i>, who ran +with it toward a second door, ominously surmounted by a +great bull's head. Then there was a twinkling of the pink +stockings and black sandals. Most of the gay company +leaped the barrier, and even the <i>chulos</i> who remained in the +ring placed themselves within convenient distance of the rail. +Some of the <i>picadores</i> galloped out, but a few awaited the +coming charge, their long pikes in rest. The door on which +all eyes were bent flew open, and a bellowing red bull rushed +in. The fierce, bloodthirsty, horrible yell that greeted him +checked his impetuous onset. For a few seconds the creature +stood stock-still, glaring at the scene. Heaven knows +what he thought of us. He had had five perfect years of life +on the banks of the Guadalquivír,—one baby year by his +mother's side, one year of sportive roving with his mates, +and then had come the trial of his valor. He had found all +the herdsmen gathered at the ranch one morning, and, nevertheless, +flattered himself that he had evaded those hateful +pikes, <i>garrochas</i>, that were always goading him back when he +would sally out to explore the great green world. At all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span> +events, here he was scampering alone across the plain. But +promptly two horsemen were at his heels, and one of these, +planting a blunt <i>garrocha</i> on his flank, rolled the youngster +over. Up again, panting with surprise and indignation, he felt +a homesick impulse to get back to the herd, but the second +horseman was full in his path. So much the worse for the +horseman! The mettlesome young bull lowered his horns +and charged the obstacle, only to be thrown back with a +smarting shoulder. If he had yielded then, his would have +been the quiet yoke and the long, dull life of labor, but he +justified his breed; he charged anew, and so proved himself +worthy of the arena. Three more years of the deep, green +river-reeds and the sweet Andalusian sunshine, three years of +free, far range and glad companionship, and then the end. +His days had been exempt from burden only to save his wild +young strength for the final tragedy. One summer morning +those traitors known as decoy-oxen, with bells about the +neck, came trotting into the herd. The noble bulls, now at +their best hour of life, the glory of their kind, welcomed these +cunning guests with frank delight and interest, and were easily +induced to follow them and their tinkling bells across the +rich pastures, along rough country roads, even to the city +itself and the fatal <i>Plaza de Toros</i>. The herdsmen with their +ready pikes galloped behind the drove, and everywhere along +the way peasants and townsfolk would fall in for a mile or +two to help in urging the excited animals onward to their +cruel doom.</p> + +<p>In that strange, maddening sea of faces, that hubbub +of hostile voices, the bull, as soon as his blinking eyes +had effected the change from the darkness of the <i>toril</i> to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span> +glaring light and gaudy colors of the coliseum, caught sight of +a horseman with the familiar pike. Here was something +that he recognized and hated. Lowering his head, the fiery +brute dashed with a bellow at that tinselled figure. Ah, the +pike had never been so sharp before! It went deep into his +shoulder, but could not hold him back. He plunged his +horns, those mighty spears, into the body of the helpless, +blindfolded horse, which the <i>picador</i>, whose jacket was well +padded and whose legs were cased in iron, deliberately +offered to his wrath. The poor horse shrieked, plunged, +reeled, and fell, the <i>chulos</i> deftly dragging away the armored +rider, while the bull ripped and trampled that quivering carcass, +for whose torment no man cared, until it was a crimson, +formless heap.</p> + +<p>Such sickness swept over me that I did not know what +followed. When I looked again, two bloody masses that +had once been horses disfigured the arena, and the bull, stuck +all over like a hedge-hog with derisive, many-colored darts, +had gone down under Guerrita's steel.</p> + +<p>My friends, observing with concern that I was not enjoying +myself as much as they had promised, tried to divert my +attention to the technical features of their ghastly game. +It was really, they explained, a drama in three acts. It is +the part of the mounted <i>picador</i> to draw off the first rage and +vigor of the bull, weakening him, but not slaying him, by +successive wounds. Then the jaunty <i>banderilleros</i>, the streamers +of whose darts must correspond in color with their +costumes, supply a picturesque and amusing element, a comic +interlude. Finally an <i>espada</i>, or <i>matador</i>, advances alone to +despatch the tortured creature. The death-blow can be dealt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span> +only in one of several fashions, established by rule and precedent, +and the <i>espada</i> who is startled into an unprofessional +thrust reaps a bitter harvest of scoffs and hisses.</p> + +<p>A team of gayly-caparisoned mules with jingling bells had +meanwhile trundled away the mangled bodies of the slaughtered +animals, fresh sand had been thrown over the places +slippery with blood, and the band pealed the entrance of the +second bull. This was a demon, black as a coal, with a +marvellous pride and spirit that availed him nothing. Horse +after horse crashed down before his furious rushes, while the +circus, drunk with glee, shouted for more victims and more +and more. It was a massacre. At last our hideous greed +was glutted, and the <i>banderilleros</i> took their turn in baiting +the now enfeebled but undaunted bull. Wildly he shook +himself, the fore half of his body already a flood of crimson, +to throw off the ignominy of those stinging darts. The +<i>chulos</i> fretted and fooled him with their waving cloaks of red +and yellow, till at last the creature grew hushed and sullen. +A strain of music announced that the <i>matador</i> Fuentes was +asking beneath the president's box permission to kill the bull. +For my part, I gave the bull permission to kill the man. +Fuentes, all pranked out in gray and gold, holding his keen +blade behind him and flourishing a scarlet square of cloth, +swinging from a rod, the <i>muleta</i>, advanced upon the brute. +That bleeding body shook with a new access of rage, and the +other <i>espadas</i> drew near and stood at watch. But even before +a blow was struck the splendid, murdered creature sank to his +knees, staggered up once more, sank again with crimson foam +upon his mouth, and the music clashed jubilantly while Fuentes +drove the weapon home. And again the team of mules, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span> +with foolish tossing of their bright-ribboned heads, jerked +and jolted their dead kindred off the scene.</p> + +<p>The third bull galloped in with a roar that was heard far +beyond the <i>Plaza</i> and gored his first two horses so promptly +and so frightfully that, while the hapless beasts still struggled +in their agony, the amphitheatre howled with delirious joy. +Several <i>capas</i> were caught away on those swift, effective horns, +and one <i>picador</i> was hurt. But the rain of darts teased and +bewildered the bull to the point of stupidity, although he was +dangerous yet.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil;</p> +<p>And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.</p> +<p>His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;</p> +<p>But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe."</p> +</div> + +<p>It was the turn of Bombita, a dandy in dark-green suit +with silver trimmings; but his comrades, pale and intent, stood +not far off and from time to time, by irritating passes, drew +the bull's wrath upon themselves, wearying him ever more +and more, until at last Bombita had his chance to plant a +telling blow.</p> + +<p>Would it never end? Again the fatal door swung open, +and the fourth bull bounded in to play his tragic rôle. He +was of choicest pedigree, but the utter strangeness of the +scene turned his taurine wits. He made distracted and aimless +rushes hither and thither, unheeding the provocations of +the horsemen, until he came upon the spot drenched with his +predecessor's life-blood. He pawed away the hasty covering +of sand, sniffed at that ominous stain, and then, throwing up +his head with a strange bellow, bolted back to the door by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span> +which he had entered, and turned tail to the arena. The +fourteen thousand, crazy with rage, sprang to their feet, shook +their fists, called him <i>cow</i>. The <i>chulos</i> brandished their cloaks +about his horns; men leaned over from the barrier and +prodded him with staffs. Finally, in desperation, he turned +on the nearest horse, rent it and bore it down. The <i>picador</i>, +once set up by the <i>chulos</i> upon his stiff, iron-cased legs, his +yellow finery streaked with red from his lacerated horse, +tugged savagely at the bridle to force that dying creature to +a second stand. One attendant wrenched it by the tail, +another beat it viciously over the face; the all-enduring beast, +his entrails swinging from a crimson gash, struggled to his +feet. The <i>picador</i> mounted, drove in the spurs, and the horse, +rocking and pitching, accomplished a few blind paces toward +those dripping horns that horribly awaited him. But to the +amazement and scandal of the <i>aficionados</i>, the circus raised a +cry of protest, and the discomfited rider sprang down in +the very moment when his horse fell to rise no more. A +<i>chulo</i>, at his leisurely convenience, quieted those kicking hoofs +by a stab,—the one drop of mercy in that ocean of human +outrage.</p> + +<p>Straw-colored darts, wine-colored darts, sky-colored darts, +were pricking the bull to frenzy. I wished he had any half-dozen +of his enemies in a clear pasture. Those glittering +dragon-flies were always just out of reach, but he stumbled +on the sodden shape of the unhappy horse and tossed it again +and again, making the poor carcass fling up its head and arch +its neck in ghastly mockery of life. Cowardice avails a bull +as little as courage. This sorry fighter had been deeply +pierced by the <i>garrochas</i>, and now, as he galloped clumsily +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span> +about the arena, in unavailing efforts to escape from his +tormentors, his violent, foolish plunges made the dark blood +flow the faster. It was Guerrita, Guerrita the adored, Guerrita +in gold-laced jacket and violet trousers, who struck the +ultimate blow, and so cleverly that <i>sombreros</i> and cigarettes, +oranges and pocket-flasks, came raining, amid furies of applause, +into the arena. This was such a proud moment as he had +dreamed of long ago in the Cordova slaughter-house, when, +the little son of the slaughter-house porter, he had stolen from +his bed at midnight to play <i>al toro</i> with the calves, and then and +there had solemnly dedicated himself to the glorious profession. +Now the master of his art and the idol of all Spain, easily making +his seventy-five thousand dollars a year, earning, in fact, three +thousand on that single afternoon, Guerrita little foresaw that +with the coming autumn he should go on pilgrimage to <i>La +Virgen del Pilar</i>, and before her beloved shrine at Saragossa +cut off his bull-fighter's pigtail and renounce the ring.</p> + +<p>The fifth bull was black as ebony. He dashed fearlessly +into the arena, charged and wheeled and tossed his horns in +the splendor of his strength, sending every red-vested <i>chulo</i> +scrambling over the wall. Then he backed to the middle of +the sanded circle, snorting and pawing the earth. Another +instant, and the nearest horse and rider went crashing against +the barrier. The <i>picador</i>, with a bruised face, forced up the +gasping horse, mounted and rode it, the beast treading out its +entrails as it went, to meet a second charge. But the swaying +horse fell dead before it reached those lowered horns +again. The next <i>picador</i>, too, went down heavily under his +jade and received an awkward sprain. He mounted once +more, to show that he could, and the circus cheered him, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span> +his horse, torn to death, could not bear his weight. He gave +it an angry push with the foot as he left it writhing in its life-blood. +This whirlwind of a bull, who shook off all but one +of the <i>banderillas</i>, mortified even the <i>matadores</i>. Disregarding +the red rag, he rushed at Fuentes himself. The nimble <i>torero</i> +leapt aside, but the bull's horn struck his sword and sent it +spinning half across the arena. His comrades immediately +ran, with waving <i>capas</i> and bright steel, to his aid, but that +too intelligent bull, fighting for his life, kept his foes at bay +until the circus hissed with impatience. The <i>toreros</i>, visibly +nettled, gathered closer and closer, but had to play that death-game +cautiously. This bull was dangerous. The coliseum +found him tedious. He took too long in dying. Stabbed +again and again and again, he yet agonized to his feet and +shook those crimsoned horns at his tormentors, who still hung +back. It really was dull. The <i>matadores</i> buzzed about him, +worrying his dying sight, but he stood sullen in their midst, +refusing the charges to which they tempted him, guarding his +last drops of strength, and, cardinal offence in a <i>toro</i>, holding +his head too high for the professional stroke. His vital force +was ebbing. Red foam dripped from his mouth. That +weary hoof no longer pawed the earth. The people shouted +insults even to their pet Guerrita, but Guerrita, like the rest, +stood baffled. At last that formidable figure, no longer black, +but a red glaze of blood and sweat and foam, fell in a sudden +convulsion. Then his valiant murderers sprang upon him, +the stabs came thick and fast, and the jingling mule-team +pranced in to form his funeral cortège.</p> + +<p>One more,—the sixth. I was long past indignation, past +any acuteness of pain, simply sickened through body and soul +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span> +and unutterably wearied with this hideous monotony of +slaughter. The last bull, a white star shining on his black +forehead, tore into the arena, raced all about the circle, and +struck with amazing rapidity wherever he saw a foe. Three +horses were down, were up again, and were forced, all with +trailing intestines, to a second charge. The bull flashed like +a thunderbolt from one to another, rending and digging with +his savage horns, until three mangled bodies writhed on the +reddened sand, and stabbers watched their chances to run +forward and quiet with the knife the horrible beating of those +hoofs in air. The circus yelled delight. It had all been the +work of a moment,—a brave bull, a great sensation! For +the performers it was rather too much of a good thing. +Those disembowelled carcasses cluttered up the arena. The +scattered entrails were slippery under foot. The dart-throwers +hastened to the next act of the tragedy. Theirs was a +subtlety too much for the fury-fuddled wits of that mighty, +blundering brute. He galloped to and fro, spending his +strength in useless charges and, a score of times, ignoring the +men to hook wildly at their brandished strips of colored cloth. +The darts had been planted and he was losing blood. The +<i>matador</i> went to his work, but the uncivil bull did not make +it easy for him. Bombita could not get in a handsome blow. +The house began to hoot and taunt. A stentorian voice +called to him to "kill that bull to-morrow." Exasperated by +the laughter that greeted this sally, Bombita drove his Toledo +blade to its mark. While the final scene of general stabbing +was going on, boys, men, even women vaulted into the arena, +played over again with one another the more memorable incidents, +ran to inspect those shapeless carcasses of what God +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span> +created horses, and escorted the funeral train of the bull, one +small boy riding in gleeful triumph on top of the great black +body, harmless and still at last. As we passed out by a hallway +where the dead animals had been dragged, we had to +pick our way through pools of blood and clots of entrails. +Thus by the road of the shambles we came forth from hell.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_170" id="i_170"></a> +<img src="images/i_170.jpg" width="396" height="624" alt="The Giralda" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Giralda</span></p> +</div> + +<p>"I do not understand at all," sincerely protested my Spanish +host, disconcerted by the continued nausea and horror of +red dreams which, justly enough, pursued me for weeks after. +"It was a very favorable <i>corrida</i> for a beginner,—no serious +accident, no use of the fire-darts, no houghing of the +bull with the demi-lune, nothing objectionable. And, after +all, animals are only animals; they are not Christians."</p> + +<p>"Who were the Christians in that circus?" I asked. +"How could devils have been worse than we?"</p> + +<p>He half glanced toward the morning paper but was too +kindly to speak his thought. It was not necessary. I had +read the paper, which gave half a column to a detailed account +of a recent lynching, with torture, in the United States. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">X</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span></p> +<p class="center">GYPSIES</p> + +<div class="blockquot p2"> +<p>"'Life is sweet, brother.'</p> + +<p>"'Do you think so?'</p> + +<p>"'Think so!—There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, +and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is +very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?'</p> + +<p>"'I would wish to die.'</p> + +<p>"'You talk like a gorgio—which is the same as talking like a fool—were you a +Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!—A Rommany Chal +would wish to live forever!'</p> + +<p>"'In sickness, Jasper?'</p> + +<p>"'There's the sun and stars, brother.'</p> + +<p>"'In blindness, Jasper?'</p> + +<p>"'There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly +live forever. <i>Dosta</i>, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I'll try +to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!'"</p> + +<p>—<span class="smcap">George Borrow</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">N</span>o foreigner has known the Zingali better than +George Borrow, the linguistic Englishman, who +could speak Rommany so well that gypsies all +over Europe took him for a brother. In the employ of the +English Bible Society, he spent some five adventurous years +in Spain, wandering through the wilds and sharing the life of +shepherds, muleteers, even the fierce <i>gitanos</i>. As he found +the Spanish gypsies half a century ago, so, in essentials, are +they still—the men jockeys, tinkers, and blacksmiths, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span> +women fortune tellers and dancers, the children the most +shameless little beggars of all the Peninsula. Yet there has +been an improvement.</p> + +<p>The <i>gitanos</i> are not such ruffians as of old, nor even such +arrant thieves, although it would still be unwise to trust them +within call of temptation.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"There runs a swine down yonder hill,</p> +<p class="i1">As fast as e'er he can,</p> +<p>And as he runs he crieth still,</p> +<p class="i1">'Come, steal me, Gypsyman.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>Still more compromising is the Christmas carol:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Into the porch of Bethlehem</p> +<p class="i1">Have crept the gypsies wild,</p> +<p>And they have stolen the swaddling clothes</p> +<p class="i1">Of the new-born Holy Child.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>"Oh, those swarthy gypsies!</p> +<p class="i1">What won't the rascals dare?</p> +<p>They have not left the Christ Child</p> +<p class="i1">A single shred to wear."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>There are wealthy gypsies, whose wives and daughters +go arrayed with the utmost elegance of fashion, in several +Spanish cities. Seville has her gypsy lawyer, but her gypsy +bull-fighter, who died two years ago, was held to reflect even +greater credit on the parent stock.</p> + +<p>By law the gypsies are now established as Spaniards, +with full claim to Spanish rights and privileges—<i>Nuevos +Castellanos</i>, as they have been called since the day when +Spain bethought her of these Ishmaels as "food for powder" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span> +and subjected them to the regular military draft. Even in +Granada, where the gypsy community still lives in semi-barbarism, +there are hopeful signs. The <i>gitanos</i> drive a sharp +trade in donkeys, but their forge fires, gleaming far up the +Albaicín in the evening, testify to their industry. The +recent opening by the municipality of schools for the gypsy +children has already wrought a marked change for the better. +Some half-dozen dirty little palms, outstretched for <i>cinco +centimos</i>, pester the stranger to-day where scores used to torment +him, and the mothers take pride in the literary accomplishments +of their tawny broods. On one occasion, when, +having, as the Spanish say, "clean pockets," I firmly declined +to see a small gypsy girl dance or hear her sing, the mother +assured me, as a last greedy expedient, that "the child could +pray."</p> + +<p>On the Alhambra hill the gypsies, who scent tourists from +afar and troop thither, on the track of newly arrived parties, +like wolves to their banquet, are picturesque figures enough, +the men in peaked hats, spangled jackets, and sashes of red +silk, the women with bright handkerchiefs bound over their +raven hair, large silver earrings, gay bodices, and short, +flounced petticoats.</p> + +<p>There is one old <i>gitano</i>, in resplendent attire, who haunts +the Alhambra doors and introduces himself to visitors, with +bows queerly compounded of condescension and supplication, +as the King of the Gypsies, modestly offering his photograph +for a <i>peseta</i>. If you turn to your attendant Spaniard and ask, +<i>sotto voce</i>, "But is this truly the Gypsy King?" you will +receive a prompt affirmative, while the quick-witted old +masquerader strikes a royal attitude, rolls his eyes prodigiously, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span> +and twirls his three-cornered hat at arm's length above his +head, until its tinsel ornaments sparkle like crown jewels. +But no sooner is his Majesty well out of hearing than your +guide hastens to eat his own words. "No, no, no! He is +not the King of the Gypsies, but he is a gypsy, yes, and it is +better not to have his ill will."</p> + +<p>Whether this hardened pretender could cast the evil eye or +not, we never knew, for having bought two of his pictures at +the first onset, we suffered ever afterward the sunshine of his +favor. In fact we often made a wide detour rather than pass +him on the hill, for he would spring to his feet at our remotest +approach and stand bowing like an image of perpetual motion, +his hat brandished high in air, until our utmost in the way +of answering nods and smiles seemed by contrast sheer +democratic incivility.</p> + +<p>The swarthy faces and glittering eyes of the gypsies meet +one everywhere in the Granada streets, but to see them in +their own precinct it is necessary to take off your watch, +empty your pockets of all but small silver and coppers, and +go to the Albaicín. This hill, parted from the Alhambra by +the deep ravine of the gold-bearing Darro, was in Moorish +times the chosen residence of the aristocracy. Still Arabian +arches span the gorge, and many of the toppling old houses +that lean over the swift, mountain-born current, shabby as +they look to the passer-by, are beautiful within with arabesque +and fretwork, carven niches, delicate columns and open +patios, where fountains still gush and orange blossoms still +shed fragrance. Such degenerate palaces are often occupied +by the better class of gypsies, those who traffic in horses, as +well as in donkeys, while their women, grouped in the courts +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span> +and doorways, embroider with rainbow wools, in all fantastic +patterns, the stout mantles of the Andalusian mountaineers.</p> + +<p>As we climbed the Albaicín, fronting as it does the hill of +the Alhambra, the exceeding beauty of the view at first +claimed all our power of seeing. Below was the gray sweep +of the city and beyond the fruitful plain of Granada, its vivid +green shading into a far-off dimness like the sea. Just opposite +us rose the fortress of the Alhambra, a proud though +broken girdle of walls and towers, while in the background +soared the dazzling snow peaks of the Sierra Nevada, glistening +with unbearable splendor under the intense blue of the +Andalusian sky.</p> + +<p>In the midst of our rhapsodies I became aware of a shrill +voice at my feet, a persistent tug at my skirts, and reluctantly +dropped my eyes on a comely little gypsy lass lying along a +sunny ledge and imperiously demanding <i>cinco centimos</i>.</p> + +<p>"Now what would you do with <i>cinco centimos</i> if you had +them?"</p> + +<p>With the universal beggar gesture she pointed to her +mouth. "Buy a rusk. I am starving. I am already dead +of hunger."</p> + +<p>Crossing her hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes in +token of her mortal extremity, but instantly flashed them open +again to note the effect.</p> + +<p>"Your cheeks are not the cheeks of famine."</p> + +<p>At a breath the young sorceress sucked them in and succeeded, +plump little person though she was, in looking so +haggard and so woe-begone that our political economy broke +down in laughter, and we gave her the coveted cent in return +for her transformation act. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span></p> + +<p>Off she darted, with her wild locks flying in the wind, and +was back in a twinkling, a circlet of bread suspended from +her arm. She tripped along beside us for the rest of the +afternoon, using the rusk sometimes as a hoop, sometimes as +a crown, sometimes as a peephole. She tossed it, sang +through it, dandled it, stroked it, and occasionally, while the +bread approximated more and more in hue to her own gypsy +complexion, took an artistic nibble, dotting the surface with a +symmetrical curve of bites. It was not mere food to her; it +was luxury, it was mirth—like a Lord Mayor's feast or a +Delmonico breakfast.</p> + +<p>Following the <i>Camino del Sacro Monte</i>, marked by many +crosses, our attention was more and more withdrawn from +the majestic views spread out before us to the gypsies, whose +cave dwellings lined the way. Burrowing into the earth, from +the midst of thickets of prickly pear, are these strange abodes, +whose chimneys rise abruptly out of the green surface of the +hillside. Dens as they are, the best of them possess some +decencies. Flaps of cloth serve them for doors, their peering +fronts are whitewashed, they are furnished with a stool or +two, a box of tools or clothing, a few water-jars, a guitar, and, +in the farther end of the lair, a family bedstead, or more often +a heap of dirty sheepskins. Cooking tins, bottles, saddles, +and coils of rope hang on the rough walls; there may be a +shelf of amulets and toys for sale, and the indispensable pot +of <i>puchero</i> simmers over a handful of fire.</p> + +<p>Out from these savage homes swarmed a whining, coaxing, +importunate horde of sly-eyed women and an impish rabble +of children. Young and old clutched at us with unclean +hands, clung to us with sinewy brown arms, begged, flattered, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span> +demanded, and dragged us bodily into their hill. We felt as +if we had gone back to German fairy tales and had fallen into +the evil grip of the gnomes. Hardly could escort, carriage, +and a reckless rain of coppers break the spell. We were +forced to taste their repulsive messes, to cross witch palms +with silver, to buy even the roadside weeds the urchins +gathered before our eyes. We were birds for the plucking, +sheep for the shearing. Only when we had turned our +pockets inside out to show that we had not a "little dog" +left, were we suffered to go free, followed, doubtless, by the +curses of Egypt, because we had yielded such poor picking.</p> + +<p>In Seville, too, the gypsies have their own quarter, but in proportion +as Seville is a gentler city than Granada, so are the looks +and manners of her gypsy population more attractive. Crossing +the yellow Guadalquivír by the bridge of Isabel Segunda, +we come immediately on the picturesque, dark-visaged figures, +with their uneffaced suggestion of wildness, of freedom, of +traditions apart from the common humdrum of humanity. +The boy, clad in one fluttering garment, who is perilously +balancing his slender brown body on the iron rail; the bright-kerchiefed +young mother, thrusting her tiny black bantling into +our faces; the silent, swarthy men who lean along the bridge +side, lithe even in their lounging;—all have a latent fierceness +in their look. Their eyes are keen as knives—strange eyes, +whose glitter masks the depth. But as we go on into the +potter's suburb of Triana, into the thick of the gypsy life, we +are not more seriously molested than by the continual begging, +nor is this the rough, imperious begging of Granada; a +flavor of Sevillian grace and fun has passed upon it. Offer +this bush-headed lad, pleading starvation, the orange he has +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span> +just tossed away, and he will double up over the joke and +take to his little bare heels. Give to the fawning sibyl who +insists on telling your fortune a red rose for her hair, and the +chances are that she will rest content. But the time to see +the gypsies in their glory is during the three days and nights +of the <i>Feria</i>.</p> + +<p>On the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of April +Seville annually keeps, on the <i>Prado de San Sebastian</i>, where +the Inquisition used to light its fires, the blithest of spring +festivals. The <i>Feria</i> is a fair, but much more than a fair. +There are droves upon droves of horses, donkeys, cattle, +goats, sheep, and pigs. There are rows upon rows of booths +with toys, booths with nuts and candies, booths with the gay-handled +Albacete knives and daggers. There are baskets +upon baskets of rainbow fans, mimic fighting cocks, oranges, +and other cheap Sevillian specialties. Cooling drinks are on +sale at every turn, but there is no drunkenness. There are +thousands and tens of thousands of people in motion, but there +is no bustling, no elbowing, no rudeness of pressure. Dainty +little children wander alone in that tremendous throng. The +order and tranquillity that prevail by day and night in this +multitude of merrymakers render it possible for the <i>Feria</i> to +be what it is. For during these enchanted April hours even +the noblest families of Seville come forth from the proud +seclusion of their patios and live in <i>casetas</i>, little rustic houses +that are scarcely more than open tents, exposed to the gaze +of every passer-by.</p> + +<p>A lofty bridge, crossed by two broad flights of stairs and +tapering to a tower, stands at the intersection of the three +chief <i>Feria</i> avenues. The bridge is brilliantly illuminated by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span> +night, and close-set globes of gas, looped on running tubes +along both sides of these three festal streets, pour floods of +light into the <i>casetas</i>. Chinese lanterns in red and yellow +abound, and lines of banner-staffs flaunt the Spanish colors. +The <i>casetas</i> are usually constructed of white canvas on a +framework of light-brown fretwood, though the materials are +sometimes more durable.</p> + +<p>Clubhouses are large and elaborate, and individual taste +varies the aspect of the private tents. The more important +families of Seville own their <i>casetas</i>, but in general these airy +abodes are rented from year to year, the price for the three +days of the <i>Feria</i> ranging from twenty-five dollars on the +central avenue to five dollars for the more remote houselets +on the two streets that branch off at right angles. The +numerous byways are occupied by cafés, booths, penny +shows, and the like, the gypsies having one side of a lane to +themselves. The other side is given over to circus-rings, +merry-go-rounds, cradle-swings marked "For Havana," "For +Manila," "For Madrid," dancing dwarfs, braying bands, +caged bulls, and tents provided with peepholes through which +one may see "The Glorious Victory of the Spanish Troops +at Santiago," and other surprising panoramas of the recent +war. These are in high favor with soldiers and small boys, +whose black heads bump together at every aperture.</p> + +<p>Such attractions are especially potent over the country +folk, who come jogging into Seville during fair time, mounted +two or three together on jaded horses, sorry mules, and even on +indignant little donkeys. Their peasant costumes add richly +to the charm of the spectacle, and their simplicity makes +them an easy spoil for the canny folk of Egypt. You see +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span> +them especially in the cool of the early morning, when trade +in cattle is at its liveliest. Ten to one they have been fleeced +already by the <i>gitanos</i>, who, out in the great meadow where +the live-stock is exposed for sale, have their own corner for +"dead donkeys," as the Sevillians term the decrepit old beasts +that have been magically spruced up for the occasion. Cervantes +has his jest at "a gypsy's ass, with quicksilver in its +ears."</p> + +<p>Then comes the turn of the <i>gitanas</i>, looking their prettiest, +with roses in hair, and over the shoulders those captivating +black silk shawls embroidered in many-colored patterns of +birds and flowers. The younger enchantresses keep watch, +each in front of her family tent, before whose parted curtains +the more ill-favored women of the household are busy frying +the crisp brown <i>buñuelos</i>, a species of doughnut dear to the +Spanish tooth.</p> + +<p>As you loiter down the lane, be you wide-eyed shepherd +from the provinces, or elegant grandee from Madrid, or +haughty foreigner from London or Vienna, the sturdy sirens +rush upon you, seize you by arm or neck, and by main force +tug you into their tented prisons, from which you must gnaw +your way out through a heap of hot <i>buñuelos</i>. Or you may +compromise on a cup of Spanish chocolate, flavored with +cinnamon and thick as flannel, or perhaps win your liberty +by gulping down a cupful of warm goat's milk. The prices +shock the portliest purses, but at your first faint sign of protest +a gathering mob of gypsies presses close with jeers and hisses, +and even the frying-pan sputters contempt.</p> + +<p>The <i>Feria</i> presents its most quiet aspect during the afternoon. +Some twenty or thirty thousand of the promenaders +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span> +have been drawn off by the superior attraction of the bull-fight, +and others have retired for their siestas. Yet there are +thousands left. This is a grand time for the children, who +disport themselves in the avenues with whistles, swords, +balls, kites, and other trophies from the toy booths. These +little people are exquisitely dressed, often in the old Andalusian +costumes, and tiny lad and tiny lass, of aristocratic look +and bearing, may be seen tripping together through one of the +graceful national dances in the midst of a sidewalk throng. +The toddlers, too, are out, under charge of happy nursemaids.</p> + +<p>Even the babies have been brought to the fair, and lie, +contentedly sucking their rosy thumbs, in the doorways of +the <i>casetas</i>. The lords of these doll-houses are enjoying +peaceful smokes together in the background of the open parlors, +which are furnished with as many chairs as possible, a +piano, and a central stand of flowers; while semicircles of +silent ladies, languidly waving the most exquisite of fans, sit +nearer the front, watching the ceaseless stream of pedestrians, +and beyond these the double procession of carriages, which +keep close rank as they advance on one side of the avenue and +return on the other. It is bad form not to go to the <i>Feria</i> +once at least in a carriage. Large families of limited means +hire spacious vehicles resembling omnibuses, and, squeezed +together in two opposite rows, drive up and down the three +chief streets for hours.</p> + +<p>There are crested landaus, with handsome horses, gay +donkey-carts, decked out with wreaths and tassels, shabby +cabs, sporting red and yellow ribbons on their whips, tooting +coaches—every sort and kind of contrivance for relieving +humanity of its own weight. There are mounted cavaliers in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span> +plenty, and occasionally, under due masculine escort, a fair-haired +English girl rides by, or a group of Spanish señoras, +who have come into Seville on horseback from their country +homes. But all this movement is slow and dreamy, the play +of the children being as gentle as the waving of the fans.</p> + +<p>Even Gypsy Lane shares in the tranquillity of the drowsy +afternoon. We were captured there almost without violence, +and, while we trifled with the slightest refreshment we could +find, a juvenile entertainment beguiled us of our coppers +with pleasurable ease. A coquettish midget of four summers +innocently danced for us the dances that are not innocent, +and a wee goblin of seven, who could not be induced to +perform without a cap, that he might pull it down over his +bashful eyes, stamped and kicked, made stealthy approaches +and fierce starts of attack through the savage hunting jigs inherited +from the ancient life of the wilderness. The women +swung their arms and shrilled wild tunes to urge the children +on, but a second youngster who attempted one of these barbaric +dances for us broke down in mid career, and, amid a +chorus of screaming laughter, buried his blushes in his mother's +lap. The tent had become crowded with stalwart, black +<i>gitanos</i>, but they were in a domestic mood, smiled on the +children's antics, and eyed us with grim amusement as the +women caught up from rough cradles and thrust into our +arms those elfish babies of theirs. Even the infant of five +days winked at us with trickery in its jet beads of vision. +But so inert was gypsy enterprise that we were suffered to +depart with a few <i>pesetas</i> yet in our possession.</p> + +<p>In the evening, from eight till one, the <i>Feria</i> is perfect +Fairyland. Under the light of those clustered gas globes and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span> +butterfly-colored lanterns pass and repass the loveliest women +of the world. Beautifully clad as the señoritas have been +during morning and afternoon, their evening toilets excel and +crown the rest. White-robed, white-sandalled, their brown, +bewitching faces peeping out from the lace folds of white mantillas, +with white shawls, embroidered in glowing hues, folded +over the arm, and delicate white fans in hand, they look the +very poetry of maidenhood. Months of saving, weeks of +stitching, these costumes may have cost, but the <i>Feria</i> is, +above all, a marriage mart, and the Andalusian girl, usually +so strictly guarded, so jealously secluded, never allowed to +walk or shop alone, is now on exhibition. As these radiant +forms glide along the avenues, the men who meet them coolly +bend and look full into their faces, scanning line and feature +with the critical air of connoisseurs. But well these cavaliers +illustrate the Andalusian catch:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Because I look thee in the face,</p> +<p class="i1">Set not for this thy hopes too high,</p> +<p>For many go to the market-place</p> +<p class="i1">To see and not to buy."</p> +</div> + +<p>The girl's opportunity is in her dancing. Every Andalusian +woman, high or low, knows the <i>Sevillana</i>. Some have +been trained in it by accredited teachers of the art, but the +most learn the dance in childhood, as naturally as they learn to +speak and sing. They are never weary of dancing it, morning, +noon, and night, two girls together, or a girl and a lad, but +such dancing is confined to the Moorish privacy of the Spanish +home—except in Fair time. Then the whole world may +stand before the <i>casetas</i> and see the choicest daughters of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span> +Seville dancing the dance that is very coquetry in motion. +Rows of girls awaiting their turn, and of matrons who are +chaperoning the spectacle, sit about the three sides of the +mimic drawing-room. A dense crowd of men, crying "<i>Ole! +Ole!</i>" and commenting as freely on the figures and postures +of the dancers as if they were ballet artistes in a café chantant, +is gathered close in front. For their view these rhythmic +maidens dance on, hour after hour, until their great, dusky +eyes are dim with sleep. The tassels of curly ribbon, tinted +to match the dainty touches of color in their costumes, seem +to droop in exhaustion from the tossing castanets. What +matter? For a Spanish girl to reach her twenty-fifth birthday +without a <i>novio</i> is a tragedy of failure, and these tired dancers +are well aware that <i>caballeros</i> are making the rounds from +<i>caseta</i> to <i>caseta</i>, on purpose to select a wife.</p> + +<p>In Gypsy Lane there is no sugar coating. The Flamenco +dances are directly seductive. The life of the forest animal +seems reproduced in the fierceness, the fitfulness, the abandon, +of each strange series of abrupt gesticulations. Yet these +gypsy women, boldly as they play on the passions of the +spectators, care only for Gentile money, and fling off with +fiery scorn the addresses that their songs and dances court. +Many a flouted gallant could tell the tale of one who</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Like a right gypsy, hath, at fast and loose,</p> +<p>Beguiled me to the very heart of loss."</p> +</div> + +<p>Husbands and lovers look on at the dancers' most extreme +poses, even caresses, in nonchalant security. While one +<i>gitana</i> after another takes the stage, a crescent of men and +women, seated behind, cheer her on with cries and clappings, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span> +strummings of the guitar, and frenzied beatings of the floor +with staff and stool. Yet their excitement, even at its apparent +height, never sweeps them out of their crafty selves. Beyond +the dancer they see the audience. Disdain and dislike are in +the atmosphere, and never more than when the rain of silver +is at its richest. Still they follow the gypsy law, "To cheat +and rob the stranger always and ever, and be true only to our +own blood." +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_187" id="i_187"></a> +<img src="images/i_187.jpg" width="595" height="418" alt="The Passing of the Pageants" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Passing of the Pageants</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XI</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE ROUTE OF THE SILVER FLEETS</p> + +<div class="blockquot p2"> +<p> +"Paul, the Physician, to Cristobal Colombo, greeting. I perceive your magnificent +and great desire to find a way to where the spices grow."</p> + +<p>"And thus leade they their lyves in fullfilling the holy hunger of golde. But the +more they fill their handes with finding, the more increaseth their covetous desire."<br /> + +<span class="left65">—<i>Decades in the New Worlde.</i></span></p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span> wanted to go from Seville to Cadiz by water. I +longed to sail by the "Silver Road" in the wake of the +silver fleets. The little artist, as befitted her youth, +preferred a Manila shawl to that historic pilgrimage. So I +proposed to make this trifling trip alone.</p> + +<p>Don José was shocked. Merriest and most indulgent of +hosts, he was inclined at this point to play the tyrant. If I +must see Cadiz, well and good. He would take me to the +morning express and put me under charge of the conductor. +At Utrera, an hour farther on, his son would come to the +train and see that all was well. At <i>Puerto de Santa Maria</i>, +another hour distant, I should be met by a trusted friend of +the family, who would transfer me to another train and another +conductor, and so speed me for my third hour to Cadiz, +where I should be greeted by a relative of mine hostess and +conveyed in safety to his home.</p> + +<p>I appreciated the kindness involved in this very Andalusian +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span> +programme, but otherwise it did not appeal to me. That was +not the way Columbus went, nor Cortés. And much as I +delighted in the Alhambra, and the Mosque of Cordova, and +the Alcázar of Seville, I did not feel called upon to bow a +New England bonnet beneath the Moorish yoke.</p> + +<p>Thus Don José and I found ourselves quietly engaged in +an Hispano-American contest. He heartily disapproved of +my going, even by train. "<i>Una señora sola!</i> It is not the +custom in Andalusia." His plan of campaign consisted in +deferring the arrangements from day to day. "<i>Mañana!</i>" +Whenever I attempted to set a time for departure he blandly +assented, and presently projected some irresistibly attractive +excursion for that very date. His household were all with +him. His wife had not been able to procure the particular +<i>dulces</i> indispensable to a traveller's luncheon. Even my +faithless comrade, draped in her flower-garden shawl, practised +the steps of a <i>seguidilla</i> to the rattle of the castanets and +laughed at my defeats.</p> + +<p>At last, grown desperate, I suavely announced at the Sunday +dinner table that I was going to Cadiz that week. My +host said, "<i>Bueno!</i>" and my hostess, "<i>Muy bien!</i>" But +there was no surrender in their tones. On Monday, instead +of writing the requisite notes to these relays of protectors +along the route, Don José took us himself, on a mimic steamboat, +for a judicious distance down the Guadalquivír. Tuesday +he put me off with Roman ruins, and Wednesday with a +private gallery of Murillos. By Thursday I grew insistent, +and, with shrug and sigh, he finally consented to my going by +train on Friday. I still urged the boat, but he heaped up a +thousand difficulties. There wasn't any; it would be overcrowded; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span> +I should be seasick; the boat would arrive, wherever +it might arrive, too late for my train, whatever my train +might be. Compromise is always becoming, and I agreed to +take the nine o'clock express in the morning.</p> + +<p>After the extended Spanish farewells, for to kiss on both +cheeks and be kissed on both cheeks down a long feminine line, +mother, daughters, and maid-servants, is no hasty ceremony, +I sallied forth at half-past eight with Don José in attendance. +He called a cab, but in Spain the cabbies are men and +brothers, and this one, on learning our destination, declared +that the train did not start until half-past nine and it was +much better for a lady to wait <i>en casa</i> than at the depot. +This additional guardianship goaded me to active remonstrance. +Why not take the cab for the hour and look up a procession +on our way to the station? There are always processions in +Seville. This appealed to both the pleasure-loving Spaniards, +and we drove into the palmy <i>Plaza de San Fernando</i>, where +an array of military bands was serenading some civic dignitary.</p> + +<p>The music was of the best, and we fell in with the large +and varied retinue that escorted the musicians to the palace of +the archbishop. As they were rousing him from his reverend +slumbers with <i>La Marcha de Cadiz</i>, I caught a twinkle in Don +José's eye. Did he hope to keep me chasing after those +bands all the forenoon? I awakened the cabman, whom the +music had lulled into the easy Andalusian doze, and we clattered +off to the station. Of all silent and forsaken places! I +looked suspiciously at Don José, whose swarthy countenance +wore an overdone expression of innocent surprise. A solitary +official sauntered out. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good morning, señor! Is the express gone?" asked the +driver.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, señor! There isn't any express to-day," +was the reply. "The express runs only Tuesdays, Thursdays, +and Saturdays."</p> + +<p>"What a pity," cooed Don José, contentedly. "You will +have to wait till to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you can go to-morrow," indulgently added the driver, +and the official chimed sweetly in, "<i>Mañana por la mañana!</i>"</p> + +<p>"But is there no other train to-day?" I asked.</p> + +<p>The official admitted that there was one at three o'clock. +Don José gave him a reproachful glance.</p> + +<p>"But you do not want to go by train," said my ingenious +host. "Perhaps to-morrow you can go by steamboat."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I can go by steamboat now," I returned, seizing +my opportunity. "When does that boat start?"</p> + +<p>Nobody knew. I asked the cabman to drive us to the +Golden Tower, off which sea-going vessels usually anchor. +Don José fell back in his seat, exhausted.</p> + +<p>The cabman drove so fast, for Seville, that we ran into a +donkey and made a paralyzed beggar jump, but we reached the +river in time to see a small steamer just in the act of swinging +loose from the pier. In the excitement of the moment Don +José forgot everything save the necessity of properly presenting +me to the captain, and I, for my part, was absorbed in +the ecstasy of sailing from the foot of the Golden Tower +along the Silver Road.</p> + +<p>It was not until a rod of water lay between boat and wharf +that the captain shouted to Don José, who struck an attitude +of utter consternation, that this craft went only to Bonanza, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span> +and no connection could be made from there to Cadiz until +the following afternoon. And I, mindful of the austere +dignity that befitted these critical circumstances, could not +even laugh.</p> + +<p>It was a dirty little boat, with a malodorous cargo of fish, +and for passengers two soldiers, two peasants, and a commercial +traveller. But what of that? I was sailing on a +treasure ship of the Indies, one of those lofty galleons of +Spain, "rowed by thrice one hundred slaves and gay with +streamers, banners, music," that had delivered at the Golden +Tower her tribute from the hoard of the Incas, and was +proudly bearing back to the open roads of Cadiz.</p> + +<p>We dropped down past a noble line of deep-sea merchantmen, +from Marseilles, Hamburg, and far-away ports of Norway +and Sweden. We passed fishing boats casting their nets, +and met a stately Spanish bark, the <i>Calderon</i>. On the shores +we caught glimpses of orange grove and olive orchard, lines +of osiers and white poplars, and we paused at the little town +of Coria, famous for its earthen jars, to land one of our +peasants, while a jolly priest, whose plain black garb was +relieved by a vermilion parasol, tossed down cigars to his +friends among the sailors.</p> + +<p>Then our galleon pursued her course into the flat and +desolate regions of the <i>marismas</i>. These great salt marshes +of the Guadalquivír, scarcely more than a bog in winter, +serve as pasture for herds of hardy sheep and for those droves +of mighty bulls bred in Andalusia to die in the arenas of all +Spain. For long stretches the green bank would be lined +with the glorious creatures, standing like ebony statues deep +amid the reeds, some entirely black, and many black with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span> +slight markings of white. The Guadalquivír intersects in +triple channel this unpeopled waste, concerning whose profusion +of plant life and animal life English hunters tell +strange tales. They report flocks of rosy flamingoes, three +hundred or five hundred in a column, "glinting in the sunshine +like a pink cloud," and muddy islets studded thick with +colonies of flamingo nests. Most wonderful of all, the camel, +that ancient and serious beast of burden, a figure pertaining +in all imaginations to the arid, sandy desert, keeps holiday in +these huge swamps. It seems that, in 1829, a herd of +camels was brought into the province of Cadiz, from the +Canaries, for transport service in road-building and the like, +and for trial in agriculture. But the peculiar distaste of +horses for these humpy monsters spoiled the scheme, and the +camels, increased to some eighty in number, took merrily to +the marshes, where, in defiance of all caravan tradition, they +thrive in aquatic liberty. The fascination of this wilderness +reached even the dingy steamer deck. Gulls, ducks, and all +manner of wild fowl flashed in the sunshine, which often +made the winding river, as tawny as our James, sparkle like +liquid gold.</p> + +<p>If only it had been gold indeed, and had kept the traceries +of the Roman keels that have traversed it, the Vandal swords +whose red it has washed away, the Moorish faces it has +mirrored, the Spanish—</p> + +<p>"<i>Usted come?</i>"</p> + +<p>It might have been Cortes who was offering that bowl of +<i>puchero</i>, but no! Cortes would have mixed it in his plumy +helmet and stirred it with that thin, keen sword one may see +in the Madrid <i>Armería</i>. This was a barefooted cabin boy, in blue +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span> +linen blouse and patched blue trousers, with a scarlet cloth cap +tied over his head by means of an orange-colored handkerchief. +The dancing eyes that lit his shy brown face had sea +blues in them. He was a winsome little fellow enough, but +I did not incline to his cookery. While I was watching +river, shores, and herds and chatting with the <i>simpático</i> sailor, +who, taking his cue from my look, expressed the deepest +abhorrence of the bull-fights, which, I make no doubt, he +would sell his dinner, jacket, bed, even his guitar, to see, I +had taken secret note of the cuisine. This child, who could +not have counted his twelfth birthday, kindled the fire in a +flimsy tin pail, lined with broken bricks. He cracked over +his knee a few pieces of driftwood, mixed the fragments +with bits of coal which he shook out of a sheepskin bottle, +doused oil over the whole, and cheerfully applied the match, +while the commercial traveller hastily drew up a bucket of +water to have on hand for emergencies. Then the boy, +with excellent intentions in the way of neatness, whisked his +blackened hands across the rough end of a rope and plunged +them into the pot of <i>garbanzos</i>, to which he added beans, cabbage, +remnants of fried fish, and other sundries at his young +discretion. And while the mess was simmering, he squatted +down on the deck, with his grimy little feet in his fists, +rocking himself back and forth to his own wild Malaga songs, +and occasionally disengaging one hand or the other to plunge +it into the pot after a tasty morsel.</p> + +<p>"Will you eat?" he repeated manfully, reddening under +the scrutiny of stranger eyes.</p> + +<p>"Many thanks! May it profit yourself!"</p> + +<p>I opened my luncheon, and again we exchanged these fixed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span> +phrases of Spanish etiquette, although after the refusals enjoined +by code of courtesy, the boy was finally induced to +relieve me of my more indigestible goodies.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever hear of Columbus?" I asked, as we munched +chestnut cakes together, leaning on the rail.</p> + +<p>"No, señora," he replied, with another blush, "I have +heard of nothing. I know little. I am of very small account. +I cook and sing. I am good for nothing more."</p> + +<p>And is it to this those arrogant Spanish boasts, which +rang like trumpets up and down the Guadalquivír, have +come at last!</p> + +<p>We were in the heart of a perfect sapphire day. The +river, often turbulent and unruly, was on this April afternoon, +the sailors said, <i>buen muchacho</i>, a good boy. The boat appeared +to navigate herself. The captain nodded on his lofty +perch, and the engineer was curled up in his own tiny hatchway, +trying to read a newspaper, which the fresh breeze blew +into horns and balloons. The rough cabin bunks were full +of sleeping forms, and the leather wine-bottles, flung down +carelessly in the stern, had cuddled each to each in cozy +shapes, and seemed to be sleeping, too. The two soldiers, +who had been gambling with coppers over innumerable games +of dominos, were listening grimly to the oratory of the commercial +traveller.</p> + +<p>"No fighting for me!" this hero was declaiming. "In +strenuous times like these a man ought to cherish his life for +the sake of his country. Spain needs her sons right here at +home. It is sweet, as the poet says, to die for the <i>patria</i>, but +to live for the <i>patria</i> is, in my opinion, just as glorious."</p> + +<p>"And more comfortable," grunted one of the soldiers, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span> +while the other gave a hitch to those red infantry trousers +which look as if they had been wading in blood, and walked forward +to view from the bows the little white port of Bonanza.</p> + +<p>As the boat went no farther, I had to stain my silver route +by a prosaic parenthesis of land. It was some comfort to +remember that Magellan waited here for that expedition from +Seville which was the first to sail around the globe. I think +I travelled the three miles from Bonanza, Good Weather, to +San Lúcar de Barrameda in Magellan's own carriage. It was +certainly old enough. As I sat on a tipsy chair in the middle +of a rude wagon frame mounted on two shrieking wooden +wheels, and hooded with broken arches of bamboo, from +which flapped shreds of russet oilcloth, I entered into poignant +sympathy with Magellan's ups and downs of hope and +fear. The jolting was such a torture that, to divert my +attention, I questioned the driver as to the uses of this and +that appliance in his rickety ark.</p> + +<p>"And what are those ropes for, there in the corner?" +was my final query.</p> + +<p>"Those are to tie the coffins down when I have a fare for +the cemetery," he replied, cracking his whip over the incredibly +lean mule that was sulkily jerking us along.</p> + +<p>"Please let me get out and walk," I entreated. "You +may keep the valise and show me the way to the inn, and I +can go quite as fast as that mule."</p> + +<p>"Now, don't!" he begged, with even intenser pathos. +"Strangers always want to walk before they get to the inn, +and then the people laugh at me. I know my carriage isn't +very handsome, but it's the only one in Bonanza. Just do +me the favor to keep your seat a little longer." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span></p> + +<p>I had been lurched out of it only a minute before, but I +could not refuse to sacrifice mere bodily ease to the pride of +Spanish spirit.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding Don José's dark predictions, this was the +only trial of the trip. To realize to the full the honesty, +kindliness, and dignity of the everyday Spaniard, one needs +to turn off from the sight-seer's route. On the beaten tourist +track are exorbitant hotels, greedy guides, cheating merchants, +troops of beggars—everywhere "the itching palm." But +here in San Lúcar, for instance, where I had to spend twenty-four +hours at a genuine Spanish <i>fonda</i>, the proprietor took no +advantage of the facts that I was a foreigner, a woman, and +practically a prisoner in the place until the Saturday afternoon +train went out, but gave me excellent accommodations, most +respectful and considerate treatment, and the lowest hotel bill +that I had seen in Spain.</p> + +<p>San Lúcar has, in early Spanish literature, a very ill name +for roguery, but, so far as my brief experience went, Boston +could not have been safer and would not have been so genial. +I strayed, for instance, into a modest little shop to buy a cake +of soap, which its owner declined to sell, insisting that I +ought to have a choicer variety than his, and sending his son, +a lad of sixteen, to point me out more fashionable counters. +This youth showed me the sights of the pleasant seashore +town, with its tiers of closely grated windows standing out +from the white fronts of the houses, and its sturdy packhorses +and orange-laden donkeys streaming along the rough stone +streets, and when, at the inn door, I hesitatingly offered him +a piece of silver, doffed his cap with smiling ease, and said +he did not take pay for a pleasure. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span></p> + +<p>Once off the regular lines of travel, however, speed is out +of the question. I might have gone from Seville to Cadiz in +three hours; thanks to historic enthusiasms, it took me nearer +three days. After escaping from San Lúcar, I had to pass +four hours in Jerez, another whitewashed, palm-planted town, +whose famous sherry has made it the third city in Spain for +wealth. The thing to do at Jerez is to visit the great <i>bodegas</i> +and taste the rich white liquors treasured in those monster +casks, which bear all manner of names, from Christ and His +twelve disciples to Napoleon the Great; but mindful, in the +light of Don José's admonitions, that the weak feminine +estate is "as water unto wine," I contented myself with seeing +the strange storage basin of the mountain aqueduct—an +immense, immaculate cellar, where endless vistas of low stone +arches stretch away in the silent dusk above the glimmer of +a ghostly lake.</p> + +<p>The train for Cadiz must needs be two hours late this +particular evening, but my cabman drove me to approved +shops for the purchase of bread and fruit, and then, of his own +motion, drew up our modest equipage in a shady nook opposite +the villa of the English consul, that I might enjoy my +Arcadian repast with a secure mind. Jehu accepted, after +due protestations, a share of the viands, and reciprocated the +attention by buying me a glass of water at the nearest stand, +much amused at my continued preference for Jerez water +over Jerez wine.</p> + +<p>One of the Jerez wine merchants, German by birth, shared +the railway carriage with me for a while, and after the social +wont of Continental travel fell to discussing the war. "The +Spaniards deserved to be beaten," he declared, "but the Yankees +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span> +didn't deserve to beat. They were conceited enough +before, heaven knows, and now they expect all Europe to +black their shoddy shoes. Your own country was a bit to +blame in blocking every effort to keep them in their place."</p> + +<p>I felt it time to explain that I was not English, but American. +Much disconcerted, he did his best to make amends.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have said that for the world if I had known +you were an American—but it's every syllable true."</p> + +<p>He thought over this remark in silence for a moment, his +Teutonic spirit sorely strained between kindliness and honesty, +and tried again.</p> + +<p>"I would like to say something good about the United +States, I would indeed,—if there was anything to say."</p> + +<p>It seemed to occur to him, after a little, that even this +apology left something to be desired, and he brightened up.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you like some roses? They sell them here at +this station. There comes a boy now with a nice, big bunch. +One <i>peseta</i>! I think that's too dear, don't you?"</p> + +<p>I hastened to assent.</p> + +<p>"The lady says that's too dear. Seventy-five <i>centimos</i>? +No. The lady can't pay that. Sixty <i>centimos</i>? No. +The lady can't afford sixty <i>centimos</i>. Fifty <i>centimos</i>? No. +The lady says fifty <i>centimos</i> is too much. She will take +them at forty <i>centimos</i>. Here's a half <i>peseta</i>. And you +must give me back a fat dog."</p> + +<p>The boy held back the penny and tried to substitute a +cent.</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, please, sir, forty-five <i>centimos</i>! There are two +dozen roses here, and all fresh as the dawn. Give me the +puppy-dog over." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span></p> + +<p>But the German, who knew how to put even a sharper +edge on the inveterate Spanish bargaining, secured for the +value of eight cents, instead of twenty, his great bouquet of +really beautiful roses, and presented it with as much of a bow +as the carriage limits permitted.</p> + +<p>"I meant to pay all the time, you know; but one can +always make a better trade, in Spain, if it is done in the name +of a lady." And he added, with that sudden tact which +innate goodness and delicacy give to the most blundering of +us mortals, "If you don't like to take them from a stranger for +yourself, you will take them as my peace-offering to your +country."</p> + +<p>I was reminded again of my native land by another fellow-traveller—a +Spaniard of the Spaniards, this time, one of the +Conservative and Catholic leaders, greeted at the various +stations by priests and monks and friars, whose hands he +solemnly kissed. This distinguished personage was absorbed +in a voluminous type-written manuscript, from which he occasionally +read aloud to the band of political confidants who accompanied +him. It was an arraignment of the Liberal Party, +and, by way of exposing the errors of the Sagasta government, +included a merciless résumé of the Spanish naval and military +disasters, with elaborate comparisons of the American and +Spanish equipments. He was then on his way to join in a +consoling pilgrimage to a certain image of Christ, which had +been cudgelled by a grief-maddened priest whose dying mother +the image had failed to heal.</p> + +<p>These surroundings more or less jostled my sixteenth-century +dream, but I held to it so stubbornly that, when +pyramids of salt began to glimmer like ghosts along the way, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span> +and a sweeping curve of lights warned me of our approach to +Cadiz, I made a point of seeing as little as possible. It was +midnight, but Spanish hours are luckily so late that Don +José's friends were still at the height of evening sociability +and regaled me with alternate showers of sweetmeats and +questions. Finally, after many exclamations of horror at the +audacity of the trip, all the feminine hospitality of the household +lighted me to a chamber whose walls were hung with +pictures of martyrs and agonizing saints. Among these I +counted five colored representations of Christ opening his +breast to display the bleeding heart.</p> + +<p>The next morning I promptly took boat to <i>Puerto de Santa +Maria</i>, embarked on the return steamer, and so at last found +myself once more on the Silver Road, entering Cadiz harbor +from the sea.</p> + +<p>To be sure, the <i>Montserrat</i> was riding proudly in my view, +although the warships to which she had been used to curtsy in +the open roads of Cadiz would never cut those shining waves +again. The waters were as turquoise blue as if they had just +come from the brush of an old master, and the towered city +rose before us like a crystal castle in the air. Its limited +space, built as it is within great sea walls on an outlying rock, +which only a rope of sand moors to the mainland, has necessitated +narrow streets and high houses, whose <i>miradores</i>, lookouts +that everywhere crown the terraced roofs, give this +battlemented aspect to the town. One of the most ancient +and tragic cities known to time, claiming Hercules for its +founder, in turn Phœnician, Carthaginian, Roman, Gothic, +Moorish, Spanish, it yet looks fresh as a water-lily. I could +have spent another three days in gazing. And this sparkling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span> +vision was Spain's <i>Copa de Plata</i>, the Silver Cup which has +brimmed with the gold and pearls of America, with blood and +flame and glory. Its riches have taken to themselves wings, +but its high, free spirit and frank gayety abide. Still the +Andalusians sing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"<i>Viva</i> Cadiz, Silver Cadiz,</p> +<p class="i1">Whose walls defy the sea,</p> +<p>Cadiz of the pretty girls,</p> +<p class="i1">Of courtesy and glee!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Good luck to merry Cadiz,</p> +<p class="i1">As white as ocean spray,</p> +<p>And her five and twenty cannon</p> +<p class="i1">That point Gibraltar way!"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>But I am bound to add that the cannon do not look +dangerous. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span></p> +<p class="center">MURILLO'S CHERUBS</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"Angels o'er the palm trees flying,</p> +<p class="i2">Touch their waving fronds to rest.</p> +<p>Bid them give no wind replying.</p> +<p class="i2">Jesus sleeps on Mary's breast.</p> +<p>Blesséd angels, hold the peeping</p> +<p class="i2">Branches still as altar-place,</p> +<p>For the Holy Child is sleeping</p> +<p class="i2">Close beneath His Mother's face."</p> +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Lope de Vega.</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">S</span>panish love for childhood, and the precocity and +winsomeness of Spanish children, impressed me from +my first hour in the Peninsula. "There is no road +so level as to be without rough places," and the initial days of +my Madrid residence, after my artist comrade had gone back to +Paris and the spring salons, might have been a trifle lonely save +for baby society. I was living in a delightful Spanish household, +but the very excess of courtesy reminded me continually +that I was a Yankee and a heretic. As time passed, friendship +ripened, and it is to-day no empty form of words when +I am assured that I have "my house in Madrid." But at +the outset I felt myself not only an American alien, but an +Andalusian exile. The "only Court" is such a prosaic contrast +to Seville that my impulse was to betake myself with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span> +books to the great park of the Buen Retiro, the magnificent +gift of Olivares to his royal master, and let the Madrid world, +at least the adult portion of it, go by. For while the larger +Madrileños were busy with their own plays of politics, +bull-fights, and flirtation, the little ones had happy afternoons +in that historic park of many a tragedy, where +convents, palaces, and fortifications have all made way for +the children's romping ground. Resting on a rustic seat in +the leafy shade, with the rich, thrilling notes of the nightingale +answering the bell call of the cuckoo from the deeper +groves beyond, I could watch these budding Spaniards to +heart's content.</p> + +<p>It was well to observe them from a distance, however, for +their young voices were of the shrillest. Among the boys, +an energetic few were developing muscle by tag and leap-frog; +more were flying kites, cracking whips, twirling slings, +and brandishing the terrors of pewter swords; while at every +turn, beside some flashing fountain or beneath some spreading +oak, I would come upon a group of urchins playing <i>al toro</i> +with the cheap, gaudy capes of red and yellow manufactured +for the children's sport. The girls were skipping rope, rolling +hoop, teaching one another the steps of endless dances, +and whispering momentous secrets in statue-guarded grottos, +or thickets of flowering shrubs, or whatsoever safe, mysterious +nook their fluttering search could find.</p> + +<p>Here was a school out for its daily airing, a pretty procession +of rainbow-clad little damsels, marshalled by the black-veiled +figures of graceful nuns, and pacing with all decorum +down a crowded avenue; but the moment the troop turned into +some sequestered by-path, how it would break into a shimmering +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span> +confusion of butterflies, darting hither and thither +in those jewel-green lights and sea-green shadows, the nuns +casting their dignity to the winds and scampering with the +swiftest! Wandering after I would come, perhaps, upon +an open space where the smaller boys were gathered, delicate +little lads riding horse-headed sticks, digging with mimic +spades, and tossing big, soft, red and yellow balls, while +mothers and nurses sat about in circle on the stone benches, +calling out sharp-toned cautions to their respective charges.</p> + +<p>And everywhere in the park were toddling babies, clasping +dolls, tugging at gay balloons, dragging wooden donkeys on +wheels, and tumbling over live puppies. They were pale, +engaging, persistent little creatures, with a true Spanish inability +to learn from experience. I saw one aristocratic +cherub, white as snow from feathered cap to ribboned shoes, +take ten successive slappings because he muddied his hands. +The angry nurse would make a snatch for the naughty +fingers, roughly beat off the dirt, and cuff the culprit soundly. +His proud little mouth would tremble; he would wink hard +and fast, but there was not a tear to be seen, not a cry to be +heard, and no sooner had her peasant clutch released him than +back went the baby hands, grubbing deep into the mire. A +gorgeous civil guard finally distracted her attention, and the +last view I had of the child showed him blissfully squatted in +the very middle of a puddle, splashing with arms and legs.</p> + +<p>White is almost the universal wear of the prattling age in +the Buen Retiro, although now and then some lily fairy would +flit by with saffron sash and harmonious saffron stockings, or +costume similarly touched by pink or blue. The Scotch +plaids, too, were in favor as sashes, and at rare intervals I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span> +encountered a tot sensibly attired in stout plaid frock. But +the white of this childish multitude was thickly flecked with +mourning suits, complete to bits of black gloves and even to +jet studs in the collars. Among the sad sights of the Retiro +was an epileptic boy, led and half supported between two +sweet-faced, youthful ladies, both in widow's crêpe, who +screened him with caresses as his fit took him and he foamed +and screamed in piteous helplessness. This pathetic trio, ever +seeking seclusion, was ever followed by a retinue of idlers, +who, for all their intrusive staring, were silent and sympathetic.</p> + +<p>The nursemaids formed not the least attractive feature of the +kaleidoscopic picture. Most wore white caps, fastened with +gilded pins or knots of rose or russet; but the nurses counted +the best, from the mountain province of Santander, were +distinguished by bright-colored handkerchiefs twisted about +the head. Here, as in the <i>Élysées</i>, baby-wagons are seldom +seen. The nurses carry in arms the black-eyed infants, who +bite away at their coral necklaces quite like little Yankees.</p> + +<p>But Spanish traits soon declare themselves. In the centre +of the park is an artificial pond, where lads in their first teens, +too old for play, lean languidly over the iron railings, and, +while they throw crumbs to the flock of forlorn-looking ducks +or watch the dip of the red oar-blades that impel the pleasure +boats, brag of their amorous adventures and exchange the +scandal of the <i>Prado</i>. Sometimes their love chat is of +sweeter tenor, for many of these schoolboys have already +spoken their betrothal vows, which the Church will not let +them lightly break. Spaniards often marry under twenty-one, +and even a recent wedding in Madrid, where neither bride +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span> +nor bridegroom had reached the fifteenth year, was hardly +thought amiss, in view of the fact that there was parental +money to maintain them.</p> + +<p>And why had the stately city of Valladolid been under a +reign of terror for half the week just past, with shutters up, +doors barred, and women and children kept at home for +safety, while bands of young men swayed in bloody struggle +through her famous squares and streets, but because a cadet +and a student must needs lose heart to the same maid? +Cupid, not Santiago, is the patron saint of Spain. And +Cupid, for all his mischief, has some very winning ways. +Our boyish sentimentalists of the Buen Retiro, for instance, +easily fall into song, and the native melodies, always with +something wild and Oriental in their beat, ring across the +little lake into the woods beyond till the birds take up the +challenge and every tree grows vocal.</p> + +<p>One afternoon, on my way to the park, I bought from a +roadside vender a handful of small, gaudily bound children's +books, and had no sooner found what I fondly supposed was +a sequestered seat than a tumult of little folks surrounded me, +coaxing to hear the stories. These tales, so taken at random, +may throw a little light on the literature of Spanish nurseries. +There was the life of the Madonna, which we passed over, +as the children said they had read it in school and knew it, +every word, already. So we turned to the astonishing career +of the great soldier, Kill-Bullet, who could easily stop a +cannon-ball against his palm, and to an account of that far-off +land where it rained gold in such profusion that nobody would +work, until finally all the people, weary of a wealth which +induced no tailor to stitch and no shoemaker to cobble, no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span> +baker to bake and no dairy-maid to churn, rose by common +consent and shovelled the gold into the river. We read of +hot-tempered little Ambrose, who left the gate of his garden +open, so that a hen cackled in and began to scratch under a +rose bush, whereupon the angry boy chased her furiously all +over the garden-beds until his summer's work was trampled +into ruin, and his papa came and explained to him how disastrous +a thing is wrath. There was a companion moral tale +for little girls, telling how Inez used to make faces until her +mamma told her that she would grow up with a twisted +mouth and nobody would marry her, whereat did little Inez +promptly reform her manners. One favorite volume, with +a cover which displayed a wild-whiskered old ogre in a fiery +skullcap gloating over a platterful of very pink baby, told how +good little Violet saved her bad sisters, Rose and Daisy, from +his dreadful gullet, by aid of an ugly monkey, whom her +promised kiss transformed into a fairy prince. I was glad to +find, in that country where so little is done to train children +in the love of animals, the ancient tale of the four musicians, +the donkey, the dog, the cat, and the cock, who escaped in +their old age from the death that threatened them at the hands +of ungrateful masters and, by a free exercise of their musical +talents, captured the house of a robber-band, putting its inmates +to confusion and flight. Many of the stories, indeed, +would have been recognized by young Americans, but the +proportion of saint-lore was larger than that of fairy-lore, and, +now and then, some familiar property had suffered a Spanish +change, as the invisible cap which had become an invisible +cape of the sort used for playing bull-fight.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_210" id="i_210"></a> +<img src="images/i_210.jpg" width="423" height="484" alt="The Pageant of Gethsemane" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Pageant of Gethsemane</span></p> +</div> + +<p>The nursery rhymes, too, so far as I chanced upon them, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span> +were of the universal type with Spanish variations. A Castilian +mother plays Peek-a-boo with her baby quite as an English +mother does, except that the syllables are <i>Cú?</i> <i>Trás!</i> The +father's foot trots the child to a Catholic market.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Trot, little donkey! Donkey, trot!</p> +<p class="i1">We must buy honey to please the pet.</p> +<p>If San Francisco has it not,</p> +<p class="i1">We'll go to San Benet."</p> +</div> + +<p>Baby's toes are counted as the eternal five little pigs, and +also thus, with a preliminary tickling of the rosy sole:—</p> + +<p>"Here passed a little dove. This one caught it. This +one killed it. This one put it on to roast. This one took it +off again. And this teeny-teeny-teeny scamp ate it all up!"</p> + +<p>Spanish patty-cakes are followed by a Spanish grace.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Patty-cakes, oh! Patty-cakes, ah!</p> +<p class="i1">The sweetest cakes are for dear mama.</p> +<p>Patty-cakes, oh! Patty-cakes, ah!</p> +<p class="i1">The hardest pats are for poor papa,</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Bread, O God! Bread, dear God,</p> +<p class="i1">For this little child to-day!</p> +<p>Because he's such a baby</p> +<p class="i1">He cannot pay his way."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The Spanish nursery seems richer in rhymes than ours. +Nurse bends Baby's left hand into a rose-leaf purse, for example, +and gives it little taps with one finger after another of +Baby's right hand, singing:— +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"A penny for Baby's purse</p> +<p class="i1">From papa, mama, and nurse.</p> +<p>A penny, a penny to pay!</p> +<p class="i1">Let no thief steal it away!"</p> +</div> + +<p>And then the tiny fist is doubled tight.</p> + +<p>When the child, again, is first dressed in short clothes, he +is propped up in a corner and coaxed to take his first step +with the rhyme:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"One little step, Baby-boy mine!</p> +<p class="i1">Come, Little Man, step up!</p> +<p>And thou shalt have a taste of wine</p> +<p class="i1">From Godfather's silver cup."</p> +</div> + +<p>This rhyming fashion the little ones take with them out of +babyhood into their later childhood. The urchin admonishes +his whistle:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Whistle, whistle, Margarita,</p> +<p class="i1">And you'll get a crust of bread,</p> +<p>But if you do not whistle</p> +<p class="i1">I'll cut off your little head."</p> +</div> + +<p>The little girl learns the scales in process of rocking her +doll to sleep:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>Don't pin-prick my poor old dolly, <i>Do</i></p> +<p>Respect my domestic matters. <i>Re</i></p> +<p>Methinks she grows melancholy, <i>Mi</i></p> +<p>Fast as her sawdust scatters. <i>Fa</i></p> +<p>Sole rose of your mama's posy, <i>Sol</i></p> +<p>Laugh at your mama, so! <i>La</i></p> +<p>Seal up your eyes all cozy. <i>Si</i></p> +<p><i>La Sol Fa Mi Re Do.</i></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span> +With Spanish children, as with ours, Christmas Eve, or +<i>Noche Buena</i>, is a season of gleeful excitement. They do not +hang up stockings for Santa Claus, but they put out their +shoes on the balcony for the Kings of the East, riding high +on camel-back, to fill with sweets and playthings. Considerate +children, too, put out a handful of straw for the tired +beasts who have journeyed so far over the Milky Way. On +some balconies the morning sun beholds rocking-horses and +rocking-donkeys, make-believe theatres and bull-rings, with +toy images of soldiers, bulls and Holy Families; but if the +child has been naughty and displeased the Magi, his poor little +shoes will stand empty and ashamed.</p> + +<p>The dramatic instinct, so strong in Spaniards, is strikingly +manifested in the children's games. These little people are +devoted to the theatre, too, and may be seen in force at the +matinées in the Apolo, Lara, and Zarzuela. Afternoon performances +are given only on Sundays and the other Catholic +<i>fiestas</i>, which last, numerous enough, are well within reach of +the Puritan conscience. At these matinées more than half the +seats in the house are occupied by juvenile ticket-holders, from +rows of vociferous urchins in the galleries, to round-eyed +babies cooing over their nurses' shoulders. If the play is an +extravaganza, abounding in magic and misadventure, the rapture +of the childish audience is at its height.</p> + +<p>The close attention with which mere three-year-olds follow +the action is astonishing. "<i>Bonito!</i>" lisping voices cry after +each fantastic ballet, and wee white hands twinkle up and down +in time with the merry music. When the clown divests himself, +one by one, of a score of waistcoats, or successively +pulls thirty or forty smiling dairy-maids out of a churn, little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span> +arithmeticians all over the house call out the count and dispute +his numbers with him. When the dragon spits his +shower of sparks, when chairs sidle away from beneath the +unfortunates who would sit down or suddenly rise with +them toward the ceiling, when signboards whirl, and dinners +frisk up chimney, cigars puff out into tall hats, and umbrellas +fire off bullets, the hubbub of wonder and delight drowns the +voices of the actors.</p> + +<p>The house is never still for one single instant. Babies cry +wearily, nurses murmur soothingly, mystified innocents pipe +out questions, papas rebuke and explain, exasperated old +bachelors hiss for silence, saucy boys hiss back for fun—all +together the Madrid matinée affords a far better opportunity +to study child life than to hear the comedy upon the +boards.</p> + +<p>The boy king of Spain is, of course, a fascinating figure to +his child subjects. We were told at San Sebastian, where the +Queen Regent has a summer palace, that on those red-letter +days when the king takes a sea dip, children come running +from far and near to see him step into the surf, with two +stalwart soldiers gripping the royal little fists. And no sooner +has the Court returned to the sumptuous, anxious palace of +Madrid, than the boy bathers of San Sebastian delight themselves +in playing king, mincing down the beach under the +pompous military escort that they take turns in furnishing one +another.</p> + +<p>In Madrid, too, the sightseeing crowds that gather before +the royal palace or at the doors of the <i>Iglesia del Buen Suceso</i>, +where the Queen Regent, with her "august children," sometimes +attends the <i>Salve</i> on Saturday afternoons, are thickly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span> +peppered with little folks, eager to "see the king." They +are often disappointed, for the precious life is jealously +guarded, especially while the Carlist cloud still broods above +the throne. During my stay in Madrid, a man with a revolver +under his coat was arrested on suspicion in the vestibule +of the theatre known as <i>La Comédia</i>, where the queen +was passing the evening. Sceptical Madrid shrugged its +shoulders and said: "Stuff and nonsense! When the +Ministers want the queen to sign a paper that isn't to her +liking, they make a great show of devotion and pounce +down on some poor devil as an anarchist, to frighten her +into being meek and grateful." And, in fact, the prisoner +was almost immediately released for lack of any incriminating +evidence. For weeks after, nevertheless, the royal movements +were more difficult to forecast, and on the daily drives +the kinglet was often missing from the family group.</p> + +<p>But, undiscouraged, every afternoon the children would +fringe the palace side of the <i>Plaza de Oriente</i>, hoping to see +the royal carriage go or come with their young sovereign, +whose portrait, a wistful, boyish face above a broad lace collar, +is printed in one of their school reading books over the +inscription, "To the Head of the State honor and obedience +are due." Expectant youngsters, in the all-enveloping black +pinafores that remind the eye of Paris, with book satchels +made of gay carpeting over the shoulder, would shake out +their smudgy handkerchiefs, often stamped with the likenesses +of famous <i>toreros</i>, and help themselves to one another's hats +in readiness to salute; but the elegant landau, preceded by an +escort of two horsemen, dashes by so swiftly that their long +waiting would be rewarded only by the briefest glimpse of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span> +bowing bonnets and of a small gloved hand touching the military +cap that shades a childish face.</p> + +<p>It is a pale and sober little face as I have seen it, but Madrileños +resent this impression and insist that his youthful +Majesty is "sturdy enough," and as merry as need be. They +say that the buoyancy which he inherits from his father is +crossed by strange fits of brooding, due to his mother's blood, +but that he is, in the main, a merry-hearted child. Although +he has masters for his studies now, his affection still +clings to his Austrian governess, whom, none the less, he +dearly loves to tease. When she is honored by an invitation +to drive with the Queen Regent, for example, Alphonsito +hastens to hide her hat and then joins most solicitously in her +fluttered search, until her suspicion darts upon him, and his +prank breaks down in peals of laughter. Madrid was especially +sensitive about him last year, for he, Alfonso XIII, +godson of Pope Leo XIII, was thirteen years of age—an +iteration of the unlucky omen that really ought to be satisfied +with the loss of the Spanish colonies. His mother, in honor +of his birthday, May seventeenth, distributed five thousand dollars +among orphan asylums and other charities, and held a +grand reception in the Hall of the Ambassadors, where the +slight lad in cadet uniform, enthroned beside the Queen Regent +between the two great lions of gilded bronze, received the +congratulations of a long procession of bowing ministers, +admirals, captain generals, prelates, and those haughty grandees +of Spain whose ancient privilege it is to wear their hats +in the royal presence; but the shrinkage of his realm since +his last birthday must have been uppermost in the mind of +even the young lord of the festival. <i>Pobrecito!</i> one wonders +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span> +what thoughts go on behind those serious brows of his, when, +for instance, he looks down from his palace windows at the +daily ceremony of guard-mounting in the courtyard. It is +such a gallant sight; the martial music is so stirring; the +cavalry in blue and silver sit their white steeds so proudly, +with the sun glistening on their drawn swords and the wind +tossing their long, white, horsehair plumes, that all these +tales of defeat and loss must puzzle the sore boy heart and +cast confusing shadows down the path before him.</p> + +<p>Little as the Spaniards love the Queen Regent, to whom +they cannot pardon her two cardinal offences of being a +"foreigner" and of disliking the bull-fight, they have a certain +affection for Alfonso XIII, "the only child born a king since +Christ." Indeed, Spain seems to have been always sympathetic +toward childhood in palaces. Enter this wonderful <i>Armería</i> +of Madrid, where those plumed and armored kings, on richly +caparisoned chargers, whom we have come to know in the +paintings of the <i>Museo del Prado</i>, seem to have leapt from +the canvases to greet us here in still more lifelike guise, albeit +not over graciously, with horse reined back and mighty lance +at poise. Any fine morning they may all come clattering out +into the <i>Plaza de Armas</i>—and where will the United States +be then? Here stands a majestic row of them—Philip II, +in a resplendent suit of gold-inlaid plate-armor; Maximilian, +whose visor gives him the fierce hooked beak of an eagle; +Sebastian of Portugal, with nymphs embossed in cunning work +on his rich breastplate; and Charles V, three times over, in +varieties of imperial magnificence.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_219" id="i_219"></a> +<img src="images/i_219.jpg" width="414" height="619" alt="Jesus of the Passion" /> +<p class="caption">"<span class="smcap">Jesus of the Passion"</span></p> +</div> + +<p>But opposite these stern warriors is a hollow square of boy +princes, and of noble <i>niños</i> whose visors hide their identities +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span> +in long oblivion. The armor of these childish figures is +daintily wrought, with tender touches of ruffs and cuffs, scallops +and flutings and rosettes. Often only the upper half of +the body is incased in steel, the slender legs playing the dandy +in puffed trousers of striped velvet—scarlet, green, and buff—silk +hose, and satin slippers. Little Philip III proudly +displays a diminutive round shield, with a relief of battle +scenes in gold. The plate armor of little Philip IV is +stamped with lions and castles, eagles and spears. And his +little son, Don Baltasar Carlos, bestrides a spirited pony and +wears at the back of his helmet a tuft of garnet feathers.</p> + +<p>The <i>Prado</i> galleries abound in royal children. This same +<i>infante</i>, Don Baltasar, is seen here in the foreground of a +lonely landscape, with desolate blue hills beyond and driving +clouds above. But all the more bright and winsome glows +the form of the six-year-old horseman, the gold-fringed, pink +sash that crosses his breast streaming out far behind with the +speed of his fearless gallop. Supreme among the <i>Prado</i> children, +of course, is the little daughter of Philip IV, the central +figure of the world-renowned <i>Las Meninas</i>. All in vain does +her charming maid of honor kneel to her with the golden cup; +all in vain does the dwarf tease the drowsy dog. The solemn +puss, undiverted, will not stir from her pose nor alter the set +of her small features until the artist, standing half disdainfully +before his easel, gives the word. She has waited for it now +hard upon two hundred and fifty years, but the centuries beat +in vain against that inflexible bit of propriety.</p> + +<p>Even the royal burial vaults beneath the grim Escorial have +in their chill grandeur of marble halls an especial Panteon for +babies, princely innocents whose lives are reckoned in months +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span> +more often than in years. Gold and blue and red brighten +their great white sepulchre, and above the altar smiles the +Christ Child, with the graven words, "Suffer the children +to come unto me." But for Alfonso XIII a sombre sarcophagus +waits in the haughtiest and gloomiest of all the Panteons, +where only kings, and queens who were mothers of kings, +may lie.</p> + +<p>It is not royal childhood alone that is dear to this strange, +romantic, monstrously inconsistent heart of Spain. The cruelty +of Spaniards to horses and donkeys sickens even the roughest +Englishman, yet almost every voice softens in speaking to a +child, and during my six months in Spanish cities I saw +nothing of that street brutality toward the little ones which +forces itself upon daily notice in Liverpool and London. +Spanish children are too often ill-cared for, but despite the +abuses of ignorant motherhood and fatherhood, such vivid, +vivacious, bewitching little people as they are! Enter a +Spanish schoolroom and see how vehemently the small brown +hands are wagged in air, how the black eyes dance and the +dimples play, what a stir and bustle, what a young exuberance +of energy! They race to the blackboards like colts out at +pasture. They laugh at everything, these sons of "the grave +Spaniard," and even the teacher will duck his head behind +the desk for a half-hidden ecstasy over some dunce's blunder +or some rogue's detected trick.</p> + +<p>But their high spirits never make them unmindful of those +courtesies of life in which they have been so carefully trained. +There is an old-fashioned exaggeration about their set phrases +of politeness. Just as the casual caller kisses the lady's feet, +in words, and she reciprocates by a verbal kissing of his hand, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span> +so the school children respond to the roll call with a glib: +"Your servant, sir." Ask a well-bred boy his name, and he +rattles back, "Jesus Herrera y La-Chica, at the service of +God and yourself." They learn these amenities of speech +with their first lispings. I was much taken aback one day +in Seville by a child of eighteen months. Not in the least +expecting this infant, whose rosy face was bashfully snuggled +into his young aunt's neck, to understand, I said to her, +"What a fine little fellow!" Whereupon Master Roly-poly +suddenly sat up straight on her arm, ducked his head in my +direction, and gravely enunciated, "<i>Es favor que Usted me hace</i>"—"It +is a compliment you pay me." I could hardly recover +from the shock in time to make the stereotyped rejoinder, +"<i>No es favor, es justicia</i>"—"No compliment, but the truth." +To this Don Chubbykins sweetly returned, "<i>Mil gracias</i>"—"A +thousand thanks," and I closed this uncanny dialogue +with the due response, "<i>No las merece</i>"—"It does not merit +them."</p> + +<p>Servants, neighbors, passers-by, beggars, all prompt the +children in these shibboleths of good manners, adorning the +precept with example. "Would you like to go with us to +the picture gallery this afternoon?" I once asked a laddie +of artistic tastes at a boarding-house table. "<i>Si, señora</i>," he +replied, whereupon several of the boarders, greatly scandalized, +hastened to remind him, but in the gentlest of tones, of the +essential addition, "<i>con mucho gusto</i>" to which we were bound +to reply, "The pleasure will be ours." The girls, even more +than the boys, are bred in these formal fashions of intercourse. +Every morning they ask if you have rested well, and express +grief or gratification, according to your response. In Mrs. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span> +Gulick's school, mere midgets of six and eight, returning from +class, will not close the doors of their rooms if you are in +sight, though perhaps seated at a reading table in the farther +end of the corridor, lest they should appear inhospitable. On +our return from Italica, a thirsty child of seven, heated to +exhaustion with the sun and fun of that Andalusian picnic, +refused to touch the anise-seed water which some good Samaritan +had handed up to the dusty carriage, until the glass had +been offered to every one else, driver included, leaving, in the +sequel, little enough for her. On our midnight return from +the <i>Feria</i>, this same <i>niña</i> of gentle memory, staggering and +half crying with sleepiness, would nevertheless not precede +any of her elders in entering the home door. "After you," +she sobbed, with hardly voice enough to add, "And may +you all rest well!" "The same to you," chorussed the +adults, trooping by, and her faint murmur followed, "Many +thanks."</p> + +<p>"Shall I give you this fan when I go away," I asked her +once, "or would you rather have it now to take to the party?" +She wanted it then and there, but what she answered was, +"I shall be best pleased to take it when you like best to give +it."</p> + +<p>You must beware of saying to a little Spanish maid, "What +a beautiful rosebud in your hair!" Instantly the hand is busy +with the pins. "It is at your disposal." You hastily protest, +"A thousand thanks, but no, no, no! It is very well placed +where it is." Off comes the flower, notwithstanding, and is +fastened into your belt. For when the elder sister has insisted +on giving you (until the next ball) those dancing slippers +which you so rashly admired, and the sister's <i>novio</i> went +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span> +home the night before without his cloak, because you had +approved its colors (although he sent his man around for it +before breakfast), what can the children do but follow suit? +Even their form of "Now I Lay Me" is touched with their +quaint politeness:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Jesus, Joseph, Mary,</p> +<p class="i1">Your little servant keep,</p> +<p>While, with your kind permission,</p> +<p class="i1">I lay me down to sleep."</p> +</div> + +<p>The precocity of Spanish children is a recognized fact. +An educational expert, a Frenchman who holds a chair in an +English university, assured us that beyond a doubt Spanish +children, for the first dozen years of life, develop more +rapidly than any other children of Europe. Yet, although +these clever little Spaniards are so punctiliously taught to put +the pleasure of others before their own, they are treated with +universal indulgence. Soldiers lining the curbstones on occasion +of a royal progress will let the children press in beside +them and cling to their valorous legs, until the military array +seems variegated with a Kindergarten. My farewell glimpse +of Toledo, on Corpus Christi Day, makes a pretty picture in +memory. The red-robed cardinal, who had come to the +station to take his train, was fairly stormed by all the children +within sight, clamoring for his blessing. In vain the +attendant priests tried to scatter the throng, and ladies of high +degree, planting their chairs in a circle about the prelate, +acted as a laughing body-guard. It was all of no avail. The +little people danced up and down with eagerness, dodged +under arms, and slipped between elbows. They knelt upon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span> +the cardinal's very feet, rapturously kissing his red-gloved +hand and clasping to their pinafores and blouses the sacred +trinkets he distributed. And he, patting the bobbing black +pates, wherever he could get a chance, smiled on the little +ones and forbade them not.</p> + +<p>The affection lavished on children in the household circle +is often poetic and passionate. I observed one day a brusque +young fellow of twenty-four, whom we had thought rather a +hard, catch-penny sort of person, suddenly gather a four-year-old +nephew to his heart and cover the dimpled face with kisses, +while the look in his own black eyes was the look of a St. +Anthony. I stood once in a crowded cathedral and lost all +sense of the service in contemplation of an ugly manikin, with +coarse features and receding forehead, who held a frail baby +boy tight against his breast. This was a blue-eyed, fair-haired +wean, with a serious, far-away expression, and from time to +time, attracted by the gilt of the ceiling, he raised a tiny pink +fore-finger and pointed upward, while the father's animal face, +never turned away from the child, became transfigured with +love and worship. He took the baby out, when it had fallen +asleep upon his shoulder, and it was good to see that dense +throng open and make a lane for him, every man, however +brutal or frivolous his aspect, being careful not to jostle the +drooping, golden head.</p> + +<p>But Spanish children, so caressed and so adored, are nevertheless +modest in their bearing, and fall shyly back before a +stranger. I remember a beaming grandfather displaying to us +two blushing little men, bidding them open their eyes wide +that we might contrast colors, turn back to back that we +might measure heights, and in various ways put their small +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span> +selves on show, all which they did in mute obedience, but at +the word of release flew together, flung their arms about each +other's necks, rolled under the nearest table, and curled up +into the least possible bunch of bashful agony.</p> + +<p>The pictures, frescos, and carvings of Spanish churches +often reflect the looks of Spanish childhood. The Holy Family +gives a wide range of opportunity, especially in the ministering +cherubs. There is a crucifix in one of the twenty-two +aisle chapels of Toledo cathedral, where three broken-hearted +mites of angels, just three crying babies, are piteously striving +to draw out the nails from the Sufferer's hands and feet. +Many of the saint-groups admit of child figures, too, as the +St. Christopher, which almost invariably appears as a colossal +nave painting, "the Goliath of frescos."</p> + +<p>It would be strange, indeed, if children were not beloved in +the country of Murillo. Spain has let the most of his beggar-boy +pictures go to foreign collections, but she has cherished +his Holy Families and cherub-peopled Annunciations. Such +ecstatic rogues as those Andalusian cherubs are! Their restless +ringlets catch azure shadows from the Virgin's mantle; +they perch tiptoe on the edges of her crescent moon; they +hold up a mirror to her glory and peep over the frame to +see themselves; they pelt St. Francis with roses; they play +bo-beep from behind the fleecy folds of cloud; they try all +manner of aerial gymnastics. But a charm transcending even +theirs dwells in those baby Christs that almost spring from +the Madonna's arms to ours, in those boy Christs that touch +all boyhood with divinity. The son of the Jewish carpenter, +happy in his father's workshop with bird and dog; the shepherd +lad whose earnest eyes look toward his waiting flock; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span> +the lovely playmates, radiant with innocent beauty, who bend +together above the water of life—from these alone might +Catholic Spain have learned the sacredness of childhood. +But Spain first showed Murillo the vision that he rendered +back to her. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XIII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE YOLK OF THE SPANISH EGG</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"From Madrid to Heaven, and in Heaven a little window for looking back to +Madrid."—<i>Popular Saying.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span>ew foreigners can understand the sentiment of Spaniards +for their capital. Madrid is the crown city of +Spain, not by manifest destiny, but by decree of Philip +II, who, as his nature was, better loved the harsh Castilian +steppe, baked by summer suns and chilled by treacherous winds, +than the romantic sierras and gracious river valleys where +earlier royal seats had been established. If in Madrid the +desert blossoms like the rose, it is a leafless rose, for the city +has no suburbs. It lacks both the charm of environment so +potent in Granada and Seville and the charm of ancient story, +which these share with those other bygone courts—Toledo, +Valladolid, Valencia, Saragossa. It is not a vital organ of +modern European civilization, like artistic Paris or strenuous +London. And yet it is more cosmopolitan, and hence less +distinctively Spanish than other cities of the Peninsula. It is +devoted to the bull-fight and the lottery, abounds in beggars +and prostitutes, does not take naturally to commerce, and is +sadly behindhand with popular education. Yet Madrileños +cannot be persuaded that the skies behold its equal, and even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span> +over the Anglo-Saxon stranger its fascination gradually +steals.</p> + +<p>In the first place, the mirth of the home life beguiles the +serious foreigner. Spanish households have a pleasantness +quite their own. All the natural vivacity and kindliness of +the people find free play at home, where servants sing and +children prattle, ladies chatter and gentlemen jest, all in an +atmosphere of ease, leisure, and spontaneous sociability. The +father is not preoccupied with business, the mother has never +dreamed of belonging to a woman's club, the children have +little taste for reading, and few books to read. So talking is +the order of the day, and, Sancho Panza! how they talk! +Lingering half the morning over the <i>desayuno</i> of thick, cinnamon-flavored +chocolate, into which are dipped strips of bread, +two-thirds of the afternoon over the <i>almuerzo</i>, a substantial +repast of meat and vegetables, fruit and <i>dulces</i>, and all the +evening over the <i>comida</i>, where soup and the national dish of +<i>puchero</i> are added to the noontide bill of fare, they chatter, +chatter, chatter, like the teeth of Harry Gill.</p> + +<p>Still, as of old, Spaniards are temperate in food and drink. +"It's as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as a German sober," +wrote Middleton three centuries ago. They use more water +than wine, and although they have a grand appetite for sweets, +they take them in comparatively simple forms. The national +lack of enterprise is conspicuous even here, for dearly as the +Spaniard dotes on chocolate and sugar, Madrid does not make +her own chocolate creams, but imports them from Paris to +sell, when they are too hard to eat, at a price too high to pay.</p> + +<p>But smoking and talking are indulgences which Madrileños +carry to excess. Lounging on the balcony, a gayly painted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span> +case of paper cigarettes at hand, they will pass hours in bantering +their wives, whom they worship much as they worship +the images of Mary, delighting to dress them in fine clothes +and glittering trinkets, and expecting in return, it is said, +their pardon for a multitude of sins. And when my lord +saunters forth to "rest" in one of the iron chairs that line +the promenades, or in a café window, or at an open-air table +before one of the frequent stalls of cooling beverages, the +women of the house flock together in some airy corner, stitching +away on their endless embroideries, and receiving, with +"a million kisses" and a chorus of shrill welcomes, the +mantilla-veiled ladies who come to call.</p> + +<p>If the afternoon is frying hot, it is just possible that the +gallivanting don will bethink himself to send home a tray of +<i>horchata</i>, a snowy, chilly, puckery refreshment, eaten by aid +of wafers in the form of little tubes that look and taste much +like wrapping paper. This treat gives fresh animation to the +emulous tongues. The slightest neighborhood incident, as +recounted in such a group, takes on a poetic vividness and a +dramatic intensity, and when it is all told over again at the +dinner-table, excitement waxes so high that long after the +dishes and cloth have been removed the family may still be +found seated around the board, flashing a thousand lights of +suggestion and surmise on that dull bit of scandal. The +husband cannot cease from discussion long enough to read the +evening paper, nor the wife to send the little ones to bed, and +midnight may find the three generations, from grandfather to +four-year-old, still talking with might and main.</p> + +<p>Accustomed guests come at once to the dining room, ready +to contribute their share to the lively clash of voices, or to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span> +take part in one of the characteristic games of a Spanish family +circle, as lottery. In this favorite pastime, victory, including +a goodly handful of coppers, falls to him whose checked +and numbered square of pasteboard is most quickly filled with +beans. These are placed on the squares called by the bag-holder, +who draws numbers haphazard from his sibylline sack. +When the small hours come in, the company may adjourn to +the sala for dancing and music, but conversation under cover +of these gushes on more impetuously than ever—the Castilian +art of arts.</p> + +<p>One of the chief graces of the <i>tertulias</i> consists in their +informality—their frank simplicity. Even on a saint day—a +day consecrated to the saint whose name some member of +the family bears—while all the nearer friends drop in for +congratulation, with perhaps a gift of flowers, in case of a +lady, or sweetmeats for a child, the <i>tertulia</i> requires no further +exercise of hospitality than an open door and a feast of words. +There is more blithesomeness, for <i>hay santo en casa</i> (there is a +saint in the house), but no more parade, with its preliminary +fret and fuss.</p> + +<p>The streets of Madrid, too, have a curious fascination. In +the morning hours there is the picturesque confusion of the +market. The donkeys are unladen here, there, and everywhere, +and the sidewalks and squares promptly dotted over +with bright little heaps of delicious Toledo cherries, Valencian +apricots, Murcian lemons, and all the greens of the season. +The peasant women, squatted among their lettuces and cucumbers, +seem much more interested in gossiping with their +neighbors than in securing customers. Babies tumble about, +crushing the pinks and roses, and cabmen good-naturedly pick +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span> +their way as best they can among these various vegetable and +human obstacles. Venders of books, too, like to pave the +street with rows of open volumes, whose pages are soon +dimmed with dust, and artisans, especially cobblers, set up +their benches just outside their doors, and add the click of +their hammers to the general din.</p> + +<p>In the early afternoon the shady side of the street is lined +with the outstretched forms of workingmen, taking the indispensable +siesta. Some rest their black pates on arm or folded +jacket or bag of tools, but plenty of bronzed laborers slumber +peacefully all prone on the hot paving, with not so much as a +cabbage leaf for a pillow. Beggars lie along the stone benches +of the <i>paseos</i> and parks, cabmen sleep on their cabs, porters +over their thresholds, and I once turned away from a church +I had come far to visit, not having the hardihood to waken +the verger, who, keys in hand, was snoring like an organ, +sprawled across half a dozen granite steps.</p> + +<p>As the cool of evening approaches, the overcrowded houses +of the poor pour forth entire families into the street, where +supper is cooked and eaten, and all manner of domestic operations +carried on. Before every door is at least one black-eyed +baby, in a little wooden cage something like a churn, with rim +running under the armpits, so that the child, safe from straying +or falling, may be left to his own devices. As darkness deepens, +out come the stars and the <i>serenos</i>. These latter, in Madrid, +no longer cry fair weather, but they hold the keys of the houses—an +arrangement that I never learned to take seriously.</p> + +<p>Returning from visit or theatre in the evening, I found it +difficult to say with requisite solemnity to the driver, "Would +you be so kind as to shout for Celestino?" The driver +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span> +promptly roars, "Celestino!" and twinkling lights come bobbing +toward us from far and near, but no Celestino. "He's +in the wineshop," suggests Isidro, whose charge begins three +houses above. "He's eating iron," asserts Pedro, in the +phrase describing those colloquies which a Spanish suitor carries +on with his divinity through the grating. Then we all +chorus, "Celestino!" and again, "Celestino!" and again, +"Celestino!"</p> + +<p>At this a cloaked figure comes running across the square, +waving a lantern over his head and vociferating jocund apologies: +"I regret it extremely. I am stricken with sorrow. +But at the first call I was wetting my lips at the fountain, and +at the second I was pausing to exchange four words only with +the lady of my soul, and at the third I said <i>Vamos!</i> and at the +fourth—look you, I am here." So he unlocks the door and +lights the stairway with his lantern until I have ascended the +first flight, when he cheerily calls out, "<i>Adios!</i>" and shuts +me into darkness which I am expected to illuminate for my +further climb by striking matches.</p> + +<p>Madrid streets are by no means altogether delectable. Some +are broad and well kept, but others are narrow, dirty, and malodorous. +Worst of all, to my own thinking, is the Madrid +stare, which, hardly less offensive than the Paris stare, is +more universal. It is amusing to see how fearlessly a matron +of eighteen sallies forth alone, while many Madrid spinsters +of fifty would not go a block unattended. Nor are annoyances +confined to staring. Even in reputable shops a woman +soon learns to be on her guard, when her attention is especially +called to book or picture, lest it prove "a silliness."</p> + +<p>Madrid is better than the cities of Andalusia, and worse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span> +than the cities of northern Spain, in its treatment of women. +A young Spanish girl cannot walk alone, however sedately, in +Seville, without a running fire of salutations—"Oh, the +pretty face!" "What cheeks of rose!" "Blessed be thy +mother!" "Give me a little smile!" And even in Madrid, +Spanish girls of my acquaintance have broken their fans across +the faces of men who tried to catch a kiss in passing.</p> + +<p>In Madrid, as almost everywhere in Spain, begging is a +leading industry. So many beg from laziness or greed that +it is easy to lose patience, the most essential part of a +traveller's Spanish outfit. The ear is wearied by the everlasting +drone and whine: "Oh, dear lady, for the love of God! +All day my children have had no bread. Give me five +<i>centimos</i>, only five <i>centimos</i>, and Heaven will pay you back. +Lady! lady! lady! lady! Five <i>centimos</i>, in the name of all +the saints!" And the eye is offended by the continual obtrusion +of ulcers, cripplings, and deformities. No less than +Seville and Granada, Madrid abounds with child beggars. +There were two jolly little cripples on the Prado, who used +to race, each on his one leg, to overtake me before I should +reach the Museo steps. Another boy, on whose face I never +saw a smile, sat at the corner of a street I daily passed, holding +out two shapeless blocks of hands. By the gate of the +Buen Retiro was stationed a blind man, with a girl wean on +his knee. It was pathetic and amusing to see him feeding +her the supper of bread and milk, for the spoon in his groping +hand and the pout of her baby mouth often failed to make +connection.</p> + +<p>The prevalence of eye disease in Spain is probably due to +sun, to dust, and to generations of poverty. The pounding +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span> +of a blind man's stick upon the pavement is one of the most +common city sounds. The charitable may often be seen +leading the blind across the streets. I tried it myself once +with an imperious old woman, who clung to the curbstone +some twenty minutes before she could muster courage for +the plunge, lecturing me fluently all the time on the dangers +of a rash disposition. There are, of course, many cases of +fraud—cases where, when the day's work is over, the blind +see and the lame walk. One of the popular <i>coplas</i> has its +fling at these:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"The armless man has written a letter;</p> +<p class="i1">The blind man finds the writing clear;</p> +<p>The mute is reading it aloud,</p> +<p class="i1">And the deaf man runs to hear."</p> +</div> + +<p>Yet it is certain that among the beggars of Madrid is a +heartrending amount of genuine misery. One day I passed +an aged <i>ciego</i>, sitting on a doorstep, in the Alcalá, his white +head bowed upon his breast in such utter weariness of dejection +that I paused to find him a copper. But better charity +than mine came to comfort that worn heart. A lame old +peanut woman limped up to him, with the pity of the wretched +for the wretched. She drew from her apron pocket a coin +which I had rarely seen—<i>dos centimos</i>, two-fifths of a cent in +value. An Austrian, who had lived in Spain four years, told +me he had never once encountered that paltry piece of money. +But she could not spare it all. "Hast thou one <i>centimo</i> for +change, brother mine?" she asked. And the blind man's +sensitive fingers actually found in his lean leather purse that +tiny metal bit, which only the poorest of the poor ever see +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span> +in circulation. He gravely kissed the coin she gave and made +with it the sign of the cross on brow and breast, saying, +"Blessed be this gift, my sister, which thy mercy has bestowed +on a man of many troubles! May our Mother Mary keep +for thee a thornless rose!"</p> + +<p>"And may God, who sends the cold according to our rags, +lighten all thy griefs! Rest thou in peace," she replied.</p> + +<p>"Go thou with God," was his answer.</p> + +<p>Begging was a recognized and licensed industry in Madrid a +year ago, though a bill of reform, whose fate I have failed to +learn, was then under consideration. A mother would gather +her brood about her and go forth for her day's work. They +beg up and down their accustomed beat during the morning, +eat as their gains allow, lie down in the dust together for the +afternoon siesta, and rise to be diligent in business during the +hours of fashionable promenade. They stop pedestrians, chase +carriages, press into shops to torment the customers at the +counter, and reach beseeching palms through the open windows +of cafés. Gentlemen escorting ladies are their peculiar +victims, for well they know that many a man who never gives +under other circumstances is ashamed to seem ungenerous +under survey of starry eyes.</p> + +<p>There is only one phrase that will shake off the professional +beggar, "May God aid you!" On hearing this he makes it +a point of religious honor to fall back. But as I could not +use that formula without feeling myself something between a +shirk and a hypocrite, I had to get on as best I could with the +ineffectual, "Pardon me, my brother," to which should properly +be added <i>Por Dios</i> (for God's sake).</p> + +<p>The Spanish mendicant knows nothing of the Anglo-Saxon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span> +feeling, "To beg I am ashamed." No Rare Ben Jonson +has thundered in his ears:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Art thou a man? and sham'st thou not to beg?</p> +<p>To practise such a servile kind of life?</p> +<p>Why, were thy education ne'er so mean,</p> +<p>Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses</p> +<p>Offer themselves to thy election.</p> +<p>Either the wars might still supply thy wants</p> +<p>Or service of some virtuous gentleman,</p> +<p>Or honest labor: nay, what can I name,</p> +<p>But would become thee better than to beg?"</p> +</div> + +<p>From the Spanish point of view, on the contrary, it is +manual labor, not beggary, that stains the escutcheon. A +German lady of my acquaintance said to a strongly built man +who was pleading for alms, "If you will carry my bag up +these stairs, I will gladly pay you." Deeply insulted, he +folded his cloak about him with hidalgo dignity, saying, +"Madame, I am a beggar, not a laborer." Certain monasteries +send out brothers, with plates and bags, on a daily begging +round—brothers who may belong to the first families +of Spain. The Church is often cited as indorsing mendicancy. +Extolling almsgiving as a prime virtue, and itself maintaining +a vast number of charitable institutions, it has not yet assimilated +modern methods of relief.</p> + +<p>A favorite story for children, used as supplementary reading +in the schools, is called "The Medal of the Virgin." +This is, in fact, a Roman Catholic version of "Fortunatus's +Purse." Its small heroine, Mary of the Angels, is an orphan, +defrauded by a miser of her rich inheritance and treated with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span> +barbarity by the uncle and aunt for whom she is an uncomplaining +drudge. But once, in festive hour, they give her five +<i>centimos</i>, which this generous innocent promptly bestows on +a beggar woman, who holds a baby in her ragged arms. In +return, the beggar gives the child a queer, old-fashioned mite +of a coin, which turns out to have the Wall Street quality +of heaving up a little mountain of gold above itself every hour +or two.</p> + +<p>Mary of the Angels sallies forth for a tour of the country, +pouring handfuls of gold into the laps of the beggars who sit +at the church doors and city gates, until she is escorted wherever +she goes by an army of the halt and blind singing her +praises. At last, having given away such Pyrenees of gold that +not a beggar could be found in all the land for a century to +come, the footsore little philanthropist begs the Virgin to relieve +her of the coin. The Madonna descends in a beam of +light, the Christ Child smiling from her arms, yet in the radiant +group Mary of the Angels recognizes the objects of her earliest +charity. "For I," explains the Madonna, "am the holy beggar +from heaven. The poor of the earth give me their tears +and prayers, and for such alms do I hold out my hand to all +the sorrowful."</p> + +<p>Yet the progressive element in Spain is all the more ashamed +of the beggars because they are not ashamed of themselves, and +a few years may see Madrid swept as clear of mendicancy as +is San Sebastian to-day.</p> + +<p>Madrid is such an easy-going city that one hardly realizes +at first how well it performs certain of its functions. Its +water supply, for instance, is excellent, although when one +sees the picturesque groups, with those same clay water-jars +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span> +over which Rebecca smiled on Jacob, lingering about the gray +stone fountains, one expects a patriarchal flavor in the liquid. +The tramway service of Madrid, everything radiating from +the <i>Puerta del Sol</i>, is most convenient, although electricity is a +little slow in coming to the relief of horse-flesh. The shops, +fairly well stocked, gild commerce with Spanish graces. You +accept a chair, you pass the courtesies of the day, the gentleman +who serves you, often with cigar in mouth, is seldom +sure as to just what goods he has on hand, and is still more +rarely dogmatic as to their price.</p> + +<p>The tug of war, however, comes in getting them delivered. +Ten days before quitting Madrid I bought at one of the best +of the <i>librerias</i> a number of books, including several illustrated +catalogues of the Velázquez sala. These last were pretty +trifles bound in white parchment, and as I intended them for +gifts, I wanted fresh copies. "You wish them clean, all of +them?" asked the proprietor, with an accent of surprise. I +replied that I did, and would moreover be obliged if he could +fit them with envelopes ready for mailing. Envelopes he had +none, but he promised to tie them up in separate parcels. +"And books and bill will come without fail this afternoon?" +He looked pained to the heart. "This very morning, señora. +You will find them awaiting you on your return." On the +third day I sent a note, and on the fifth a boy arrived with +the bulk of my purchase, but no catalogues nor bill. I explained +to the lad, who smilingly besought me to give myself +no concern, that I was on the point of leaving the city for +good, and preferred not to go away in debt; but the days +passed, and my inability to extort that reckoning became the +jest of the household. At last, driven to desperate measures, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span> +I went through noonday heat to the store, and actually found +that procrastinating bookseller scattering cigar ashes over a +little heap of catalogues, while he contemplated the pictures +of each copy in turn. "Behold, señora," he exclaimed, as +serenely as if not ten minutes had elapsed since our parting, +"here I have for you immaculate booklets, stainless, faultless, +such as will rejoice those fortunate friends to whom you have +the amiability to send them. And I am this instant about to +prepare them for the post with inviolate security."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_242" id="i_242"></a> +<img src="images/i_242.jpg" width="416" height="622" alt="Christ of the Seven Words" /> +<p class="caption">"<span class="smcap">Christ of the Seven Words</span>"</p> +</div> + +<p>I expressed my obligations, but entreated him to draw up +the account and let me settle it then and there, as I was +within twenty-four hours of departure. "And in travelling," +I added apologetically, "it is difficult to send back money." +At the obnoxious word he flung up hands and eyebrows. +"Señora!" I left the shop, feeling vaguely that I had been +guilty of a flagrant indelicacy, as well as black ingratitude. +The catalogues, very slightly wrapped, arrived on the morrow, +just in time to be thrust into my shawl strap, and I paid the +bill amid the final agitation, so unfavorable to arithmetic, of +porters and farewells.</p> + +<p>I had worse fortune in trying to subscribe for a certain +popular periodical. I went to the office in the designated +business hours, to find that, of the three men who should have +been there, one had already gone, one had not arrived, and the +third had "stepped out for a little rest." The janitor left +in charge, a sympathetic person who could not read nor write, +thought if I would return on Sunday at my luncheon hour, +there might be somebody there qualified to receive my subscription +and address, but, he sagely added, "in this world we +are sure of nothing." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span></p> + +<p>Madrid possesses the <i>Biblioteca Nacional</i> with valuable +manuscripts and something like one million books, handsomely +housed, where arrangements are made for over three +hundred readers, but here, as in the other Spanish cities, +public libraries in the American sense of libraries largely used +by the general public are practically non-existent. The bookstores, +too, except for the latest Spanish publications, leave +much to be desired. As a rule, one can get only the most +meagre information concerning texts and editions of the +national classics, and the supply of new French novels or +new German plays is far less complete than the stock of +Paris gloves and German cutlery. This last, so canny have +the honest Teutons grown, is usually engraved <i>Toledo</i>.</p> + +<p>In variety of weather, however, Madrid surpasses all expectations, +furnishing the sultriest heat, the chilliest cold, the +dustiest dust, and the most prodigious crashes of thunder and +lumps of hail to be found in the meteorological market, and +all these within a few hours of one another. But what with +fans, <i>braseros</i>, balconies, <i>horchaterias</i>, an army of street waterers, +and, most essential of all, an inexhaustible fund of good +humor, the Madrileño contrives to live on friendly terms with +his climate, although he dares not lay aside his cloak before +"the fortieth of May."</p> + +<p>Apart from bull-fights and riots, those rages of excitement +that seem to indicate a periodical fevering of the southern +blood, the Madrileño takes his pleasures with a dignified simplicity. +The city is exceedingly rich in open squares, well-shaded +parks, and long reaches of green promenade, and here, +with several dozen cigarettes and a few coppers for water and +<i>agráz</i>, he wiles the hours away, chatting with friends and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span> +admiring the ladies who roll past in spruce landaus. Over +the gate of the social paradise of Madrid it must be written, +"No admittance except in coaches," for a carriage seems +essential to high life. Liveried coachman, rather than powdered +butler, is the <i>sine qua non</i>. During the hot season this +outdoor parade is in gay career at midnight, and whole families, +babies and nurses included, may be seen gathered in +festive knots around small refreshment tables, within sound +of fountain spray and garden music. There are open-air +concerts, and concerts in smoke-beclouded halls, greensward +dances, and dances stepped on café tables among disordered +clusters of bottles and glasses, and there is always the theatre, +on which your Spaniard dotes.</p> + +<p>In the winter season there is opportunity to enjoy classic +drama at the <i>Teatro Español</i>, where the Bernhardt of Spain, +"La Guerrero," supported by her grandee husband, Mendoza, +holds sway. When I saw them they were using short +farces of Cervantes and Lope de Rueda for curtain raisers to +a romantic drama by Tirso de Molina and a modern society +play by Echegaray. I saw them, too, in Zorrilla's singular +dramatic version of "Don Juan," the only play allowed in +Spanish theatres on the night of All Saints.</p> + +<p>From March to November, however, the <i>Teatro Español</i> is +closed, and there is little doing at the <i>Teatro Real</i>, an aristocratic +temple of Italian opera. During the summer season +the theatrical opportunities of Madrid are mainly limited to +the popular <i>zarzuelas</i>, or operettas, four of which are usually +given in an evening. Each theatre offers a new programme of +these every night, but there is little of literary interest except, +now and then, a taking trifle from the pen of Hartzenbusch +or Echegaray. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span></p> + +<p>The Madrid theatre recks naught of early risers. The +opening vaudeville is seldom under way before nine o'clock; +the house is cleared after each performance, and often the +encores and repetitions prolong a popular <i>zarzuela</i> quite beyond +the hour limit. On the other hand, if the audience is small, +the opening piece may be cut down to the merest outline. I +remember one such occasion when the boxes were so empty +and the farce so familiar that the orchestra fairly chaffed the +actors off the stage. "Enough, enough! Thou mayst withdraw!" +chanted the lyric lover to an intruding servant. "And +so mayst thou," called out a voice from among the violins. +"I've told my passion to the stars," continued the actor in +his most mellifluous tenor, making the distant love of the +Spanish stage to a lady who was smiling frankly on the audacious +fiddler. "Poor stars!" interpolated this worthy so +sympathetically that everybody laughed, the singer wound up +his transports in the shortest possible order, and the remaining +scenes were hardly more than pantomime. But such was +the universal good nature and indifference to business exactitudes, +that neither artists nor ticket-holders took this curtailment +of their rights in umbrage.</p> + +<p>Among the excellences of Madrid must be counted her +<i>museos</i>. The <i>Armería</i>, with its plumed and steel-clad warriors, +all at tourney, is no mere lumber room of wicked old iron, as +might have been expected, but a new canto of the "Faery +Queene." The <i>Museo Naval</i> still smells of the boundless brine +and Isles of Spicery. The <i>Museo Arqueológico Nacional</i> sweeps +one, as on the magic carpet of Alhambra legend, through the +entire tragedy of Spain. Here are the successive leaves of +her strange picture-book—scratched, prehistoric flints, grass-woven +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span> +Iberian sandals, rudely sculptured shapes in sandstone +grasping wine cups that suggest whole Rubaiyats, Phœnician +anchors, bronze tables of Roman laws, Moorish arabesques, +mediæval altars, modern wares and fineries, while barbaric +spoils of Peruvian idols, Mexican feather-shields, sacrificial +stones, and figures of forest lords speak to the imagination +of that vast colonial empire which rose out of a dream to +melt again like very dreamstuff, leaving "not a rack behind." +These I have seen, but there are twice as many more Madrid +museums which I had not time to see, and which, I am told, +are no less rich in rarities and no less effective in pictorial +beauty of arrangement.</p> + +<p>Of the art galleries, who can say enough? The supreme +<i>Museo del Prado</i> so magnetizes pilgrim feet that it is hard to +spare even a few hours for the <i>Académia de Bellas Artes</i>, with +its grand Murillos and calm Zurbaráns, or the <i>Museo de Arte +Moderno</i>, with its succession of canvases depicting scene upon +scene of death, decay, murder, execution, starvation, battle, +torture, frenzy. Whatever is most horrible in the story of +the Peninsula—Juana the Mad staring at her husband's +coffin, the bloody fall of the betrayed Torrijos and his band, +the nobles of Portugal doing shuddering homage to the exhumed +corpse of Inez de Castro, all that moves disgust, distress, +dismay, seems flaunted here. The technique is French, but +the subjects are Spanish. Many of the pictures have historical +dignity and faithfulness, a few reproduce the modern national +types, with a preference for bull-fighters and anarchists over +fishermen and peasants, but one misses the spiritual beauty +that went hand in hand with the spiritual terror of the older +art. Do the Spanish painters of to-day derive only from +Goya and Ribera? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span></p> + +<p>The old-time popular ceremonies are fast fading out of +Europeanized Madrid. Even the Christmas mirth is waning, +though still on <i>Noche Buena</i> the <i>Plaza Mayor</i> is close set with +booths, and the Infanta Isabel, <i>muy Madrileña</i> that she is, +makes a point of driving through and heaping her carriage +with fairings. On Twelfth Night, too, there are a few small +boys to be seen scampering about the streets, looking for the +arrival of the Magi. Every year drops something of the +mediæval heritage, and it has fallen to my lot to chronicle +the passing of one of Madrid's most ancient and comfortable +rites. The principal saint days of June, July, and August +are preceded by <i>verbenas</i>, or evening fairs, chief among these +being the <i>Verbena de San Juan</i>, on Midsummer Night. Many +a baby has a grand frolic this evening, rocked back and forth +on his mamma's knees, laughing eyes to laughing eyes, while +she dips her head to his and tickles his little neck with kisses +in time to the ancient ditty:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Recotín, recotón!</p> +<p>The bells of St. John!</p> +<p>There's a festival on.</p> +<p>Recotín, recotín, recotón!"</p> +</div> + +<p>Far along the <i>Prado</i> gleam the busy fires over which are +merrily bubbling the oiliest and brownest of <i>buñuelos</i>. The +rows of lighted stalls, which have sprung up like mushrooms +on either side of the promenade, present to the revelling, +roving, shifting throng an amazing variety of tawdry +knickknacks, ingeniously devised to meet no human want. +As we drove slowly up and down, enjoying the scene, while +beggars ran beside the carriage and hawkers darted out upon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span> +us with shrill cries, the "American girl" of our little group +strove earnestly to find "something to buy."</p> + +<p>The most useful and convenient article for a traveller that +could be discovered was a pasteboard bull's head on a long +stick, but her chaperon, mindful of trunk dimensions, discouraged +this purchase so effectively that Little Boston +gracefully made herself amends by presenting us all with +images of St. John. These scandalously represented the +Baptist as a ballet girl in short cotton-wool skirts and gilt +ribbons, waving a banner with one hand and leading a two-legged +lamb with the other.</p> + +<p>As midnight drew near, carriages and foot-folk all pressed +toward the stately Cybele fountain. It seems that there was +once, in the <i>Puerta del Sol</i>, a magic spring whose waters, +sprinkled at Midsummer Midnight on the most unlikely +head, insured a wedding within the year. Trams and cabs, +riots and bloodshed, drove the precious charm away to the <i>Prado</i>, +even to this same Cybele fountain, which for many generations +has continued to work bridal miracles. So recently as +1898, as soon as the clock in the tower of the stately Bank +of Spain struck midnight, with wedding cadences lingering in +its peal, eager feet went splashing through the broad marble +basin, and the enchanted water, thrown by handfuls and cupfuls +far out over the crowd, sparkled even on bald pates and wigs.</p> + +<p>But alas for Madrid and her Midsummer Night's Dream! +Some prosaic person got wet and tattled to the Alcalde. So +when in natural agitation, on our only Verbena of St. John, +we had persuaded the compassionate coachman to drive as +close as close might be to the fountain, we encountered a +bristling, unromantic railing, and outside of this a grim circle +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span> +of police, frowning menace on that disconcerted host. Every +moment more carriages, with veiled ladies and rheumatic gentlemen, +dashed up, and the indignant crowd surged forward to +the very buttons of authority. But midnight chimed in vain. +One desperate graybeard vaulted over the railing, only to be +hustled back with contumely. In general, however, that +great press of people remained as meek as the lions of Cybele's +chariot—a lack of spirit only to be accounted for by +remembering that this midnight company was made up of the +shamefaced and rejected, such an assemblage of blighted +beings as, now that the last spell is snapped, earth will never +see again. Even the decorous Cybele laughed in her marble +sleeve.</p> + +<p>So passes the old Madrid; but there is a new Madrid, of +which a word still waits to be said. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XIV</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span></p> +<p class="center">A STUDY IN CONTRASTS</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"Here you have them, the two Spains, unlike, antagonistic, squared for conflict."<br /> +<span class="i10">—<i>Vida Nueva.</i></span></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he world-old struggle between conservatism and +advance is at its most dramatic point in Spain. +The united forces of clericalism and militarism +work for the continuance of ancient institutions, methods, +ideas, and those leaders who do battle in the name of liberalism +are too often nothing more than selfish politicians. +But with all these odds against progress, it is making way. +The mass of the people, kept so long in the darkness of +ignorance and superstition, are looking toward the light. +During my last week in Madrid I chanced upon two extreme +expressions of these warring principles. The first was a +royal and religious ceremony, the second a monster mass +meeting,—the one intent on cherishing the past, the other +clamoring at the gates of the future.</p> + +<p>I was looking over the <i>Imparcial</i> as I took my coffee one +morning, when my eye fell on an item to the effect that there +would be <i>capilla publica en Palacio</i> at ten o'clock. A traveller +learns to jump at opportunity. Public service in the royal +chapel promised to be of interest, and half-past nine found me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span> +waiting, with a miscellaneous company of gentles and tatterdemalions, +natives and foreigners, on the palace side of the +<i>Plaza de Armas</i>, the expectant throng streaming far down the +paved and covered way. We were well marshalled by soldiers, +who kept the crowd in form of a long troop, and banded +this by military lines, with gleaming bayonets. These bands, +but a few feet apart, were effectual in preventing crowding +and disorder, and when at last the doors were thrown open, +a double rank of soldiers closed in before the portal as often +as the entering file showed any tendency to press and hurry, +and thus passed us through by small divisions, so that there +was no unseemly struggling on the succession of bare, plain +stairways that led to the upper galleries.</p> + +<p>For "public service in the royal chapel," I was now to +discover, does not mean that the public is admitted to the +chapel itself. This is small, but very Spanish, with profusion +of gilding, imposing altar, and frescoed saints, the characteristic +splendor being tempered with a no less characteristic +gloom, an effect enhanced by austere columns of gray marble. +On days of public service, which are usually high feast days, +three long galleries, forming three sides of a great quadrangle, +are traversed by the court in passing from the royal rooms to +the chapel door, and it is to these galleries only that the public +is admitted. On such occasions the gallery walls are hung +with richly colored tapestries from the magnificent collection +of eight hundred pieces that enriches the royal <i>Tapiceria</i>.</p> + +<p>The instant I crossed the threshold these tapestries blazed +upon the eye, so dazzling in their beauty that it was difficult +to grasp the general situation. Civil Guards, in gala uniform, +each armed with a pike taller than himself, were stationed at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span> +intervals of about six feet all along these tapestried walls, +holding the carpeted way open for the passage of the royal +and ecclesiastical party. The public hastened to fill in the +spaces left between the guards, so that when the dignitaries +paced the length of the three galleries, they walked between +continuous human lines of mingled soldiery and spectators. +We were of various ages, sizes, colors, and quite as picturesque, +take it all in all, as the slowly stepping group on +which our eyes were focussed.</p> + +<p>A division of the royal escort, marching with drawn swords, +preceded the Queen Regent, a slight and elegant figure in +white and heliotrope, her mantilla pinned with diamonds. +She walked in royal solitude, with a bearing of majesty and +grace, but her face had a hard and almost sour look, which of +itself might account for her unpopularity. The King and the +younger Infanta did not take part in the day's ceremony, but +the Princess of Asturias followed her mother, a fresh-faced +girl, charmingly dressed in white and blue, with pearls and +turquoises. A respectful step or two in the rear of her niece, +yet at her side rather than behind, came in rich green silk +adorned with emeralds the stout, gray-puffed, easy-going Infanta +Isabel, her broad, florid face beaming with affability. +The guards had passed stern word down the line for all hats +to be off, but there was no sign of greeting, so far as I saw, +from the spectators to the royal party, except as now and then +some happy Spaniard bowed him to the dust in acknowledgment +of a nod, as familiar as a wink, from this popular +Infanta.</p> + +<p>The occasion of this stately function was the elevation of +the Papal Nuncio to the rank of cardinal. He passed in all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span> +priestly magnificence of vestments and jewels, his red hat +borne before him on a cushion. He was attended by the +chief clerics of Court and capital, but even these gorgeous +personages were outshone by the military and naval officers, +whose breasts were a mosaic of medals, and whose headgear +such erections of vainglory as to hush the crested cockatoo +with shame. The Gentlemen of the Palace, too, were such +peacocks in their glittering coats of many colors, their plumes +and sashes, gold lace and silver lace, that the plump Ladies in +Waiting, for all their pride of velvet, satin, and brocade, looked +like mere hens in the wake of strutting chanticleers.</p> + +<p>The American mind is ill prepared to do homage to the +dress parades of European courts, and I laid by the memory +to laugh over when I should have reached a place and hour +where laughter would be inoffensive. As the Diplomatic +Corps, in its varied costumes, came trooping on, twice a +whisper ran along the gazing lines. "The Turk!" and the +traditional enemy of Spain limped smilingly past, a bent, +shrewd-faced old Mussulman, whose Oriental finery was +topped by the red fez. "The Yankee!" and Spain's latest +adversary strode by in the person of the newly arrived United +States Minister, decorously arrayed in dress suit and a Catholic +expression.</p> + +<p>The chapel doors closed on this haughty train, and we, the +invited public, cheerily proceeded to pass a social hour or two +in chat and promenade and in contemplation of the tapestries. +Even the Civil Guards unbent, dancing their babies, lending +their pikes to delighted urchins, and raising forbidden curtains +to give their womenkind furtive peeps into the royal +apartments. Most astonishing was the maltreatment of those +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span> +priceless tapestries. Small boys, unrebuked, played at hide +and seek under the heavy folds, old men traced the patterns +with horny fingers, and the roughest fellows from the streets +lounged stupidly against them, rubbing dirty-jacketed shoulders +over the superb coloring. The most splendid series displayed +was from a master-loom of the Netherlands, illustrating the +conquest of Tunis by Charles V—marvellously vivid scenes, +where one beholds the spread of mighty camps, the battle +shock of great armies and navies, and, like shrill chords of pain +in some wild harmony, the countless individual tragedies of +war. The scimitar of the Turk flashes down on the Spanish +neck, while the upturned eyes are still too fierce for terror; +the turbaned chief leans from his gold-wrought saddle to scan +the severed heads that two blood-stained sons of the prophet +are emulously holding up to his survey, hoping to recognize +in those ghastly faces enemies of rank; white-robed women +on the strand, their little ones clinging to their knees, reach +arms of helpless anguish toward the smitten galley of their +lords, who are leaping into the waves for refuge from the +Christian cannonade.</p> + +<p>I wondered how the Turkish Minister liked those tapestries, +as his stooped-back Excellency passed in conference with a +Chinese mandarin, who must have studied his costume from a +teacup. For we had all been hustled into rows again to make +that human lane through which the Royalties and the Reverends +returned from their devotions. I was facing a quaint +old tapestry of Christ enthroned in glory, with the beasts of +the Apocalypse climbing over Him like pet kittens, and this +so distracted my attention that I omitted to ask the amiable +Infanta Isabel, who would, I am sure, have told anybody anything, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span> +what had taken place. But I read it all in the <i>Epocha</i> +that evening—how her Majesty with her own august hands +had fitted the red hat to the Nuncio's tonsured head, and how +the new-made cardinal had addressed her in a grateful oration, +praising her virtues as manifested in "the double character of +queen and mother, an example rich in those peculiar gifts by +which your Royal Grace has won the veneration and love +of the noble and chivalrous Spanish people, the especial +affection of the Father of the Faithful, and the respect and +sympathy of all the world." For her and for the youthful +monarch of Spain he invoked the favor of Heaven, and uttered +a fervent hope that the cup of bitterness which this most +Catholic nation had bowed herself to drink might be blessed +to her in a renewal of strength and a reconquest of her ancient +preëminence among the peoples of the earth.</p> + +<p>The most significant expression of "new Spain" that I +encountered in Madrid was a mass meeting—a rare and +novel feature in Spanish public life. I blundered upon it as +foolishly as one well could. The second day of July was the +first anniversary of the founding of a daring Madrid weekly, +the <i>Vida Nueva</i>, to which, attracted by its literary values, as +well as its political courage, I had subscribed. The sheet is +usually issued Sunday, but as I was on the point of going out +one Saturday afternoon my <i>Vida Nueva</i> arrived, accompanied +by two non-committal tickets. They gave entrance to the +<i>Frontón Central</i>, "only that and nothing more." I called one +of the pretty señoritas of the household into council, and she +sagely decided that these were tickets to <i>pelota</i>, the Basque ball +game, played in one or another of the various Madrid halls +almost every summer afternoon. It seemed a little too considerate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span> +in the <i>Vida Nueva</i> to provide for the recreation of its +subscribers, but I was growing accustomed to surprises of +Spanish courtesy, and tucked the tickets away in a safe corner. +The folded newspaper rustled and whispered, and finally fluttered +to my feet, but I was eager to be off, and, after the +blind fashion of mortals, put it by.</p> + +<p>It was my privilege to dine that day with two compatriots, +and one of these, who knows and loves Spain +better than many Spaniards do, began at once to tell me +of that most unusual occurrence, a Madrid mass meeting, to +take place this very evening. Of course we resolved to go, +although my friend's husband was not in the city, and no +other escort would countenance so harebrained an expedition. +For the street to which this valiant lady led the way was +choked with a flood of men surging toward an open door. +The hall for the "meeting," a word which the Spanish language +has fully adopted, was the <i>Frontón Central</i>, and admission +was by ticket. Light dawned on my dim wits, and, +while my two companions, with dignified and tranquil mien, +stood themselves up against the outer wall, I besought a leisurely +cabman, who insisted on waiting to pick up a little +ragamuffin clamoring for a ride, to drive me in hot haste to +my domicile. Here I searched out the tickets, put away only +too carefully, and took a fleeting glance at the <i>Vida Nueva</i>, +which urged all "men of heart" to celebrate the eve of its +anniversary by their presence at this mass meeting.</p> + +<p>I had not realized that there were so many men of heart in +Madrid. The street on my return was worse than before. +The cabman objected strenuously to leaving us in these tempestuous +surroundings, and, since there were only two tickets, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span> +we two elders of the trio agreed that the American girl was all +too young for such an escapade, and forthwith despatched her, +under his fatherly care, to the hotel. Then came the tug of +war. We saw men fighting fiercely about the door, we heard +the loud bandying of angry words, we were warned again and +again that we could never get through the jam, we were told +that, tickets or no tickets, ladies would not, could not, and +should not be admitted; it was darkly hinted that, before the +evening was over, there would be wild and bloody work within +those walls. But we noticed a few other women in the throng, +and decided, from moment to moment, to wait a little longer, +and see what happened next. Meanwhile, we were almost +unjostled in the midst of that excited, struggling crowd, often +catching the words: "Stand back there! Don't press on the +ladies! Leave room!" And when it came to the final dash +we had well-nigh a clear passage. Our tickets gave access +only to the floor of a big, oblong hall, closely packed with a +standing mass of some ten thousand men; but a debonair personage +in authority conducted us, with more chivalry than +justice, to the reserved boxes in the gallery, where we occupied +perfect seats,—for which other people probably held +tickets,—in the front row, overlooking all the house.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_259" id="i_259"></a> +<img src="images/i_259.jpg" width="420" height="628" alt="Maria Santisima" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Maria Santisima</span></p> +</div> + +<p>So much for Spanish indulgence to audacious womenfolk. +But as to the meeting itself, what was it all about? In Spain +one word suffices for an answer. <i>Montjuich</i> has become a +Liberal rallying cry, although the movement is not bound in +by party lines. It is the Dreyfus <i>affaire</i> in a Spanish edition. +The <i>Castello de Montjuich</i> is a strong fortress, with large magazines +and quarters for ten thousand soldiers. It is built on a +commanding height, the old Mountain of the Jews, just outside +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span> +Barcelona, and has again and again suffered bombardment +and storm. But in this latest assault on Montjuich the +weapons are words that burn and pens keener than swords. +It was on the seventh of June, 1896, that the famous bomb +was exploded in Barcelona. It was taken for an Anarchist +outrage, and over two hundred men, including teachers, writers, +and labor leaders, were arrested on suspicion. Nearly +two months passed, and, despite the offer of tempting rewards, +no trace of the culprits had been found. In the Fortress of +Montjuich the guards deputed to watch the prisoners, acting +more or less under superior authority, which itself may have +been influenced by Jesuit suggestion, began on the fourth of +August to inflict tortures upon the accused for the purpose of +extracting evidence. The trials were by military procedure, +power sat in the seat of justice, and innocent men, it is believed, +were condemned on the strength of those forced confessions—mere +assents, wrung from them by bodily agony, +to whatever their guards might dictate. But many persisted +in denial, and in course of time a number were released, +maimed, in certain cases, for life. Others were shot, and a +score still lay in prison. The fortress dungeons are deep and +dark, but little by little the cries and groans of the "martyrs +of Montjuich" penetrated the dull stone and sounded throughout +Spain.</p> + +<p>On the fourteenth of May, last year, the <i>Vida Nueva</i>, this +bold young periodical in the van of the Liberal cause, brought +out an illustrated number devoted to "The Torments of Montjuich." +Other periodicals sprang to its support and kept the +Government busy with denunciations, while they vehemently +called for a revision of the judicial process, with the hope of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span> +releasing the men still under sentence and clearing the names +of those who had perished. Mass meetings to urge such +revision, which could be accorded only by vote of the Cortes, +were held in Barcelona, Saragossa, Valencia, Santander, and +other principal cities, all demanding revision in the sacred +names of patriotism, humanity, and justice.</p> + +<p>Our Madrid mass meeting was of chief consequence in +impressing the Government with the weight of popular +opinion. The swaying multitude was called to order at +quarter of ten by Señor Canalejas, who introduced a notable +array of speakers. There were representatives of labor, of +republicanism, of the press, a Catalan charged with a greeting +from Barcelona, the champion of Spanish Socialism, Pablo +Iglesias by name, and great men of the nation, Azcárate, +Moret, and Salmeron. Spanish eloquence at its best thrills +the blood to wine, and the swift succession of orators, fourteen +all told, played on the vast audience like master artists +on a murmurous organ. Yet there was no disorder. A generous +and grateful hearing was accorded the Count of Las +Almenas, who frankly declared himself a conservative in politics +and an apostolic Roman Catholic in religion, but in the +name of both these creeds a lover of justice and humanity. +Since for these he ever held himself ready to do battle in the +Cortes, he gave the meeting his pledge that he would support +Azcárate in the motion for revision.</p> + +<p>But the wrath and grief of the audience could hardly be +controlled when one of the released prisoners took the platform +to recount the horrors of Montjuich. He told of +dungeons with earth floor and one grated window, of savage +guards determined to gain the crosses and pensions promised +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span> +to those who should extract evidence. He told how the helpless +captives, weakened by confinement, were tortured with +cords, whips, sleeplessness, hunger, and thirst. Bound as they +were, water was held before their parched mouths, with the +sinister words, "Confess what we bid you, and you shall +drink." When the famished men begged for food, they were +answered with the lash, or, more fiendishly, with shreds of +salt codfish, which increased their thirst a hundred fold. One +man in his desperation sprang to the lamp and quaffed the +dirty oil. They licked the moisture from their dungeon walls. +They thrust white tongues through the grating to catch the +drops of rain. Soon the guards proceeded to more violent +torments, wrenching, burning, and probing the quivering flesh +with a devilish ingenuity of torture, making a derisive sport +of their atrocious work. One of the victims went mad while +undergoing torture by compression of the head. Others, on +hearing the coming steps of the guards, strove to escape their +cruel hands by suicide. One drank a bowl of disinfectant +found in his cell, one beat his forehead against the wall, one +strove to drive a rusted nail into his heart.</p> + +<p>It was a frightful tale to hear. I looked across the hall to +where a Spanish flag was hung. Yellow wax is funeral wax, +and Alarcón, who sees in yellow a symbol of death and of +decay, laments that it is the color of half the Spanish banner. +"<i>Ay de la bandera española!</i>" But surely there is hope for +Spain, while she has sons who, in grasp of a military tyranny +which has rendered such crimes possible, contend in open +field for the overthrow of the "black Spain" of the Inquisition, +and still bear heart of hope for a white, regenerated Spain, +where religion shall include the love of man.</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XV</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE PATRON SAINT OF MADRID</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"Labré, cultivé, cogí</p> +<p>Con piedad, con fe, con celo,</p> +<p>Tierras, virtudes y cielo."</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">S</span>pain seems actually skied over with the wings of +guardian angels. The traditional tutelar of the nation, +Santiago, counts for less, especially in the south and +centre of the Peninsula, than might be expected, and was +long since officially superseded by the Virgin; but cities, hamlets, +families, individuals, all have their protecting saints. Some +are martyrs, some bishops, some apostles, while Cordova +rests secure beneath the shining plumes of the angel Raphael. +Towns and townlets hold festivals for their celestial patrons, +honoring them with fairs, horse-races, processions, dances, +and whatsoever else may be appropriate to the season and +characteristic of the locality, as ball games, bull-fights, or even +a miracle play. Only Seville, mirth-loving Seville, who +makes holiday on the slightest provocation, can never invite +her two beautiful guardians, Santa Justa and Santa Rufina, +to a jubilee. These holy maidens used to keep a pottery +booth in Triana, now the gypsy quarter of the city, where, +refusing to worship the Roman Venus, they won the crown +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span> +of martyrdom. But their industrious habits cling to them +still, and, by night and by day, while the centuries pass, they +uphold the Giralda. An anointed vision, like Murillo's, +may see their graceful forms hovering in mid-air on either +side of the famous tower, which their strong brown arms hold +firm even in tempests. If the ladies should let go, the +Giralda would fall, and so the Sevillians are driven to the +ungallant course of ignoring these really useful patrons and +gadding off to adjacent towns whose saints are at leisure to be +entertained.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_266" id="i_266"></a> +<img src="images/i_266.jpg" width="393" height="622" alt="A Spanish Monk" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Spanish Monk</span></p> +</div> + +<p>By the eternal contradiction that prevails in all things Spanish, +it has come to pass that Madrid, the elegant capital and +royal residence, is under the guardianship of a peasant saint. +Here, in the eleventh century, Isidro was born, say the priests, +of poor but Catholic parents. If not precisely a hewer of +wood and a drawer of water, he was next door to that humble +estate, being a digger of wells and cellars. He dug with such +piety that God aided him by miracles, causing troublesome +rocks to melt like wax at the touch of his spade, and springs +of healing water to leap in the pits of his fashioning. He +was a tiller of the ground, besides, a hireling farm servant, +whose agricultural methods, though seemingly irregular, caused +his master's granaries to overflow. As he went to the fields +in the fresh spring mornings, the young Isidro would scatter +handfuls of seed for the birds, saying, "Eat, God's little +birds, for when our Lord looks forth in dawn, He looks upon +us all." And as he dropped the wheat and barley in the furrows, +ever he murmured, "This for God, and this for us; +this for the birds, and this for the ants." "For the ants, +too?" mockingly asked the rustics who planted beside him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span> +but Isidro steadfastly replied, "For the ants, too, since they +are God's ants, and His royal bounty is for all His household." +No wonder that the Almighty had Isidro's fields in +special charge, sending sun and rain in due season that the +harvest might suffice for every claimant. Such divine care +was the more necessary, because this dreamy plough-boy spent +most of his time in the churches, or on his knees in the +shadow of the fruit trees, until his profane companions called +him Lazybones.</p> + +<p>Isidro was no effective patron of Madrid as yet, but ran +away from the Moors, when they invaded the city, finding +farm service in a neighboring village. Here he married a +maiden whose lovely soul, according to Lope de Vega, shone +through her guileless face like a painting through its glass. +She was no less devout than her husband, and went every +evening to trim the altar in a lonely shrine of the Virgin. +There was a stream to be crossed on the way, and in times +of freshet Our Lady would appear in person and lead her by +the hand over the tops of the waves. Such dainty stepping +as it must have been! And once, when Isidro accompanied +his wife, they both crossed in a boat suddenly improvised +from her mantilla, which was not a thread the worse for the +experience.</p> + +<p>The miracle-working power that developed in San Isidro +was first exercised, as became a farmer, on suffering beasts +and bad weather. His early influence over water grew more +and more pronounced, rain refreshing the thirsty fields at his +bidding, and medicinal fountains gushing from rocks at the +stroke of his hoe. And when, one sunshiny morning, his +wife let their baby boy slip from her arms into the depths of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span> +the well and ran in distress to her husband, the saint, who for +once was working on the farm, did not scold her, as the +priestly authors seem to think would have been the natural +course, but calmly said, "My sister, what is there to cry +about?" And when, after a season of prayer, these exemplary +parents proceeded to the well, its waters had risen to +the brink, lifting the little John, as on a silver-tissue cushion, +safe to their embrace. Isidro still retained his youthful peculiarities +as a laborer, often praying all day long in the churches, +while his yoke of oxen did the ploughing just as well without +him. On one occasion, when he arrived too late for mass, +the gates of heaven opened to his vision, as he knelt before +the closed church door, and he was permitted to witness a +celestial mass, where Christ was both priest and wafer, with +choirs of angels chanting the holy service. Even his charities +cost him little, for when the <i>olla</i> of vegetables and fish, that +his wife made every Saturday for the poor, had all been eaten, +a word from Isidro was enough to replenish the pot. If he +emptied his sack of corn on the snow for a flock of hungry +pigeons, the sack was full when he reached the mill; +and when he threshed his master's wheat a second and a +third time for the beggars, the very chaff turned into golden +grain.</p> + +<p>His best quality, which almost makes his cult desirable in +Spain, continued to be his love for animals, especially for +birds. These sang their sweetest songs as he passed by, and +often flew down from the poplar branches to brush their little +wings against his blouse. And he, who had raised his +master's daughter from the dead, did not disdain to work +miracles of healing and of life on maltreated horses. Madrid +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span> +would do well to give her guardian saint a season ticket to +the bull-ring. Even the despised and cudgelled ass had a +share in his protection. A sacrilegious wolf that thought to +make a meal of Isidro's donkey, left to graze outside a church +where the saint had gone to pray, was struck dead—perhaps +by the donkey's heels. This kindly rustic, who had separated +from his wife for greater sanctity, died on St. Andrew's Day +and was buried in the cemetery of St. Andrew's Church in +Madrid. Such sepulture was not to his liking, and twice his +ghost appeared to ask that the body might be removed to the +church, as was presently done, all the bells of St. Andrew's +ringing of their own accord to give it welcome. The tomb +immediately began to work miracles, and Isidro became such +a favorite with the people that when, in 1212, a shepherd +guided Alfonso VIII, lost with his vanguard in the wild +passes of the Sierra Morena, to the great battle of Las Navas +de Tolosa, where the armies of the Holy Cross broke forever +the dominion of the Moors in Central Spain, nothing would +do but the story that this shepherd was Isidro himself. +Above the tomb of the saint a chapel was erected, perhaps +by Alfonso, perhaps by <i>Isabel la Católica</i>. There seems to +be a conflict of authorities here, but all testimonies agree that +the angels used to come down and sing in the chapel Saturday +afternoons.</p> + +<p>Madrid formally accepted Isidro as patron in the summer +of 1232, when the labors of the husbandmen, on the point of +perishing from drought, were saved by the body of the Holy +Peasant, which, borne in priestly procession, called down +floods of rain; but it was not until the times of Philip III, +some four centuries later, that the actual canonization of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span> +Isidro was granted by Rome. On May 15, 1620, the <i>Plaza +Mayor</i>, that handsome square which has been the theatre of +so many tournaments, executions, and <i>autos de fe</i>, the scene, +two years later, of the beatification of Loyola, was inaugurated +by a splendid festival in honor of San Isidro. From that day +to this his worship has not waned. The miracle-working +bones, which were carried to the bitter death-bed of Philip +III, and comforted the passing of the great and generous +spirit of Charles III, are still held to be more potent than +physicians. Churches, oratories, and chapels have been built +to him all over the Peninsula, the Franciscan Friars founded +a convent of San Isidro in Rome, and his name is a part of +our new geography lesson in the Antilles and the Philippines. +Only four years ago his urn was borne in penitential procession +through Madrid, with double supplications for rain on +the parched country, and for a swift and happy ending of the +Cuban war. All priestly, military, civic, and governmental +pomp went to make up that stately escort, the ladies of +Madrid showering the train as it passed beneath their balconies +with flowers, poems, and <i>confetti</i>. The saint did +what he could. The procession had been so skilfully timed +that the rains began that very night, but the Cuban war was +a matter out of his province. His dealings had always been +with water, not with blood.</p> + +<p>There is significance in this devotion of proud Castile to +San Isidro. Spain is essentially as democratic as America. +Her proverbs tell the story: "Many a man gets to heaven in +tow breeches;" "Do what your master bids you, and sit +down with him at table;" "Nobody is born learned, and +even bishops are made of men;" "Since I am a man I may +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span> +come to be Pope;" "The corpse of the Pope takes no more +ground than that of the sacristan;" "Every man is the son +of his own works."</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Said the leaf to the flower: 'O fie!</p> +<p class="i1">You put on airs indeed!</p> +<p>But we sprang, both you and I,</p> +<p class="i1">From the selfsame little brown seed.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>Pedler, porter, beggar treat you as social equals and expect +a full return of courtesy. It is told in Madrid how a great +diplomatic personage not long ago was eating his picnic +luncheon in a hired carriage. The driver, lunching also, +leaned back from his seat, clinked glasses, and drank the +gentleman's health. The dignitary glared with astonishment +and wrath. "Man! I am the Imperial Ambassador of +Nation So-and-So." "What of it?" returned the driver, +taking another bite of his peppery Spanish sausage; "I am +the Head Hostler of Stables Such-and-Such."</p> + +<p>Again and again, in recent times as in ancient, have the +rank and file of the Spanish nation asserted their dignity of +manhood. An edict of Charles III, forbidding the Madrileños +to muffle themselves in their beloved long cloaks and hide +their faces under their big slouch hats, raised a furious riot in +the capital. Should a king dictate the fashion of a man's +garments? And when the stupid weakness of Charles IV +and the baseness of his son Fernando had delivered Spain over +to Napoleon, when French armies held her fortresses, and +Murat, with twenty-five thousand troops, ruled Madrid by +logic of steel and iron, it was the Spanish people who, from +Asturias to Andalusia, sprang to the defence of a country +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span> +abandoned by princes, councils, and grandees. The Spanish +people, not the Spanish nobles, preserved the independence of +the nation and actually broke the career of the Corsican conqueror. +The Italian king, Amadeo, so much better than his +fortunes, was welcomed at Valencia in 1871 with simple +verses, spoken by a child, that breathe even from their opening +stanza this native spirit of democracy:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"The High Lord of the Heavens</p> +<p class="i1">Created men one day,</p> +<p>All mortal and all equal,</p> +<p class="i1">All shapen out of clay;</p> +<p>For God recked not of nations,</p> +<p class="i1">Of white and black and brown,</p> +<p>But on His human children</p> +<p class="i1">Impartially looked down."</p> +</div> + +<p>It is not then so strange as it appears at first hearing that +a Piers Plowman should be patron of Madrid.</p> + +<p>From Alfonso VIII to Alfonso XIII, a matter of some +seven centuries, Isidro has been in high repute with royalty. +The "Catholic Kings" made him rich gifts; Philip II, +bigot of bigots, cherished an especial veneration for the +ghostly protector who had brought his delicate childhood +safely through smallpox and epileptic seizures; the passion-wasted +Philip IV did him public homage; Charles the +Bewitched made a solemn progress to his shrine to thank him +for recovery from illness; even the bright young Bourbon, +Philip V, had scarcely arrived in Madrid before he hastened +to worship the efficacious body of San Isidro. The urn has +been opened at intervals to give their successive Majesties of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span> +Spain the grewsome joy of gazing on the bones, and it has +been the peculiar privilege of Spanish queens, on such occasions, +to renew the costly cerements. The devotion of the +present regent to these relics keeps pace with that of her +predecessors.</p> + +<p>Where royalty leads, aristocracy is swift to follow, and +Isidro has a gorgeous wardrobe of embroidered standards, +palls, canopies, burial cloths, and everything that a skeleton +could require, but "for a' that and a' that" the laboring +people of Castile never forget that the Canonized Farmer +especially belongs to them. His fortnight-long <i>fiesta</i> is the +May outing of the rustic population all about Madrid.</p> + +<p>We will start on this pilgrimage from the <i>Puerta del Sol</i>, +because everything in Madrid starts from the <i>Puerta del Sol</i>. +From this great open parallelogram in the centre of the city, +surrounded by lofty hotels and Government buildings, +bordered with shops and cafés, brightened with fountains, +thronged with trams, carriages, people, always humming with +voices, always surging with movement, run ten of the principal +streets of the capital. The <i>Alcalá</i>, most fashionable of +promenades, and <i>San Jerónimo</i>, beloved of wealthy shoppers, +conduct to the noble reaches of parks and <i>paseos</i> in the east; +the handsome <i>Arenal</i> and historic <i>Calle Mayor</i> lead west to +the royal palace, with its extensive gardens known as the +<i>Campo del Moro</i>; <i>Montera</i>, with two less elegant avenues, +points to the north, where one may find the university, the +Protestant churches, and the tragic site of the <i>Quemadero</i>; and +three corresponding streets open the way to the south, with +its factories, hospitals, old churches, and world-famed <i>Rastro</i>, +or rag fair. +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_275" id="i_275"></a> +<img src="images/i_275.jpg" width="557" height="413" alt="A Seville Street" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Seville Street</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span> +But during the early days of the <i>Romeria</i>, which begins on +May 15, all the throbbing tide of life pours toward the +southwest, for the goal of the pilgrimage, the Hermitage of +San Isidro, built over one of his miraculous wells by the +empress of Charles I, in gratitude for a cure experienced by +her august husband after drinking of the waters, stands on the +farther bank of the Manzanares. The trams, literally heaped +with clinging humanity, pass out by the <i>Calle Mayor</i> and +cross the <i>Plaza Mayor</i>. The innumerable 'buses and cabs +make a shorter cut, but all varieties of vehicle are soon +wedged together in the broad thoroughfare of Toledo. Here +we pass the big granite church of San Isidro el Real, once in +possession of the Jesuits, but on their expulsion from Spain, +in 1767, consecrated to the Santo Labrador. His body was +borne thither, with all solemn ceremonial, from the chapel in +St. Andrew's; and his poor wife, who had also been sainted, +by a courteous Spanish afterthought, under the attractive title +of <i>Maria de la Cabeza</i>, Mary of the Head, was allowed to lay +her celebrated skull beneath the same roof,—a greater liberty +than he had permitted her during the latter half of their earthly +lives. The Madrid Cathedral, hard by the royal palace, is +still in slow process of building, the work being hampered and +delayed for lack of funds, although her Majesty sets a devout +example by contributing $300 a month. Meanwhile, San +Isidro el Real serves as the cathedral church of the diocese.</p> + +<p>This <i>Calle de Toledo</i>, where Isidro dug several of his medicinal +wells, is always gay with arcades and booths and drapers' +shops; but now, during the <i>Romeria</i>, it is a veritable curbstone +market, where oranges, sashes, brooms, mantles, picture frames, +saucepans, fiddles, mantillas, china, jackets, umbrellas, fans, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span> +dolls, bird-cages, paintings of saints, and photographs of ballet +dancers are all cried and exhibited, hawked and held under +nose, in one continuous tumult.</p> + +<p>As we approach the bare mass of masonry known as the +Gate of Toledo, we cast, for all our festival mood, a clouded +glance in the direction of the barbarous slaughter-houses of +Madrid. Here the stronger beasts are blinded by the thrust +of darts, and also hamstrung, to render them helpless under +the deliberate butchery of their tormentors, who often amuse +themselves by a little bull-fight practice with the agonized +creatures before striking the final blow—a place of such atrocious +cruelties that even the seasoned nerves of an Austrian +surgeon recently visiting it gave way, and he fainted as he +looked. There is work for San Isidro here.</p> + +<p>The jam of equipages on the Bridge of Toledo gives us +abundant time to observe the statue of the Holy Peasant, in a +stone niche, lifting his baby from the well, and the companion +statue of Mary of the Skull. And there is the Manzanares +to look at, that sandy channel along which dribble a few +threads of water—threads that the washerwomen of Madrid +seek after like veins of silver. Small boys are wading from +one bank to the other, hardly troubling themselves to roll up +their trousers. It is said that Philip IV, surveying his pompous +bridge across the Manzanares, was wickedly advised by +one of his courtiers to sell the bridge or else buy a river. It +is a curious bit of irony to hold the festival of the Water +Saint beside a river bed almost as dry as his bones.</p> + +<p>But the crowd has now become so mad and merry that it +distracts attention alike from architecture and physical geography. +Will all the dexterity of foot-police and mounted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span> +guards ever succeed in disentangling this snarl of equipages? +Who cares? Everybody is laughing. Everybody, too, is +helping, so far as lungs can help. A daring Aragonese, with +a blue and white checked handkerchief knotted about his +head and a scarlet blanket over his shoulders, tries to dash +across the bridge and rejoin his screaming children. He +stumbles before a jovial omnibus, whose four horses, adorned +with beribboned straw hats, gaze coyly out from under the +torn brims like so many metamorphosed Maud Mullers. A +distant guard roars a warning. The crowd bellows in sympathy. +A liveried coachman rears his spirited pair of bays. +A cock-hatted gypsy, with half his tribe packed into his cart, +tries to follow suit, and tugs savagely at the stubborn mouths +of mules whose heads are liberally festooned with red and +green tassels. In front of these safely passes the Aragonese, +only to bring up against the great wheel of a picnic wagon, +whose occupants, mostly señoritas in the sunrise Philippine +shawls, thrust out their pretty heads, all crowned with flowers +instead of hats, and rain down saucy salutations. The crowd +chimes in with every variety of voluble impudence. He catches +at the long gold fringe of the nearest shawl, saves himself from +falling at the price of a shriek of wrath from the señorita, +plunges desperately on, is struck by a cab horse, the poor +beast being half blinded by the tickling plumes that droop +over eyes and nose, and amid volleys of ridicule and encouragement +reels to the shelter of the sidewalk. But a very +precarious shelter it is, so narrow that the lads are positively +obliged to fling their arms about the lasses to hold the fluttering +skirts back from peril of wheels and hoofs. Everywhere +what audacity, what fun, what color, and what noise! Troops +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span> +on troops of foot travellers, usually in family groups, and often +stained with the dust of an all-day tramp! The wives generally +carry the hampers, and the husbands sometimes shoulder +the babies. Squads of young fellows frolic along, each with +his supply of provisions tied up in a gaudy handkerchief. +The closer the nudging the better they like it; a slap from a +girlish hand is almost as good as a kiss. Isidro knew all +about it in his day. But this clownish jollity grows rougher +and rougher, and the crack and sting from a coachman's whip +tempt a reply with the pilgrim's staff. The guards, hoarse +and purple, wipe their dripping brows. It is early afternoon +yet, too, and the larking and license are as nothing to what +may be expected before midnight.</p> + +<p>It is a little better when, at last, the bridge is left behind. +Turning to the northwest, the dusty road runs on beside the +river and beneath the bluffs lined with rowdyish folk, who +shout down greetings to their acquaintances and compliments +to the ladies, toward the <i>ermita</i>. A certain Juan de Vargas, +riding over this same route one day, lifted his eyes to the +uplands to see how his farm-hand, Isidro, was getting on with +the ploughing. Blessed Isidro! Before and after went two +stalwart young angels, still in shining white, each driving a +celestial yoke of oxen.</p> + +<p>Times have changed. The sight that greets our eyes is +emphatically human—a great country fair, a pandemonium +of rude, good-natured revelry. The beggars who have been +chasing the carriage, the cripples outstripping the rest, thrust +withered arms, ulcerous legs, and all manner of profitable deformities +into our very faces as we alight, even clutching at the +coins with which we pay the coachman. We make our way, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span> +as best we can in the rough press, between two rows of booths +toward the church. There is the usual Spanish variety of +penny toys on sale—balls, baskets, whips, kites, jumping-jacks, +balloons, and every other conceivable trifle admitting +of the colors red and yellow. But the great traffic is in those +articles especially consecrate to San Isidro—frosted cakes, +probably made after the recipe of <i>Maria de la Cabeza</i>, clay +vessels of every shape and size for carrying away the healing +waters, and, first and foremost, <i>pitos</i>, or whistles. The priests +would have us believe that San Isidro was forever droning +psalms, but ploughmen know a ploughman's music, and the +sacred whistles lead the sales in the <i>Romeria</i>. It is impiety +not to purchase at least one of these, and the more devout +you are, the more <i>pitos</i> will you buy. The Infanta Isabel, +aunt of his Little Majesty, fills her emblazoned coach every +year with these shrill pipes in all their variety of queer disguises—fans, +birds, puffing grotesques, and, above all, paper +flowers. He is no lover worth the having who does not bring +his sweetheart a San Isidro rose with a <i>pito</i> for a stem. The +ear-torture of an immense fair-ground delighting in an infinity +of whistles may be left to the sympathetic imagination. +We cling to the memory of Burns, and bear for his bonny +sake what we could hardly endure for any such sham laborer +as Isidro.</p> + +<p>The hearing is not the only sense to do penance in this +pilgrimage. The Water Saint has never thought to work +a miracle of cleanliness upon his peasant votaries, and the +smell that bursts out upon us from the opening doors of the +church might put us to flight, were flight still possible. But, +caught in the human current, we are swept on into the gilded, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span> +candle-lighted, foul-aired oratory, with its effigies of Santo +Labrador and Santa Labradora. All day long the imperious +ringing of the bell at the shortest of intervals has been calling +one company of the faithful after another up the bare brown +hill to that unventilated temple. When there is no squeezing +room left for even a dwarf from the pygmy show, the doors +are closed, the bell is silenced, and the rustics are marshalled +in rapid procession before the altar, where they pay a penny +each, receive a cheap print of San Isidro, and kiss the mysterious, +glass-cased relic which a businesslike young ecclesiastic +touches hastily to their lips. The frank sound of the kissing +within is accompanied by the tooting of <i>pitos</i> without. We +stand at one side, looking at the priests and wondering how +their consciences are put together, but half ashamed to watch +with heretic eyes the tears of joy, the fervors of prayer, the +ecstasies of faith, that are to be seen in many of these simple, +passionate faces filing by. Here comes a little girl treading +as if on air and clasping her picture of the saint to her lips, +brows, and heart with such abandon of delighted adoration +as one must go to Spain to see.</p> + +<p>Released from the Hermitage, we fill our lungs with sweeter +breath, give skirts a vigorous shake in the vain hope that we +may not carry away too many deserters from the insect retinue +of our recent associates, and turn down toward the river. +Our short cut leads us among heaps and heaps of bales packed +with the graceful clay jars. How many an anxious mother +will trudge her weary miles across this dry Castilian steppe, +bearing with all her other burdens a <i>botija</i> of the healing water +to some little sufferer at home! Wonderful water, warranted +to make whole the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span> +put to rout all ills that flesh is heir to, especially fevers, tumors, +erysipelas, paralysis, and consumption! It is as potent to-day +as when it first gushed from the earth at the bidding of the +young Isidro, for did it not work a notable cure, as late +as 1884, on the Infanta Doña Paz de Bourbon, sister of +Alphonso XII?</p> + +<p>We linger a few minutes at the edge of the bluff, looking +down upon the animated scene below, from which rises the +hum as of an exaggerated beehive. The long green stretch +of valley meadow is one wave of restless color. Thickly +dotted with booths for refreshment, for sale of the San Isidro +wares, for penny shows, farces, wax figures, and all manner +of cheap entertainments, it still has space for dancers, wrestlers, +<i>pelota</i> players, for swings, stilts, and merry-go-rounds, +and, above all, for the multitude of promenaders, sleepers, and +feasters. The bright May sunshine gleams and dazzles on +the soldiers' helmets, flashes out all the hues and tints of the +varied costumes, and even lends a grace to the brown patches +on the browner tents. The tossing of limbs in the wild, free +dances, the flutter of the red and yellow flags, the picturesque +grouping on the grass of families, complete to dog and donkey, +around the platter of homely fare and the skin bottle of wine—all +this makes a panorama on which one would gladly gaze +for hours.</p> + +<p>Going down into the heart of the festivity, the interest still +grows. We enter one of the cleanest <i>cantinas</i> and invest a +<i>peseta</i> in a bottle of sarsaparilla, not for our own drinking, +having seen the water in which the glasses are washed, but +as a protection against the horde of beggars and the gypsy +fortune tellers. It works like a charm. As we respond to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span> +the whining appeals with the civilities of social greeting and +an offered glass of our innocent beverage, the ragged petitioners +are straightway transformed into ladies and gentlemen. +They draw themselves erect, quaff the cup to our +long life and happiness, discuss in self-respecting tones the +weather and the fête, and then, without another hint of +solicitation, bid us courteous farewells. We mean to take +out a patent on the sarsaparilla treatment of Spanish +mendicancy.</p> + +<p>The tent itself is, like the rest, shabby and tumbledown, +furnished with rough tables and benches, where cadets are +playing dominos as they drink, and two country sweethearts +are delectably eating what appears to be a sardine omelette +off the same cracked plate. A clumsy lantern hangs overhead, +racks of bottles are fastened up along the canvas walls, and +all about the trampled earth floor stand water jars, great bowls +of greens, and baskets of the crusty Spanish bread. A pale +young Madrileño drops in for a glass of wine, but before +indulging has the shy little rustic who serves him take a sip, +languidly begging her, "Do me the favor to sweeten my +drink." The yellow cigarette-stains show on his white +fingers as he pats her plump bare arm. The child, for she +is scarcely more, and as brown as an acorn, responds to +these amenities by giving the smiling exquisite alternate bites +of her hunk of goat's-milk cheese, while her mother keeps a +sharp eye on them both.</p> + +<p>Comedy and tragedy are busy all about us. A newly +arrived family plods wearily by in ludicrous procession, +headed by a tall father carrying a baby and closed by a short +child carrying a cat. A showy man of middle age, playing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span> +the gallant to an overdressed brunette, is suddenly confronted +by his furious wife in boy's attire, so unluckily well disguised +that, before recognizing her, he has replied to her +rush of invective with a blow which bids fair to make one of +her eyes, at least, blacker than those of her rival. Traditional +ballads are trolled, popular songs are echoed from group +to group, and, despite bad odors, fleas, and whistles, we are +reluctant to leave. But the afternoon grows late, the +<i>Arganda</i> and <i>Valdepeñas</i> are beginning to burn in the +southern blood, an occasional flourish of cudgels or of fists +sends the police scurrying across the field, and, being nothing +if not discreet, we pay our parting respects to San Isidro.</p> + +<p>Coming home by way of the <i>Prado</i> and passing the proud +shaft of yellow-brown granite that towers far above its +enclosing cypress trees, as glory above death, we are reminded +that this gala month has brought another <i>fiesta</i> to +Madrid. Every second of May the capital commemorates +with solemn masses, with stately civic processions, and a +magnificent military review, the patriots who fell fighting in +the streets on that terrible Monday of 1808, <i>El Dos de Mayo</i>, +which brought to pass the war of independence. One may +read of that fierce carnage in the vivid pages of Galdós or +behold it in the lurid paintings of Goya. To see once is to +see forever that line of French soldiery, with steady musket +at shoulder, but with eyes bent on the ground, while they +shoot down squad after squad of their defenceless victims. +In pools of blood lie the contorted bodies, with heads and +breasts horribly torn by crimson wounds, while of those who +wait their turn to fall beside them some cover the eyes, one +stupidly gnaws his hands, one kneels and wildly peers from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span> +under his shaggy hair into the very muzzle of the gun before +him, one flings back his head with a savage grin, half of +fright and half of courage, one desperately strips bare his +breast and in agony of horror glares upon the guns, but the +most are crouching, shuddering, sinking—and all only an item +in the awful cost that the Spanish people have paid for +Spanish liberties. The celebration of 1899 was no less +brilliant than usual, although many of the Madrid papers +spoke bitterly of the shadow that the disastrous first of May +must henceforth cast on the glorious Second. It is indeed +gall and wormwood to all Spain that the Manila defeat so +nearly coincides with the proudest day in Spanish annals.</p> + +<p>The saint of <i>El Dos de Mayo</i> is Saint Revolution, as democratic +in one way as Saint Agriculture in another. When +these two patrons of Madrid understand how to work in +fellowship, when there comes a Government in Spain that +cares chiefly to promote the welfare of the laboring people, +the world may discover anew the vitality and noble quality +of this long-suffering nation.</p> + +<p>We saw the <i>Romeria</i> once more, driving through late in +the evening, when the closed booths glimmered white on the +silent meadow.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is all a pack of lies," said a thoughtful Catholic, +"but what is one to do? A man cannot believe in religion—and +yet how to live without it? The more I stay away from +mass the more I want and need it. Think of the comfort +these peasants take with their San Isidro!"</p> + +<p>The moonlight shone serene and beautiful on those patched, +shabby tents, transforming them to silver. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XVI</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE FUNERAL OF CASTELAR</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"The death of the Republic will be, for you, for us, and for all, the death of liberty. +The death of liberty will be the death of the Republic, and as liberty is the only +thing in the world that rises from the dead, with liberty shall rise again, in good time, +the Republic."—<span class="smcap">Emilio Castelar</span>: <i>Inaugural Address</i>, 1873.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he present state of Spanish politics was amusingly +expounded to me by a spirited young philosopher +of Cadiz.</p> + +<p>"In the north," he said, "the prevailing sentiment is for +Don Carlos. Nocedal is doing all he can to fan it in Andalusia, +but it finds its natural home in the northern provinces. +To be sure, there is San Sebastian, where the Court summers, +which consequently upholds the Queen, and there are Republican +groups; but the north of Spain, broadly speaking, is +Carlist. The centre favors the reigning family. Possession +is a strong argument, and the royal forces hold Madrid. +Barcelona is Republican. Those Catalans are always thirsty +for a fight. But the middle tract of Spain, as a whole, accepts +the existing monarchy. Castilians are too gallant to strike +against a woman and a child. The south is Republican. +For the best part of the century Cadiz and Malaga have stood +for revolution. Where was the army of Isabel II defeated? +And why has the Queen never seen the Alhambra? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span></p> + +<p>"But, let me tell you, these Carlists, these Royalists, these +Republicans are all fools. If there is anything hopeless in this +world, it's Spanish politics. All the uproar of the Revolution +ended in murdering our best man and driving out our best +king. For myself, I mean to work hard and marry soon, and +have a little Spain in my own house that shall express my +own convictions. My children shall be good Catholics, but +not superstitious bigots. They shall be well educated, if I +have to send them to France or England for it. They shall +be disciplined, but under the law of liberty. And with that +I propose to be content. All my politics are to be kept under +my own roof, where I can work my ideas into permanent +form. I am sick of the way in which Spain boils with ideas +that only destroy one another."</p> + +<p>This Sir Oracle was two-and-twenty, with the prettiest +of girlish photographs in his vest pocket, and the smallest of +savings in the bank, but I remembered his words in the days +of mourning for Emilio Castelar.</p> + +<p>The illustrious tribune, heavy-hearted with the troubles of +his country, had gone to the home of friends, at a village in +sunny Murcia, for the rest and comfort that nature always +gave him. His almost boyish optimism, "<i>niño grande y grande +niño</i>" that he was, had kept him assured of peace even after +the destruction of the <i>Maine</i>, and assured of victory even +after the battle of Manila. Hence the pressure of fact told +on him all the more cruelly. "I die a victim of Spain's +agony," he wrote in a personal letter shortly before the end, +and his last article for publication, finished on the day of his +death, a gloomy discussion of the outlook for the Peace Conference, +contains bitter references to the national disasters and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span> +to the ravages of the "criminal troop of pirates in the +Philippines."</p> + +<p>He died on Thursday, the twenty-fifth of May, within hearing +of the Mediterranean waves he loved so well, with tender +faces bent over him, and the crucifix at his lips. The news +of his death aroused this grief-weary nation to a fresh outburst +of sorrow. Some lamented him as one of the chief +orators of modern Europe, recalling his eloquence in the +tempestuous times of the Revolution, when he "intoned +mighty hymns in praise of liberty, democracy, and the sacred +Fatherland!" Some mourned the patriot, pointing proudly to +the honorable poverty in which this holder of many offices, at +one time almost absolute dictator, had lived and died. Some +wept for the cordial, generous, noble-hearted man, the joy of +his friends and idol of his household. His political sympathizers +bewailed the loss of the Spanish apostle of democracy, +the lifelong champion of liberty. And many not of his following +nor of his faith felt that a towering national figure had +disappeared and another glory of Spain vanished away.</p> + +<p>The first wreath received was from a Republican club that +sent the pansies of memory. Among the five hundred telegrams +and cablegrams that arrived within a few hours at the +country-seat where he had died was one from over seas, which +read: "To Castelar: In thy death it seems as if we had lost +the last treasure left to us, the voice of the Spanish race. In +thy death Spain has become mute. Yet let me believe that +thou respondest, 'She will speak again.'"</p> + +<p>The coming of the body to the capital was a triumphal +progress. A large escort of friends, who had made speed to +Murcia from all parts of the Peninsula, accompanied it, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span> +there were crowds at the stations, even in the mid-hours of +the night, with tears, handfuls of roses, wreaths, and poems +of farewell. There was often something very touching about +these offerings. At one of the smaller towns a young girl +hastily gathered flowers from the garden attached to the station, +broke off a spray from a blossoming tree, tied these with the +bright ribbon from her hair, and, clambering up, hung this +simple nosegay among the costly tributes that already nearly +covered the outer sides of the funeral car. In another crowded +station the village priest came hurrying forward, bared his head +with deepest reverence before the garlanded coach, as if before +the altar, and chanted the prayers for the dead. Again, a +group of workmen, allowed to enter the car, fell on their +knees before the bier and prayed.</p> + +<p>The train was met on its arrival in Madrid by an immense +concourse of people. Señor Silvela and other distinguished +representatives of the Government were there, church dignitaries, +presidents of political societies and literary academies, +but, above all, the people. It was the great, surging multitude +that gave the Republican leader his grandest welcome.</p> + +<p>This poor shell of Castelar, the man said to bear "the soul +of a Don Quixote in the body of a Sancho Panza," lay in +state through Sunday and a part of Monday in the <i>Palacio del +Congreso</i>. The vestibule had been converted into a <i>capilla +ardiente</i>. Masses were chanted ceaselessly at the two candle-laden +altars, the perfume from the ever increasing heaps of +flowers was so oppressive that the guards had to be relieved +at short intervals, and the procession of people that filed +rapidly past the bier, often weeping as they went, reached out +from the Morocco lions of the doorway to the <i>Prado</i> and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span> +Fountain of Neptune. Many of the humblest clad, waiting +half the day in line, held pinks or lilies, fast withering in the +sun, to drop at the feet of the people's friend. Early on +Monday afternoon the doors were closed, and by half-past +three the funeral cortège began to form in the <i>Prado</i> for its +four-hour march by way of the <i>Calle de Alcalá</i>, <i>Puerta del +Sol</i>, <i>Calle Mayor</i>, and <i>Cuesta de la Vega</i>, to the cemetery of +San Isidro.</p> + +<p>By the never failing Spanish courtesy, I was invited to see +the procession from the balcony of a private house in the +<i>Alcalá</i>. I found my hostess, a vivacious little old lady, whose +daughter had crowned her with glory and honor by marrying +into the nobility, much perturbed over the failure of the Queen +Regent to show sympathy with the popular grief.</p> + +<p>"There were one hundred and forty-nine wreaths sent in. +The very number shows that the royal wreath was lacking. +I am a Conservative, of course. Canovas was my friend, and +has dined here often and often. You see his portrait there +beside that of my daughter, <i>la Marquesa</i>. But Canovas loved +Castelar, and would not, like Silvela, have grudged him the +military honors of a national funeral. As if the dead were +Republicans! The dead are Spaniards, and Castelar is a +great Spaniard, as this tremendous throng of people proves. +There were not nearly so many for Canovas, though the aristocracy +made an elegant display; there were not so many for +Alfonso XII, though all that Court and State and army could +do was done, and the Queen rode in the splendid ebony coach +in which Juana the Mad used to carry about the body of that +handsome husband of hers.</p> + +<p>"But the people know their losses. Never in my life have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span> +I seen the <i>Alcalá</i> so full as this. Silvela has had to give way, +and the troops will come—at least a few of them. But not +a word, not a flower, from the Queen! She sent a magnificent +wreath for Canovas, and a beautiful letter to his widow. +But for Castelar, her people's hero, nothing. Ah, she is not +<i>simpática</i>. She does not know her opportunities. She does +not understand the art of winning love. Only a year ago she +sent a wreath to the funeral of Frascuelo, the <i>torero</i>. And +everybody knows how she hates the bull-fight. But if she +could drop her prejudices then to be at one with the feeling +of her capital, why not now? They say she has a neuralgic +headache to-day. <i>Ay, Dios mio!</i> I should think she might."</p> + +<p>Listening to this frank chatter and watching that mighty +multitude, I was reminded of one of the Andalusian <i>coplas</i>:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"The Republic is dead and gone;</p> +<p class="i1">Bury her out of the rain.</p> +<p>But see! There is never a <i>Panteón</i></p> +<p class="i1">Can hold the funeral train."</p> +</div> + +<p>And this, in turn, suggested another of those popular refrains:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"The moon is a Republican,</p> +<p class="i1">And the sun with open eye;</p> +<p>The earth she is Republican,</p> +<p class="i1">And Republican am I."</p> +</div> + +<p>But who can understand this ever baffling Spain? After +all, what was the significance of that assembled host? How +far was it drawn by devotion to the man, and how far by +devotion to the idea for which he stood? How far by idle +curiosity, by the Spanish passion for pomps and shows, and, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span> +above all, for a crowd, by that strange Spanish delight in +<i>mucha gente</i>? So far as eye could tell, this might have +been the merriest of fêtes. The wide street was a sea of +restless color. Uniforms, liveries, parasols, hats, frocks, +pinafores, kerchiefs, blouses, sashes, fans, flecked the sunshine +with a thousand hues. Here loitered a messenger boy in +vivid scarlet; there passed a waiter with a silver tray gleaming +on his head; here a market woman bent beneath her +burden of russet sacks bursting with greens; there stood a +priest in shovel hat and cassock, smelling a great red rose; +here a gallant in violet cape escorted a lady flaming in saffron; +there a beaming old peasant, with an azure scarf tied over +his white head, threw an orange to attract the attention of a +plodding porter, whose forehead was protected from the cords +binding the boxes to his back by several folds of purplish +carpeting.</p> + +<p>Streets and sidewalks, balconies and windows, all were full, +and everywhere such eagerness, such animation, and such +stir! The children sitting on the curbstone rocked their +little bodies back and forth in excitement. Young mothers +danced their crying infants, and young fathers shifted the +babies of a size or two larger from one shoulder to the +other. A boy in a red cap climbed a small locust tree, from +whose foliage his head peeped out like an overgrown cherry. +The crowd indignantly called the attention of authority to +this violation of the city laws. A glittering member of the +Civil Guard sonorously ordered the culprit down. The +laughing lad refused to budge, inviting this embarrassed arm +of the law to reach up and get him. The Guard darkly surveyed +the slender stem already swaying with the boy's slight +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span> +weight. The fickle crowd, whose every face seemed to be +upturned toward that defiant cherry, cheered the rebel and +tossed him cigarettes and matches, wherewith he proceeded to +enjoy a smoke. The Guard caught a few cigarettes in mid-career, +pocketed them, smiled benevolently, and walked away. +The lad saucily saluted, and the multitude, suddenly impartial, +pelted them both with peanuts.</p> + +<p>Thus it was that the Madrid populace awaited the last +coming of Castelar. Even when the funeral train was passing, +the crowd showed scant respect. Not half the men +uncovered for the bier, although I was glad to see the cherry +cap whisked off. And one picturesque gentleman stood +throughout with his back to the procession, making eyes at +his novia in the gallery above our own.</p> + +<p>The Government, which had finally assumed the charges +and care of the obsequies, had been remiss in not providing +lines of soldiers to hold an open way for the cortège. As it +was, the procession could hardly struggle through the mass +of humanity that choked the street. A solitary rider, mounted, +like Death, on a white horse, went in advance, threatening +the people with his sword. A division of the Civil Guard +followed, erect and magnificent as ever, their gold bands +glittering across their breasts, but their utmost efforts could +not effectually beat back the crowd. Men scoffed at the +drawn blades and pushed against the horses with both hands. +The empty "coach of respect," black as night, its sable +horses tossing high white plumes, pressed after, and then +came some half dozen carriages overflowing with wreaths and +palms, and all that wealth of floral gifts. The crowd caught +at the floating purple ribbons, and called aloud the names +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span> +upon the cards; a monster design, with velvet canopy, from +the well-known daily, <i>El Liberal</i>, a beautiful crown from the +widow of Canovas, and, later in the procession, alone upon +the coffin, a nosegay of roses and lilies, brought in the morning +by a child of four, a little "daughter of the people," and +bearing the roughly written words, "Glory to Castelar!—A +workingman."</p> + +<p>The train of mourners, impeded as it was by the multitude, +seemed endless. After the representatives of certain charities +there walked, in gala uniform, white-headed veterans of war. +A great company of students followed, their young faces +serious and calm in that tempting hurly-burly of the street, +and after them an overwhelming throng of delegates from +all manner of commercial and craft unions. Even the +press wondered that Castelar's death should move so profoundly +the trading and laboring classes, almost every store +and workshop in Madrid closing for the afternoon. Then +came the Republican committees, and behind them the +representatives of countless literary, scientific, and artistic +associations.</p> + +<p>At this point in the procession a place had been made for +all or any who might wish, as individuals, to follow Castelar +to the tomb. Some fifteen hundred had availed themselves +of the opportunity—a motley fellowship. The gentlemen +preceding, those who had come as delegates from the industrial +and learned bodies of all Spain, wore almost without exception +the correct black coat and tall silk hat, and paced, when they +could, with a steady dignity, or halted, when they must, with +a grave patience, that did more to quiet the unruly host of +spectators than all the angry charges of the police. But the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span> +fifteen hundred showed the popular variety of costume—capes +and blouses, broad white hats and the artisan's colored +cap. Some of them were smoking, an indecorum which, by +a self-denial that counts for much with Spaniards, nowhere +else appeared in the long array.</p> + +<p>But whatever might be the deficiencies of dress or bearing, +here, one felt, was the genuine sorrow, here were the men +who believed in Castelar and longed to do him honor. The +impulsive onlookers responded to this impression, and more +than one rude fellow, who had been skylarking a minute +before, elbowed his way into the troop and fell soberly into +such step as there was. Music would have worked wonders +with that disorderly scene, but the bugles and cornets were +all in the far rear. The representatives of the provinces, as +they struggled by, were hailed with jokes and personalities. +The chanting group of clergy, uplifting the same ebony cross +that they had borne for Canovas, did not entirely hush the +crowd, nor did even the black-plumed hearse itself, with its +solemn burden. For close after came, bearing tapers, a group +of political note, closed by Sagasta and Campos, and then the +chiefs of army and navy, including Blanco and Weyler. +Behind these walked the city fathers, the senators, the diplomats, +ex-ministers,—among them Romero, Robledo,—then +the archbishop, and, finally, Silvela, with his colleagues.</p> + +<p>The procession was closed by a military display and a line +of empty coaches, sent, according to Spanish custom, as a +mark of respect. The coach sent by Congress, a patriotic +blaze of red and yellow, with coachman and footman in red +coats and yellow trousers, and horses decked with red and +yellow plumes, looked as if it had started for the circus and +had missed its way. + +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_298" id="i_298"></a> +<img src="images/i_298.jpg" width="620" height="412" alt="An Old-fashioned Bull-Fight" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Old-fashioned Bull-Fight</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span> +The sight of the politicians seemed to serve as spark to the +Republican fuel. Even while the hearse was passing somebody +shouted, "Long live Castelar!" but the crowd corrected +the cry to "Long live the glorious memory of Castelar!" +Then came a heterogeneous uproar: "Death to the friars!" +"Long live the Republican Union!" "Down with Reaction!" +"Down with the Jesuits!" "Down with Polavieja!" +"Down with the Government!" "Up with the +Republic!" "Long live Spain!" "Long live the army!" +"Long live Weyler!"</p> + +<p>A woman was run over in the confusion and a man was +trampled, but the procession, aided as much as possible by the +Civil Guards and the police, slowly worked its way through +the <i>Alcalá</i> to the <i>Puerta del Sol</i>, where the people poured upon it +like an avalanche, with ever louder cries against ministry and +clergy, until the scene in front of the Government Building +suggested something very like a mob. Silvela bore his silvered +head erect and exerted a prudent forbearance. But few arrests +were made, and the military force that sallied out from +the Government Building merely stood in the gates to awe +the rioters. After an hour and a quarter the transit of the +square was effected. The disturbances were renewed in +the <i>Calle Mayor</i> with such violence that the ministers were +advised to withdraw, but they only entered the funeral coaches, +and, the Guards exerting themselves to the utmost, a degree +of order was at last secured. While the cortège was descending +the difficult hill of La Vega, the Queen, standing in one +of the palace balconies, opera glass in hand, sent a messenger +for a report of the state of affairs in her capital, and was +visited and reassured by a member of the Government. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span></p> + +<p>After this stormy journey the cemetery of San Isidro was +reached at nightfall, and the silent orator laid to rest in the +patio of <i>Santa Maria de la Cabeza</i>, beside his beloved sister, +Concha Castelar. Even here Republican <i>vivas</i> were raised, +and again, later in the evening, before the house of Weyler, +who appeared upon the balcony in answer to repeated calls. +This general, more popular with Spaniards than with us, +discreetly absented himself on Tuesday from the high mass +chanted for Castelar in the Church of <i>San Francisco el +Grande</i>, where there was an imposing display of uniforms +and decorations.</p> + +<p>While the people still talked of their lost leader and proposed +monuments and medals in his honor, the Government +held firmly on its course. The Royal Progress for the opening +of the Cortes on the following Friday was a suggestive +contrast to the procession of Monday. Soldiers lined the +curbstones all the way from the Royal Palace to the Congress +Hall, bands were posted at intervals, the royal escort, splendidly +mounted and equipped, was in itself a formidable force, +while additional troops, in gala dress, paraded all the city. +The balconies along the royal route were handsomely draped, +but the people looked on at the gorgeous array of coaches, +gilded and emblazoned, each drawn by six or eight choice +horses, with sumptuous plumes and trappings, and attended +by a story-book pomp of quaintly attired postilions, coachmen, +and outriders, in a silence that was variously explained to me +as indicating respect, hostility, indifference.</p> + +<p>I heard no <i>vivas</i> and saw no hats raised even for the affable +Infanta Isabel, riding alone in the tortoise-shell carriage, nor +for the Princess of Asturias, girlishly attractive in rose color +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span> +and white, nor for the bright-faced young King, ready with +his military salute as he passed the foreign embassies, nor for +the stately Regent, robed as richly as if she were on her way +to read a gladder message than that which the opposition +journals indignantly declared "no message, but a pious prayer +of resignation."</p> + +<p>And while Madrid jarred and wrangled, the flowers brought +by the little daughter of the workingman drooped on the +marble slab above Castelar's repose. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XVII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">246</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE IMMEMORIAL FASHION</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"For as many auchours affirme (and mannes accions declare) that man is but his +mynde; so it is to bee daily tride, that the bodie is but a mixture of compoundes, knitte +together like a fardell of fleashe, and bondell of bones, and united as a heavie lumpe of +Leade (without the mynde) in the sillie substance of a shadowe."—<span class="smcap">Thomas Churchill, +Gentleman.</span></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">M</span>y Spanish hostess, brightest and prettiest of little +ladies despite the weight of sorrow upon sorrow, +came tripping into my room one afternoon with +her black eyes starry bright under the lace mantilla.</p> + +<p>"And where have you been to get so nicely rested?"</p> + +<p>"To a <i>duelo</i>."</p> + +<p>I turned the word over in my mind. <i>Duelo?</i> Surely that +must mean the mourning at a house of death, when the men +have gone forth to church and the burial, and the women +remain behind to weep together, or one of those tearful <i>At +Homes</i> kept, day after day, until the mass, by the ladies of the +afflicted household for their condoling friends. But such a +smiling little señora! I hardly knew what degree of sympathy +befitted the occasion.</p> + +<p>"Were you acquainted with the—the person?"</p> + +<p>"No, I had never seen him. He had been an officer in +the Philippines many years, and came home very ill, fifteen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span> +days since. I wept because I knew his mother, but I wept +much. Women, at least here in Spain, have always cause +enough for tears. I thought of my own matters, and had a +long, long cry. That is why I feel better. There is so little +time to cry at home. I must see about the dinner now."</p> + +<p>And she rustled out again, leaving me to meditate on Spanish +originality, even in grief.</p> + +<p>In any country the usages of death are no less significant +than the usages of life. That grim necropolis of Glasgow, +with its few shy gowans under its lowering sky, those tender, +turf-folded, church-shadowed graveyards of rural England, +those trains of mourners, men by themselves and women by +themselves, walking behind the bier in mid-street through the +mud and rain of wintry Paris to the bedizened Père Lachaise +or Montparnasse—such sights interpret a nation as truly as +its art and history; but the burial customs of Spain, especially +distinctive, are, like most things Spanish, contradictory and +baffling to the tourist view. "La Tierra de Vice Versa" is +not a country that he who runs may read.</p> + +<p>The popular verses and maxims treat of death with due +Castilian solemnity and an always unflinching, if often ironic, +recognition of the mortal fact. "When the house is finished," +says the proverb, "the hearse is at the door." Yet this Spanish +hearse is one of the gayest vehicles since Cinderella's +coach. If the groundwork is black, there is abundant relief +in mountings of brilliant yellow, but the funeral carriage is +often cream-white, flourished over with fantastic designs in +the bluest of blue or the pinkest of pink. Coffins, too, may +be gaudy as candy-boxes. The first coffin we saw in Spain +was bright lilac, a baby's casket, placed on gilt trestles in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span> +centre of a great chill church, with chanting priests sprinkling +holy water about it to frighten off the demons, and a crowd +of black-bearded men waiting to follow it to the grave. Such +a little coffin and not a woman near! The poor mother was +decently at home, weeping in the midst of a circle of relatives +and neighbors, and counting it among her comforts that the +family had so many masculine friends to walk in the funeral +procession and show sympathy with the household grief. +There would be, on the ninth day after and, for several years +to come, on the anniversary of the death, as many masses as +could be afforded said in the parish church, when, again, the +friends would make it a point of duty to attend.</p> + +<p>The daily papers abound in these notices, printed in a +variety of types, so as to cover from two to ten square inches, +heavily bordered with black, and surmounted, in case of adults, +with crosses, and with cherubs' heads for children. I take up +a copy of <i>La Epocha</i> and read the following, under a cross: +"Third Anniversary. Señorita Doña Francisca Fulana y +Tal died the twenty-sixth of June, 1896, at twenty-one years +of age. R. I. P. Her disconsolate mother and the rest of the +family ask their friends and all pious persons to be so good as +to commend her to God. All the masses celebrated to-morrow +morning in the Church of San Pascual will be applied to the +everlasting rest of the soul of the said señorita. Indulgences +are granted in the usual form." It is the third anniversary, +too, of a titled lady, whose "husband, brothers, brothers-in-law, +nephews, uncles, cousins, and all who inherit under her +will" have ordered masses in two churches for the entire day +to-morrow, and announce, moreover, that the ecclesiastical +authorities grant "one hundred and forty days of indulgence +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span> +to all the faithful for each mass that they hear, sacred communion +that they devote, or portion of a rosary that they pray +for the soul of this most noble lady."</p> + +<p>In the case of another lady of high degree, who died yesterday, +"having received the Blessed Sacraments and the +benediction of his Holiness," the Nuncio concedes one hundred +days of indulgence, the Archbishop of Burgos eighty, +and the Bishops of Madrid, Alcalá, Cartagena, Leon, and +Santander forty each; while a marquis who died a year ago, +"Knight of the Illustrious Order of the Golden Fleece," is +to have masses said for his soul in seven churches, not only +all through to-morrow, but for the two days following.</p> + +<p>May all these rest in peace, and all who mourn for them +be comforted! Yet thought drifts away to the poor and lowly, +whose grief cannot find solace in procuring this costly intercession +of the Church for the souls they love. It seems hard +that the inequalities of life should thus reach out into death +and purgatory. We used, during our sojourn in Granada, to +meet many pathetic little processions on "The Way of the +Dead." Over this hollow road, almost a ravine, the fortress +walls, with their crumbling towers, keep guard on the one +side, and the terraced gardens of the <i>Generalife</i>, with their +grand old cypresses, on the other. And here, almost every +hour of the day, is climbing a company of four rough men, +carrying on their shoulders a cheap coffin, which perhaps a +husband follows, or a white-haired father, or, hand in hand, +bewildered orphan boys. The road is so steep that often the +bearers set their burden down in the shadow of the bank-side, +and fling themselves at full length on the ground beside it, +thriftily passing from man to man the slow-burning wax match +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span> +for their paper cigarettes. I remember more than one such +smoking group, with a solitary mourner, hat in hand and eyes +on the coffin, yet he, too, with cigarette in mouth, standing +patiently by. All who pass make the sign of the cross, and +even the rudest peasant uncovers his head. Very shortly the +bearers may be seen again, coming down the hill at a merry +pace, the empty box, with its loose, rattling lid, tilted over +the shoulder now of one, now of another; for the children +of poverty, who had not chambers of their own nor the dignity +of solitude in life, lie huddled in a common pit after death, +without coffin-planks to sever dust from dust.</p> + +<p>A century ago it was usual to robe the dead in monastic +garb, especially in the habit of St. Francis or of the Virgin of +Carmen, and within the present generation bodies were borne +to the grave on open biers, the bystanders saluting, and bidding +them farewell and quiet rest:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"'Duerme in paz!' dicen los buenos.</p> +<p>'Adios!' dicen los demás."</p> +</div> + +<p>But now the closed coffin of many colors is in vogue. In +the Santiago market we met a cheerful dame with one of +these balanced on her head, crying for a purchaser, and up +the broad flights of steps to the Bilbao cemetery we saw a +stolid-faced young peasant-woman swinging along with a +child's white coffin, apparently heavy with the weight of +death, poised on the glossy black coils of hair, about which +she had twisted a carmine handkerchief.</p> + +<p>Very strange is the look of a Spanish cemetery, with its +ranges of high, deep walls, wherein the coffins are thrust end-wise, +each above each, to the altitude of perhaps a dozen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">251</a></span> +layers. These cells are sometimes purchased outright, sometimes +rented for ten years, or five, or one. When the friends +of the quiet tenant pay his dues no longer, forth he goes to +the general ditch, <i>osario común</i>, and leaves his room for another. +Such wall graves are characteristically Spanish, this mode of +burial in the Peninsula being of long antiquity. Yet the rich +prefer their own pantheons, sculptured like little chapels, or +their own vaults, over which rise tall marbles of every device, +the shaft, the pyramid, the broken column; while a poor +family, or two or three neighboring households, often make +shift to pay for one large earth grave, in which their dead +may at least find themselves among kith and kin. Spanish +cemeteries are truly silent cities, with streets upon streets +enclosed between these solemn walls, which open out, at intervals, +now for the ornamented patios of the rich, now for the +dreary squares peopled by the poor. Here in a most aristocratic +quarter, shaded by willows, set with marbles, paved with +flower beds, sleeps a duke in stately pantheon, which is carved +all over with angels, texts, and sacred symbols, still leaving +room for medallions boasting his ancestral dignities. A double +row of lamps, with gilded, fantastically moulded stands, and +with dangling crystals of all colors, leads to the massive iron +door. What enemy has he now to guard against with that +array of bolts and bars? Here are a poet's palms petrified +to granite, and here a monument all muffled in fresh flowers. +Here the magnificent bronze figure of a knight, with sword +half drawn, keeps watch beside a tomb, while the grave beyond +a rose bush guards as well. And here an imaged Sandalphon +holds out open hands, this legend written across his marble +scarf, "The tear falleth; the flower fadeth; but God treasureth +the prayer." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span></p> + +<p>There is a certain high-bred reserve about these costly +sepulchres, but turning to the walls one comes so face to face +with grief as to experience a sense of intrusion. Each cell +shows on its sealed door of slate or other stone the name and +age of its occupant, and perhaps a sentiment, lettered in gilt or +black, as these: "We bear our loss—God knows how +heavily." "Son of my soul." "For thee, that land of larger +love; for me, until I find thee there, only the valley of sorrow +and the hard hill of hope."</p> + +<p>Most of the cells have, too, a glassed or grated recess in +front of this inscription wall, holding tributes or memorials—dried +flowers, colored images of saints and angels, crucifixes, +and the like. Sometimes the resurrection symbol of the +butterfly appears. In the little cemetery at Vigo we noticed +that the flower-vases were in form of great blue butterflies +with scarlet splashes on their wings. Sometimes there are +locks of hair, personal trinkets, and often card or cabinet +photographs, whose living look startles the beholder. Out +from a wreath of yellow immortelles peeps the plump smile +of an old gentleman in modern dress coat; a coquettish lady +in tiara and earrings laughs from behind her fan; and a grove +of paper shrubbery, where tissue fairies dressed in rose petals +dance on the blossoms, half hides the eager face of a Spanish +midshipman. Where the photographs have faded and dimmed +with time, the effect is less incongruous, if not less pathetic.</p> + +<p>The niches of children contain the gayest possible little +figures. Here are china angels in blue frocks, with pink +sleeves and saffron pantalets, pink-tipped plumes, and even +pink bows in their goldy hair. Here is a company of tiny +Hamlets, quaint dollikins set up in a circle about a small +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span> +green grave, each with finger on lip, "The rest is silence." +Here are two elegant and lazy cherubs, their alabaster chubbiness +comfortably bestowed in toy chairs of crimson velvet on +each side of an ivory crucifix. And here is a Bethlehem, +and here a Calvary, and here the Good Shepherd bearing the +lamb in His bosom; and here, in simple, but artistic wood +carving, the Christ with open arms, calling to a child on sick-bed +to come unto Him, while the mother, prostrate before the +holy feet, kisses their shadow. One cannot look for long. +It is well to lift the eyes from the niche graves of Granada to +the glory of the Sierra Nevada that soars beyond, and turn +from the patios of San Isidro to the cheerful picture of Madrid +across the Manzanares, even though, prominent in the vista, +rises the cupola of <i>San Francisco el Grande</i>. This is the +National Pantheon, and within, beneath the frescoed dome, +all aglow with blue and gold, masses are chanted for +the dead whom Spain decrees to honor, as, so recently, for +Castelar.</p> + +<p>Near this church a viaduct, seventy-five feet high, crosses +the <i>Calle de Segovia</i>; and, despite the tall crooked railings and +a constant police patrol, Madrileños bent on suicide often +succeed in leaping over and bruising out their breath on the +stones of the street below. It is a desperate exit. The Seine +and Thames lure their daily victims with murmuring sound +and the soft, enfolding look of water, but Spaniards who +spring from this fatal viaduct see beneath them only the cruel +pavement. That life should be harder than stone! And yet +the best vigilance of Madrid cannot prevent fresh bloodstains +on the <i>Calle de Segovia</i>.</p> + +<p>Near the cemetery of San Isidro, across the Manzanares, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">254</a></span> +are two other large Catholic burial grounds, and the <i>Cementério +Inglés</i>.</p> + +<p>"But murderers, atheists, and Protestants are buried way +off in the east," said the pretty Spanish girl beside me.</p> + +<p>"Oh, let's go there!" I responded, with heretic enthusiasm; +but I had reckoned without the cabman, who promptly and +emphatically protested.</p> + +<p>"That's not a pleasant place for ladies to see. You would +better drive in the <i>Prado</i> and <i>Recoletos</i>, or in the <i>Buen Retiro</i>."</p> + +<p>We told him laughingly that he was speaking against his +own interests, for the Civil Cemetery was much farther off +than the parks. He consulted his dignity and decided to +laugh in return.</p> + +<p>"It is not of the <i>pesetas</i> I think first when I am driving +ladies. But" (with suave indulgence) "you shall go just +where you like."</p> + +<p>So in kindness he gathered up his reins and away we +clattered sheer across the city. Presently we had left the +fountain-cooled squares and animated streets behind, had +passed even the ugly, sinister <i>Plaza de Toros</i>, and outstripped +the trolley track; but still the road stretched on, enlivened +only by herds of goats and an occasional <i>venta</i>, where drivers +of mule trains were pausing to wet their dusty throats. We +met few vehicles now save the gay-colored hearses, and few +people except groups of returning mourners, walking in bewildered +wise, with stumbling feet.</p> + +<p>"The Cemetery of the Poor is opposite the Civil Cemetery," +said our cabman, "and they have from thirty to fifty burials +a day. The keeper is a friend of mine. He shall show +you all about." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span></p> + +<p>A bare Castilian ridge rose before us, where a farmer, leaning +on his scythe, was outlined against the sky like a silhouette +of Death. And at last our cheery driver, humming bars from +a popular light opera, checked his mettlesome old mare,—who +plunged down hills and scrambled up as if she were +running away from the bull-ring, where she must soon fulfil +her martyrdom,—between two dismal graveyards. From +the larger, on our right, tiptoed out a furtive man and peered +into the cab as if he thought we had a coffin under the seat.</p> + +<p>He proved a blood-curdling conductor, always speaking in +a hoarse whisper and glancing over his shoulder in a way to +make the stoutest nerves feel ghosts, but he showed us, under +that sunset sky, memorable sights—ranks upon ranks of +gritty mounds marked with black, wooden crosses, a scanty +grace for which the living often pay the price of their own +bread that the dead they love may pass a year or two out of +that hideous general fosse. Then the sexton reluctantly led +us to the unblessed, untended hollow across the way, where +rows of brick sepulchres await the poor babies who die before +the holy water touches them, where recumbent marbles press +upon the dead who knew no upward reach of hope, and where +defiant monuments, erected by popular subscription and often +bearing the blazonry of a giant quill, denote the resting-places +of freethinkers and the agitators of new ideas. There were +some Christian inscriptions, whether for Protestants or not +I do not know, but to my two companions there was no +distinction of persons in this unhallowed limbo.</p> + +<p>Our dusty guide led us hurriedly from plot to plot.</p> + +<p>"They say the mothers cheat the priests, and there are +babies over yonder that ought to be here, for the breath was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span> +out of them before ever they were baptized. They say the +priests had this man done to death one night, because he +wrote against religion. He was only twenty-two. The club +he belonged to put up that stone. They say there are evil +words on it. But I don't know myself. I can't read, thanks +to God. They say it was through reading and writing that +most of these came here."</p> + +<p>"But those are not evil words," I answered. "They are, +'Believe in Jesus and thou shalt be saved.'"</p> + +<p>He hastily crossed himself, "Do me the favor not to read +such words out loud. Here is another, where they say the +words are words of hell."</p> + +<p>I held my peace this time, musing on that broad marble +with its one deep-cut line, "The Death of God."</p> + +<p>"And over there," he croaked, pointing with his clay-colored +thumb, "is <i>Whiskers</i>."</p> + +<p>The señorita, whose black eyes had been getting larger +and larger, gave a little scream and fairly ran for the gate.</p> + +<p>Spaniards have usually great sympathy for criminals, newspaper +accounts of executions often closing with an entreaty +for God's mercy on "this poor man's soul," but <i>Whiskers</i>, +the Madrid sensation of a fortnight since, was a threefold +murderer. Passion-mad, he had shot dead in the open street +a neighbor's youthful wife, held the public at bay with his +revolver, and mortally wounded two Civil Guards, before he +turned the fatal barrel on himself.</p> + +<p>"His family wanted him laid over the way," continued that +scared undertone at my ear, "but the bishop said no. A +murderer like that was just as bad as infidels and Protestants, +and should be buried out of grace." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span></p> + +<p>I felt as if Superstition incarnate were walking by my side, +and after one more look at that strangely peopled patch of +unconsecrated ground, with its few untrimmed cypresses +and straggling rose bushes, hillside slopes about and glory-flooded +skies above, I gave Superstition a <i>peseta</i>, which he +devoutly kissed, and returned to the cab, followed by the +carol of a solitary bird.</p> + +<p>I remember a similar experience in Cadiz. I had driven +out with one of my Spanish hostesses to the large seaside +cemetery, a mile beyond the gate. This is arranged in nine +successive patios, planted with palms and cypresses. In the +niches, seashells play a prominent part. The little angel +images, as gay as ever, with their pink girdles and their +purple wings, may be seen swinging in shells, sleeping in +shells, and balancing on the edge of shells to play their +golden flutes. Near by is an English and German cemetery, +with green-turfed mounds and a profusion of blossoming +shrubs and flower beds. Not sure of the direction, as we +were leaving the Catholic enclosure I asked a bandy-legged, +leather-visaged old sexton, who might have been the very one +that dug Ophelia's grave, if the "Protestant cemetery" was +at our right. He laid down his mattock, peered about among +the mausolea to see if we were quite alone, winked prodigiously, +and, drawing a bunch of keys from the folds of his +black sash, started briskly down a by-path and signed to us +to follow. He led us through stony passages out beyond +the sanctified ground into a dreary, oblong space, a patch of +weeds and sand, enclosed by the lofty sepulchral walls, but +with a blessed strip of blue sky overhead.</p> + +<p>"Here they are!" he chuckled. "They wouldn't confess, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span> +they died without the sacraments, and here they +are."</p> + +<p>Some names lettered on the wall seemed to be those of +Dutch and Norwegian sailors, who had perhaps died friendless +in this foreign port. There were pebble-strewn graves +of Jews, and upright marbles from which the dead still +seemed to utter voice: "I refuse the prayers of all the +saints, and ask the prayers of honest human souls. I believe +in God." And another, "God is knowledge." And +another, "God is All that works for Wisdom and for +Love."</p> + +<p>"Are there burial services for these?" I inquired.</p> + +<p>If the Church of England could have seen that crooked +old sexton go through his gleeful pantomime!</p> + +<p>"There's one that comes with some, and they call him +Pastor! And he scrapes up a handful of dirt—so! And +he flings it at the coffin—so! And then he stands up +straight and says, 'Dust to dust!' I've heard him say it +myself."</p> + +<p>"God of my soul!" cried the Spanish lady in horror, and +to express her detestation of such a heathenish rite, she spat +upon the ground.</p> + +<p>The monarchs of Spain do not mingle their ashes. Who +knows where Roderick sleeps? Or does that deathless +culprit still lurk in mountain caverns, as tradition has it, +wringing his wasted hands and tearing his white beard in +unavailing penitence? The "Catholic kings," Ferdinand +and Isabella, lie, not where they had planned, in that beautiful +Gothic church of Toledo, <i>San Juan de los Reyes</i>, on +whose outer walls yet hang the Moorish chains struck from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">259</a></span> +the limbs of Christian captives, but in Granada, the city +of their conquest, where they slumber proudly, although +their coffins are of plainest lead and their last royal chamber a +small and dusky vault. Pedro the Cruel is thrust away in a +narrow wall-grave beneath the <i>Capilla Real</i> of Seville cathedral. +His brother, the Master of Santiago, whom he treacherously +slew in one of the loveliest halls of the Alcázar, is +packed closely in on his left, and Maria de Padilla, for whose +sake he cut short the hapless life of Queen Blanche, on his +right. Pleasant family discussions they must have at the +witching hour of night, when they drag their numb bones +out of those pigeon-holes for a brief respite of elbow room! +San Fernando, the Castilian conqueror of Castile, canonized +"because he carried fagots with his own hands for the +burning of heretics," is more commodiously accommodated in +a silver sarcophagus in the chapel above, where Alfonso the +Learned also has long leisure for thought. Another Alfonso +and another Fernando, with another wife of Pedro the Cruel, +keep their state in Santiago de Compostela, and still another +Alfonso and two Sanchos have their splendid tombs in the +<i>Capilla Mayor</i> of Toledo cathedral, while in its <i>Capilla de +los Reyes Nuevos</i>, a line descended from that brother whom +Pedro murdered, sleeps the first John, with the second and +third Henrys.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_315" id="i_315"></a> +<img src="images/i_315.jpg" width="594" height="416" alt="Bull-Fight of To-Day" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Bull-Fight of To-Day</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Cordova cathedral, although this lovely mosque recks little +of Christian majesties, has the ordinary equipment of an +Alfonso and a Fernando, and the Royal Monastery of Las +Huelgas in Burgos shelters Alfonso VIII, with his queen, +Eleanor of England. In less noted churches, one continually +chances on them, <i>rey</i> or <i>reina</i>, <i>infante</i> or <i>infanta</i>, dreaming +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span> +the centuries away in rich recesses of fretted marble and alabaster, +with the shadow of great arches over them and the +deep-voiced chant around.</p> + +<p>But since Philip II created, in his own sombre likeness, +the monastery of the Escorial, rising in angular austerity +from a spur of the bleak Guadarrama Mountains, the royal +houses of Austria and Bourbon have sought burial there. +The first and chief in the dank series of sepulchral vaults, +the celebrated <i>Panteón de los Reyes</i>, is an octagon of black +marble, placed precisely under the high altar, and gloomily +magnificent with jasper, porphyry, and gold. It has an altar +of its own, on whose left are three recesses, each with four +long shelves placed one above another for the sarcophagi of +the kings of Spain, and on whose right are corresponding +recesses for the queens. As the guide holds his torch, we +read the successive names of the great Charles I, founder of +the Austrian line; the three Philips, in whom his genius +dwindled more and more; and the half-witted Charles II, in +whom it ignobly perished. The coffin lid of Charles I has +twice been lifted, once as late as 1871, in compliment to the +visiting Emperor of Brazil, and even then that imperial body +lay intact, with blackened face and open, staring eyes. The +gilded bronze coffin of Philip II was brought to his bedside +for his inspection in his last hour of life. After a critical +survey he ordered a white satin lining and more gilt nails—a +remarkable sense of detail in a man who had sent some ten +thousand heretics to the torture.</p> + +<p>Looking for the Bourbons, we miss the first of them all, +the melancholy Philip V, who would not lay him down among +these Austrians, but sleeps with his second queen, the strong-willed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">261</a></span> +Elizabeth Farnese, in his cloudy retreat of San Ildefonso, +within hearing of the fountains of La Granja. His eldest +son, Luis the Well-Beloved, who died after a reign of seven +months, rests here in the Escorial, but Fernando VI, also the +son of Philip's first queen—that gallant little Savoyarde who +died so young—was buried in Madrid. Charles III, best +and greatest of the Spanish Bourbons, is here, the weak +Charles IV, Fernando VII, "The Desired" and the Disgraceful, +and Alfonso XII, while a stately sarcophagus is +already reserved for Alfonso XIII.</p> + +<p>To the cold society of these five Austrian and five Bourbon +sovereigns are admitted nine royal ladies. Of these, the first +three are in good and regular standing—the queen of Charles I +and mother of Philip II, the fourth queen of Philip II and +mother of Philip III, the queen of Philip III and mother of +Philip IV. But here is an intruder. Philip IV, who had an +especial liking for this grewsome vault, and used often to +clamber into his own niche to hear mass, insisted on having +both his French and Austrian queens interred here, although +the first, Isabel of Bourbon, is not the mother of a Spanish +king, the promising little Baltasar having died in boyhood. +The brave girl-queen of Philip V is here, in double right as +mother both of Luis and Fernando VI, and here is the wife +of Charles III and mother of Charles IV. But of sorry +repute are the last two queens, the wife of Charles IV and +mother of Fernando VII, she who came hurrying down those +slippery marble stairs in feverish delirium to scratch <i>Luisa</i> +with scissors on her selected coffin, and this other, Maria +Cristina, wife of Fernando VII and mother of the dethroned +Isabel, a daughter who did not mend the story. It will not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">262</a></span> +be long before she returns from her French exile to enter into +possession of the sarcophagus that expects her here, even as +another sumptuous coffin awaits the present regent. Pity it +is for Isabel, whose name is still a byword in the Madrid +cafés! But she always enjoyed hearing midnight mass in this +dim and dreadful crypt, and will doubtless be glad to come +back to her ancestors, such as they were, and take up her +royal residence with them in "dust of human nullity and +ashes of mortality." +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XVIII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">263</a></span></p> +<p class="center">CORPUS CHRISTI IN TOLEDO</p> +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"A blackened ruin, lonely and forsaken,</p> +<p>Already wrapt in winding-sheets of sand,</p> +<p>So lies Toledo till the dead awaken,</p> +<p>A royal spoil of Time's resistless hand."</p> +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Zorrilla</span>: <i>Toledo</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span>n the thirteenth century the doctrine of transubstantiation +assumed especial importance. Miracle plays and +cathedral glass told thrilling stories of attacks made by +Jews on the sacred Wafer, which bled under their poniards or +sprang from their caldrons and ovens in complete figure of +the Christ. The festival of Corpus Christi, then established +by Rome, was devoutly accepted in Spain and used to be +celebrated with supreme magnificence in Madrid. Early in +the reign of Philip IV, Prince Charles of England, who, with +the adventurous Buckingham, had come in romantic fashion +to the Spanish capital, hoping to carry by storm the heart of +the Infanta, stood for hours in a balcony of the Alcázar, +gazing silently on the glittering procession. How they swept +by through the herb-strewn, tapestried streets—musicians, +standard-bearers, cross-bearers, files of orphans from the +asylums, six and thirty religious brotherhoods, monks of all +the orders, barefoot friars, ranks of secular clergy and brothers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">264</a></span> +of charity, the proud military orders of Alcántara, Calatrava, +and Santiago, the Councils of the Indies, of Aragon, of +Portugal, the Supreme Council of Castile, the City Fathers of +Madrid, the Governmental Ministers of Spain and Spanish +Italy, the Tribunal of the Holy Office, preceded by a long +array of cloaked and hooded Familiars, bishops upon bishops +in splendid, gold-enwoven vestments, priests of the royal +chapel displaying the royal banner, bearers of the crosier +and the sacramental vessels, the Archbishop of Santiago, +royal chaplains and royal majordomos, royal pages with tall +wax tapers, incense burners, the canopied mystery of the +Eucharist, the king, the prince, cardinals, nuncio, the +inquisitor general, the Catholic ambassadors, the patriarch +of the Indies, the all-powerful Count-Duke Olivares, grandees, +lesser nobility, gentlemen, and a display of Spanish and +German troops, closed by a great company of archers. +So overwhelming was that solemn progress, with its brilliant +variety of sacerdotal vestments, knightly habits, robes of +state and military trappings, its maces, standards, crosses, the +flash of steel, gold, jewels, and finally the sheen of candles, +the clouds of incense, the tinkling of silver bells before the +<i>Santisimo Corpus</i>, that the heretic prince and his reckless +companion fell to their knees. One Spanish author pauses to +remark that for these, who could even then reject the open +arms of the Mother Church, the assassin's blow and the +Whitehall block were naturally waiting.</p> + +<p>Such a pomp would have been worth the seeing, but we +had arrived at Madrid almost three centuries too late. Catholic +friends shrugged shoulder at mention of the Corpus +procession, "<i>Vale poco.</i>" And as for the famous <i>autos sacramentales</i>, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">265</a></span> +which used to be celebrated at various times during +the eight days of the Corpus solemnity, they may be read in +musty volumes, but can be seen in the city squares no more. +Calderon is said to have written the trifling number of seventy-two, +and Lope de Vega, whose fingers must have been tipped +with pens, some four hundred.</p> + +<p>If only our train, which then would not have been a train, +had brought us, who then would not have come, to Madrid +in season for a Corpus celebration under the Austrian dynasty, +we could have attended an open-air theatre of a very curious +sort. All the way to the <i>Plaza</i>, we would have seen festivity +at its height, pantomimic dances, merry music, struttings of +giants and antics of dwarfs, and perhaps groups of boys insulting +cheap effigies of snakes, modelled after the monstrous +<i>Tarasca</i>, carried in the Corpus parade in token of Christ's +victory over the Devil. At intervals along the route, adorned +with flowers and draperies, and reserved for the procession and +the dramatic cars, would have been altars hung with rich +stuffs from the Alcázar and the aristocratic palaces; silks and +cloth of gold, brocades, velvets, and shimmering wefts of the +Indies. The one-act play itself might be after the general +fashion of the mediæval Miracles,—verse dialogue, tuned to +piety with chords of fun, for the setting forth of Biblical +stories. Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac, Moses feeding the +Israelites with manna, the patience of Job, the trials of +Joseph, David, and Daniel, were thus represented.</p> + +<p>More frequently, the <i>auto sacramental</i> belonged to the so-called +Morality type of early Christian drama, being an allegorical +presentation of human experience or exposition of church +doctrine. Such were "The Fountain of Grace," "The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">266</a></span> +Journey of the Soul," "The Dance of Death," "The +Pilgrim." Sometimes a Gospel parable, as the "Lost Sheep" +or the "Prodigal Son," gave the dramatic suggestion. But +these Spanish spectacles sought to associate themselves, as +closely as might be, with the Corpus worship, and many of +them bear directly, in one way or another, upon this sacrament.</p> + +<p>If, for instance, we had chanced on the Madrid festival in +1681, we could have witnessed in the decorated <i>Plaza</i>, with +its thronged balconies, the entrance of four scenic platforms +or cars. The first, painted over with battles, bears a Gothic +castle; the second, with pictures of the sea, a gallant ship; +the third, a starry globe; the fourth, a grove and garden, +whose central fountain is so shaped as to form, above, the +semblance of an altar. In the complicated action of the play, +when the Soul, besieged in her fortress by the Devil, whose +allies are the World and the Flesh, calls upon Christ for succor, +the hollow sphere of the third car opens, revealing the +Lord enthroned in glory amid cherubim and seraphim; but +the climax of the triumph is not yet. That stout old general, +the Devil, rallies fresh forces to the attack, such subtle foes +as Atheism, Judaism, and Apostasy, and whereas, before, the +Senses bore the brunt of the conflict, it is the Understanding +that girds on armor now. Yet in the final outcome not the +Understanding, but Faith draws the veil from before the +altar of the fourth car, and there, in the consecrated vessel for +the holding of the Wafer, appears the "Passion Child," the +white bread from Heaven, "very flesh and very blood that are +the price of the soul's salvation."</p> + +<p>That is the way Spain kept her Corpus <i>fiesta</i> in the good +old times of Charles the Bewitched; but not now. After +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">267</a></span> +the procession, the bull-fight; and after the bull-fight, the +latest vaudeville or ballet. Last year it rained on Corpus +Thursday, which fell on the first of June, and Madrid gave +up the procession altogether. Some of the Opposition papers +started the cry that this was shockingly irreligious in Silvela, +but when the Government organs haughtily explained that +it was the decision of the archbishop and Señor Silvela +was not even consulted, the righteous indignation of the +Liberals straightway subsided. The procession, which was +to have been a matter of kettledrums and clarionets, soldiery, +"coaches of respect" from the palace and the city corporation, +and a full showing of the parochial clergy, did not seem +to be missed by the people. Corpus has long ceased to be a +chief event in the Capital.</p> + +<p>There are a few cities in Spain, however, where the Corpus +fête is maintained with something of the old gayety and +splendor. Bustling Barcelona, never too busy for a frolic, +keeps it merrily with an elaborate parade from the cathedral +all about the city, and—delightful feature!—the distribution +of flowers and sweetmeats among the ladies. The procession +in Valencia resembles those of Holy Week in Seville. On +litters strewn with flowers and thick-set with candle-lights are +borne carved groups of sacred figures and richly attired images +of Christ and the Virgin. But it is in lyric Andalusia that +these pageantries are most at home. Among her popular +<i>coplas</i> is one that runs:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Thursdays three in the year there be,</p> +<p class="i1">That shine more bright than the sun's own ray—</p> +<p>Holy Thursday, Corpus Christi,</p> +<p class="i1">And our Lord's Ascension Day."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">268</a></span> +Cadiz, like Valencia, carries the <i>pasos</i> in the Corpus procession. +In Seville, where the street displays of Holy Week +are under the charge of the religious brotherhoods, or <i>cofradias</i>, +Corpus Christi gives opportunity for the clergy and +aristocracy to present a rival exhibition of sanctified luxury +and magnificence.</p> + +<p>But it is in beautiful belated Granada that the Corpus fête +is now at its best. A brilliantly illustrated programme, whose +many-hued cover significantly groups a gamboge cathedral +very much in the background, and a flower-crowned Andalusian +maiden, draped in a Manila shawl, with a prodigious +guitar at her feet, very much in the foreground, announces a +medley of festivities extending over eleven days. This cheerful +booklet promises, together with a constant supply of +military music, balcony decorations, and city illuminations, +an assortment of pleasures warranted to suit every taste—infantry +reviews, cavalry reviews, cadet reviews, masses under +roof and masses in the open, claustral processions, parades of +giants, dwarfs, and <i>La Tarasca</i>, a charity raffle in the park +under the patronage of Granada's most distinguished ladies, +the erection of out-of-door altars, the dispensing of six thousand +loaves of bread among the poor (from my experience of +Granada beggars I should say the supply was insufficient), a +solemn Corpus procession passing along white-canopied streets +under a rain of flowers, three regular bull-fights with the +grand masters Guerrita, Lagartijillo, and Fuentes, followed by a +gloriously brutal <i>corrida</i>, with young beasts and inexperienced +fighters, cattle fair, booths, puppet shows, climbing of greased +poles, exhibition of fine arts and industries, horse racing, polo, +pigeon shoot, trapeze, balloon ascensions, gypsy dances, and +fireworks galore. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">269</a></span></p> + +<p>But even faithful Granada shared in the strange catalogue +of misfortunes which attended Corpus last year. The rains +descended on her Chinese lanterns, and the winds beat against +her Arabic arches with their thousands of gas-lights. On the +sacred Thursday itself, the Andalusian weather made a most +unusual demonstration of hurricane and cloudburst, with interludes +of thunder and lightning. Great was the damage in field, +vineyard, and orchard, and as for processions, they were +in many places out of the question. Even Seville and Cordova +had to postpone both parades and bull-fights. But this was not +the worst. In Ecija, one of the quaintest cities of Andalusia, +an image of the Virgin as the Divine Shepherdess, lovingly +arrayed and adorned with no little outlay by the nuns of the +Conception, caught fire in the procession from a taper, like +Seville's Virgin of Montserrat in the last <i>Semana Santa</i>. The +<i>Divina Pastora</i> barely escaped with her jewels. Her elaborate +garments, the herbage and foliage of her pasture, and +one of her woolly sheep were burned to ashes. In Palma de +Mallorca, a romantic town of the Balearic Isles, a balcony, +whose occupants were leaning out to watch the procession, +broke away, and crashed down into the midst of the throng. +A young girl fell upon the bayonet of a soldier marching +beneath, and was grievously hurt. Others suffered wounds +which, in one case at least, proved fatal. The Opposition +journals did not fail to make capital out of these untoward +events, serving them up in satiric verse with the irreverent +suggestion that, if this was all the favor a reactionary and +ultra-Catholic government could secure from Heaven, it was +time to go back to Sagasta.</p> + +<p>The ecclesiastical Toledo, seat of the Primate of all Spain, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">270</a></span> +is one of the Spanish cities which still observe Corpus Christi +as a high solemnity, and Toledo is within easy pilgrimage +distance of Madrid. I had already passed two days in that +ancient capital of the Visigoths, ridding my conscience of the +sightseers' burden, and I both longed and dreaded to return. +The longing overcame the dread, and I dropped in at the +<i>Estacion del Mediodía</i> for preliminary inquiries. I could discover +no bureau of information and no official authorized to +instruct the public, but in this lotus-eating land what is nobody's +business is everybody's business. There could not be +a better-humored people. The keeper of the bookstand abandoned +his counter, his would-be customers lighting cigarettes +and leaning up against trucks and stacks of luggage to wait +for his return, and escorted me the length of the station to +find a big yellow poster, which gave the special time-table for +Corpus Thursday. The poster was so high upon the wall +that our combined efforts could not make it out; whereupon +a nimble little porter dropped the trunk he was carrying, and +climbed on top of it for a better view. In that commanding +position he could see clearly enough, but just when my hopes +were at the brightest, he regretfully explained that he had +never learned to read. As he clambered down the proprietor +of the trunk, who had been looking on with as much serenity +as if trains never went and starting bells never rang, mounted +in turn. This gentleman, all smiles and bows and tobacco +smoke, read off the desired items, which the keeper of the +bookstand copied for me in a leisurely, conversational manner, +with a pencil lent by one bystander on a card donated by +another.</p> + +<p>There is really something to be said for the Spanish way +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">271</a></span> +of doing business. It takes time, but if time is filled with +human kindliness and social courtesies, why not? What is +time for? Whenever I observed that I was the only person +in a hurry on a Madrid street, I revised my opinion as to the +importance of my errand.</p> + +<p>As I entered the station again on the first of June at the +penitential hour of quarter past six in the morning, I was +reflecting complacently on my sagacity as a traveller. Had I +not bethought me that, even in the ecclesiastical centre of +Spain and on this solemn festival, there might be peril for a +stranger's purse? What financial acumen I had shown in +calculating that, since my round-trip ticket to Toledo before +had cost three dollars, second class, I could probably go first +class on this excursion for the same sum, while two dollars +more would be ample allowance for balcony hire and extras! +And yet how prudent in me to have tucked away a reserve +fund in a secret pocket inaccessible even to myself! But +why was the station so jammed and crammed with broad-hatted +Spaniards? And what was the meaning of that long +line of roughs, stretching far out from the third-class ticket +office? Bull-fight explained it all. Even reverend Toledo +must keep the Corpus holy by the public slaughter of six +choice bulls and as many hapless horses as their blind rage +might rend. Worse than the pagan altars that reeked with +the blood of beasts, Spain's Christian festivals demand torture +in addition to butchery.</p> + +<p>There were no first-class carriages, it appeared, upon the +Corpus train, and my round-trip ticket, second class, cost only +a dollar, leaving me with an embarrassment of riches. Pursing +the slip of pasteboard which, to my disgust, was stamped +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">272</a></span> +in vermilion letters <i>Corrida de Toros</i>, I sped me to the train, +where every seat appeared to be taken, although it lacked +twenty minutes of the advertised time for departure; but a +bald-headed philanthropist called out from a carriage window +that they still had room for one. Gratefully climbing up, I +found myself in the society of a family party, off for Toledo +to celebrate the saint-day of their hazel-eyed eight-year-old +by that treat of treats, a child's first bull-fight. When they +learned that I was tamely proposing to keep Corpus Christi +by seeing the procession and not by "assisting at the function +of bulls," their faces clouded; but they decided to make +allowance for my foreign idiosyncrasies.</p> + +<p>The train, besieged by a multitude of ticket-holders for +whom there were no places, was nearly an hour late in getting +off. The ladies dozed and chattered; the gentlemen smoked +and dozed; little Hazel-eyes constantly drew pictures of +bulls with a wet finger on the window glass. Reminded +again by my handbag literature that Toledo is a nest of +thieves, I would gladly have put away my extra money, but +there was never a moment when all the gentlemen were asleep +at once.</p> + +<p>It was after ten when we reached our destination, the boy +wild with rapture because we had actually seen a pasture of +grazing bulls. A swarm of noisy, scrambling, savage-looking +humanity hailed the arrival of the train, and I had hardly +made my way even to the platform before I felt an ominous +twitch at my pocket. The light-fingered art must have +degenerated in Toledo since the day of that clever cutpurse +of the "Exemplary Tales." Turning sharply, I confronted +a group of my fellow-worshippers, who, shawled and sashed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">273</a></span> +and daggered, looked as if they had been expressly gotten up +for stage bandits. From the shaggy pates, topped by gaudy, +twisted handkerchiefs—a headdress not so strange in a city +whose stone walls looked for centuries on Moorish turbans—to +the bright-edged, stealthy hemp sandals, these were pickpockets +to rejoice a kodak. Their black eyes twinkled at me +with wicked triumph, while it flashed across my mind that my +old hero, the Cid, was probably much of their aspect, and certainly +gained his living in very similar ways. There were a +full score of these picturesque plunderers, and not a person of +the nineteenth century in sight. Since there was nothing to +do, I did it, and giving them a parting glance of moral disapproval, +to which several of the sauciest responded by blithely +touching their forelocks, I pursued my pilgrim course, purged +of vainglory. At all events, I was delivered from temptation +as to a questionable <i>peseta</i> in my purse—my pretty Paris +purse!—and I should not be obliged to travel again on that +odious bull-fight ticket.</p> + +<p>We were having "fool weather," blowing now hot, now +cold, but as at this moment the air was cool, and every possible +vehicle seemed packed, thatched, fringed with clinging +passengers, I decided, not seeking further reasons, to walk up +to the town. And what a town it is! Who could remember +dollars? So far from being decently depressed, I was almost +glad to have lost something in this colossal monument of +losses. It seemed to make connection.</p> + +<p>Between deep, rocky, precipitous banks, strongly flows the +golden "king of rivers, the venerable Tajo," almost encircling +the granite pedestal of the city and spanned by ancient bridges +of massy stone, with battlemented, Virgin-niched, fierce old +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">274</a></span> +gates. And above, upon its rugged height, crumbling hourly +into the gritty dust that stings the eye and scrapes beneath the +foot, lies in swirls on floor and pavement, blows on every +breeze and sifts through hair and clothing, is the proud, sullen, +forsaken fortress of "imperial Toledo." Still it is a vision +of turrets, domes, and spires, fretwork, buttresses, façades, +but all so desolate, so dreary, isolated in that parched landscape +as it is isolated in the living world, that one approaches +with strangely blended feelings of awe, repugnance, and +delight.</p> + +<p>On we go over the Bridge of Alcántara, wrought æons +since by a gang of angry Titans—the guidebooks erroneously +attribute it to the Moors and Alfonso the Learned—with +a shuddering glance out toward the ruins of feudal +castles, here a battlemented keep set with mighty towers, +there a great, squat, frowning mass of stone, the very sight +of which might have crushed a prisoner's heart. Up, straight +up, into the grim, gray, labyrinthine city, whose zigzag streets, +often narrowing until two laden donkeys, meeting, cannot pass, +so twist and turn that it is impossible on entering one to guess +at what point of the compass we will come out. These +crooked ways, paved with "agony stones," are lined with +tall, dark, inhospitable house fronts, whose few windows are +heavily grated, and whose huge doors, bristling with iron +bosses, are furnished with fantastic knockers and a whole +arsenal of bolts and chains.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_334" id="i_334"></a> +<img src="images/i_334.jpg" width="421" height="623" alt="The King of the Gypsies" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The King of the Gypsies</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Gloomy as these ponderous structures are, every step discloses +a novelty of beauty,—a chiselled angel, poised for +flight, chased escutcheons, bas-reliefs, toothed arches, medallions, +weather-eaten groups of saints and apostles gossiping +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">275</a></span> +in their scalloped niches about the degeneracy of the times. +The Moors, whose architecture, says Becquer, seems the +dream of a Moslem warrior sleeping after battle in the shadow +of a palm, have left their mark throughout Toledo in the airy +elegance of the traceries magically copied from cobwebs and +the Milky Way. That tragic race, the Jews, have stamped on +the walls of long-desecrated synagogues their own mysterious +emblems. And Goths and Christian knights have wrought +their very likenesses into the stern, helmeted heads that peer +out from the capitals of marvellous columns amid the stone +grapes and pomegranates most fit for their heroic nourishment. +But all is in decay. Here stands a broken-sceptred +statue turning its royal back on a ragged vender of toasted +<i>garbanzos</i>. Even the image of Wamba has lost its royal nose.</p> + +<p>You may traverse whispering cloisters heaped with fallen +crosses, with truant tombstones, and severed heads and limbs +of august prophets. Cast aside in dusky vaults lie broken +shafts of rose-tinted marbles and fragments of rare carving in +whose hollows the birds of the air once built their nests. +Through the tangle of flowers and shrubbery that chokes the +patios gleam the rims of alabaster urns and basins of jasper +fountains. Such radiant wings and faces as still flash out +from frieze and arch and column, such laughing looks, fresh +with a dewy brightness, as if youth and springtime were +enchanted in the stone! And what supreme grace and truth +of artistry in all this bewildering detail! On some far-off +day of the golden age, when ivory and agate were as wax, +when cedar and larch wood yielded like their own soft leaves, +the magician must have pressed upon them the olive leaf, the +acacia spray, the baby's foot, that have left these perfect traces. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">276</a></span> +And how did mortal hand ever achieve the intricate, curling, +unfolding, blossoming marvel of those capitals? And who +save kings, Wambas and Rodericks, Sanchos, Alfonsos, and +Fernandos, should mount these magnificent stairways? And +what have those staring stone faces above that antique doorway +looked upon to turn them haggard with horror? City of +ghosts! The flesh begins to creep. But here, happily, we +are arrived in the <i>Plaza de Zocodovér</i>, where Lazarillo de +Tormes used to display his talents as town crier, and in +this long-memoried market-place, with its arcaded sides and +trampled green, may pause to take our bearings.</p> + +<p>Evidently the procession is to pass here, for the balconies, +still displaying the yellow fronds of Palm Sunday, are hung +with all manner of draperies—clear blue, orange with silver +fringes, red with violet bars, white with saffron scallops. +Freed from sordid cares about my pocket, I give myself for +a little to the spell of that strange scene. Beyond rise the +rich-hued towers of the Alcázar, on the site where Romans, +Visigoths, Arabs, the Cid, and an illustrious line of Spanish +monarchs have fortified themselves in turn; but Time at last +is conqueror, and one visits the dismantled castle only to forget +all about it in the grandeur of the view. From the east +side of the <i>Zocodovér</i> soars the arch on whose summit used to +stand the <i>Santisimo Cristo del Sangre</i>, before whom the Corpus +train did reverence. And here in the centre blazed that +momentous bonfire which was to settle the strife between the +old Toledan liturgy and the new ritual of Rome; but the +impartial elements honored both the Prayer Books placed +upon the fagots, the wind wafting to a place of safety the +Roman breviary, while the flames drew back from the other, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">277</a></span> +with the result that the primitive rite is still preserved in an +especial chapel of the cathedral.</p> + +<p>A glorious <i>plaza</i>, famed by Cervantes, loved by Lope de +Vega, but now how dim and shabby! On the house-fronts +once so gayly colored, the greens have faded to yellows, the +reds to pinks, and the pinks to browns. The awning spread +along the route of the procession is fairly checkered with a +miscellany of patches. I pass the compliments of the day +with a smiling peasant woman, whose husband, a striking +color-scheme in maroon blanket, azure trousers, russet stockings, +and soiled gray sandals, offers me his seat on the stone +bench beside her. But I am bound on my errand, and they +bid me "Go with God." I select a trusty face in a shop +doorway and ask if I can rent standing room in the balcony +above. Mine honest friend puts his price a trifle high to give +him a margin for the expected bargaining, but I scorn to +haggle on a day when I am short of money, and merely +stipulate, with true Spanish propriety, that no gentlemen shall +be admitted. This makes an excellent impression on the +proprietor, who shows me up a winding stair with almost +oppressive politeness. A little company of ladies, with lace +mantillas drooping from their graceful heads, welcome me +with that courteous cordiality which imparts to the slightest +intercourse with the Spanish people (barring pickpockets) a +flavor of fine pleasure. Because I am the last arrival and +have the least claim, they insist on giving me the best place +on the best balcony and are untiring in their explanations of +all there is to be seen.</p> + +<p>The procession is already passing—civil guards, buglers, +drummers, flower wreaths borne aloft, crosses of silver and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">278</a></span> +crosses of gold, silken standards wrought with cunning embroideries. +But now there come a sudden darkness, a gust +of wind, and dash of rain. The ranks of <i>cofradias</i> try in +vain to keep their candles burning, the pupils from the colleges +of the friars, with shining medals hung by green cords about +their necks, peep roguishly back at the purple-stoled dignitary +in a white wig, over whom an anxious friend from the street +is trying to hold an umbrella. The Jesuit <i>seminaristas</i> bear +themselves more decorously, the tonsures gleaming like silver +coins on their young heads. The canons lift their red robes +from the wet, and even bishops make some furtive efforts +to protect their gold-threaded chasubles. Meanwhile the +people, that spectral throng of witches, serfs, feudal retainers, +and left-overs from the Arabian Nights, press closer and +closer, audaciously wrapping themselves from the rain in the +rich old tapestries of France and Flanders, which have been +hung along both sides of the route from a queer framework +of emerald-bright poles and bars. The dark, wild, superstitious +faces, massed and huddled together, peer out more uncannywise +than ever from under these precious stuffs which +brisk soldiers, with green feather brushes in their caps, as if +to enable them to dust themselves off at short notice, are +already taking down.</p> + +<p>All the church bells of the city are chiming solemnly, and +the splendid <i>custodia</i>, "the most beautiful piece of plate in the +world," a treasure of filigree gold and jewels, enshrining the +Host, draws near. It is preceded by a bevy of lovely children, +not dressed, as at Granada, to represent angels, but as knights +of chivalry. Their dainty suits of red and blue, slashed and +puffed and trimmed with lace, flash through the silvery mist +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">279</a></span> +of rain. Motherly voices from the balconies call to them to +carry their creamy caps upside down to shield the clustered +plumes. Their little white sandals and gaiters splash merrily +through the mud.</p> + +<p>A flamingo gleam across the slanting rain announces +Cardinal Sancha, behind whom acolytes uplift a thronelike +chair of crimson velvet and gold. Then follow ranks of +taper-bearing soldiers, and my friends in the balcony call +proudly down to different officers, a son, a husband, a blushing +<i>novio</i>, whom they present to me then and there. The officers +bow up and I bow down, while at this very moment comes +that tinkling of silver bells which would, I had supposed, +strike all Catholic Spaniards to their knees. It is perhaps too +much to expect the people below to kneel in the puddles, but +the vivacious chatter in the balconies never ceases, and the +ladies beside me do not even cross themselves.</p> + +<p>The parade proceeds, a gorgeous group in wine-colored +costume carrying great silver maces before the civic representation. +The governor of the province is pointed out to me +as a count of high degree, but in the instant when my awed +glance falls upon him he gives a monstrous gape unbecoming +even to nobility. The last of the spruce cadets, who close the +line, have hardly passed when the thrifty housewife beseeches +our aid in taking in out of the rain her scarlet balcony hanging, +which proves to be the canopy of her best bed. But the +sun is shining forth again when I return to the street to +follow the procession into the cathedral.</p> + +<p>Already this gleam of fair weather has filled the <i>Calle de +Comercio</i> with festive señoritas, arrayed in white mantillas and +Manila shawls in honor of the bull-fight. Shops have been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">280</a></span> +promptly opened for a holiday sale of the Toledo specialties—arabesqued +swords and daggers, every variety of Damascened +wares, and marchpane in form of mimic hams, fish, +and serpents. The Toledo steel was famous in Shakespeare's +day, even in the mouths of rustic dandies, whose geographical +education had been neglected. When the clever rogue, +Brainworm, in one of Jonson's comedies, would sell Stephen, +the "country gull," a cheap rapier, he urges, "'Tis a most +pure Toledo," and Stephen replies according to his folly, "I +had rather it were a Spaniard." But onward is the glorious +church, with its symmetric tower, whose spire wears a threefold +crown of thorns. The exterior walls are hung, on this +one day of the year, with wondrous tapestries that Queen +Isabella knew. An army of beggars obstructs the crowd, +which presses in, wave upon wave, through the deep, rich +portals in whose ornamentation whole lifetimes have carved +themselves away.</p> + +<p>Within this sublime temple, unsurpassed in Gothic art, +where every pavement slab is worn by knees more than by +footsteps, where every starry window has thrown its jewel +lights on generations of believers, one would almost choose to +dwell forever. One looks half enviously at recumbent alabaster +bishops and kneeling marble knights, even at dim grotesques, +who have rested in the heart of that grave beauty, in +that atmosphere of prayer and chant, so long. Let these +stone figures troop out into the troubled streets and toil awhile, +and give the rest of us a chance to dream. But the multitude, +which has knelt devoutly while <i>Su Majestad</i> was being borne +into the <i>Capilla Mayor</i>, comes pouring down the nave to +salute the stone on which—ah me!—on which the Virgin +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">281</a></span> +set her blessed foot December 18, 666, when she alighted in +Toledo cathedral to present the champion of the Immaculate +Conception, St. Ildefonso, with a chasuble of celestial tissue. +The gilded, turreted shrine containing that consecrated block +towers almost to the height of the nave. A grating guards it +from the devout, who can only touch it with their finger tips, +which then they kiss. Hundreds, with reverend looks, stand +waiting their turn—children, peasants, bull-fighters, decorated +officers, refined ladies, men of cultured faces. The sound of +kissing comes thick and fast. Heresy begins to beat in my +blood.</p> + +<p>Not all that heavenward reach of columns and arches, not +that multitudinous charm of art, can rid the imagination of a +granite weight. I escape for a while to the purer church +without, with its window-gold of sunshine and lapis-lazuli +roof. When the mighty magnet draws me back again, those +majestic aisles are empty, save for a tired sacristan or two, +and the silence is broken only by a monotone of alternate +chanting, from where, in the <i>Capilla Mayor</i>, two priests +keep watch with <i>El Señor</i>.</p> + +<p>"He will be here all the afternoon," says the sacristan, +"and nothing can be shown; but if you will come back to-morrow +I will arrange for you to see even Our Lady's robes +and gems."</p> + +<p>Come back! I felt myself graying to a shadow already. +Of course I longed to see again that marvellous woodwork of +the choir stalls, with all the conquest of Granada carved amid +columns of jasper and under alabaster canopies, but I was +smothered in a multitude of ghosts. They crowded from every +side,—nuns, monks, soldiers, tyrants, magnificent archbishops, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">282</a></span> +the martyred Leocadia, passionate Roderick, weeping +Florinda, grim Count Julian, "my Cid," Pedro the Cruel, +those five thousand Christian nobles and burghers of Toledo, +slain, one by one, at the treacherous feast of Abderrahman, +those hordes of flaming Jews writhing amid the Inquisition +fagots. I had kept my Corpus. I had seen the greatest of +all <i>autos sacramentales</i>, Calderon's masterpiece, "Life is a +Dream."</p> + +<p>"On a single one of the Virgin's gold-wrought mantles," +coaxed the sacristan, "are eighty-five thousand large pearls +and as many sapphires, amethysts, and diamonds. I will +arrange for you to see everything, when Our Lord is gone +away."</p> + +<p>But no. I am a little particular about treasures. Since +Toledo has lost the emerald table of King Solomon and that +wondrous copy of the Psalms written upon gold leaf in a fluid +made of melted rubies, I will not trouble the seven canons to +unlock the seven doors of the cathedral sacristy. Let the +Madonna enjoy her wealth alone. I have <i>pesetas</i> enough for +my ticket to Madrid. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XIX</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">283</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE TERCENTENARY OF VELÁZQUEZ</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"It is a sombre and a weeping sky</p> +<p class="i2">That lowers above thee now, unhappy Spain;</p> +<p class="i2">Thy 'scutcheon proud is dashed with dimming rain;</p> +<p>Uncertain is thy path and deep thy sigh.</p> +<p>All that is mortal passes; glories die;</p> +<p class="i2">This hour thy destiny allots thee pain;</p> +<p class="i2">But for the worker of thy woes remain</p> +<p>Those retributions slowly forged on high.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Put thou thy hope in God; what once thou wert</p> +<p class="i2">Thou yet shalt be by labor of thy sons</p> +<p class="i4"> Patient and true, with purpose to atone;</p> +<p class="i2">And though the laurels of the loud-voiced guns</p> +<p>Are not with us to-day, this balms our hurt—</p> +<p class="i2">Cervantes and Velázquez are our own."</p> + +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Duke of Rivas</span>: <i>For the Tercentenary</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he celebration, as planned, was comparatively simple, +but enthusiasm grew with what it fed upon. The +Knights of Santiago held the first place upon the +programme, for into that high and exclusive order the artist +had won entry by special grace of Philip IV. Even Spain +has been affected by the modern movement for the destruction +of traditions, and certain erudite meddlers, who have been +delving in the State archives, declare that there is no truth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">284</a></span> +in the following story, which, nevertheless, everybody has +to tell.</p> + +<p>The legend runs that Velázquez became a knight of +St. James by a royal compliment to the painter of <i>Las +Meninas</i>. This picture, which seems no picture, but life +itself, eternizes a single instant of time in the palace of +Philip IV, that one instant before the fingers of the little +Infanta have curved about the cup presented by her kneeling +maid, before the great, tawny, half-awakened hound has +decided to growl remonstrance under the teasing foot of the +dwarf, before the reflected faces of king and queen have +glided from the mirror, that fleeting instant while yet the +courtier, passing down the gallery into the garden, turns on +the threshold for a farewell smile, while yet the green velvet +sleeve of the second dwarf, ugliest of all pet monsters, brushes +the fair silken skirts of the daintiest of ladies-in-waiting, while +yet the artist, so much more royal than royalty, flashes his +dark-eyed glance upon the charming group.</p> + +<p>But if Velázquez looks prouder than a king, Philip proved +himself here no uninspired painter. Asked if he found the +work complete, the monarch shook his head, and, catching up +the brush, marked the red cross of St. James on the pictured +breast of the artist. So says the old wives' tale. At all +events, in this way or another, the honor was conferred, with +the result that on the three hundredth birthday of Velázquez, +June 6, 1899, dukes and counts and marquises flocked to the +Church of <i>Las Señoras Comendadoras</i>, where the antique Gregorian +mass was chanted for the repose of their comrade's soul.</p> + +<p>By the latest theology, the "Master of all Good Workmen" +would not have waited for this illustrious requiem +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">285</a></span> +before admitting the painter to "an æon or two" of rest, but +the Knights of Santiago have not yet accepted Kipling as +their Pope.</p> + +<p>On the afternoon of the same day the <i>Sala de Velázquez</i> +was inaugurated in the <i>Museo del Prado</i>, taking, with additions, +the room formerly known as the <i>Sala de la Reina Isabel</i>, long the +<i>Salon Carré</i> of Madrid, where Raphaels, Titians, Del Sartos, +Dürers, Van Dycks, Correggios, and Rembrandts kept the +Spanish Masters company. Portico and halls were adorned +in honor of the occasion; the bust of Velázquez, embowered +in laurels, myrtles, and roses, was placed midway in the Long +Gallery, fronting the door of his own demesne; but the crown +of the <i>fiesta</i> consisted in the new and far superior arrangement +of his pictures. The royal family and chief nobility, +the Ministers of Government, the Diplomatic Corps, and +delegations of foreign artists made a brilliant gathering. The +address, pronounced by an eminent critic, reviewed what are +known as the three styles of Velázquez. Never was art lecture +more fortunate, for this <i>Museo</i>, holding as it does more than +half the extant works of the great realist, with nearly all his +masterpieces, enabled the speaker to illustrate every point +from the original paintings. A rain of aristocratic poems +followed, for a Spaniard is a lyrist born, and turns from prose +to verse as easily as he changes his cuffs. As Monipodio says, +in one of Cervantes' "Exemplary Tales": "A man has but to +roll up his shirt-sleeves, set well to work, and he may turn off +a couple of thousand verses in the snapping of a pair of scissors." +These Dukes of Parnassus and Counts of Helicon did +homage to the painter in graceful stanzas, not without many an +allusion to Spain's troubled present. If only, as one sonneteer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">286</a></span> +suggested, the soldiers of <i>Las Lanzas</i> had marched out from +their great gilt frame and gone against the foe! A programme +of old-time music was rendered, and therewith the +<i>Sala de Velázquez</i> was declared open.</p> + +<p>To this, as to all galleries and monuments under State +control, the public was invited free of charge for the week to +come. The response was appreciative, gentility, soldiery, +ragamuffins, bevies of schoolgirls with notebooks, and families +of foreigners with opera glasses grouping themselves in +picturesque variety, day after day, before the art treasures of +Madrid, while beggars sat in joyful squads on the steps of the +museums, collecting the fees which the doorkeepers refused.</p> + +<p>During these seven days, artistic and social festivals in +honor of Velázquez abounded, not only in Madrid, but +throughout Spain. Palma must needs get up, with photographs +and the like, a Velázquez exposition, and Seville, +insisting on her mother rights, must arrange a belated funeral, +with mass and sermon and a tomb of laurels and flowers, +surmounted by brushes, palette, and the cloak and helmet of +the Order of Santiago. In the capital the <i>Circulo de Bellas +Artes</i> sumptuously breakfasted the artists from abroad. The +dainties were spiced with speeches, guitars, ballet, gypsy +songs and dances, congratulatory telegrams, and a letter posted +from Parnassus by Don Diego himself. Two valuable new +books on Velázquez suddenly appeared in the shop windows, +and such periodicals as <i>La Ilustración</i>, <i>Blanco y Negro</i>, <i>La Vida +Literaria</i>, and <i>El Nuevo Mundo</i> vied with one another in +illustrated numbers, while even the one-cent dailies came +out with specials devoted to Velázquez biography and criticism. +The Academy of San Fernando rendered a musical +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">287</a></span> +programme of Velázquez date, the Queen Regent issued five +hundred invitations to an orchestral concert in the Royal +Palace, and there was talk, which failed to fructify, of a +grand masquerade ball, where the costumes should be copied +from the Velázquez paintings and the dances should be those +stepped by the court of Philip IV.</p> + +<p>The closing ceremony of the week was the unveiling of +the new statue of Velázquez. Paris owes to Fremiot an +equestrian statue of the painter, who, like Shakespeare in his +Paris statue, is made to look very like a Frenchman, but the +horse is of the most spirited Spanish type. A younger Velázquez +may be seen in Seville, at home among the orange trees, +and the <i>Palacio de la Biblioteca y Museos Nacionales</i> in Madrid +shows a statue from the hand of Garcia. Still another, an +arrogant, striding figure, was standing in the studio of Benlliure, +ready for its journey to the Paris exposition. The +tercentenary statue, by Marinas, is also true to that haughty +look of Velázquez. It represents him seated, brush and +palette in hand, the winds lifting from his ears those long, +clustering falls of hair, as if to let him hear the praises of +posterity. Little he cares for praises! That artist's look +sees nothing but his task.</p> + +<p>The unveiling took place late on Wednesday afternoon, +in front of the <i>Museo del Prado</i>, where the statue stands. +A turquoise sky and a light breeze put all the world in happy +humor. The long façade of the <i>Museo</i> was hung with beautiful +tapestries. Handsome medallions bore the names of painters +associated in one way or another with Velázquez—Herrera +el Viejo, his first master in Seville; Pacheco, his second +Sevillian teacher and his father-in-law; Luis Tristan of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">288</a></span> +Toledo, for whom he had an enthusiastic admiration; El +Greco, that startling mannerist, whose penetrating portraiture +of faces, even whose extraordinary effects in coloring were +not without influence on the younger man; Zurbarán, his +almost exact contemporary, enamored no less than Velázquez +himself of the new realism emanating from the great and +terrible Ribera; Murillo, whose developing genius the favored +Court painter, too high-hearted for envy, protected and encouraged, +and Alonzo Cano, the impetuous artist of Granada, +to whom, too, Velázquez was friend and benefactor.</p> + +<p>Spanish colors and escutcheons were everywhere. In +decorated tribunes sat the royal family and the choicest of +Madrid society, with the members of the <i>Circulo de Bellas +Artes</i>, who were the hosts of the day, and with distinguished +guests from the provinces and abroad. Romero Robledo, as +President of the Society of Fine Arts, welcomed the Queen, +closing his brief address with the following words: "Never, +señora, will your exalted sentiments be able to blend with +those of the Spanish people in nobler hour than this, commemorating +him who is forever a living national glory +and who receives enthusiastic testimony of admiration from all +the civilized world." Their Majesties drew upon the cords, +the two silken banners parted, and the statue was revealed to the +applauding multitude. While the royal group congratulated +the sculptor, the ambassadors of Austria and Germany laid +magnificent wreaths, fashioned with a due regard to the +colors of their respective nations, at the feet of Velázquez. +The eminent French artists, Carolus Duran and Jean Paul +Laurens, bore a crown from France and delighted the +audience by declaring that "the painter of the Spanish king +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">289</a></span> +was himself the king of painters." Nothing since the war +had gladdened Spain more than the presence and praises of +these two famous Parisians; the reverence of Madrid for +Paris is profound. The tributes of Rome and London excited +far less enthusiasm. Still more wreaths, and more and more, +were deposited by a procession of delegates from the art +societies of all Spain, headed by Seville, the bands playing +merrily meanwhile, until that stately form of bronze seemed +to rise from out a hill of laurels, ribbons, and flowers.</p> + +<p>This is the first Velázquez celebration which has had universal +recognition. The painter was hardly known to Europe +at large until the day of Fernando VII, who was induced by +his art-loving wife, Isabel of Braganza, to send the pictures +from the royal palaces, all those accumulated treasures of the +Austrian monarchs, to the empty building, designed for a natural +history museum, in the <i>Prado</i>. This long, low edifice is +now one of the most glorious shrines of art in the world. It +is a collection of masterpieces, showing the splendors that are +rather than the processes by which they came to be. There +is only one Fra Angelico, but there are ten Raphaels and four +times as many Titians. In the Netherlands, no less than in +Italy, the Spanish sway gathered rich spoils. There are a +score of Van Dycks, threescore of those precious little canvases +by Teniers, while as for Rubens, he blazes in some +sixty-four Christian saints, heathen goddesses, and human sinners, +all with a strong family resemblance. But although the +Italian and Flemish schools are so magnificently represented, +the wealth of Spanish painting is what overwhelms the visitor. +Here are four rooms filled with the works of Goya—whose +bones, by the way, arrived in Madrid from France for final +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">290</a></span> +sepulture a few days before the celebration. Little more heed +was paid to this advent than to that of the United States +ambassador, who, it may be noted, was not presented to the +Queen until the Velázquez jubilee was well over. But as for +Goya, this unnoised entry was appropriate enough, for he, +whom De Amicis has called "the last flame-colored flash of +Spanish genius," used, during his later life, to make the long +journey from Bordeaux to Madrid every week for no other +purpose than to gloat upon the Sunday bull-fight, coming and +going without speech or handshake, only a pair of fierce, +bloodthirsty eyes. This fiery Aragonese painted bull-fights, +battles, executions, and Inquisition tortures with blacks that +make one shudder and reds that make one sick. He painted +the brutal side of pleasure as well as of pain, filling broad canvases +with dancing, feasting peasants—canvases that smell +of wine and garlic, and all but send out a roar of drunken song +and laughter.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_351" id="i_351"></a> +<img src="images/i_351.jpg" width="420" height="584" alt="Gypsy Tenants of an Arab Palace" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Gypsy Tenants of an Arab Palace</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Goya lived in the day of Charles IV, whose court painter +he was, and against whom this natural caricaturist must have +borne a special grudge, so sarcastic are his portraits of the +royal family; but his genius is allied to that of Velázquez's +powerful contemporary, Ribera. The <i>Museo del Prado</i> has +abundant material for a Ribera <i>sala</i>, since it possesses no less +than fifty-eight of his works, but the official put in charge of +it would probably go mad. The paintings are mercifully +scattered and, well for such of us as may be disposed to +flight, can be recognized from afar by their dusks and pallors—ascetic +faces gleaming out from sable backgrounds, +wasted limbs of naked saints tracing livid lines in the gloom +of caverns, and, against an atmosphere dark as the frown of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">291</a></span> +God, the ghastly flesh of tortured martyrs, and dead Christs +drooping stiffly to the linen winding-sheet. One is appalled +at the entrance of the Long Gallery by the two vast, confronting +canvases of Prometheus, less a Titan than a convulsion +of Titanic agony, and of Ixion, crushed not only beneath the +wheel, but under that cold, tremendous blackness of hell made +actual. Far down one side of the hall they stretch, those +paintings upon paintings of torment, emaciation, the half-crazed +visionary, and the revolting corpse. But there is no +escape from Ribera, he who</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i14">"tainted</p> +<p>His brush with all the blood of all the sainted."</p> +</div> + +<p>Turning back to the Spanish cabinets that open from the +vestibule we come upon a piteous San Sebastian, the blanched +young form bound fast and already nailed by arrows to the +ebon-hued trunk of a leafless tree. Descending the staircase +to the <i>Sala de Alfonso XII</i>, we must pass an attenuated old +anchoress, whose sunken face and praying hands have the +very tint of the skulls that form the only ornaments, almost +the only furniture, of her dreary cave. We may as well +brave the terrors of this first half of the Long Gallery, where +El Greco's livid greens will at least divert attention, and +where, opposite the collection of Riberas, wait the gracious +Murillos to comfort and uplift.</p> + +<p>Yet Ribera, ruffian though he was, is not solely and exclusively +a nightmare artist. He could give sweetest and +most tranquil color when he chose, as his "Jacob's Dream" +here testifies, with the dim gold of its angel-peopled ladder; +and for all the spirit of bigotry that clouds his work, there is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">292</a></span> +Catholic fervor in these pictures and masterly truthfulness up +to the point where the senses need the interpretation of the +soul. There is more than anatomy, too, in these starved +old saints; there is the dread of judgment. Ribera depicts +supernatural terror, where Goya shows the animal shock of +death.</p> + +<p>Another Spanish phase appears in Zurbarán. In his most +effective work we have not Goya's blood color, nor Ribera's +blacks, nor the celestial violets of Juan de Joanes, but the +grays of the monastic renunciation, the twilight that is as far +from rapture as from anguish. His gowned, cowled, corded +figures pass before the eye in the pale tints of the cloister. +The shadow of cathedral walls is over them. The <i>Prado</i> has +been strangely indifferent to Zurbarán, who is far more fully +represented in the galleries of Andalusia; but it has in its +baker's dozen two important and characteristic works, both +visions of San Pedro Nolasco. In one the entranced saint, +whose figure might be carved in stone,—stone on which ray +from stained-glass window never fell,—gazes upon an angel, +whose vesture, crossed by a dark green scarf, is flushed with +the faintest rose. In the second the sombre cell is illuminated +for an instant by the apparition of St. Peter the Apostle, +head downward, as in his crucifixion, his naked form dazzling +against a vague redness of light like a memory of pain.</p> + +<p>One glance at a wall aglow with Madonna blues reminds +us that Spanish sacred art does not culminate in Ribera nor in +Zurbarán. The Christian faith has had almost as pure, +poetic, and spiritual an utterance in the land of the Inquisition +as in Italy itself. This is not Murillo's hour; it is the +triumph of Velázquez and the realists that Spain is celebrating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">293</a></span> +to-day; but none the less it is a joy of joys to walk +by the Murillos on the way to the laurelled bust and the +crowded <i>sala</i>. These are the pictures that are rather in +heaven than earth. Where Mary, divine in her virginal +loveliness, is not upborne among the golden clouds, the radiant-plumed +angel kneels on her cottage floor and the wings of the +descending dove beat whiteness through the air. Here is +realism and more. The Mater Dolorosa has those luminous +sea-blue eyes of Andalusia, but they tell of holy tears. The +Crucified is no mere sufferer, but the suffering Son of God, +and the crown of thorns, while dripping blood, haloes his +brows with the redemption of the world.</p> + +<p>The genius of Velázquez dwelt not above the earth, but +upon it, in the heart of its most brilliant life. He was no +dreamer of dreams; he "painted the thing as he saw it," +and with what sure eyes he saw, and with what a firm and +glowing brush he painted! His <i>sala</i> surrounds us at once +with an atmosphere of brightness, beauty, elegance, variety, +delight. His work is so superb, so supreme, that, like perfect +manners, it puts even the humblest of us at our ease. We +are not artists, but we seem to understand Velázquez.</p> + +<p>Of course we don't. No knight of the palette would +admit it for an instant. What can the rabble know of the +mysterious compoundings and touchings from which sprang +these splendors of color that outshine the centuries? Young +men with streaming hair are continually escorting awed-looking +señoras about the room, discoursing with dramatic +vehemence on the "periods" of the Master's work. As a +youth at Seville, they explain, Velázquez had of necessity +taken religious subjects, for the Church was the chief patron +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">294</a></span> +of art in Andalusia; but his natural bent even then displayed +itself in tavern studies and sketches of popular types, as the +"Water-seller of Seville" and the "Old Woman Frying +Eggs." Of his early religious pieces the archbishop's palace +of Seville keeps "San Ildefonso Receiving the Chasuble from +the Hands of the Virgin," and the National Gallery of London +secured "Christ in the House of Martha," but "The Adoration +of the Kings" hangs here at our right as we enter the +Velázquez <i>sala</i>. A little stiff, say these accomplished critics, +with a suggestion of the dry manner of his master, Pacheco, +but bear you in mind that this is the production of a youth +of twenty. It is obvious, too, that Andalusians, not celestial +visions, served him as models.</p> + +<p>A longing to see the Tintorets and Titians, those starry +treasures of the dark Escorial, drew him to Madrid at twenty-three. +Here he was fortunate in finding friends, who brought +his portraits to the notice of Philip IV, a dissolute boy ruled +by the Count-Duke Olivares. Youth inclines to youth. +Velázquez was appointed painter to the king at the same +salary as that paid to the royal barber, and henceforth he had +no care in life but to paint. And how he painted! His first +portraits of Philip show a blond young face, with high brow, +curled mustache, the long Hapsburg chin, and eyes that hint +strange secrets. Again and again and again Velázquez traced +those Austrian features, while the years stamped them ever +more deeply with lines of pride and sin—a tragic face in the +end as it was ill-omened in the beginning. But the masterpiece +of Velázquez's twenties is "The Drunkards," a scene +of peasant revelry where the young are gloriously tipsy and +the old are on the point of maudlin tears. Here it is, <i>Los</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">295</a></span> +<i>Borrachos</i>, farther to the right. In looking on it one remembers +that a contemporary realist, in the Protestant island +which has often been so sharp a thorn in Spain's side, +likewise crowned the achievement of his springtime by a +group of topers, Prince Hal and Falstaff and their immortal +crew.</p> + +<p>Not the influence of Rubens, who spent nine months in +Spain in 1628-29, painting like the wind, nor a visit to the +Holy Land of Raphael and Michael Angelo could make +Velázquez other than he was. This "Vulcan's Forge," +which we see here, painted in Italy, is mythological only in +the title. Back he came at the royal summons, to paint more +portraits—Philip over and over, on foot, on horseback, half +length, full length, all lengths; the winsome Infante Baltasar, +as a toddling baby with his dwarf, as a gallant little soldier, +hunter, horseman, and in the princely dignity of fourteen, +when he had but three more years to live; the sad French +queen, the king's brother, the magnificent Olivares, the +sculptor Montañes, counts, dukes, buffoons. Within these +twenty years Velázquez produced his two most famous works +of religious tenor—"Christ Bound to the Column," a "captain +jewel" of the London National Gallery, and that majestic +"Crucifixion" before which Spaniards in the <i>Prado</i> bare +their heads. But the crown of this period is <i>Las Lanzas</i>, or +"The Surrender of Breda," which holds the place of honor +on the wall fronting the door. It is vivid past all praise, and +nobler than any battle scene in its beauty of generosity. The +influence of Italy had told especially on Velázquez's backgrounds. +The bright, far landscapes opening out beyond his +portrayed figures, especially those on horseback,—and his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">296</a></span> +horses are as lifelike as his dogs,—give to the <i>sala</i> an exhilarating +effect of free space and wide horizons.</p> + +<p>In 1650 he made his second visit to Rome, where he portrayed +Pope Innocent X. Nine years of glorious work in +Spain remained to him. Still he painted the king, even at +his royal prayers, for which there was full need, and the young +Austrian queen, who had succeeded the dead mother of the +dead Baltasar. On that happy left-hand wall of the <i>sala</i> +shines, in all its vigorous grace, the "Mercury and Argos," +but if the hundred eyes of Argos are ready to close, their place +is supplied by the terrible scrutiny of a row of portraits, +embarrassing the boldest of us out of note-taking. How those +pairs of pursuing black eyes, sage and keen and mocking, +stare the starers out of countenance! The series of pet +dwarfs is here, old Æsop, and Menippus, and the sly buffoon, +"Don Juan of Austria." Of these two wonder-works, <i>Las +Meninas</i>, "The Maids of Honor," has a room to itself, and +thus <i>Las Hilanderas</i>, "The Weavers," becomes the central +magnet of this returning wall. A saint picture and even a +coronation of the Virgin cannot draw the crowds from before +this ultimate triumph of the actual—this factory interior, +where a group of peasant women fashion tapestries, while a +broad shaft of sunshine works miracles in color.</p> + +<p>And this, too, is Spanish. Cervantes is as true a facet of +many-sided Spain as Calderon, and Velázquez as Murillo. +With all the national propensity to emotion and exaggeration, +Spaniards are a truth-seeing people. The popular <i>coplas</i> are +more often satiric than sentimental. They like to bite through +to the kernel of fact, even when it is bitter. Velázquez, with +his rich and noble realism, is of legitimate descent. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XX</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">297</a></span></p> +<p class="center">CHORAL GAMES OF SPANISH CHILDREN</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,</p> +<p>She turns to favor and to prettiness."</p> + +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>: <i>Hamlet</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">O</span>n one of my last afternoons in Madrid, I visited again my +early haunts in the <i>Buen Retiro</i>, for a farewell sight of the +children there at play. After all, it is one of the prettiest +things to be seen in Spain, these graceful, passionate, dramatic +little creatures dancing in tireless circles, and piping those +songs that every <i>niña</i> knows, without being able to tell when +or where or from whom she learned them. Only very small +boys, as a rule, join the girls in these fairy rings, though occasionally +I found a troop of urchins marching to a lusty chorus +of their own. One, which I heard in Madrid, but whose +parrots are more suggestive of Seville, runs something like +this:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"In the street they call Toledo</p> +<p class="i1">Is a famous school for boys,</p> +<p>Chundarata, chundarata,</p> +<p class="i1">Chundarata, chún-chún;</p> +<p>Where all we lads are going</p> +<p class="i1">With a most heroic noise,</p> +<p>Chundarata, chundarata,</p> +<p class="i1">Chundarata, chún-chún.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">298</a></span></p> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"And the parrots on their perches,</p> +<p class="i1">They mock us as we go,</p> +<p>Chundarata, chundarata,</p> +<p class="i1">Chundarata, chún-chún.</p> +<p>'I hate my school,' whines Polly,</p> +<p class="i1">'For my master beats me so,'</p> +<p>Chundarata, chundarata,</p> +<p class="i1">Chundarata, chún-chún."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Another, which came to me in fragments, is sung in playing +soldier.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1"> +"The Catalans are coming,</p> +<p class="i1">Marching two by two.</p> +<p>All who hear the drumming</p> +<p class="i1">Tiptoe for a view.</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">Tiptoe for a view.</p> +<p>Red and yellow banners,</p> +<p class="i1">Pennies very few.</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">Pennies very few.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Red and yellow banners!</p> +<p class="i1">The Moon comes out to see.</p> +<p>If moons had better manners,</p> +<p class="i1">She'd take me on her knee.</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">Take me on her knee.</p> +<p>She peeps through purple shutters,</p> +<p class="i1">Would I were tall as she!</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">Would I were tall as she!</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">299</a></span></p> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Soldiers need not learn letters,</p> +<p class="i1">Nor any schooly thing,</p> +<p>But unless they mind their betters,</p> +<p class="i1">In golden chains they'll swing.</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">In golden chains they'll swing.</p> +<p>Or sit in silver fetters,</p> +<p class="i1">Presents from the King.</p> +<p class="i3"> Ay, ay!</p> +<p class="i1">Presents from the King."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>This ironic touch, so characteristically Spanish, reappears +in many of the games, as in <i>A La Limón</i>, known throughout +the Peninsula and the Antilles. I should expect to find it, +too, in corners of Mexico, South America, the Philippines, +wherever the Spanish oppressor has trod and the oppressor's +children have sported in the sun. The little players, ranged +in two rows, each row hand in hand, dance the one toward +the other and retreat, singing responsively. With their last +couplet, the children of the first line raise their arms, forming +arches, and the children of the second line, letting go hands, +dance under these arches as they respond.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">All broken is our bright fountain.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>2. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">Give orders to have it mended.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">We haven't a bit of money.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>2. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">But we have money in plenty.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">300</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>1. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">What kind of money may yours be?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>2. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">Oh, ours is money of eggshells.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>1. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">An arch for the lords and ladies.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p>2. "<i>A la limón, á la limón!</i></p> +<p class="i2">Right merrily we pass under."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Another lyric dialogue, whose fun is spent on the lean +purses of students and the happy-go-lucky life of Andalusia, +must have originated since the overthrow, in 1892, of the +leaning tower of Saragossa. The stanzas are sung alternately +by two rows of children, advancing toward each other and +retreating with a dancing step.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">1. "In Saragossa</p> +<p class="i1">—Oh, what a pity!—</p> +<p class="i1">Has fallen the tower,</p> +<p class="i1">Pride of the city.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">2. "Fell it by tempest,</p> +<p class="i1">Fairies or witches,</p> +<p class="i1">The students will raise it,</p> +<p class="i1">For students have riches.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">1. "Call on the students,</p> +<p class="i1">Call louder and louder!</p> +<p class="i1">They've only two coppers</p> +<p class="i1">To buy them a chowder.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">2. "Chowder of students</p> +<p class="i1">Is sweeter than honey, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">301</a></span></p> +<p class="i1">But the gay Andalusians</p> +<p class="i1">Have plenty of money.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">1. "The gay Andalusians</p> +<p class="i1">Have fiddle and ballad,</p> +<p class="i1">But only two coppers</p> +<p class="i1">To buy them a salad.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">2. "In Saragossa</p> +<p class="i1">—Oh, what a pity!—</p> +<p class="i1">Has fallen the tower,</p> +<p class="i1">Pride of the city."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Unchildlike innuendoes pervade that curious game of +many variants in which the priest and abbess play a leading +part. Two children are chosen for these dignitaries, while +the others call out the names of such flowers, fruits, or vegetables +as each may decide to personate. "I'm a cabbage." +"I'm a jasmine." "I'm a cherry." Then the little sinners +kneel in a circle, crying:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"Through the door, up the stairs,</p> +<p>On the floor, say your prayers!"</p> +</div> + +<p>and chant some childish gibberish, during which no one must +laugh on pain of a forfeit. After this, all sing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2-6">"The house of the priest it cracked like a cup.</p> +<p class="i3">Half fell down and half stood up.</p> +<p class="i3">Sir Priest, Sir Priest, now tell us aright,</p> +<p class="i3">In whose house did you sleep last night?</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="poem"> +<p><i>Priest.</i><span class="i2">With the rose slept I.</span></p> +<p><i>Rose.</i><span class="i4">Fie, O fie!</span></p> +<p class="i5">I never saw your tonsured head.</p> +<p><i>Priest.</i> +<span class="i2">Then with whom did you make your bed?</span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">302</a></span></p> +<p><i>Rose.</i> +<span class="i4">With the Pink.</span></p> +<p><i>Pink.</i> +<span class="i4">I should think!</span></p> +<p class="i5">I never saw your petals red.</p> +<p><i>Rose.</i> +<span class="i2">Then with whom did you make your bed?</span></p> +<p><i>Pink.</i> +<span class="i4">With the lily.</span></p> +<p><i>Lily.</i> +<span class="i4">Don't be silly!</span></p> +<p class="i5">I never heard your fragrant tread.</p> +<p><i>Pink.</i> +<span class="i2">Then with whom did you make your bed?</span></p> +<p><i>Lily.</i> +<span class="i4">With the priest.</span></p> +<p><i>Priest.</i> +<span class="i4">Little beast!</span></p> +<p class="i5">If I went near you, may I fall dead!</p> +<p><i>Lily.</i> +<span class="i2">Then with whom did you make your bed?</span></p> +<p><i>Priest.</i> +<span class="i4">With the abbess, I.</span></p> +<p><i>Abbess.</i> +<span class="i4">Oh, you lie!"</span></p> +</div> + +<p>But this seems to be the conclusion of the game.</p> + +<p>The most of these choral songs, however, are sweet and +innocent, concerned with the natural interests of childhood, +as this:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The shepherdess rose lightly</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>The shepherdess rose lightly</p> +<p class="i1">From off her heather seat—O.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Her goats went leaping homeward,</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>Her goats went leaping homeward</p> +<p class="i1">On nimble little feet—O.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"With strong young hands she milked them,</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>With strong young hands she milked them</p> +<p class="i1">And made a cheese for treat—O. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">303</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The kitty watched and wondered,</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>The kitty crept and pondered</p> +<p class="i1">If it were good to eat—O.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The kitty sprang upon it,</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>The kitty sprang upon it</p> +<p class="i1">And made a wreck complete—O.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Scat, scat, you naughty kitty!</p> +<p class="i1">Larán—larán—larito,</p> +<p>Scat, scat, you naughty kitty!</p> +<p class="i1">Are stolen cheeses sweet—O?"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The baby girls have a song of their own, which, as a +blending of doll-play, gymnastics, music, mathematics, and +religion, leaves little to be desired.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Oh, I have a dolly, and she is dressed in blue,</p> +<p>With a fluff of satin on her white silk shoe,</p> +<p>And a lace mantilla to make my dolly gay,</p> +<p>When I take her dancing this way, this way, this way.</p> +<p class="i10">[<i>Dances Dolly in time to the music.</i></p> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i3-6">"2 and 2 are 4, 4 and 2 are 6,</p> +<p class="i4">6 and 2 are 8, and 8 is 16,</p> +<p class="i4">And 8 is 24, and 8 is 32!</p> +<p class="i5">Thirty-two! Thirty-two!</p> +<p class="i4">Blesséd souls, I kneel to you. [<i>Kneels.</i></p> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"When she goes out walking in her Manila shawl,</p> +<p>My Andalusian dolly is quite the queen of all.</p> +<p>Gypsies, dukes, and candy-men bow down in a row,</p> +<p>While my dolly fans herself so and so and so.</p> +<p class="i10">[<i>Fans Dolly in time to the music.</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">304</a></span></p> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i3-6">"2 and 2 are 4, 4 and 2 are 6,</p> +<p class="i4">6 and 2 are 8, and 8 is 16,</p> +<p class="i4">And 8 is 24, and 8 is 24!</p> +<p class="i5">Twenty-four! Twenty-four!</p> +<p class="i4">Blesséd souls, I rise once more."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>They have a number of bird-games, through which they +flit and flutter with an airy grace that wings could hardly +better. In one, the children form a circle, with "the little +bird Pinta" in the centre. The chorus, dancing lightly +around her, sings the first stanza, and Pinta, while passing +about the circle to make her choice, sings the rest, with the +suggested action. The child chosen becomes Pinta in turn.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o4"><i>Chorus.</i> "The little bird Pinta was poising</p> +<p>On a scented green lemon-tree spray.</p> +<p>She picked the leaf and the blossom,</p> +<p>And chanted a roundelay.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o4"><i>Pinta.</i> "Song in the land!</p> +<p>While April is yet a newcomer,</p> +<p class="i1">O mate of my summer,</p> +<p class="i1">Give to me a hand now,</p> +<p class="i1">Both hands I seek, O!</p> +<p class="i1">Take a Spanish kiss, now,</p> +<p class="i1">On the rosy cheek, O!"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Equally pretty and simple is the Andalusian play of "Little +White Pigeons." The children form in two rows, which face +each other some ten or twelve yards apart. One row sings +the first stanza, dancing forward and slipping under the +"golden arches" made by the lifted arms of the second row. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">305</a></span> +The second row sings and dances in turn, passing under the +"silver arches" to Granada.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">1. "Little white pigeons</p> +<p class="i1">Are dreaming of Seville,</p> +<p>Sun in the palm tree,</p> +<p class="i1">Roses and revel.</p> +<p>Lift up the arches,</p> +<p class="i1">Gold as the weather.</p> +<p>Little white pigeons</p> +<p class="i1">Come flying together.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o2">2. "Little white pigeons</p> +<p class="i1">Dream of Granada,</p> +<p>Glistening snows on</p> +<p class="i1">Sierra Nevada.</p> +<p>Lift up the arches,</p> +<p class="i1">Silver as fountains.</p> +<p>Little white pigeons</p> +<p class="i1">Fly to the mountains."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The Spanish form of "Blindman's Buff" begins with "giving +the pebble" to determine who shall be the Blind Hen. A +child shuts in one hand the pebble and then presents both little +fists to the other children passing in file. Each, while all sing +the first stanza given below, softly touches first one of the +hands, then the other, and finally slaps the one chosen. If +this is empty, she passes on. If it holds the pebble, she must +take it and be the one to offer the hands. The child who +finally remains with the pebble in her possession, after all +have passed, is the Blind Hen. As the game goes on, the +children tease the Blind Hen, who, of course, is trying to +catch them, by singing the second stanza given below. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">306</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">1</p> +<p class="o1">"Pebble, O pebble!</p> +<p>Where may it be?</p> +<p>Pebble, O pebble!</p> +<p>Come not to me!</p> +<p>Tell me, my mother,</p> +<p>Which hand to choose.</p> +<p>This or the other?</p> +<p>That I refuse,</p> +<p>This hand I choose."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">2</p> +<p class="o1">"She's lost her thimble,</p> +<p>Little Blind Hen.</p> +<p>Better be nimble!</p> +<p>Try it again!</p> +<p>Who'll bring a taper</p> +<p>For the Blind Hen?</p> +<p>Scamper and caper!</p> +<p>Try it again!</p> +<p>Try it again!"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Other games as well known to American children as +"Blindman's Buff" are played by little Spaniards. They understand +how to make the "hand-chair" and "drop the button," +only their button is usually a ring. "Hide the Handkerchief" +carries with it the familiar cries of <i>hot</i> and <i>cold</i>, but our "Puss +in the Corner" becomes "A Cottage to Rent."</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Cottage to rent?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Try the other side,</p> +<p>You see that this</p> +<p class="i1">Is occupied.'"</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">307</a></span> +In religious Seville the dialogue runs:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'A candle here?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Over there.'</p> +<p>'A candle here?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Otherwhere.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'Candle, a candle!'</p> +<p class="i1">'Loss on loss.'</p> +<p>'Where is light?'</p> +<p class="i1">'In the Holy Cross.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>For all these games, common to childhood the world over, +have a rhyming element in the Peninsula, where, indeed, the +ordinary intercourse of children often carries verses with it. +For instance, our youngsters are content with cries of "Tell-tale!" +and "Indian-giver!" but under similar provocation the +fierce little nurslings of Catholic Spain will sing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + +<p class="i-6">"Tell-tale! Tell-tale!</p> +<p class="i1">In hell you'll be served right,</p> +<p>All day fed on mouldy bread,</p> +<p class="i1">And pounded all the night!"</p> +</div> + +<p>The other baby-curse is to the same effect:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"He who gives and takes again,</p> +<p>Long in hell may he remain!</p> +<p>He who gives and takes once more,</p> +<p>May we hear him beat on the Devil's door!"</p> +</div> + +<p>The Spanish form of tag has a touch of mythological grace. +One child, chosen by lot, is the Moon, and must keep within +the shadow. The others, Morning-stars, are safe only in the +lighted spaces. The game is for the Morning-stars to run +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">308</a></span> +into the shadow, daring the Moon, who, if successful in catching +one, becomes a Morning-star in turn, and passes out into +the light, leaving the one caught to act the part of Moon. +As the Morning-stars run in and out of the Moon's domain, +they sing over and over the following stanza:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"O the Moon and the Morning-stars!</p> +<p>O the Moon and the Morning-stars!</p> +<p class="i2">Who dares to tread—O</p> +<p class="i2">Within the shadow?"</p> +</div> + +<p>Even in swinging, the little girls who push carry on a musical +dialogue with the happy holder of the seat.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Say good-day, say good-day</p> +<p>To Miss Fannie Fly-away!</p> +<p>At the door the guests are met,</p> +<p>But the table is not set.</p> +<p>Put the stew upon the fire.</p> +<p>Higher, higher, higher, higher!</p> +<p>Now come down, down, down, down,</p> +<p>Or the dinner will all burn brown.</p> +<p>Soup and bread! soup and bread!</p> +<p>I know a plot of roses red,</p> +<p>Red as any hero's sword,</p> +<p>Or the blood of our Holy Lord.</p> +<p>Where art thou, on the wing?'</p> +<p>'No, I'm sitting in the swing.'</p> +<p>'Who're thy playmates way up there?'</p> +<p>'Swallows skimming through the air.'</p> +<p>'Down, come down! The stew will burn.</p> +<p>Let the rest of us have a turn.'"</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">309</a></span> +In playing "Hide and Seek," the seeker must first sit in a +drooping attitude with covered eyes, while the others stand +about and threaten to strike him if he peeps:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Oil-cruet! Don't do it! <i>Ras con ras!</i></p> +<p>Pepper-pot? Peep not! <i>Ras con ras!</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>The menacing little fists are then suddenly withdrawn.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i2">"No, no! Not a blow!</p> +<p>But a pinch on the arm will do no harm.</p> +<p class="i2">Now let the birdies take alarm!"</p> +</div> + +<p>And off scamper the hiders to their chosen nooks. When +they are safely tucked away, the indispensable Mother, +standing by, sings to the seeker that stanza which is his signal +for the start:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"My little birds of the mountain</p> +<p class="i1">Forth from the cage are flown.</p> +<p>My little birds of the mountain</p> +<p class="i1">Have left me all alone."</p> +</div> + +<p>Spanish forfeit games are numerous and ingenious. In one +of these, called "The Toilet," the players take the names of +Mirror, Brush, Comb, Towel, Soap, and other essentials, including +Jesus, Devil, and Man Alive, these last for exclamatory +purposes. As each is mentioned by the leader of the game, +he must rise instantly, on pain of forfeit, no matter how fast +the speaker may be rattling on: "<i>Jesus!</i> When will that +<i>devil</i> of a <i>maid</i> bring me my <i>powder</i> and <i>perfumes</i>?" Characteristic +titles of other forfeit games are, "The Key of Rome," +"The Fan," "The Fountain," "I Saw my Love Last Night." +The sentences vary from such gentle penalties as "The Caress +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">310</a></span> +of Cadiz" to the predicament of putting three feet on the +wall at once.</p> + +<p>The choral verses are often mere nonsense.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Pipe away! pipe away!</p> +<p>Let us play a little play!</p> +<p>What will we play?</p> +<p>We'll cut our hands away.</p> +<p>Who cut them, who?</p> +<p>Rain from out the blue.</p> +<p>Where is the rain?</p> +<p>Hens drank it up again.</p> +<p>Hens? And where are they?</p> +<p>Gone their eggs to lay.</p> +<p>Who will eat them up?</p> +<p>Friars when they sup.</p> +<p>What do friars do?</p> +<p>Sing 'gori-gori-goo.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>Watching Spanish children, one may see two little girls, +say White Rose and Sweetness, fly out into an open space, +where White Rose carefully places the tips of her small shoes +in touch with those of Sweetness. Then they clasp hands, +fling their little bodies as far back as these conditions permit, +and whirl round and round, singing lustily—until they are +overcome by giddiness—the following rigmarole, or one of +its variants:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i-6">"Titirinela, if you please!</p> +<p class="i1">Titirinela, bread and cheese:</p> +<p>'What is your father's worshipful name?'</p> +<p>'Sir Red-pepper, who kisses your hands.'</p> +<p>'And how does he call his beautiful dame?'</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">311</a></span> +'Lady Cinnamon, at your commands.'</p> +<p class="i1">Titirinela, toe to toe!</p> +<p class="i1">Titirinela, round we go!"</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_374" id="i_374"></a> +<img src="images/i_374.jpg" width="621" height="421" alt="From the Tower of Gold Down the Guadalquivír" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">From the Tower of Gold Down the Guadalquivír</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Even in some of their prettiest games the verses have a +childish incoherence. Some dozen little girls form a circle, +for instance, with the Butterfly in the centre. They lift her +dress-skirt by the border, and hold it outspread about her. +Another child, on the outside, runs around and around the +ring, singing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Who are these chatterers?</p> +<p class="i1">Oh, such a number!</p> +<p>Not by day nor by night</p> +<p class="i1">Do they let me slumber.</p> +<p>They're daughters of the Moorish king,</p> +<p class="i1">Who search the garden-close</p> +<p>For lovely Lady Ana,</p> +<p class="i1">The sweetest thing that grows.</p> +<p>She's opening the jasmine</p> +<p class="i1">And shutting up the rose."</p> +</div> + +<p>Then the children suddenly lift their hands, which are +holding Butterfly's frock, so as to envelop her head in the +folds. The little singer outside continues:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Butterfly, butterfly,</p> +<p class="i1">Dressed in rose-petals!</p> +<p>Is it on candle-flame</p> +<p class="i1">Butterfly settles?</p> +<p>How many shirts</p> +<p class="i1">Have you woven of rain?</p> +<p>Weave me another</p> +<p class="i1">Ere I call you again."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">312</a></span> +These songs are repeated seven times. Then comes another +stanza:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Now that Lady Ana</p> +<p class="i1">Walks in garden sweet,</p> +<p>Gathering the roses</p> +<p class="i1">Whose dew is on her feet,</p> +<p>Butterfly, butterfly,</p> +<p class="i1">Can you catch us? Try it, try!"</p> +</div> + +<p>With this the circle breaks and scatters, while Butterfly, +blinded as she is by the folds of her own skirt wrapped about +her head, does her best to overtake some one, who shall then +become her successor.</p> + +<p>Many of the games are simplicity itself. Often the play +is merely a circle dance, sometimes ending in a sudden kneeling +or sitting on the ground, One of the songs accompanying +this dance runs:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Potatoes and salt must little folks eat,</p> +<p class="i1">While the grown-up people dine</p> +<p>Off lemons and chestnuts and oranges sweet,</p> +<p class="i1">With cocoanut milk for wine.</p> +<p>On the ground do we take our seat,</p> +<p class="i1">We're at your feet, we're at your feet."</p> +</div> + +<p>Sometimes a line of children will form across the street +and run, hand in hand, down its length, singing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"We have closed the street</p> +<p class="i2">And no one may pass,</p> +<p class="i1">Only my grandpa</p> +<p class="i2">Leading his ass</p> +<p class="i1">Laden with oranges</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">313</a></span> +<p class="i2">Fresh from the trees.</p> +<p class="i1">Tilín! Tilín!</p> +<p class="i1"> Down on our knees!</p> +<p>Tilín! Tilín! Tilín! Tilín!</p> +<p>The holy bell of San Agustín!"</p> +</div> + +<p>A play for four weans, training them early to the "eternal +Spanish contradiction," consists in holding a handkerchief by +its four corners, while one of them sings:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i1-6">"Pull and slacken!</p> +<p>I've lost my treasure store.</p> +<p class="i2">Pull and slacken!</p> +<p>I'm going to earn some more.</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Slacken!</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>And at this, the other three children must <i>pull</i>, on pain of +forfeit, whereas if the word is <i>pull</i>, their business is to <i>slacken</i>.</p> + +<p>They have a grasshopper game, where they jump about +with their hands clasped under their knees, singing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Grasshopper sent me an invitation</p> +<p>To come and share his occupation.</p> +<p>Grasshopper dear, how could I say no?</p> +<p>Grasshopper, grasshopper, here I go!"</p> +</div> + +<p>In much the same fashion they play "Turkey," gobbling as +they hop.</p> + +<p>I never found them "playing house" precisely after the +manner of our own little girls, but there are many variants +for the dialogue and songs in their game of "Washerwoman." +The Mother says: "Mariquilla, I'm going out +to the river to wash. While I am gone, you must sweep +and tidy up the house." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">314</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>Bueno, madre.</i>"</p> + +<p>But no sooner is the Mother out of sight than naughty +Mariquilla begins to frisk for joy, singing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Mother has gone to wash.</p> +<p class="i1">Mother'll be gone all day.</p> +<p>Now can Mariquilla</p> +<p class="i1">Laugh and dance and play."</p> +</div> + +<p>But the Mother returns so suddenly that Mariquilla sees her +barely in time to begin a vigorous sweeping.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'What hast been doing, Mary?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Sweeping with broom of brier.'</p> +<p>'A friar saw thee playing.'</p> +<p class="i1">'He was a lying friar.'</p> +<p>'A holy friar tell a lie!'</p> +<p class="i1">'He lied and so do you.'</p> +<p>'Come hither, Mary of my heart,</p> +<p class="i1">'And I'll beat thee black and blue.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>After this lively exercise, the washerwoman goes away +again, charging Mariquilla to churn the butter, then to knead +the bread, then to set the table, but always with the same disastrous +results. The Mother finally condemns her to a dinner +of bread and bitters, but Mariquilla makes a point of understanding +her to say bread and honey, and shares this sweetness +with her sympathetic mates who form the circle. This time +the beating is so severe that the children of the ring raise +their arms and let Mariquilla dodge freely in and out, while +they do all they can to trip and hinder the irate washerwoman +in her pursuit. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">315</a></span></p> + +<p>There is another washing game of more romantic sort, the +chorus being:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Bright is the fountain,</p> +<p class="i1">When skies are blue.</p> +<p>Who washed my handkerchief?</p> +<p class="i1">Tell me true!'</p> +<p>'Three mountain maidens</p> +<p class="i1">Of laughing look.</p> +<p>White went their feet</p> +<p class="i1">In the running brook.</p> +<p>One threw in roses,</p> +<p class="i1">And jasmine one.</p> +<p>One spread thy handkerchief</p> +<p class="i1">In the sun.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>Spanish children "play store," of course, but they are such +dramatic little creatures that they need no broken ware for +their merchandise. A row of them will squat down in the +middle of the street, clasp their hands under the hollow +of their knees, and crook out their arms for "handles." +Then a customer wanders by, asking, "Who sells honey-jars?" +The merchant disrespectfully replies, "That do I, +Uncle of the Torn Trousers." The shabby customer answers +with Castilian dignity, "If my trousers are torn, my +wife will mend them." The merchant then opens negotiations. +"Will you buy a little jar of honey?" "What's +your price?" The merchant is not exorbitant. "A flea +and a louse." The probabilities are, unhappily, that the customer +has these commodities about him, and he inclines, +though cautiously, toward the bargain.</p> + +<p>"Your little honey-jars are good?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">316</a></span></p> + +<p>"Very good."</p> + +<p>"Do they weigh much?"</p> + +<p>"Let's see."</p> + +<p>So they pick up an hilarious little honey-jar by its handles +and tug it away between them, not letting it touch the +ground, to the sidewalk. Here the merchant and customer +have designated four spaces as Heaven, Limbo, Purgatory, +and Hell, but on a preliminary paving-stone—let truth need +no apology!—they have done some artistic spitting, with the +result that four different figures in saliva are presented to the +little honey-jar. These four figures bear a secret relation +to the four spaces on the sidewalk, and the prisoner must +make his choice. "This!" he ventures. "Hell!" scream +the merchant and customer, and drag him, shrieking and +struggling, to his doom. The next, perhaps, will have the +luck to hit on Heaven, for every little honey-jar must take his +chance in this theological lottery.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the market becomes a transformation scene. +The children hold up their forefingers for candles, but +embarrass the merchant by doubling these up whenever the +customer is on the point of buying. Just as the bargain is +about to be concluded, the little candles vanish and the children +roll themselves into bunches of grapes, some proving +sweet and others sour. Again, they make themselves over +into pitchers, cushions, and all variety of domestic articles, +becoming at last a pack of barking dogs which rush out on the +customer, snap at his legs, and drive him off the premises.</p> + +<p>Again, it is a chicken-market on which the Uncle of the +Torn Trousers chances, where one by one he buys all the +hens and chickens, but forgets to buy the rooster, and when, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">317</a></span> +by and by, this lordly fowl, waxing lonely, cock-a-doodle-doos, +the hens and chickens come scurrying back to him, more to +the profit of the merchant than to the satisfaction of the +customer.</p> + +<p>In another of the chicken games, the Mother leaves Mariquilla +in charge of the brood, with directions, if the wolf +comes, to fling him the smallest. But he comes so often +that, when the Mother returns, there are no chickens left. +Then she and Little Mary go hunting them, hop-hop-hop +through Flea Street, bow-wow-wow through Dog Street, and +so on without success, until it occurs to them to scatter corn. +Thereupon with peep-peep-peep and flip-flap-flutter all the +chickens appear, but only to fly at the negligent Mother, who +left them to the jaws of the wolf, and assail her with such +furious pecks that she must run for her life, the indignant +chicks racing in wild pursuit.</p> + +<p>There is a market-garden game, where one acts as gardener, +others as vegetables, and others as customers. Others, still, +come creeping up as thieves, but are opposed by a barking +dog, which they kill. The gardener summons them before +the judge. A trial is held, with much fluent Spanish argument +pro and con, and the prisoners are condemned to execution +for the murder of the dog. But at the last thrilling +moment, when they have confessed their sins to the priests, +and been torn from the embraces of their weeping friends, the +dog trots cheerfully in, so very much alive that all the criminals +are pardoned in a general dance of joy.</p> + +<p>The little girls have a favorite shopping game. In this the +children are seated, shoulder to shoulder, in two rows that face +each other. Every child takes the name of some cloth, silks +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">318</a></span> +and satins being preferred. The leader of the game runs +around the two rows, singing:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Up the counter, down the counter!</p> +<p class="i1">How can I buy enough?</p> +<p>Down the counter, up the counter!</p> +<p class="i1">I choose this velvet stuff."</p> +</div> + +<p>Little Velvet immediately jumps to her feet and follows the +leader, who continues choosing and calling, choosing and calling, +until the stock is exhausted and she can go home with all +her purchases most conveniently trooping at her heels.</p> + +<p>But the plays dearest to the black-eyed <i>niñas</i> are love plays, +of which they have a countless number. Most of these consist +of the dancing, singing circle, with a child in the centre +who chooses a mate. Some are as simple as this:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Milk and rice!</p> +<p class="i1">I want to marry</p> +<p>A maiden nice.</p> +<p class="i1">I may not tarry.</p> +<p>It is not this,</p> +<p class="i1">Nor this, nor this.</p> +<p>'Tis only this</p> +<p class="i1">Whom I want to marry."</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_383" id="i_383"></a> +<img src="images/i_383.jpg" width="625" height="416" alt="Cadiz from the Sea" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Cadiz from the Sea</span></p> +</div> + +<p><i>Ambó, ató</i> is hardly more elaborate. When in the exchange +of question and answer, the child would choose her page and +touches one of the circle, the mercenary mites dance on faster +than ever, until she offers whatever gift she has, a flower, +apple, or any trifle at hand. Then the page runs in and +kneels before her. The circle dances about the two, singing +the refrain, until the first child slips out and joins them, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">319</a></span> +leaving the second in the centre to begin the game over +again.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"<i>Ambó, ató, matarile, rile, rile?</i></p> +<p class="i2"><i>Ambó, ató, matarile, rile, ron?</i></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1.<span class="iambo">"What do you want, matarile, rile, rile?</span></p> +<p class="i2">What do you want, matarile, rile, ron?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>2.<span class="iambo">"I want a page, matarile, rile, rile.</span></p> +<p class="i2">I want a page, matarile, rile, ron.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1.<span class="iambo">"Choose whom you will, matarile, rile, rile.</span></p> +<p class="i2">Choose whom you will, matarile, rile, ron.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>2.<span class="iambo">"I choose Pedro, matarile, rile, rile.</span></p> +<p class="i2">I choose Pedro, matarile, rile, ron.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1.<span class="iambo">"What will you give him, matarile, rile, rile?</span></p> +<p class="i2">What will you give him, matarile, rile, ron?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>2.<span class="iambo">"I'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, rile.</span></p> +<p class="i2">I'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, ron.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>1.<span class="iambo">"He answers yes, matarile, rile, rile.</span></p> +<p class="i2">He answers yes, matarile, rile, ron."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>"The Charcoal Woman" requires an odd number of players. +The circle dances about a little girl who stands all forlorn +in the centre. The chorus sings the first stanza, the +child sings the second, which has reference to the fact that +Spanish charcoal is often made from laurel wood, and the +chorus, in a comforting tone, the third. Then, while the +child runs about and about the circle as if seeking, the chorus +angrily sings the fourth stanza, accusing her of ambition, and +the little charcoal woman retorts with the fifth, making her +choice as she sings the last four words. At this the circle +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">320</a></span> +breaks, the children quickly choosing mates and dancing by +pairs. The one who is left without a partner takes her place +in the centre as the next Charcoal Woman.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">1.</p> +<p><i>Chorus.</i><span class="icw">"Who would say that the charcoal woman,</span></p> +<p class="i7">Sooty, sooty charcoal woman,</p> +<p class="i7">In all the city and all the land</p> +<p class="i7">Could find a lover to kiss her hand?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">2.</p> +<p><i>Charcoal Woman.</i></p> +<p class="i7">"The little widow of good Count Laurel</p> +<p class="i7">Has no one left her for kiss or quarrel.</p> +<p class="i7">I want a sweetheart and find me none.</p> +<p class="i7">Charcoal women must bide alone.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">3.</p> +<p><i>Chorus.</i><span class="icw">"Poor little widow, so sweet thou art,</span></p> +<p class="i7">If there's no other to claim thy heart,</p> +<p class="i7">Take thy pick of us who stand</p> +<p class="i7">Ready to kiss thy sooty hand.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">4.</p> +<p><i>Chorus.</i> <span class="icw">"The charcoal woman, the charcoal woman,</span></p> +<p class="i7">Proud little black little charcoal woman,</p> +<p class="i7">Goes seeking up and seeking down</p> +<p class="i7">To find the Count of Cabratown.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">5.</p> +<p><i>Charcoal Woman.</i></p> +<p class="i7">"I would not marry the Count of Cabra.</p> +<p class="i7">Never will marry the Count of Cabra.</p> +<p class="i7">Count of Cabra! Oh, deary me!</p> +<p class="i7">I'll not have him,—<i>if you're not he!</i>"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">321</a></span> +Just such coquettish touches of Spanish spirit and maiden +pride appear in many of the songs, as, for instance, in one of +their counting-out carols, "The Garden."</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"The garden of our house it is</p> +<p class="i1">The funniest garden yet,</p> +<p>For when it rains and rains and rains,</p> +<p class="i1">The garden it is wet.</p> +<p class="i3">And now we bow,</p> +<p>Skip back and then advance,</p> +<p>For who know how to make a bow</p> +<p class="i3">Know how to dance.</p> +<p class="i3">AB—C—AB—C</p> +<p class="i3">DE—FG—HI—J.</p> +<p>If your worship does not love me,</p> +<p class="i1">Then a better body may.</p> +<p class="i3">AB—C—AB—C,</p> +<p class="i3">KL—MN—OP—Q.</p> +<p>If you think you do not love me,</p> +<p class="i1">I am sure I don't love you."</p> +</div> + +<p>Sometimes these dancing midgets lisp a song of worldly +wisdom:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If any cadet</p> +<p class="i1">With thee would go,</p> +<p>Daughter, instantly</p> +<p class="i1">Answer no.</p> +<p>For how can cadet,</p> +<p class="i1">This side of Heaven,</p> +<p>Keep a wife</p> +<p class="i1">On his dollars seven? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">322</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If any lieutenant</p> +<p class="i1">Asks a caress,</p> +<p>Daughter, instantly</p> +<p class="i1">Answer yes.</p> +<p>For the lieutenant</p> +<p class="i1">Who kisses thy hand</p> +<p>May come to be</p> +<p class="i1">A general grand."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And, again, these babies may be heard giving warning that +men betray.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The daughters of Ceferino</p> +<p class="i1">Went to walk—alas!</p> +<p>A street above, a street below,</p> +<p class="i1">Street of San Tomás.</p> +<p>The least of all, they lost her.</p> +<p class="i1">Her father searched—alas!</p> +<p>A street above, a street below,</p> +<p class="i1">Street of San Tomás.</p> +<p>And there he found her talking</p> +<p class="i1">With a cavalier, who said,</p> +<p>'Come home with me, my darling,</p> +<p class="i1">'Tis you that I would wed.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Oh, have you seen the pear tree</p> +<p class="i1">Upon my grandpa's lawn?</p> +<p>Its pears are sweet as honey,</p> +<p class="i1">But when the pears are gone,</p> +<p>A turtle-dove sits moaning,</p> +<p class="i1">With blood upon her wings,</p> +<p>Amid the highest branches,</p> +<p class="i1">And this is what she sings: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">323</a></span></p> +<p>'Ill fares the foolish maiden</p> +<p class="i1">Who trusts a stranger's fibs.</p> +<p>She'd better take a cudgel</p> +<p class="i1">And break his ugly ribs.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The dance for "Elisa of Mambrú" begins merrily, and +soon saddens to a funereal pace.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"In Madrid was born a maiden—carabí!</p> +<p>Daughter of a general—carabí, hurí, hurá!"</p> +</div> + +<p>The song goes on to tell of Elisa's beautiful hair, which her +aunt dressed so gently for her with a golden comb and crystal +curling-pins, and how Elisa died and was carried to church in +an elegant coffin, and how a little bird used to perch upon her +grave and chirp, <i>pio</i>, <i>pio</i>.</p> + +<p>Mambrú himself is the pathetic hero of Spanish childhood. +This Mambrú for whom the little ones from Aragon to Andalusia +pipe so many simple elegies, the Mambrú sung by Trilby, +is not the English Marlborough to them, but, be he lord or +peasant, one of their very own.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Mambrú is gone to serve the king,</p> +<p>And comes no more by fall or spring.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"We've looked until our eyes are dim.</p> +<p>Will no one give us word of him?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"You'd know him for his mother's son</p> +<p>By peasant dress of Aragon.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"You'd know him for my husband dear</p> +<p>By broidered kerchief on his spear.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The one I broider now is wet.</p> +<p>Oh, may I see him wear it yet!" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">324</a></span></p> +</div> +</div> +<p>At the end of this song, as of the following, the little +dancers throw themselves on the ground, as if in despair.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Mambrú went forth to battle.</p> +<p class="i2">Long live Love!</p> +<p>I listen still for his coming feet.</p> +<p>The rose on the rose bush blossoms sweet.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"He will come back by Easter.</p> +<p class="i2">Long live Love!</p> +<p>He will come back by Christmas-tide.</p> +<p>The rose on the bush has drooped and died.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Down the road a page is riding.</p> +<p class="i2">Long live Love!</p> +<p>'Oh, what are the tidings that you bear?'</p> +<p>The rose on the bush is budding fair.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"'Woe is me for my tidings!'</p> +<p class="i2">Long live Love!</p> +<p>'Mambrú lies cold this many a morn.'</p> +<p>Ay, for a rose bush sharp with thorn!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"A little bird is chirping.</p> +<p class="i2">Long live Love!</p> +<p>In the withered bush where no more buds blow,</p> +<p>The bird is chirping a note of woe."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>A game that I often watched blithe young Granadines playing +under the gray shadow of Alhambra walls, seems to be a +Spanish version of "London Bridge is Falling Down." Two +children are chosen to be Rose and Pink. These form an +arch with their uplifted arms, through which run the other +children in a line, headed by the Mother. A musical dialogue +is maintained throughout. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">325</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o5">"<i>Rose and Pink.</i></p> +<p>To the viper of love, that hides in flowers,</p> +<p class="i2">The only way lies here.</p> +<p class="o4"><i>Mother.</i></p> +<p>Then here I pass and leave behind</p> +<p class="i2">One little daughter dear.</p> +<p class="o4"><i>Rose and Pink.</i></p> +<p>Shall the first one or the last</p> +<p class="i2">Be captive of our chain?</p> +<p class="o4"><i>Mother.</i></p> +<p>Oh, the first one runs too lightly.</p> +<p class="i2">'Tis the last that shall remain.</p> +<p class="o4"><i>Chorus.</i></p> +<p >Pass on, oho! Pass on, aha!</p> +<p>By the gate of Alcalá!"</p> +</div> + +<p>The last child is caught by the falling arms and is asked +whether she will go with Rose or Pink. She shyly whispers +her choice, taking her stand behind her elected leader, whom +she clasps about the waist. When all the children of the line +have been successively caught in the falling arch, and have +taken their places behind either Rose or Pink, the game ends +in a grand tugging match. Rose and Pink hold hands as long +as they can, while the two lines try to drag them apart. All +the while, until the very last, the music ripples on:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o5">"<i>Rose and Pink.</i></p> +<p>Let the young mind make its choice,</p> +<p class="i1">As young minds chance to think.</p> +<p>Now is the Rose your leader,</p> +<p class="i1">Or go you with the Pink?</p> +<p>Let the young heart make its choice</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">326</a></span> +<p class="i1">By laws the young heart knows.</p> +<p>Now is the Pink your leader,</p> +<p class="i1">Or go you with the Rose?</p> +<p class="o4"><i>Chorus.</i></p> +<p>Pass on, oho! Pass on, aha!</p> +<p>By the gate of Alcalá!"</p> +</div> + +<p>Another favorite is "Golden Ear-rings." Here the +Mother, this time a Queen, sits in a chair, supposedly a +throne, and close before her, on the floor, sits the youngest +daughter; before this one, the next youngest, and so on, in +order of age. Two other children, holding a handkerchief by +the corners, walk up and down the line, one on one side and +one on the other, so passing the handkerchief above the heads +of the seated princesses. Then ensues the musical dialogue +between these two suitors and the Queen.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1"> +"'We've come from France, my lady,</p> +<p class="i1">And Portugal afar.</p> +<p>We've heard of your fair daughters,</p> +<p class="i1">And very fair they are.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">'Be they fair or no, señores,</p> +<p class="i1">It's none of your concern,</p> +<p>For God has given me bread for all,</p> +<p class="i1">And given me hands to earn.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">'Then we depart, proud lady,</p> +<p class="i1">To find us brides elsewhere.</p> +<p>The daughters of the Moorish king</p> +<p class="i1">Our wedding rings shall wear.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">'Come back, my sweet señores!</p> +<p class="i1">Bear not so high a crest.</p> +<p>You may take my eldest daughter,</p> +<p class="i1">But leave me all the rest.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">327</a></span> +The dialogue is transferred to one of the suitors and to the +princess at the farther end of the line, on whose head the +handkerchief now rests.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Will you come with me, my Onion?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Fie! that's a kitchen smell.'</p> +<p>'Will you come with me, my Rosebud?'</p> +<p class="i1">'Ay, gardens please me well.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>In similar fashion all the daughters are coaxed away until +only the youngest remains, but she proves obdurate. They +may call her Parsley or Pink; it makes no difference. So the +suitors resort to bribes, the last proving irresistible.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'We'll buy you a French missal.'</p> +<p class="i1">'I have a book in Latin.'</p> +<p>'In taffeta we'll dress you.'</p> +<p class="i1">'My clothes are all of satin.'</p> +<p>'You shall ride upon a donkey.'</p> +<p class="i1">'I ride in coaches here.'</p> +<p>'We'll give you golden ear-rings.'</p> +<p class="i1">'Farewell, my mother dear.'"</p> +</div> + +<p>In some of the many variants of this game, the Queen herself, +adequate as she may be to earning her own living, is +wooed and won at last.</p> + +<p>I have not met with fairy-lore among these children's +carols. The only fairy known to Spain appears to be a sort +of spiritualistic brownie, who tips over tables and rattles chairs +in empty rooms by night. The grown-up men who write of +him say he frightens women and children. He can haunt a +house as effectually as an old-time ghost, and a <i>Casa del Duende</i> +may go begging for other tenants. One poor lady, who went +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">328</a></span> +to all the trouble of moving to escape from him, was leaning +over the balcony of her new home,—so the story goes,—to +see the last cartful of furniture drive up, when a tiny man in +scarlet waved a feathered cap to her from the very top of the +load and called, "Yes, señora, we are all here. We have +moved."</p> + +<p>So the childish imagination of Spain, shut out from fairyland, +makes friends with the saints in such innocent, familiar +way as well might please even Ribera's anchorites. The +adventurous small boy about to take a high jump pauses to +pray:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Saint Magdalene,</p> +<p>Don't let me break my thigh!</p> +<p>Oh, Saint Thomas,</p> +<p>Help this birdie fly!"</p> +</div> + +<p>The little girls express decided preferences for one saint +over another.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"Old San Antón,</p> +<p class="i2">What has he done?</p> +<p>Put us in the corner every one.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"San Sebastián</p> +<p class="i2">Is a nice young man.</p> +<p>He takes us to walk and gives us a fan."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Santa Rita is best at finding lost needles, and San Pantaleón +is a humorist.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i1-6">"San Pantaleón,</p> +<p class="i2">Are twenty and one</p> +<p>Children enough for an hour of fun</p> +<p class="i2">Slippers of iron</p> +<p class="i2">Donkey must try on. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">329</a></span></p> +<p class="i2">Moors with their pages</p> +<p class="i2">Ride in gold stages.</p> +<p class="i2">But if you want a</p> +<p class="i2">Girdle, Infanta,</p> +<p class="i2">Cucurucú,</p> +<p class="i2">'Bout-face with you!"</p> +</div> + +<p>At this one of the children dancing in circle whirls around, +remaining in her place, but with back turned to the centre +and arms crossed over her breast, although her hands still +hold those of her nearest neighbors. The rhyme is sung over +and over, until all the little figures have thus turned about +and the circle is dancing under laughable difficulties.</p> + +<p>But the dearest saint of all is San Serení. Two of the +best-known games are under his peculiar blessing. One of +these is of the genuine Kindergarten type, the children dancing +in a circle through the first two lines of each stanza, but then +loosing hands to imitate, in time to the music, the suggested +action.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i1-6">"San Serení,</p> +<p>The holy—holy-hearted!</p> +<p class="i2">Thus for thee</p> +<p>The shoemakers are cobbling.</p> +<p class="i2">Thus, thus, thus!</p> +<p class="i2">Thus it pleases us."</p> +</div> + +<p>Even so it pleases seamstresses to stitch, laundresses to wash, +carpenters to saw, silversmiths to tap, ironsmiths to pound, +and little folks to dance, all for "San Serení de la buena, +buena vida." In the second game, a gymnastic exercise, whose +four movements are indicated in the four stanzas, he is apostrophized +as "San Serení del Monte, San Serení cortés." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">330</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"San Serení of the Mountain,</p> +<p class="i1">Our saint of courtesy,</p> +<p>I, as a good Christian,</p> +<p class="i1">Will fall upon my knee.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"San Serení of the Mountain,</p> +<p class="i1">Where the strong winds pass,</p> +<p>I, as a good Christian,</p> +<p class="i1">Will seat me on the grass.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"San Serení of the Mountain,</p> +<p class="i1">Where the white clouds fly,</p> +<p>I, as a good Christian,</p> +<p class="i1">Upon the ground will lie.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"San Serení of the Mountain,</p> +<p class="i1">Where earth and heaven meet,</p> +<p>I, as a good Christian,</p> +<p class="i1">Will spring upon my feet."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>With the legend of St. Katharine and her martyrdom +childish fancy has played queer caprices.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"In Cadiz was a wean—ah!</p> +<p>The gentlest ever seen—ah!</p> +<p>Her name was Catalina.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>Her name was Catalina.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Her father, Moslem cruel,</p> +<p>He made her bring in fuel.</p> +<p>Her mother fed her gruel.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>Her mother fed her gruel. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">331</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"They beat her Tuesday, Wednesday,</p> +<p>They beat her Thursday, Friday,</p> +<p>They beat her Saturday, Monday.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>They beat her hardest Sunday.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Once bade her wicked sire</p> +<p>She make a wheel most dire,</p> +<p>Of scissors, knives, and fire.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>Of scissors, knives, and fire.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The noble Christian neighbors,</p> +<p>In pity of her labors,</p> +<p>Brought silver swords and sabres.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>Brought silver swords and sabres.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"By noon her task was ended,</p> +<p>And on that wheel all splendid</p> +<p>Her little knee she bended.</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>Her little knee she bended.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Then down a stair of amber</p> +<p>She saw the cherubs clamber:</p> +<p>'Come rest in our blue chamber.'</p> +<p class="i3">Ay, so!</p> +<p>She rests in their blue chamber."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Little Spaniards are not too intolerant to make a play-fellow +of the Devil. In one of their pet games, the children +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">332</a></span> +form in line, with the invaluable Mother in charge. To each +child she secretly gives the name of a color. Then an Angel +comes in with a flying motion and calls, for instance, "Purple!" +But there is no Purple in the company. It is then +the Devil's turn, who rushes in, usually armed with a table-fork, +and roars for "Green." There is a Green in the line, +and she has to follow the Demon, while the Angel tries again. +All right-minded spectators hope that the Angel will have the +longer array at the last.</p> + +<p>The Virgin's well-beloved name comes often into the +children's songs.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"For studying my lessons,</p> +<p class="i1">So as not to be a dunce,</p> +<p>Papa gave me eight dollars,</p> +<p class="i1">That I mean to spend at once.</p> +<p>Four for my dolly's necklace,</p> +<p class="i1">Two for a collar fine,</p> +<p>And one to buy a candle</p> +<p class="i1">For Our Lady's shrine."</p> +</div> + +<p>Even the supreme solemnity of the Wafer borne through +the kneeling streets cannot abash the trustful gaze of childhood.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,</p> +<p class="i1">So gallant and so gay?'</p> +<p>'I am going to a dying man</p> +<p class="i1">To wash his sins away.</p> +<p>And if I find him sorry</p> +<p class="i1">For the evil he has done,</p> +<p>Though his sins are more than the sands of the sea,</p> +<p class="i1">I'll pardon every one.' +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">333</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,</p> +<p class="i1">So gallant and so gay?'</p> +<p>'I'm coming back from a dying man</p> +<p class="i1">Whose sins are washed away.</p> +<p>Because I found him sorry</p> +<p class="i1">For the evil he had done,</p> +<p>Though his sins were more than the sands of the sea,</p> +<p class="i1">I've pardoned every one.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The affairs of State as well as of Church have left their +traces on the children's play. As the little ones dance in +circle, their piping music tells a confused tale of Spanish history +within these latter days.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"In Madrid there is a palace,</p> +<p class="i1">As bright as polished shell,</p> +<p>And in it lives a lady</p> +<p class="i1">They call Queen Isabel.</p> +<p>Not for count nor duke nor marquis</p> +<p class="i1">Her father would she sell,</p> +<p>For not all the gold in Spain could buy</p> +<p class="i1">The crown of Isabel.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"One day when she was feasting</p> +<p class="i1">Within this palace grand,</p> +<p>A lad of Aragon walked in</p> +<p class="i1">And seized her by the hand.</p> +<p>Through street and square he dragged her</p> +<p class="i1">To a dreary prison cell,</p> +<p>And all that weary way she wept,</p> +<p class="i1">The lady Isabel.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"'For whom art weeping, lady?</p> +<p class="i1">What gives thy spirit pain? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">334</a></span></p> +<p>If thou weepest for thy brothers,</p> +<p class="i1">They will not come again.</p> +<p>If thou weepest for thy father,</p> +<p class="i1">He lies 'neath sheet of stone.'</p> +<p>'For these I am not weeping,</p> +<p class="i1">But for sorrows of mine own.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'I want a golden dagger.'</p> +<p class="i1">'A golden dagger! Why?'</p> +<p>'To cut this juicy pear in two.</p> +<p class="i1">Of thirst I almost die.'</p> +<p>We gave the golden dagger.</p> +<p class="i1">She did not use it well.</p> +<p>Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,</p> +<p class="i1">My lady Isabel."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>These dancing circles keep in memory the assassination of +Marshal Prim.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"As he came from the Cortes,</p> +<p class="i1">Men whispered to Prim,</p> +<p>'Be wary, be wary,</p> +<p class="i1">For life and for limb.'</p> +<p>Then answered the General,</p> +<p class="i1">'Come blessing, come bane,</p> +<p>I live or I die</p> +<p class="i1">In the service of Spain.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"In the <i>Calle del Turco</i>,</p> +<p class="i1">Where the starlight was dim,</p> +<p>Nine cowardly bullets</p> +<p class="i1">Gave greeting to Prim.</p> +<p>The best of the Spaniards</p> +<p class="i1">Lay smitten and slain,</p> +<p>And the new King he died for</p> +<p class="i1">Came weeping to Spain." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">335</a></span></p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>This new king, Amadeo, is funnily commemorated in +another dancing ditty, "Four Sweethearts."</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"Maiden, if they ask thee,</p> +<p class="i2">Maiden, if they ask thee,</p> +<p>If thou hast a sweetheart—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">If thou hast a sweetheart,</p> +<p class="i2">Answer without blushing,</p> +<p class="i2">Answer without blushing,</p> +<p>'Four sweethearts are mine—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">Four sweethearts are mine.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"'The first he is the son of—</p> +<p class="i2">The first he is the son of</p> +<p>A confectioner—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">A confectioner.</p> +<p class="i2">Sugar-plums he gives me,</p> +<p class="i2">Sugar-plums he gives me,</p> +<p>Caramels and creams—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">Caramels and creams.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"'The second is the son of—</p> +<p class="i2">The second is the son of</p> +<p>An apothecary—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">An apothecary.</p> +<p class="i2">Syrups sweet he gives me,</p> +<p class="i2">Syrups sweet he gives me,</p> +<p>For my little cough—<i>hack</i>, <i>hack</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">For my little cough.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"'The third he is the son of—</p> +<p class="i2">The third he is the son of</p> +<p>The barber to the court—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">The barber to the court. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">336</a></span></p> +<p class="i2">Powders rare he gives me,</p> +<p class="i2">Powders rare he gives me,</p> +<p>And a yellow wig—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">And a yellow wig.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1-6">"'The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret,</p> +<p class="i2">The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret.</p> +<p>Our new Italian king—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">Our new Italian king.</p> +<p class="i2">He gives me silk and satin,</p> +<p class="i2">He gives me silk and satin,</p> +<p>Velvet, gold, and gems—<i>ha</i>, <i>ha</i>!</p> +<p class="i2">Velvet, gold, and gems.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Strangest of all is the dramatic little dialogue, which +one with an ear for children's voices may hear any day in +Madrid, telling of the death of Queen Mercedes.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1"> +"'Whither away, young King Alfonso?</p> +<p class="i1">(Oh, for pity!) Whither away?'</p> +<p>'I go seeking my queen Mercedes,</p> +<p class="i1">For I have not seen her since yesterday.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'But we have seen your queen Mercedes,</p> +<p class="i1">Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid,</p> +<p>While four dukes all gently bore her</p> +<p class="i1">Through the streets of sad Madrid.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'Oh, how her face was calm as heaven!</p> +<p class="i1">Oh, how her hands were ivory white!</p> +<p>Oh, how she wore the satin slippers</p> +<p class="i1">That you kissed on the bridal night!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace.</p> +<p class="i1">Black are the suits the nobles don. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">337</a></span></p> +<p>In letters of gold on the wall 'tis written:</p> +<p class="i1"><i>Her Majesty is dead and gone</i>.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso,</p> +<p class="i1">Drooped like an eagle with broken wing,</p> +<p>But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'</p> +<p class="i1">And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Spanish wiseheads say that the children's choral games are +already perishing, that the blight of schools and books is passing +upon the child-life of the Peninsula, and soon there will +be no more time for play. The complaint of the <i>niñas</i> is +much to the same effect, yet they wear their rue with a +difference:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Not even in the <i>Prado</i></p> +<p class="i1">Can little maidens play,</p> +<p>Because those staring, teasing boys</p> +<p class="i1">Are always in the way.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"They might be romping with us,</p> +<p class="i1">For they're only children yet,</p> +<p>But they won't play at anything</p> +<p class="i1">Except a cigarette.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Now let me tell you truly:</p> +<p class="i1">If things go on like this,</p> +<p>And midgets care for nothing</p> +<p class="i1">But to walk and talk and kiss,</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"No plays will cheer the <i>Prado</i></p> +<p class="i1">In future times, for then</p> +<p>The little boys of seven</p> +<p class="i1">Will all be married men."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXI</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">338</a></span></p> +<p class="center">"O LA SEÑORITA!"</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2"> +"Since the English education came into fashion, there is not a maiden left who can +feel true love."—<span class="smcap">Alarcón.</span></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">D</span>uring my stifling night journey from Madrid to +the north I had much chat with Castilian and +German ladies in the carriage about Spanish girls. +Our talk turned especially on their reading, so reminding +me of an incident of the past spring. On an Andalusian +balcony I once found a little girl curled up in the coolest +corner and poring over a shabby, paper-bound book. On +my expressing interest in the volume, she presented it at +once, according to the code of Spanish manners. "The +book is at the disposal of your worship." But as the bundle +of tattered leaves was not only so precious to her own small +worship, but also greatly in demand among her worshipful +young mates, whose constant borrowing seemed a strain even +on Andalusian courtesy, I retained it merely long enough to +note the title and general character. The next time I entered +a book-shop I expended ten cents for this specimen of juvenile +literature—"the best-selling book in Seville," if the clerk's +word may be taken—and have it before me as I write. On +the cover is stamped a picture of two graceful señoritas, perusing, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">339</a></span> +apparently, this very work, "The Book of the Enamored +and the Secretary of Lovers," and throughout the two hundred +pages are scattered cheap cuts, never indecent, but +suggesting violent ardors of passion—embracings, kissings, +gazings, pleadings, with hearts, arrows, torches, and other +ancient and honorable heraldry of Cupid. The title-page +announces that this is a fifth edition of ten thousand copies.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_406" id="i_406"></a> +<img src="images/i_406.jpg" width="418" height="511" alt="The Divine Shepherd" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Divine Shepherd</span></p> +</div> + +<p>The opening section is on "Love and Beauty," enumerating, +by the way, the "thirty points" essential to a perfect +woman. "Three things white—skin, teeth, and hands. +Three black—eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Three rosy—lips, +cheeks, and nails." But warning is duly given that +even the thirty points of beauty do not make up a sum total +of perfection without the mystic, all-harmonizing quality of +charm.</p> + +<p>Next in order are the several sets of directions for winning +the affections of maid, wife, and widow, with a collection of +edifying sentiments from various saints and wits concerning +widows. Descriptions of wedding festivities follow, with a +glowing dissertation on kisses, "the banquet-cups of love." +After this stands a Castilian translation of an impassioned +Arab love-song with the burden, <i>Todo es amor</i>. Maxims on +love, culled chiefly from French authorities, are succeeded by +an eighteenth-century love-catechism:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>"<i>Question.</i> Art thou a lover?</p> +<p><i>Answer.</i> Yes, by the grace of Cupid.</p> +<p><i>Question.</i> What is a lover?</p> +<p><i>Answer.</i> A lover is one who, having made true and faithful declaration +of his passion, seeks the means of gaining the love of her whom +he adores."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">340</a></span> + +This is the first lesson. The second treats of the five +signs of love, the third of love's duties, the fourth gives the +orison of lovers—a startling adaptation of the Lord's Prayer—and +their creed: "I believe in Cupid, absolute Lord of +Love, who gives to lovers all their joys, and in her whom I +love most, for most lovable is she, on whom I think without +ceasing, and for whom I would sacrifice gladly my honor and +my life."</p> + +<p>There is nothing here, it will be noticed, of the Englishman's +proud exception:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"I could not love thee, Dear, so much,</p> +<p class="i1">Loved I not honor more."</p> +</div> + +<p>Love has its own beatitudes, too. "Blessed are they who +love sincerely. Blessed are they of merry mood. Blessed are +lovers who have patience. Blessed are the rich, for love +delights to spend."</p> + +<p>A "Divination of Dreams," "copied from an ancient +manuscript found in the ruins of the convent of San Prudencio, +in Clavijo," that famous battle-ground where St. +James first trampled the Moors, next engages attention. +To dream of a fan is sign of a coming flirtation; of a banner, +success in war; of a woman's singing, sorrow and loss; +of stars, fair fortune in love; of fire, good luck at cards; of +a black cat, trouble from the mother-in-law; of closed eyes, +your child in mortal peril; of birds, joy and sweet content; +of a ghost, ill health; of scissors, a lover's quarrel; of wine, +a cheating Frenchman; of shoes, long journeys; of angels, +good tidings from far away. Some of these omens are a +surprise to the uninitiated reader. It is bad luck to behold +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">341</a></span> +in a dream images of Christ and the Virgin. A church, seen +from within, denotes alms; from without, death. To dream +of the altar arrayed for high mass betokens grave misfortune. +Other omens are significant of Spanish discontents. To +dream of a Jesuit brings miseries and betrayals; of a military +officer, tyranny and brutality; of a king, danger; of a republic, +"abundance, happiness, honors, and work well recompensed." +Often these divinations run into rhyme, as:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Dream of God at midnight dim,</p> +<p>And by day you'll follow Him."</p> +</div> + +<p>The next section of this Complete Guide is given over to +snatches of love-song, which Andalusian children know by +heart. These five are fairly representative:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Mine is a lover well worth the loving.</p> +<p class="i1">Under my balcony he cries:</p> +<p>'You have maddened me with your grace of moving,</p> +<p class="i1">And the beaming of your soft black eyes.'"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Though thou go to the highest heaven,</p> +<p class="i1">And God's hand draw thee near,</p> +<p>The saints will not love thee half so well</p> +<p class="i1">As I have loved thee here."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If I had a blossom rare,</p> +<p>I would twine it in thy hair,</p> +<p>Though God should stoop and ask for it</p> +<p>To make His heaven more exquisite."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Such love for thee, sent forth from me,</p> +<p class="i1">Bears on such iron gate</p> +<p>That I, used so, no longer know</p> +<p class="i1">Whether I love or hate." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">342</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The learnéd are not wise,</p> +<p class="i1">The saints are not in bliss;</p> +<p>They have not looked into your eyes,</p> +<p class="i1">Nor felt your burning kiss."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Then comes a "New Dictionary of Love," defining some +two hundred doubtful terms in Cupid's lexicon, as <i>forever</i>, <i>no</i>, +<i>unselfish</i>. After this we are treated to the language of fan +flirtation, of handkerchief flirtation, of flower flirtation, and +"the clock of Flora," by which lovers easily make appointments,—one, +two, three, being numbered in rose, pink, tulip, +and so on. A cut of a youth toiling at a manuscript-laden +desk introduces some fifty pages of model love-letters, which +seem, to the casual eye, to cover all contingencies. A selection +of verses used for adding a grace to birthday and saint-day +gifts comes after, and this all-sufficient compendium +concludes with a "Lovers' Horoscope."</p> + +<p>A single illustration of the sort of reading that Spanish +girls find in their way should not, of course, be pressed too +far, and yet any one who had seen the pretty group of heads +clustered for hours over these very pages on that shaded +balcony would not deny the book significance. A taste for +the best reading is not cultivated in Spanish girls, even where +the treasures of that great Castilian literature are accessible +to them. Convent education knows nothing of Calderon. +As for books especially adapted to girlhood, we have just +examined a sample.</p> + +<p>Love and religion are the only subjects with which a +señorita is expected to concern herself, and the life of the +convent is often a second choice. Even when a Spanish girl +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">343</a></span> +wins her crown of wifehood and motherhood, her ignorance +and poverty of thought tell heavily against the most essential +interests of family life. The Spanish bride is often a child +in years. Pacheco's direction for painting the Immaculate +Conception ran, "Our Lady is to be pictured in the flower +of her age, from twelve to thirteen." This was three centuries +ago, but Spain changes slowly. The girl of to-day, nevertheless, +marries later than her mother married. I remember +one weary woman of forty with eighteen children in their +graves and the three who were living physical and mental +weaklings. She told us of a friend who married at fourteen +and used to leave her household affairs in confusion while she +stole away to a corner to play with her dolls. Her husband, +a grave lawyer in middle life, would come home to dinner +and find his helpmeet romping with the other children in +the <i>plaza</i>.</p> + +<p>The Spanish girl is every whit as fascinating as her +musical, cloaked gallant confides to her iron-grated lattice. +Indeed, these amorous serenades hardly do her justice, blending +as she does French animation with Italian fervor. In +Andalusia she dances with a grace that makes every other +use of life seem vain. And when she bargains, there is +nothing sordid about it. Her haggling is a social condescension +that at once puts the black-eyed young salesman at her +mercy.</p> + +<p>"But the fan seems to me the least bit dear, señor."</p> + +<p>He shrugs his shoulders and flings out his arm in protest.</p> + +<p>"Ah, señorita! You see not how beautiful the work is. +I am giving it away at six <i>pesetas</i>."</p> + +<p>She lifts her eyebrows half incredulously, all bewitchingly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">344</a></span></p> + +<p>"At five <i>pesetas</i>, señor."</p> + +<p>He runs his hand through his black hair in chivalrous +distress.</p> + +<p>"But the peerless work, señorita! And this other, too! +I sacrifice it at four <i>pesetas</i>."</p> + +<p>She touches both fans lightly.</p> + +<p>"You will let us have the two at seven <i>pesetas</i>, señor?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes dance over his confusion. He catches the gleam, +laughs back, throws up his hands.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bueno</i>, señorita. At what you please."</p> + +<p>It takes a Spaniard to depict a throng of Spanish ladies,—"fiery +carnations or starry jasmine in their hair, cheeks like +blush roses, eyes black or blue, with lashes quivering like +butterflies; cherry lips, a glance as fickle as the light nod of +a flower in the wind, and smiles that reveal teeth like pearls; +the all-pervading fan with its wordless telegraphy in a thousand +colors." In such a throng one sees not only the typical +"eyes of midnight," but those "emerald eyes" which Cervantes +knew, and veritable pansy-colored eyes dancing with +more than pansy mischief. But the voices! In curious +contrast to the tones of Spanish men, soft, coaxing, caressing, +the voices of the women are too often high and harsh, suggesting, +in moments of excitement, the scream of the Andalusian +parrot. "O Jesus, what a fetching hat! The feather, the +feather, see, see, see, <i>see</i> the feather! Mary Most Pure, +but it must have cost four or five <i>pesetas</i>! Ah, my God, +don't I wish it were mine!" The speaker who gets the lead +in a chattering knot of Spanish women is a prodigy not only +of volubility, but of general muscular action. She keeps time +to her shrill music with hands, fan, elbows, shoulders, eyebrows, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">345</a></span> +knees. She dashes her sentences with inarticulate +whirs and whistles, and countless pious interjections: <i>Gracias +á Dios! Santa Maria! O Dios mio!</i> The others, out-screamed +and out-gesticulated, clutch at her, shriek at her, fly +at her, and still, by some mysterious genius, maintain courtesy, +grace, and dignity through it all. Yet it is true that the vulgar-rich +variety is especially obnoxious among Spaniards. An +overdressed Spanish woman is frightfully overdressed, her +voice is maddening, her gusts of mirth and anger are painfully +uncontrolled. This, however, is the exception, and refinement +the rule.</p> + +<p>The legendary Spanish lady is forever sitting at a barred +window, or leaning from a balcony, coquetting with a fan and +dropping arch responses to the "caramel phrases" of her +guitar-tinkling cavalier.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"You're always saying you'd die for me.</p> +<p class="i1">I doubt it nevertheless;</p> +<p>But prove it true by dying,</p> +<p class="i1">And then I'll answer yes."</p> +</div> + +<p>For, loving as they are, Spanish sweethearts take naturally +to teasing. "When he calls me his Butterfly, I call him my +Elephant. Then his eyes are like black fire, for he is ashamed +to be so big, but in a twinkling I can make him smile again." +The scorn of these dainty creatures for the graces of the +ruling sex is not altogether affected. I shall not forget the +expression with which a Sevillian belle, an exquisite dancer, +watched her <i>novio</i> as, red and perspiring, he flung his stout +legs valiantly through the mazes of the <i>jota</i>. "Men are uglier +than ever when they are dancing, aren't they?" she remarked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">346</a></span> +to me with all the serenity in the world. And a bewitching +maiden in Madrid, as I passed some favorable comment upon +the photographs of her two brothers, gave a deprecatory shrug. +"Handsome? <i>Ca!</i>" (Which is <i>no</i> many times intensified.) +"But they are not so ugly, either,—<i>for men</i>."</p> + +<p>The style of compliment addressed by <i>caballeros</i> to señoritas +is not like "the quality of mercy," but very much +strained indeed. "Your eyes are two runaway stars, that +would rather shine in your face than in heaven, but your +heart is harder than the columns of Solomon's temple. Your +father was a confectioner and rubbed your lips with honey-cakes." +Little Consuelo, or Lagrimas, or Milagros, or +Dolores, or Peligros laughs it off, "Ah, now you are throwing +flowers."</p> + +<p>The <i>coplas</i> of the wooer below the balcony are usually +sentimental.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"By night I go to the patio,</p> +<p class="i1">And my tears in the fountain fall,</p> +<p>To think that I love you so much,</p> +<p class="i1">And you love me not at all."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Sweetheart, little Sweetheart!</p> +<p class="i1">Love, my Love!</p> +<p>I can't see thy eyes</p> +<p class="i1">For the lashes above.</p> +<p>Eyes black as midnight,</p> +<p class="i1">Lashes black as grief!</p> +<p>O, my heart is thirsty</p> +<p class="i1">As a summer leaf."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If I could but be buried</p> +<p class="i1">In the dimple of your chin, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">347</a></span></p> +<p>I would wish, Dear, that dying</p> +<p class="i1">Might at once begin."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"If thou wilt be a white dove,</p> +<p class="i1">I will be a blue.</p> +<p>We'll put our bills together</p> +<p class="i1">And coo, coo, coo."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Sometimes the sentiment is relieved by a realistic touch.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Very anxious is the flea,</p> +<p class="i1">Caught between finger and thumb.</p> +<p>More anxious I, on watch for thee,</p> +<p class="i1">Lest thou shouldst not come."</p> +</div> + +<p>And occasionally the lover, flouted overmuch, retorts in +kind.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Don't blame me that eyes are wet,</p> +<p class="i1">For I only pay my debt.</p> +<p>I've taught you to cry and fret,</p> +<p class="i1">But first you taught me to forget."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"I'll not have you, Little Torment,</p> +<p class="i1">I don't want you, Little Witch.</p> +<p>Let your mother light four candles</p> +<p class="i1">And stand you in a niche."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The average Spaniard is well satisfied with his señora as she +is. He did her extravagant homage as a suitor, he treats her +with kindly indulgence as a husband, but he expects of her a +life utterly bounded by the <i>casa</i>. "What is a woman?" we +heard one say. "A bottle of wine." And those few words +tell the story why, with all their charm, home-love, and piety, +the Spanish women have not availed to keep the social life of +the Peninsula sound and sweet. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">348</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"But to admire them as our gallants do,</p> +<p>'Oh, what an eye she hath! Oh, dainty hand!</p> +<p>Rare foot and leg!' and leave the mind respectless,</p> +<p>This is a plague that in both men and women</p> +<p>Makes such pollution of our earthly being."</p> +</div> + +<p>The life of the convent is attractive to girls of mystic temperament, +like the <i>Maria</i> of Valdés, but many of these lively +daughters of the sun regard it with frank disfavor. One of +the songs found in the mouths of little girls all over the Peninsula +is amusingly expressive of the childish aversion to so +dull a destiny.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"I wanted to be married</p> +<p class="i1">To a sprightly barber-lad,</p> +<p>But my parents wished to put me</p> +<p class="i1">In the convent dim and sad.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"One afternoon of summer</p> +<p class="i1">They walked me out in state,</p> +<p>And as we turned a corner,</p> +<p class="i1">I saw the convent gate.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Out poured all the solemn nuns</p> +<p class="i1">In black from toe to chin,</p> +<p>Each with a lighted candle,</p> +<p class="i1">And made me enter in.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The file was like a funeral;</p> +<p class="i1">The door shut out the day;</p> +<p>They sat me on a marble stool</p> +<p class="i1">And cut my hair away.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The pendants from my ears they took,</p> +<p class="i1">And the ring I loved to wear,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">349</a></span> +<p>But the hardest loss of all to brook</p> +<p class="i1">Was my mat of raven hair.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If I run out to the garden</p> +<p class="i1">And pluck the roses red,</p> +<p>I have to kneel in church until</p> +<p class="i1">Twice twenty prayers are said.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"If I steal up to the tower</p> +<p class="i1">And clang the convent bell,</p> +<p>The holy Abbess utters words</p> +<p class="i1">I do not choose to tell.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"My parents, O my parents,</p> +<p class="i1">Unkindly have you done,</p> +<p>For I was never meant to be</p> +<p class="i1">A dismal little nun."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I came but slightly in contact with Spanish nuns. Among +the figures that stand out clear in memory are a kindly old +sister, at Seville, in the <i>Hospital de la Caridad</i>, who paused +midway in her exhibition of the famous Murillos there to wipe +her eyes and grieve that we were Protestants, and an austere, +beautiful woman in <i>La Cuna</i>, or Foundling Asylum of Seville, +who caressed a crying baby with the passionate tenderness of +motherhood denied. The merriest Spanish <i>hermana</i> of our +acquaintance we encountered on the French side of the Pyrenees. +At Anglet, halfway between Biarritz and Bayonne, is +the Convent of the Bernardines, Silent Sisters. The visitor +sees them only from a distance, robed in white flannel, with +large white crosses gleaming on the back of their hooded +capes. These, too, were originally white, and the hoods so +deep that not even the profile of the features could be seen; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">350</a></span> +but the French Government, disturbed by the excessive death-rate +in this order, recently had the audacity to interfere and +give summary orders that the hoods be cut away, so that the +healthful sunshine might visit those pale faces. The mandate +was obeyed, but, perhaps in sign of mournful protest, the new +hoods and capes are black as night. These women Trappists +may recite their prayers aloud, as they work in field or garden, +or over their embroidery frames, but they speak for human +hearing only once a year, when their closest family friends +may visit them and listen through a grating to what their +disused voices may yet be able to utter. From all other contact +with the world they are shielded by an outpost guard of +a few of the Servants of Mary, an industrious, self-supporting +sisterhood, whose own convent, half a mile away, is a refuge +for unwedded mothers and a home for unfathered children. +Hither the pitying sisters brought, a few days before our visit, +a wild-eyed girl whom they had found lying on one of the sea +rocks, waiting for the rising tide to cover her and her shame +together. The chief treasure of this nunnery, one regrets to +add, is the polished skull of Mary Magdalene.</p> + +<p>That one of the Servants of Mary who showed us over the +Trappist convent was a bright-eyed Spanish dame of many +winters, as natural a chatterbox as ever gossiped with the +neighbors in the sun. Her glee in this little opportunity for +conversation was enough to wring the heart of any lover of +old ladies. She walked as slowly as possible and detained us +on every conceivable pretext, reaching up on her rheumatic +tiptoes to pluck us red and white camellias, and pointing out, +with a lingering garrulity, the hardness of the cots in the bare, +cold little cells, the narrowness of the benches in the austere +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">351</a></span> +chapel, and, in the cheerless dining room, the floor of deep +sand, in which the Bernardines kneel throughout their Friday +dinner of bread and water. Longest of all, she kept us in +the cemetery, all spick and span, with close-set rows of nameless +graves, each with a cross shaped upon it in white seashells. +The dear old soul, in her coarse blue gown, with tidy white +kerchief and neatly darned black hood and veil, showed us the +grave of her own sister, adding, proudly, that her four remaining +sisters were all cloistered in various convents of Spain.</p> + +<p>"All six of us nuns," she said, "but my brother—no! +He has the dowries of us all and lives the life of the world. +Just think! I have two nephews in Toledo. I have never +seen them. My sister's grave is pretty, is it not? They let +me put flowers there. Oh, there are many families in Spain +like ours, where all the daughters are put into convents. Spain +is a very religious country. The sons? Not so often. Sometimes, +when there is a conscription, many young men become +priests to escape military service but it is the women who +are most devout in Spain."</p> + +<p>And after the rustic gate was shut on the sleeping-place of +the Bernardines, scarcely more silent and more dead beneath +the sod than above it, she still detained us with whispered hints +of distinguished Spanish ladies among those ghostly, far-off +figures that, pitchfork or pruning knife in hand, would fall +instantly upon their knees at the ringing of the frequent bell +for prayers. Spanish ladies, too, had given this French convent +many of its most costly treasures. We said good-by to +our guide near an elaborate shrine of the Madonna, which a +bereaved Spanish mother had erected with the graven request +that the nuns pray for the soul of her beloved dead. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">352</a></span></p> + +<p>"Even we Servants of Mary are not allowed to talk much +here," said in parting this most sociable of saints, clinging to +us with a toil-roughened, brown old hand. "It is a holy life, +but quiet—very quiet. I have been here forty-four years +this winter. My name is Sister Solitude."</p> + +<p>The nun whom I knew best was an exquisite little sister +just back from Manila. During several months I went to +her, in a Paris convent, twice or three times a week, for Spanish +lessons. The reception room in which I used to await +her coming shone not as with soap and water, but as with the +very essence of purity. The whiteness of the long, fine curtains +had something celestial about it. The only book in +sight, a bundle of well-worn leaves bound in crimson plush +and placed with precision in the centre of the gleaming +mahogany table, was a volume of classic French sermons,—the +first two being on Demons, and the next on Penance. +Further than this I never read; for very punctually the slight +figure, in violet skirt and bodice, with a white cross embroidered +upon the breast, swept softly down the hall. A heavy +purple cord and a large-beaded rosary depended from the waist. +In conversation she often raised her hand to press her ring, +sign of her sacred espousals, to her lips. Her type of face I +often afterward saw in Spain, but never again so perfect. Her +complexion was the richest southern brown, the eyes brightening +in excitement to vivid, flashing black. The eyebrows, +luxuriant even to heaviness, were nevertheless delicately outlined, +and the straight line of the white band emphasized their +graceful arch. The nose was massive for a woman's face, +and there was a slight shading of hair upon the upper lip. +The mouth and chin, though so daintily moulded, were strong. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">353</a></span> +Not the meek, religious droop of the eyelids could mask the +fire, vigor, vitality, intensity, that lay stored like so much +electricity behind the tranquil convent look.</p> + +<p>We would go for the lesson to a severe little chamber, +whose only ornament was a crucifix of olive wood fastened +against the wall. Then how those velvet eyes would glow +and sparkle in the eagerness of rushing speech! The little +sister loved to tell of her Manila experience, almost a welcome +break, I fancied, in the monotonous peace of cloister life. All +that Sunday morning, when the battle was on, the nuns maintained +their customary services, hearing above their prayers +and chants and the solemn diapason of the organ, the boom, +boom, boom of our wicked American cannon. For, according +to this naive historian, Catholic Spain, best beloved of +Our Lady among the nations of the earth, had labored long +in the Philippines to Christianize the heathen, when suddenly, +in the midst of those pious labors with which she was too +preoccupied to think of fitting out men-of-war and drilling +gunners, a pirate fleet bore down upon her and overthrew at +once the Spanish banner and the Holy Cross. Tears sparkled +through flame as the <i>hermanita</i> told of her beautiful convent +home, now half demolished. The sisters did not abandon it +until six weeks after the battle, but as the nunnery stood outside +the city walls, their superior judged it no safe abode for +Spanish ladies, and ordered them away. The French consul +arranged for their transport to Hongkong on a dirty little vessel, +where they had to stay on deck, the twenty-seven of them, +during their week's voyage, suffering from lack of proper shelter +and especially from thirst, the water supply running short +the second day out. But all this was joy of martyrdom. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">354</a></span></p> + +<p>"Is not Hongkong a very strange city?" I asked. +"Did it seem to you more like Manila than like Paris and +Madrid?"</p> + +<p>The little sister's voice was touched with prompt rebuke.</p> + +<p>"You speak after the fashion of the world. All cities look +alike to us. Ours is the life of the convent. It matters +nothing where the convent stands."</p> + +<p>Stimulated by reproof, I waxed impertinent. "Not even +if it stands within range of the guns? Now, truly, truly, +were you not the least bit frightened that morning of the +battle?"</p> + +<p>The sunny southern smile was a fleeting one, and left a +reminiscent shadow in the eyes.</p> + +<p>"Frightened? Oh, no! There were no guns between us +and Paradise. From early dawn we heard the firing, and hour +after hour we knelt before the altar and prayed to the Mother +of God to comfort the souls of the brave men who were dying +for <i>la patria</i>; but we were not frightened."</p> + +<p>There were strange jostlings of ideas in that cloistered cell, +especially when the dusk had stolen in between our bending +faces and the Spanish page.</p> + +<p>Once we talked of suicide. That morning it had been a +wealthy young Parisian who had paid its daily tribute to the +Seine.</p> + +<p>"What a horror!" gasped the little sister, clasping her +slender hands against her breast. "It is a mortal sin. And +how foolish! For if life is hard to bear, surely perdition is +harder."</p> + +<p>"It does not seem to me so strange in case of the poor," +I responded, waiving theology. "But a rich man, though his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">355</a></span> +own happiness fails, has still the power of making others +happy."</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I understand!" cried Little Manila, her eyes +like stars in the dimness. "The devil does not see truth as +the blessed spirits do, but sees falsehoods even as the world. +And so in his blindness he believes the soul of a rich man +more precious than the souls of the poor, and tempts the rich +man more than others. Yet when the devil has that soul, +will he find it made of gold?"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_423" id="i_423"></a> +<img src="images/i_423.jpg" width="602" height="415" alt="Madrid Royal Palace" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Madrid Royal Palace</span></p> +</div> + +<p>One chilly November afternoon, gray with a fog that had +utterly swallowed the Eiffel Tower above its first huge uprights, +which straddled disconsolately like legs forsaken of +their giant, she explained in a sudden rush of words why Spain +had been worsted in the war with America.</p> + +<p>"Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth. As with persons, +so with nations. Those that are not of His fold He +gives over to their fill of vainglory and greed and power, but +the Catholic nations He cleanses again and again in the bitter +waters of defeat—ah, in fire and blood! Yet the end is not +yet. The rod of His correction is upon Spain at this hour, +and the Faithful are glad in the very heart of sorrow, for even +so shall her sins be purged away, even so shall her coldness be +quickened, even so shall she be made ready for her everlasting +recompense."</p> + +<p>"And the poor Protestant nations?" I asked, between a +smile and a sigh.</p> + +<p>The little sister smiled back, but the Catholic eyes, for +all their courtly graciousness, were implacable.</p> + +<p>She was of a titled family and had passed a petted childhood +in Madrid. There she had been taken, on her seventh +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">356</a></span> +birthday, to a <i>corrida de toros</i>, but remembered it unpleasantly, +not because of the torture inflicted on the horses and bulls, +but because she had been frightened by the great beasts, +with their tossing horns and furious bellowing. Horns +always made her think of the devil, she said. From her +babyhood she had been afraid of horns.</p> + +<p>One day a mischievous impulse led me to inquire, in +connection with a chat about the Escorial, "And how do +you like Philip II?"</p> + +<p>The black eyes shot one ray of sympathetic merriment, +but the Spaniard and the nun were on their guard.</p> + +<p>"He was a very good Catholic," she replied demurely.</p> + +<p>"So was <i>Isabel la Católica</i>," I responded. "But don't +you think she may have been a trifle more agreeable?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she was a little more <i>simpática</i>," admitted the +<i>hermanita</i>, but that was her utmost concession. She would +not even allow that Philip had a sorry end.</p> + +<p>"If his body groaned, his soul was communing with the +Blessed Saints and paid no heed."</p> + +<p>At the corner of the street which led under the great +garden wall to the heavily barred gate of the convent was a +flower-stand. The shrewd, swift-tongued Madame in charge +well knew the look of the unwary, and usually succeeded in selling +me a cluster of drooping blossoms at twice the value of +the fresh, throwing in an extra leaf or stem at the close of +the bargain with an air of prodigal benevolence. The handful +of flowers would be smilingly accepted by the little sister, +but instantly laid aside nor favored with glance or touch +until the close of the visit, when they would be lifted again +with a winsome word of acknowledgment and carried away, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">357</a></span> +probably to spend their sweetness at the marble feet of the +Virgin. In vain I tried to coax from this scorner of God's +earth some sign of pleasure in the flowers themselves.</p> + +<p>"Don't you care for tea-roses?" "<i>Ah, el mundo pasa.</i> +But their color is exquisite."</p> + +<p>Yet her eyes did not turn to the poor posy for the two +hours following.</p> + +<p>"This mignonette has only the grace of sweetness."</p> + +<p>"It is a delicate scent, but it will not last. <i>El mundo +pasa.</i>"</p> + +<p>She held the sprays at arm's length for a moment, and then +laid them down on a mantel at the farther end of the room.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry these violets are not fresher."</p> + +<p>"But no! The touch of Time has not yet found them. +Still, it is only a question of to-morrow. <i>El mundo pasa.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, the world passes. But is it not good while it +lasts?"</p> + +<p>"The world good! No, no, and a thousand times no. +Behold it now at the end of the nineteenth century,—wars +and sorrows and bitter discontents, evil deeds and evil passions +everywhere. Do you see the peace of Christ in the +faces on the Paris streets? The blossoms of this earth, the +pleasures of this world, the affections of this life, all have +the taste of death. But here in God's own garden we live even +now His everlasting life."</p> + +<p>"You are always glad of your choice? You never miss +the friends of your childhood?"</p> + +<p>"Glad, glad, glad. Glad of my choice. Glad to see no +more the faces of father and mother. And for them, too, it +is great joy. For Catholic parents it is supreme delight to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">358</a></span> +give up their children to the Holy Church. The ways of +the world are full of slippery places, but when they leave us +here, they know that our feet are set on the very threshold +of heaven."</p> + +<p>Sometimes the slight form shivered in the violet habit, and +the dark foreign face looked out with touching weariness +from its frame of soft white folds.</p> + +<p>"You are cold? You are tired? Will you take my +cloak? Were the children troublesome to-day?"</p> + +<p>It was always the same answer: "<i>No importa. No importa.</i> +It matters not. Our life is not the life of flesh and +blood."</p> + +<p>And indeed, as I saw her in the Christmas service among +the other Spanish sisters, those lovely figures in white and +violet making obeisance before the altar until their veiled +foreheads almost touched the pavement, bowing and rising +again with the music like a field of lilies swaying in the breeze, +I felt that she was already a being of another world, before +she had known this. Over her had been chanted the prayers +for the dead. The strange ceremony of taking the veil had +been her burial rite. The convent seemed a ghost land +between earth and heaven.</p> + +<p>My <i>hermanita</i> belonged to one of the teaching orders, and +despite the strange blanks in her knowledge, for secular lore +had been, so far as possible, excluded from her education, she +was representative of the finer and more intelligent class of +Spanish nuns. In Granada I heard of the nuns chiefly as the +makers of those delicious <i>dulces</i>, sugared fruits, which were +indispensable to a child's saint-day, and there I was taught the +scoffing epitaph:— + +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_430" id="i_430"></a> +<img src="images/i_430.jpg" width="420" height="625" alt="The Royal Family" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Royal Family</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">359</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Here lies Sister Claribel,</p> +<p>Who made sweetmeats very well,</p> +<p>And passed her life in pious follies,</p> +<p>Such as dressing waxen dollies."</p> +</div> + +<p>To the spinster outside the nunnery Spain has little to +offer. Small heed is paid to her except by St. Elias, who, on +one day of Holy Week, walks about all Seville with a pen in +his hand, peering up at the balconies and making note of the +old maids. Since Andalusia expresses the theory of counterparts +by saying, "Every one has somewhere in the world +his half orange," the spinster can hardly hope for a well-rounded +life. Careers are not open to her. There are +"advanced women" in Spain, the most eminent being Emelia +Pardo Bazan, novelist, lecturer, editor, who advocates for +women equal educational and political privileges with men, +but who has not yet succeeded in opening the doors. The +voice of Spanish women, nevertheless, is sometimes heard by +Spanish statesmen, as when delegation after delegation of +señoras who had relatives held as prisoners by the Filipinos +invaded the senate-house with petitions until they could no +longer be ignored.</p> + +<p>A more thorough and liberal education for Spanish women +is the pressing need to-day. There is, of course, great lack +of primary schooling. A girl in her late teens, wearing the +prettiest of embroidered aprons and with the reddest of roses +in her hair, once appealed to me in Toledo for help. She +had been sent from a confectioner's to deliver a tray of +wheaten rolls at a given address, and she could read neither +the names of streets nor the numbers of houses. But the +higher education will carry the lower with it. Spain is degenerate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">360</a></span> +in this regard. The Moors used to have at Cordova +an academy for girls, where science, mathematics, and history +were taught. Schools for Spanish girls at present impart +little more than reading and writing, needle-work, the catechism, +the four rules of arithmetic, and some slight notion of +geography. French and music, recognized accomplishments, +are learned by daughters of the privileged class from their +governesses or in the convents. Missionary work in Spain +has largely concerned itself with the educational question, +and Mrs. Gulick's project for the establishment of a woman's +college in Madrid, a college without distinction of creed, +is the fruit of long experience. Little by little she has +proven the intellectual ability of Spanish girls. She established +the International Institute at San Sebastian, secured State +examination for her <i>niñas</i> and State recognition of their +eminent success, and even won for a few of them admission +to the University of Madrid, where they maintained the highest +rank throughout the course. All that Spanish girls need is +opportunity.</p> + +<p>But if the señoritas are so charming now, with their roses +and their graces and their fans, why not leave them as they +are, a page of mediæval poetry in this strenuous modern +world? If only they were dolls outright and did not suffer +so! When life goes hard with these high-spirited, incapable +creatures, it goes terribly hard. I can see yet the tears scorch +in the proud eyes of three undowered sisters, slaving at their +one art of embroidery from early till late for the miserable +pittance that it brought them. "We shall rest when we +are dead," said the youngest. The absolute lack of future +for these brave, sensitive girls, well-born, well-bred, naturally +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">361</a></span> +as keen as the keenest, but more ignorant, in matters +of common education, than the children of our lowest grammar +grade, is heart-breaking. If such girls were stupid, +shallow, coarse, it would be easier; but the Spanish type is +finely strung. Once I saw an impulsive beauty fly into that +gust of angry passion which Spaniards term the <i>rabia española</i>. +A clumsy, well-intentioned young Austrian had said a teasing +word, and in the fraction of a second the girl, overwrought +with secret toils and anxieties, was in a tempest of tears; but +the wrath that blazed across them burned the offender +crimson. The poor fellow sent for his case of choice +Asturian cider, cooling in the balcony, read the evening news +aloud and discoursed on the value of self-control, but not +even these tactful attentions could undo, for that evening at +least, the work of his blundering jest. The girl flashed away +to her chamber, her handkerchief bitten through and through, +and the quick fierce sound of her sobs came to me across the +hall deep into the night.</p> + +<p>Wandering over Spain I found everywhere these winning, +vivid, helpless girls, versed in needlework and social graces, +but knowing next to nothing of history, literature, science, all +that pertains to intellectual culture. Some were hungry to +learn. More did not dream of the world of thought as a +possible world for them. Among these it was delightful to +meet, scattered like precious seed throughout the Peninsula, +the graduates of the International Institute. So far as a +stranger could see, education had enhanced in them the +Spanish radiance and charm, while arming these with wisdom, +power, and resource. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">362</a></span></p> +<p class="center">ACROSS THE BASQUE PROVINCES</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The Oak Tree of Guernica</p> +<p class="i1">Within its foliage green</p> +<p>Embraces the bright honor</p> +<p class="i1">Of all the Basque demesne.</p> +<p>For this we count thee holy,</p> +<p class="i1">Our ancient seal and sign;</p> +<p>The fibres of our freedom</p> +<p class="i1">Are interlaced with thine.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Castile's most haughty tyrants</p> +<p class="i1">Beneath thy solemn shade</p> +<p>Have sworn to keep the charter</p> +<p class="i1">Our fearless fathers made;</p> +<p>For noble on our mountains</p> +<p class="i1">Is he who yokes the ox,</p> +<p>And equal to a monarch</p> +<p class="i1">The shepherd of the flocks."</p> + +<p class="i10">—<i>National Song of the Basques.</i></p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t did not seem to me historically respectful to take leave +of Spain without having made a pilgrimage to the shrine +of Santiago. A dauntless friend crossed the sea to bear +me company. Hygienic pilgrim that she is, she came equipped +not with cockle shells and sandal shoon, but with sleeping +bags, coffee, and cereals. Many a morning, in traversing those +northern provinces, where the scenery was better than the +breakfast, we blessed her boxes of "grape nuts," and many a +night, doomed to penitential beds, we were thankful to intrench +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">363</a></span> +ourselves against the stings and arrows of outrageous insects +in those spacious linen bags, that gather close about the neck, +or, when dangers thicken, above the head, leaving only a +loophole for the breath.</p> + +<p>Our point of departure was that city of nature's fancy-work, +San Sebastian. Then, in the early half of July, it was +all alive with expectancy, looking every day for the coming +of the Court. It is reputed to be the cleanest town of the +Peninsula, and is, in truth, as bright as a wave-washed pebble. +Nevertheless, it is a favorite waltz hall of the fleas, which +shamelessly obtrude themselves even into conversation.</p> + +<p>The chief summer industry of San Sebastian is sea-bathing. +The soldiers begin it at six o'clock in the morning, marching +by regiments down to the Concha, clearing for action, and +striking out into the gentle surf, all in simultaneous obedience +to successive words of command. Some two hours later teams +of oxen draw scores of jaunty bathing cars down near the +white lip of this opalescent shell of water, and there the long +day through all ages, sizes, and ranks of humanity sport in the +curling foam or swim far out into the sparkling bay.</p> + +<p>San Sebastian is the capital of Guipúzcoa, one of the three +Basque provinces. These lie among the Cantabrian mountains, +and are delightfully picturesque with wheat-growing +valleys and well-wooded heights. As the train wandered on, +in its pensive Spanish fashion, we found ourselves now in +Scotland, in a beautiful waste of heather and gorse, now amid +the English ivy and hawthorn, hearing the song of the English +robin, and now in our own New England, with the hilly +reaches of apple orchards and the fields upon fields of tasselled +Indian maize. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">364</a></span></p> + +<p>The Basques are a thrifty folk, and have cultivated their +scant acres to the utmost. The valleys are planted with +corn, the lower hills are ridged and terraced for a variety +of crops. Above are walnuts and chestnuts, and the flintiest +summits serve for pasturage. It was curious to see men at +work on those steep slopes that had been scooped out into a +succession of narrow shelves, and more strange yet to catch +glimpses of peasants ploughing the very mountain top, picturesque +figures against the sky.</p> + +<p>The reaping is of the cleanest. The harvest fields have a +neat, scoured look, as if the women had been over them with +scrubbing brushes. Yet this utilitarian soil admits of oaks +and beeches, ferns and clover, morning glories, dandelions, +pimpernel, and daisies.</p> + +<p>All that sunny morning the train swung us blithely on from +one charm of the eyes to another—from a ruined watch-tower, +where red-handed Carlists had crouched, to a bright-kerchiefed +maiden singing amid her beehives; from a range +of abrupt peaks, cleft by deep gorges, to sycamore-shaded byways +and poplar-bordered streams; from a village graveyard, +the pathetic little parallelogram enclosed in high gray walls +and dim with cypress shadows, to a tumbling, madcap torrent +spanned by a time-gnawed Roman arch. Shooting the heart +of some black hill, the train would run out on a mere ledge +above a valley hamlet, and from pure inquisitiveness, apparently, +ramble all around the circle, peering down from every +point of view on the cluster of great, patriarchal houses, sometimes +of timber and plaster, more often of stone, where whole +clans dwell together under the same red-tiled roof. Queer +old houses these, occasionally topped with blue chimneys, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">365</a></span> +and now and then with a fantastic coat of arms sculptured over +the door, or a fresco of saints and devils blazoned all across +the front. Sometimes freshly whitewashed, these Basque +houses have more often a weather-worn, dingy look, but, however +black the timbers, lines of clean linen flutter airily from +roofs and balconies.</p> + +<p>They are a decent, self-respecting, prosperous people, these +Basque mountaineers, of whose history my companion told +me stirring tales. They are supposed, though not without +dispute, to be the oldest race in Europe, descendants of those +original Iberians whom the westward-trooping Aryans drove +into the fastnesses of the Pyrenees. They have their own +language, of Asiatic type. They themselves believe that it +was spoken in the Garden of Eden. There are some +twenty-five dialects of the <i>Vascuense</i>, and it is so difficult +for foreigners that even George Borrow spoke it "with +considerable hesitation," and one exhausted student, abandoning +the struggle, declared that the words were all "written +Solomon and pronounced Nebuchadnezzar." The Basques +attribute their hardy virtues to the crabbedness of their +speech, telling how the devil, after slaving over their +vocabulary for seven years, had succeeded in learning only +three words, and threw up his lesson in a pet, so that to this +day he remains unable to meddle with their peasant piety. +What little literature there is in the Basque language is +naturally of the popular cast—hero songs, dancing songs, +dirges, hymns, and folk-lore.</p> + +<p>The Basques are noted for their passionate love of liberty. +The sturdy peasant is lord of his own rugged farm, and insists +on tilling it in his own primitive way, breaking the soil with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">366</a></span> +rude mattock more often than with plough. An English +engineer, laying a railroad through Alava, tried his best to +make his men abandon their slow, laborious method of +carrying the earth in baskets on their heads. He finally +had all the baskets removed by night, and wheelbarrows +left in their places. But the unalterable Basques set the +loaded wheelbarrows on their heads, and staggered about +beneath these awkward burdens until, for very shame, he +had to give them back their baskets.</p> + +<p>The peasant drives over the mountain roads in a ponderous +ox-cart, with two clumsy disks of wood for wheels. The +platform is wrought of rough-hewn beams, five or seven, the +middle one running forward to serve as pole. All the structure, +except the iron tires and nails, is of wood, and the solid +wooden wheels, as the massive axle to which they are riveted +turns over and over, make a most horrible squeaking. It is a +sound dear to the peasantry, for they believe the oxen like it, +and, moreover, that it frightens away the devil; but once upon +a time a town of advanced views voted a fine of five dollars +for any man who should bring this musical abomination within +its limits. Thereupon a freeborn Basque rose with the dawn, +selected his best carved oaken yoke, draped the red-stained +sheepskin a trifle more carefully than usual above the patient +eyes of his great smooth oxen, and took his way, "squeakity-squeak, +squeakity-squeak," straight to the door of the <i>Ayuntamiento</i>, +city hall, where he paid his twenty-five <i>pesetas</i>, and +then devoted the rest of the day to driving all about the +streets, squeaking out his money's worth. This is no servile +temper, and it was not until our own generation that the dearly +cherished liberties of the Basques were wrested away. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">367</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_439" id="i_439"></a> +<img src="images/i_439.jpg" width="624" height="421" alt="The Manzanares" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Manzanares</span></p> +</div> + +<p>These warders of the Pyrenees, for the Basques of Navarre +and those now known as French Basques must not be forgotten, +did good service in helping the Visigoths beat back the +northward-pressing Moors and the southward-pressing Franks; +but when the Basque provinces of Spain were incorporated +with Leon and Navarre, and later with Castile, the +mountaineers stood stubbornly for their <i>fuéros</i>, or peculiar +rights.</p> + +<p>My comrade's lecture had reached this point, when, finding +ourselves at Amorebieta, in the Province of Vizcaya, or Biscay, +we suddenly descended from the train, and handed our +bags to an honest Basque porter, who deposited them on the +floor of an open waiting room, in full reach of an honest +Basque population. For ourselves, we turned our faces +toward the centre of Vizcayan glory, the famous Tree of +Guernica. We entered a rustic train, that seemed entirely +undecided which way to go. The station agent blew a little +tin horn, green meadows and wattled fences began to glide +past the car windows, and the interrupted discourse was resumed.</p> + +<p>The lawmakers of Vizcaya were duly chosen by their +fellow-nobles, for every Basque held the rank of <i>hidalgo</i>, or +"son of somebody." The deputies met every two years in +the village of Guernica, sitting on stone benches in the open +air beneath the sacred oak, and there elected the <i>Señores de +Vizcaya</i>. Even the kings of Spain were allowed no grander +title, but had to come to the Tree of Guernica, at first in person, +later by deputy, and there swear to observe the <i>fuéros</i>. +To this green shadow came the peasant from his lonely +farm-house, high on the mountainside, to answer before his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">368</a></span> +peers to such charges as might be brought against him; for +within the sanctuary of his home the law could lay no hand +on him or his.</p> + +<p>It was the Carlist wars that changed all this. The <i>fuéros</i>, +of which a list dating from 1342 is still extant, granted the +Basque provinces a Republican Constitution that almost realized +an ideal democracy, with immunity from taxes save for +their own needs, and from military service beyond their own +boundaries. But when the dynastic strife broke out, the +Basques put on the white cap of Don Carlos and bore the +brunt of the conflict. We had already passed through +Vergara, where, in 1839, Espartero ended the first Carlist +war by a treaty which compelled the Basques to lay down +their arms. But the cost of this rebellion was paid in blood. +Their political status was practically unaffected. At the +close of the second Carlist war, in 1876, Alfonso XII +signalized his victory by meting out to them a terrible +punishment, abrogating the precious <i>fuéros</i> that the Tree +of Guernica had guarded for so many centuries. The +Government imposed, moreover, its salt and tobacco monopolies, +and made the Basques subject to military conscription. +At every station we saw Spain's Vizcayan +soldiers, red-capped and red-trousered, with blue-belted frock +coats, under which beat hearts of doubtful loyalty. The +son of Alfonso XII will have to reckon with the Basques, +when the third Carlist war shall be declared, but it may be +doubted whether the <i>fuéros</i>, which Don Carlos, of course, +promises to restore, will ever come home to nest again in the +Guernica Oak.</p> + +<p>My erudite fellow-vagabond was just pointing out the typical +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">369</a></span> +shape of the Basque head, with its broad forehead, long, +narrowing face, curved nose, and pointed chin, when we +reached Guernica. Such a sweet and tranquil village as it is, +set in the beauty of the hills, with the dignity and pathos +of its history pervading every hushed, old-fashioned street! +The guide, whom two affable ladies, sharers of our carriage +in the little picnic train, had taken pains to look up for us at +the station, was not, we judged, a favorable specimen of the +haughty Basque <i>hidalgo</i>. He was a dull, mumbling, slouchy +lad, who sunk his voice to an awed whisper as we passed the +escutcheon-carved palace of a count. But he led us by +pleasant ways to the modern <i>Casa de Juntas</i>, or Senate House, +where we were shown the assembly room, with its altar for +mass, the library and other apartments, together with the portraits +of the twenty-six first <i>Señores de Vizcaya</i>, from Lope the +Pirate, who forced back the invading Galicians in 840, to the +Infante Don Juan, under whom the Basque provinces were +finally incorporated with Castile.</p> + +<p>Close by the <i>Casa de Juntas</i>, which stands in a dreamy +bit of park as fresh and trim as an English cathedral close, +rises a pillared portico. There, where brown-eyed little +Basque girls, their brown braids blowing in the breeze, were +dangling green figs above their laughing mouths, used to sit, +on those seven stone seats, the grave Basque fathers, making +laws, meting out judgment, and regulating all the affairs of +this simple mountain republic. The portico, bearing as +joint devices the lion and castle of Spain and the three wolves +of Vizcaya, was formerly enveloped in the leafy shadow of +the Sacred Tree; but what rises behind it now is only the +gaunt stem of a patriarchal oak, a very Abraham of plants, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">370</a></span> +all enclosed in glass, as if embalmed in its casket. Before +the portico, however, grows a lusty scion, for the Tree of +Guernica is of unbroken lineage, shoots being always cherished +to succeed in case the centuried predecessor fail.</p> + +<p>In presence of this despoiled old trunk, majestic with +memories, we felt an honest awe and longed to give it +adequate salute. My comrade levelled her kodak and took +front views, back views, and side views with such spendthrift +enthusiasm that the custodian, deeply impressed, presented +her with a dried leaf from the junior, cunningly +pricked out so as to suggest the figure of the tree. The +national song of the Basques, a matter of some dozen stanzas, +written principally in "j's," "rr's," and "tz's," takes +its theme, if one may trust the Castilian translation, from +this symbolic oak.</p> + +<p>The historian wished to do nothing more in Guernica but +sit and gaze forever on that spectral trunk, but the reminder +that piety was a hardly less marked Basque characteristic +than political independence, finally induced her to follow our +guide to the church. A Basque church has its distinctive +features, including a belfry, a lofty, plain interior, with galleries, +and often a votive ship, gayly painted and fully rigged, +suspended from the ceiling. The lad bore himself with +simple-minded devotion, offering us on stubby finger tips the +holy water and making due obeisance before each gilded +shrine.</p> + +<p>But my attention was soon fascinated by a foot-square +relief on a blue ground of Santiago—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Good Saint James upon the milkwhite steed,</p> +<p>Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">371</a></span> +I had hardly anticipated such a stalwart, vigorous, not to say +violent saint, with his white horse galloping, his gold-sandalled +feet gripping the great stirrups, his gold-fringed, crimson robe +and azure mantle streaming on the wind, his terrible sword +glittering high in air. This was clearly not a person to be +trifled with, and I looked about for the historian to tell her +that we must be pressing forward on our pilgrimage. But +she had stolen out, every sympathetic Basque image of the +sculptured doorway conspiring to keep a stony silence and +conceal her flight, and had sped back to the Tree of Guernica, +from whose contemplation she was torn away only by +a fairy-tale of supper.</p> + +<p>Of the several Basque churches which we visited, including +the bridal church of Louis XIV, far-famed San +Juan de Luz, whose sides and west end are portioned off by +three tiers of galleries, fairest in memory is the sixteenth-century +church of Begoña in Bilbao. It abounds, as coast +churches should, in suggestions of that mighty, mysterious +neighbor, at once so cruel and so beneficent, the sea. Instead +of votive ships, the walls are hung with paintings +of vessels in scenes of appalling peril. One is scudding +madly before a tropical gale; one has her rigging ragged by +hurricane and her decks lashed with tempest; one, careened +upon her side, lies at the mercy of the billows, which are +sweeping over her and tumbling her crew like ninepins into the +deep. But the presence of the pictures, bold dashes of the +modern brush amid dim old paintings of saints and martyrs, +tells that Our Lady of Begoña succored her sailors in distress, +who, on their safe return, came hither to offer thanks for their +preservation and to leave these mementos of their danger and +her efficient aid. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">372</a></span></p> + +<p>"Is your Virgin so very powerful?" we asked of a chorister +boy while he drew the cords to part the curtains that +screened the jewelled image throned in a recess above the +high altar.</p> + +<p>"I should rather think she was," answered the little fellow +in a glow. "Why, let me tell you! Robbers, the accursed +ones, came here on a dark midnight to steal her +precious stones. They entered by a window, those sons of +wretched mothers, and put up a long ladder against the altar +wall. The wickedest of them all, señoras, he climbed the +ladder and raised his hand to take Our Lady's crown. And +in that instant the great bells overhead began to ring, and all +the bells of all Bilbao pealed with them, and the people +waked and came running to the rescue of Our Lady, and the +robbers were put to death."</p> + +<p>Our expression did not quite satisfy his boyish ardor, and +he pointed convincingly toward a handsome silver plaque. +"And this, too, witnesses Our Lady's power. It was given +in memory of the cholera time, when people were dying like +flies in all the towns about. But after Our Lady was carried +in procession through the streets of Bilbao, not one died here, +except a sinful man who would not turn his head to look +upon her."</p> + +<p>"That is a painting of the procession, the large picture +over there on the wall?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, señoras. That picture commemorates another +of Our Lady's wonderful deeds. The floods were threatening +the city, but Our Lady, with many censers and candles, +was borne down to the river bank, and she ordered the water +to go back, and it obeyed her, and all the town was saved." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">373</a></span></p> + +<p>We retreated to the cloisters, from which one has a superb +view of the valley of the Nervion, for Our Lady of Begoña +dwells high upon a hilltop. Only the afternoon before we +had been in serene Guernica, a strange contrast to this mining +capital of Vizcaya, this bustling, noisy, iron-grimed Bilbao, +in which the Basques take such delight. It is not a city +to gratify the mere tourist, who expects the people of the +lands through which he is pleased to pass to devote themselves +to looking picturesque. But even Spain is something more +than food for the kodak, and this sooty atmosphere of smelting +works and factories, traffic and commerce, means life to +Spanish lungs. It is little to my credit that I took more +interest in the fact that Bilbao used to supply Shakespeare's +cronies with rapiers, under the name of "bilboes," than in +statistics regarding those millions of tons of ore which its +iron mines are now annually exporting to Great Britain. +The many English in Bilbao, miners and artisans, with the +influence they shed around them, make the streets rougher +and uglier than in purely Spanish towns. On the other +hand, they bring a spirit of religious independence, so that +it is not strange to find the Spanish Protestants of Bilbao a +numerous and vigorous body, counting as a pronounced +element in the community.</p> + +<p>From the idle peace of the Begoña cloisters, as from the +old-time world, we looked long on this Spanish city of to-day, +seething with manifold activities. We seemed to understand +how, to the middle-class Spaniard, hemmed in by all this +mediæval encumbrance of barracks, cathedrals, castles, and +thrones, such cities as Bilbao and Barcelona, pulsing with +industrial energy and enterprise, are "more beautiful than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">374</a></span> +Beauty's self." The Basques, like the Catalans, take readily +to business. They set their mountain cascades to turning +mill-wheels, they canal their little Nervion till it can give +passage to ships of four thousand tons burden, they paint the +night with the flare of mighty furnaces. Every year they are +building more wharves, more railroads, more electric tramways, +and they are so prodigiously proud of their new iron +bridge, with its flying ferry, which whisks passengers over +from Portugalete to Las Arenas at the rate of two hundred a +minute, that they stamp it on their characteristic jewelry. +That cunning Eibar work of the Basque provinces displays +again and again, on locket, bracelet, brooch, this incongruous +design of the <i>Puente Vizcaya</i> beaten on chased steel in +gold.</p> + +<p>We looked regretfully out over those significant reaches +of land which we would have liked to explore to the last +hearthstone. The Basque provinces! We had not even +set foot in Vitoria, the capital of Alava, where is preserved +the grim old <i>machete</i> by which Basque governors were +sworn into office. "May my head be cut off with this +knife," ran the oath, "if I do not defend the <i>fuéros</i> of my +fatherland."</p> + +<p>And we longed to attend one of the peasant festivals, to +see the lads play <i>pelota</i> and the lasses step Basque dances to +the music of the village pipers, to hear the wild old marches and +battle tunes that have roused the Roman and the Moor to +arms. The mystery plays of the Basques were famous once, +and although these naive dramas are now mainly confined to +Christmas and Easter, who could say that we might not +chance on some saint-day fragment? There was soon to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">375</a></span> +take place, too, in one of the Vizcayan hamlets a "blessing +of the fields," a processional harvest rite of pagan antiquity, +formerly universal in Spain, but now confined to a few rural +districts. We had a hundred reasons for lingering—but +what are reasons? Pilgrims of St. James must put fresh peas +in their shoes and be off for Compostela. +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_450" id="i_450"></a> +<img src="images/i_450.jpg" width="622" height="421" alt="Spanish Cemetery" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Spanish Cemetery</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXIII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">376</a></span></p> +<p class="center">IN OLD CASTILE</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"With three thousand men of Leon from the city Bernard goes,</p> +<p>To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foes;</p> +<p>From the city which is planted in the midst between the seas,</p> +<p>To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight,—</p> +<p>He quits his team for spear and shield and garniture of might;</p> +<p>The shepherd hears it 'mid the mist,—he flingeth down his crook,</p> +<p>And rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook."</p> +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Lockhart</span>: <i>Spanish Ballads</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he journey from Bilbao to Santander is a continuous +glory of mountain views. The train runs saucily +along under beetling crags, whence the gods of the +hills may well look down in wonder and displeasure on this +noisy invasion of their solitude. We almost saw those ancient +majesties folding themselves grandly in mantles of purple +shadow, but hardly less royal in bearing were the muffled +figures of the lonely shepherds tending their flocks on the +very summits.</p> + +<p>The modern Province of Santander is the renowned Montaña, +the mountain lair which nourished the chivalry of Old +Castile, and from which they made wild sallies to the south, +troop after troop, generation after generation, until the Moorish +standards were beaten back from the plains about Toledo to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">377</a></span> +the Sierras of Andalusia. Its capital city, Santander, named +from St. Andrew, was one of the four coast towns which +rendered signal service to Fernando in the conquest of Seville. +These towns, lying as they did over against the Cinque Ports +of England, came into so frequent conflict with British +mariners as to be made in the days of Edward III the subject +of a special treaty.</p> + +<p>A summer resort, however, is a summer resort the world +over, and we found the historic city, which has gracefully +fitted itself to the curve of its beautiful bay, crowded with +idle people, elaborately dressed, who sat long at the noonday +breakfast, and longer yet at the evening dinner, and then +longest of all on the benches in the park, where bands +clashed and fireworks flared, until the very stars began to +blink for sleepiness.</p> + +<p>Spaniards have a veritable passion for pyrotechnics, and our +dreams until the dawn would be punctuated by the airy report +of rockets, as if, so Galdós suggests, "the angels were cracking +nuts in the sky." Every now and then in those soft warm +nights there rose a shout of song from the street, and +peeping down from the balcony, we would see half a dozen +lads and lasses leaping along through the middle of the road, +all abreast and hand in hand, in one of their boisterous peasant +dances.</p> + +<p>There are no fewer dangers and sorrows for girls in Spain +than in the other Latin lands. In the low-vaulted, mighty-pillared, +deep-shadowed crypt under the old cathedral, a crypt +that is the very haunt of religious mystery and dread, we came +upon a penitent kneeling before the altar, a bit of written +paper pinned to her back. In a stir of the chill air this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">378</a></span> +fluttered to the ground, and as she, unconscious of its loss, +bowed herself before another shrine, we picked up the paper +with a half thought of restoring it; but seeing in the first +glance that it was a rudely written prayer, entreating the +Virgin's pity and pardon for her lover and herself, we let it +fall again at Mary's feet. All manner of thank-offerings, +waxen limbs, eyes, and ears, were hung in these candle-lit +recesses, little spaces of gold amid the gloom. We had grown +accustomed to such fragments of anatomy in the shop-windows, +where even votive stomachs are displayed for sale.</p> + +<p>Although Santander is a dawdler's paradise, the residents +of the city to whom we had letters were no holiday makers, +but Spaniards of the earnest, thoughtful, liberal type, busy +with large tasks of their own, but never too busy, being +Spaniards, to show unstinted kindness to the strangers within +their gates. Our brief stay did not admit of a tithe of the +excursions they had in mind for us, but my comrade achieved +a trip to Santillana del Mar, birthplace of the doughty Gil +Blas.</p> + +<p>In the latest version of her adventures, she set forth from +Santander under the bluest of skies, in company with the +most bewitching of señoritas. They left the train at Torrelavega, +where the shade of Garci Laso, one of King Pedro's +victims, would doubtless have welcomed them, had not their +attention been taken up with a picturesque coachman, who +was standing dreamily on the station platform. This Adonis +proved a complete paragon, who, as they took their romantic +course over the hills, delightedly pointed out ivied tower, +broken portcullis, and the like, as tidbits for the kodak.</p> + +<p>Santillana is the shrine of Santa Juliana, a Roman martyr, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">379</a></span> +whose body is said to have been carried thither in the ninth +century. Her devotees among the mountain wilds built her +in this green valley, overhung by a rude old fortress, a precious +church, a jewel of the early Romanesque, about whose +walls a thriving community soon gathered. Santillana was +throughout the Middle Ages the most important place between +Burgos and Oviedo, and gave name to all that part of +the Montaña. The successive Marquises of Santillana were +then great personages in Spain, playing a leading part at +Court. One of the proudest families of Old Castile, they +claimed descent from the Cid, and cherished the memory of +another heroic ancestor, who, in 1385, sacrificed his life to +save his king.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,—</p> +<p>His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;</p> +<p>Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee mount and fly!</p> +<p>Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,—their trampling hoofs are nigh!</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"'Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,</p> +<p>And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures;</p> +<p>If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,</p> +<p>How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?'</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he;</p> +<p>And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;</p> +<p>He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,—</p> +<p>He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">380</a></span> +The city of Santillana, whose lords once laid claim to the +sovereignty of Santander, has shrunk to a forgotten village, and +the neglected church is dropping into ruins; but the inhabitants +have abated not a jot of that fierce local patriotism which +blinds the provincial Spaniard to all defects of his birthplace +and to all excellences of rival towns. A graybeard told the +stranger ladies that Santillana was the oldest city in Spain and +its cathedral the most beautiful. This latter statement they +were almost ready to accept, so richly carven was the yellow +stone and so harmonious the proportions of nave and aisle. +When they arrived at this miniature Durham they found it +closed and silent, with three little boys sleeping on the steps. +Through the benevolence of the ever present Spanish loafers, +the sacristan was sought out and a ragged escort formed for +their progress from chapel to chapel, where rare old pictures +and frescos glowed across the dusk. Best of all were the venerable +cloisters, weed-grown and tumble-down, but lovely as +a mediæval dream with mellow-tinted arch and column, and +with capitals of marvellous device. This crumbling church +still keeps a dazzling hoard of treasures. All the front of +the high altar is wrought of solid silver, the reredos is a +miracle of art, and the paintings of old masters that moulder +here unseen would long since in any other land than +Catholic Spain have been the spoils of gallery and museum.</p> + +<p>The cathedral stands just outside the town, whose narrow, +crooked streets daunted the carriage; but these enthusiastic +sightseers were all the better pleased to foot the flagging that +many a clinking tread had worn and to touch on either side, +with their extended hands, the fortresslike houses built of +heavy stone and dimly emblazoned with fierce armorial bearings. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">381</a></span> +These grim dwellings were gladdened by the grace +of vine-clad balconies, where children frolicked and women +crooned quaint melodies over their needlework.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Will no one tell me what she sings?</p> +<p class="i1">Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow</p> +<p>For old, unhappy, far-off things</p> +<p class="i1">And battles long ago."</p> +</div> + +<p>The inn was merely the customary Spanish <i>venta</i>, rough +and poor, the darkness of whose long, low room clouds of +tobacco smoke from clumps of gambling muleteers were +making blacker yet; but lemonade was served to the ladies +in the open porch with a charm of cordial courtesy far +beyond Delmonico's.</p> + +<p>As they quaffed this modest refreshment and watched the +shifting groups about the <i>venta</i>, which seemed the centre of +the social life, there suddenly appeared upon the scene a ghost +from the modern world, an everyday gentleman in a straw +hat, as citified and up to date as if he had that moment +stepped out of a Madrid café. All the loungers within and +without the <i>venta</i> sprang to their feet, bared their heads, +and bowed low to this anachronism with so profound a deference +that the tourists began to wonder if the irrepressible +Gil Blas had come alive again. Not he! This was the +Marquis of Santillana, bearing under his arm instead of a +sword a bundle of newspapers. The first Marquis of Santillana +had been a famous warrior and troubadour. This +latest "inheritor of old renown," seating himself in the midst +of his thronging vassals, graciously proceeded, much like a +University Extension lecturer, to read aloud, with simple +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">382</a></span> +explanations, the news of the day. Such is the final form +of <i>noblesse oblige</i> in the feudal valley of Santillana.</p> + +<p>We were tempted to hunt out other nooks and eyries in +the mountains of Santander, to see something of the famous +sardine fisheries, to drive along the many-storied coast all the +way to Gijon, paying our respects in passing to a noble oak +of Asturias, one of the three largest trees of Europe; but +always the uplifted sword of St. James drove us on. If we +would reach Compostela in season for the annual <i>fiesta de +Santiago</i>, there was no time to lose. So, in default of a nearer +railway connection, we started due south for Palencia. Our +route ran at first through a land of hills, maize, and stone +walls that might have been New England, except for the +women scratching away in the hay-fields, and politely saluting +the train with a flourish of their pitchforks.</p> + +<p>Then more and more the landscape became Spanish. Little +stone hamlets dozed in ever shallower valleys, mule trains and +solitary horsemen moved slowly down poplar-bordered highways, +white as chalk; there was a slumbering peasant for +every speck of shade. But while the men took their siestas, +often sleeping where the drowsiness had befallen them, with +arm thrown about the wooden plough or with head pillowed on +the thrashing roller, there were always women at work—figures +clad in the very colors of the harvest, red and gold and +purple, binding sheaves, sweeping the fields with stout brush +brooms, tending flocks and herds by the rivers, following stray +sheep over the hills, with only a handkerchief at the most to +protect their heads from the terrible noonday sun. As the +afternoon wore on, we found ourselves in the melancholy +reaches of brown Castilian plain, with the adobe towns, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">383</a></span> +miserable mud villages, open-air threshing floors, and arid, +silent, Oriental look.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_459" id="i_459"></a> +<img src="images/i_459.jpg" width="620" height="418" alt="Toledo" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Toledo</span></p> +</div> + +<p>The only cloud in sight was that which rested for a +moment on my comrade's face. She had so newly come +from our clean and wholesome fatherland that certain features +of the Spanish inns still shook her high serenity of soul, +and she had suddenly discovered that Baedeker significantly +characterized the Palencia hotel as "an indifferent Spanish +house." In the discreet language of our excellent guidebook +this was no less than a note of warning, a signal of alarm. +But even Baedeker is fallible, and on arriving at the <i>Gran +Hotel Continental</i>, we were met by all the Castilian dignity +and grave kindliness of greeting, and led to rooms whose +floors shone with oil and scrubbing, whose curtains, towels, +and sheeting were white as mountain snow, and whose furnishings +were resplendent with two dozen chairs upholstered +in orange satin. We seated ourselves in rapture on one +saffron throne after another, drank fresh milk from polished +glasses, and slept, for this only night of all our Santiago pilgrimage, +the sleep of the unbitten. A sweet-voiced <i>sereno</i> +intoning the hours set our dreams to music.</p> + +<p>The following morning we spent in the cathedral, which, +though of plain exterior, except for the many-imaged "Door +of the Bishop," is all lightness, grace, and symmetry within. +The organ was pealing and women were kneeling for the +mass as we went softly down the high-vaulted nave, our spirits +played upon now by the dignity of pointed arches and of +clustered columns and now by delicate beauties in tracery and +carving. Only here and there were we aware of a jarring +note, as in chancing upon a great crucifix whose Christ was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">384</a></span> +decked out in two elegant lace petticoats and a white silk +crinoline embroidered over with silver thread.</p> + +<p>When the chant had died away, an affectionate old sacristan, +in a curious red and black coat, delivered us with sundry farewell +pats and pinches over to the charge of a subordinate, who +proceeded to display the hidden treasures. These are far from +overwhelming, after the glittering hoards of Burgos, Seville, +and Toledo, but they are as odd an assortment as sacristy ever +sheltered. There was an absurd portrait of Charles I, a freak +of foreshortening. At first sight it seemed to be the skeleton +of a fish, but on viewing it through a peephole the creature +had become a human face. Even so, it was hardly a flattering +likeness of the founder of the Austrian line; but as it was +Charles I who stripped Palencia of her original powers and +dignities, one would not expect to find him complimented +here.</p> + +<p>We turned our attention to the vestments, which, though +few, are peculiarly artistic, with devices, stitched in gold thread +and in jewel reds and greens, of pomegranates, roses, ecclesiastical +coats of arms, angels, Maries, Nativities, and Adorations. +These were appropriate enough, but even our reserved +conductor, a monastic youth who wore a white, openwork +tunic over his black suit, smiled disdainfully as he put before +us a time-yellowed ivory box arabesqued with men and lions, the +jewel casket of some pet sultana. "But why should it be +here?" He shrugged his shoulders. "In truth, it is not +holy—a woman's thing! Nor do I know how it came to +us, but what we have we keep."</p> + +<p>The sacristy certainly seems to have kept more than its +share of <i>custodias</i>. Our guide first brought out a dainty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">385</a></span> +structure, where grieving angels uplift the cross, and the +Sufferer's halo is wrought of pearls and gems. This was +replaced by another, a marvel of goldsmith's craft, turreted +and crocketed with fine gold, while all about the base are +figured Annunciations, Visitations, and other mysteries. Rich +as they were, neither of these could compare with that famous +pyx of the Escorial, inlaid with ten thousand precious stones. +Then our conductor took us with a mighty turning of monster +keys, pulling of rusty bolts, and fall of clanging chains, to see +the supreme <i>custodia</i> of all, one great dazzle of silver from +fretted base to dome and pinnacle, save as among the Corinthian +columns of the first stage glisten golden forms of the +Apostles, and of the second, winged shapes of cherubim and +seraphim. This shining tower, some three or four centuries +old, is beheld by Palencia only on Corpus Christi Day, when, +holding at its heart the golden monstrance which holds the +Host, it passes as a triumphal car throughout the city. Priests +walking on either side make a feint of drawing it by tasselled +cords, but "little would it budge for that," said our guide, in +high disdain, opening a door in the frame beneath to reveal +the benches where strong men sit concealed and toil at a +motor crank. He had much more to show us, including +precious old tapestries of the Netherlands, and a St. Katharine +by Zurbarán, with a light on the kneeling figure as pure and +bright as a moonbeam; but we had to press the fee on his +Castilian pride, when at last the vulgarity of luncheon summoned +us away.</p> + +<p>For the historian, basking in this last smile of civilization, +the afternoon passed blissfully among the orange chairs, but I +sallied forth once more, attended by our benignant landlady. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">386</a></span> +The rays of the sun flashed down like deadly arrows and I +had pleaded for a carriage, but longed to beg its pardon when +it came, so faded, rheumatic, and yet august was that fat old +chariot, groaning and tottering as it rolled, but lowering the +pomp of a velvet-carpeted staircase whenever we desired to +alight.</p> + +<p>Our progress made a grand sensation in those drowsy streets +and squares, a retinue soon gathered, and nobody seemed surprised +when, after a round of Jesuit and Dominican churches, +we drew up before the madhouse. I had wished to look upon +this building, because it is reputed to have been a dwelling of +the Cid; but the hero of Castile was as unknown to my gentle +escort as to the medical priest whom she must needs call +forth to meet me, or to the hapless lunatics whom he, in turn, +insisted on my seeing. A town which had forgotten its chief +citizen naturally fails to keep on sale photographs of its cathedral, +so we packed our memories in default of anything more +substantial and took the evening train to the northwest.</p> + +<p>Four hours of hushed, moonlit plain, and then Leon! +This is a name of thrilling memories, and we stepped out +into the midnight silence of that once royal capital whose +kingdom "stretched from the Atlantic Ocean to the Rhone," +so awed that even a rickety 'bus, and a smuggler who tried to +hide his trunk behind our honest luggage, hardly broke the +spell. My comrade, still new to Spanish ways, had fears +that the illustrated card which I had forgotten to stamp would +not have reached the hotel. She asked me why I did not +telegraph; but some days later, when we sent a telegram +at noon, took a way-train at five, and reached our destination +at ten, simultaneously with the telegram which I might as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">387</a></span> +well have brought in my pocket, she was set free from New +World prejudices. The unstamped card went through without +question, a picture of a pretty mountain maid being quite +as acceptable to the postal clerks as the portrait of their young +king.</p> + +<p>We were expected at the hotel, the best in town, but so +dirty and malodorous that we would better have camped +under the stars. There had been some attempt to sweep the +floor of our dingy chamber, as we could see by comparing it +with stairs and corridors. Sour milk and sour bread were +served with a compensating sweetness of manner, but the +experiences of that night belong to oblivion.</p> + +<p>The joy of the morning! Guided by a shy little scullery +lad, smooched of face and ragged of raiment, but with all +the instincts of a cavalier, we stepped out into those stately +streets, with their haughty old houses, balconies, coats of +arms, arches, and battlements, as into an animated picture +book. It was Saturday, and the town was all astir with +peasants come to market, every peasant as good as a romance. +Such brightness of figured kerchiefs, homespun petticoats, +trunk hose, jackets, sashes! The little girls were quaintest +of all, dressed precisely like their mammas, even to those +brilliant skirts edged with one color and slashed with another. +Many of the women were carrying loads of greens, others +plucked fowls, and some had indignant chickens, in full possession +of chicken faculties, snuggled under the arm.</p> + +<p>As the chief city in a far reach of luxuriant plain, Leon +becomes the focus, every Saturday, of flocks of sheep, droves +of pigs, and herds of cattle, together with innumerable mules +and donkeys bringing in grain, fruit, and all manner of garden +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">388</a></span> +produce. We chanced upon the market itself in the arcaded +<i>Plaza Mayor</i>, under shadow of the towered court-house, +with the tapering spire of the cathedral overlooking all. The +great square hummed like a beehive and sparkled with shifting +color like a field of butterflies. We found ourselves first +in the bread market. Under wide umbrellas of canvas set on +poles women were perched high on wooden benches, with +their gayly shod feet supported on stools. Beside each +woman, on her rude seat, was a brightly woven basket heaped +with the horny Spanish loaves. Close by was the fruit +market, with its piles of red and purple plums, pears, grapes, +green peppers, lemons, and, beyond, patches of melons, +cucumbers, cabbages, potatoes, beans, and that staff of Spanish +life, chick pease, or <i>garbanzos</i>.</p> + +<p>The meat market appeared to be itinerant. A man in +blue blouse, short brown breeches, and dove-colored hose +adorned with green tassels, was leading a cow by its crumpled +horn; an old woman, with giant silver hoops in her ears, a +lavender shawl knotted about her body, her scarlet skirt well +slashed so as to show the gamboge petticoat beneath, and so +short for all its purple frill as to display the clockwork of her +variegated stockings, was carrying a black lamb, nestled like a +baby in her arms; another walking rainbow bore a live turkey; +and a lad, whose rosy-hued kerchief, shawl, and sash floated +like sunrise clouds about him, balanced on his erect young +head an immense basket of eggs. There was a pottery section, +too,—square rods of cups, plates, and jars in all manner +of russet tints and graceful shapes.</p> + +<p>The various divisions were intermingled and blent into +one great open-air market, the cheeriest sort of neighborhood +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">389</a></span> +picnic, where gossip, jest, and laughter were accompanied by +the cackling of fowls, braying of donkeys, and cooing of +babies. Here fluttered a colony of bantams cast, their legs +well tied, down on the cobble-stones; there stood carts laden +with bunches of the yellowish dried heather; here two +patient oxen had laid themselves out for a snooze; there a +wicked little ass was blinking at the greens; here squatted a +damsel in gold kerchief, garnet bodice, and beryl skirt, weighing +out fresh figs; there sat a cobbler pegging away at his stall, +his patrons waiting with bare feet while he mended their +shoes; stands of cheeses, coops of chickens, children sleeping +among the sacks of grain, a boy waving a rod on which was +strung a gorgeous assortment of garters; loitering soldiers, +limping beggars, bargaining ladies attended by their maids, all +gave notes to the harmony. Yet with all that trampling, +small weeds were growing green amid the slippery stones +that pave the square.</p> + +<p>The Leon peasantry is said to be the finest in all Spain, and +surely no concourse of people could have been more honest, +courteous, and dignified than this. The women wore ornamented +wallets beneath the skirt, and warned us gravely +against carrying money in exposed pockets; but we moved +freely among the press with notebook and kodak, always the +centre of curious groups, and our purses were not touched. +Indeed we found it difficult to spend even a <i>peseta</i>, so +modest were the prices. For as large a jar as our little +squire could well carry we paid the value of three cents. +The men often rebuked the children for staring and questioning, +but stood themselves at gaze, and asked us frankly +what we were about. When we replied that we had never +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">390</a></span> +seen so beautiful a market, and were taking notes and photographs +that we might not forget, the peasants smilingly passed +the word from one side of the <i>plaza</i> to the other, and all, +even to the chief of police, who was strutting about waving +an unnecessary staff, were eager to offer information and to +point out picturesque subjects.</p> + +<p>But the morning was slipping away, and we had almost +forgotten the oracle of a Spanish gentleman in Palencia: +"Leon has three sights for the visitor, and only three—the +Cathedral, San Isidoro, and San Marcos." We proceeded to +take these illustrious churches in order. The Leon Cathedral, +closely analogous to the Gothic masterpieces of northern +France, is far beyond all poor praises of mine. Now in process +of repair and stripped of the garish shrines of modern +worship, it may be enjoyed purely as architecture—a temple +of high beauty. Let artists tell of its towers and finials, flying +buttresses, gables, cornices, galleries, piers, façades. Yet +one need not be an artist to delight in the glow of its great +rose windows, or to spend fascinated hours poring over the +chiselled story book of portals, stalls, and cloisters. Such +inimitable glass, burning still with the fervors of the mediæval +faith! And such a world of divinity and humanity, even +down to childish mischief, in those multitudinous carvings! +The Passion scenes are repeated over and over, creation and +judgment are there, the life, death, and ascension of the +Virgin, hero legends, animal fables, and folk-lore. Gothic +energy is abundantly manifest. St. George smites the +dragon, St. Michael tramples the devil, Samson splits the +lion's jaws, and Santiago, carved in ebony on a door in +the mellow-hued old cloisters, is riding down the Moors with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">391</a></span> +such contagious fury that the very tail of his horse is twisted +into a ferocious quirk. On angel-guarded tombs pictures of +ancient battle, murder, vengeance, are graven in the long-remembering +stone. But marble birds peck at the marble +fruit, the ivory peasant drives his pigs, the alabaster shepherd +watches his flock, the lad leads his donkey, the monk feeds +the poor at the abbey gates, and plump stone priests, +stowed away in shadowy niches, make merry over the wine.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_470" id="i_470"></a> +<img src="images/i_470.jpg" width="419" height="544" alt="Toledo Cathedral" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Toledo Cathedral. Door of Lions</span></p> +</div> + +<p>If we had revelled overmuch in the art values of the cathedral, +San Isidoro administered a prompt corrective. This +Romanesque church, dating from the beginning of the +eleventh century and a forerunner of the Escorial in that it +was founded by the first Fernando of Castile as a royal +mausoleum, is excessively holy. Not merely are the bones of +the patron saint kept on the high altar, but the Host is on +constant exhibition there. Unaware of these especial sanctities, +we were quietly walking toward the choir, when an +angry clamor from behind caused us to turn, and there, +stretching their heads out over the railing of an upper gallery, +was a line of furious priests. In vain the sacristan strove to +excuse us, "foreigners and ladies," who did not know that +we were expected to fall upon our knees on first entering the +door. We had been guilty of no irreverence beyond this +omission, and even under the hail of priestly wrath did our +best to withdraw correctly without turning our backs to the +altar. But nothing would appease that scandalized row of +gargoyles, whose violent rudeness seemed to us the greater +desecration. Thus it was that we did not enter the frescoed +chambers of the actual Panteon, said to be imposing yet, +although the royal tombs were broken up by the French in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">392</a></span> +1808. Very wrong in the French, but unless the manners +of San Isidoro's bodyguard have degenerated, the soldiers of +Napoleon may have had their provocation.</p> + +<p>It was now high noon, and the market-place had poured +all its peasants out upon the streets. Groups of them were +lying at luncheon under the trees, passing the pigskin bottle +of wine from mouth to mouth. Beggars were standing by +and blessing them in return for scraps of the coarse and +scanty fare. "May God repay! May the saints prosper thy +harvest!"</p> + +<p>A woman riding home, sitting erect on the red-striped +donkey-bag, handed a plum to her husband, who trudged beside +her in gray linen trunks and green velveteen waistcoat, with +a white square of cloth set, for ornament, into the middle of +the back. He divided the fruit with a pleading cripple, who +called after them as devoutly as a man with half a plum in +his cheek well could, "May the Blessed Virgin ride forth +with you and gladden all your way!"</p> + +<p>We had, because of the increasing heat, conjured up a +carriage, a species of invalid stage-coach, and were therefore +the envy of little schoolboys in blue pinafores. Their straw +satchels bobbed on their backs as they gave chase to our +clattering ark and clung to steps and door. This mode of +locomotion did not save us time, for our coachman had +domestic cares on his mind and drew up to bargain for a +chicken, which finally mounted with a squall to the box +seat; but in due Spanish season we stopped before the plateresque +façade of San Marcos.</p> + +<p>This is a still unfinished convent, rich in artistic beauties +and historic memories. Here, for instance, is a marvellously +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">393</a></span> +human head of St. Francis, a triumph of the polychrome +sculpture, and here is the little cell where the poet Quevedo, +"colossal genius of satire," was imprisoned for over three +years by Philip IV, the patron of Velázquez. It is not so +easy to cage a mocking-bird, though the satire-pencilled walls +have been well whitewashed.</p> + +<p>But San Marcos was originally a hospital for pilgrims on +the road to Compostela, and conch shells are the central ornamentation +of arch and vault and frieze. We accepted the +rebuke; we would loiter no more. Early that afternoon we +took train for Coruña, after which some agency other than +steam must transport us to the mediæval city of St. James. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXIV</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">394</a></span></p> +<p class="center">PILGRIMS OF SAINT JAMES</p> + +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne,</p> +<p>She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye."</p> + +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Chaucer</span>: <i>Canterbury Tales</i>.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Pilgrimes and palmers plihten hem to-gederes</p> +<p>For to seche Seint Jame."</p> +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Langland</span>: <i>Piers Plowman</i>.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone."</p> +<p class="i10">—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>: <i>All's Well that Ends Well</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span>rom Leon to Coruña is a journey of some eighteen +hours by rail. Degenerate pilgrims that we were, +we had taken a first-class carriage reserved for ladies, +not so comfortable as the average third-class carriage on an +English road. We hoped for space, at least, and solitude, +but people who choose to pry into out-of-the-way corners +of Spain need not expect to find any slavish deference +to rights of place and property. The conductor +had planned to dine and sleep in this particular compartment, +which was a shade cleaner than the rest, and removed +his kit from the rack with natural disappointment. +Why should ladies be going to Galicia? But the general +first-class compartment, next to ours, was unoccupied, and he +resignedly transferred his belongings thither. The numerous +third-class carriages were crowded with raw recruits, who had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">395</a></span> +all jumped down, boy fashion, on the Leon platforms, and +came scrambling back at the starting bell in noisiest confusion. +Just as the train was puffing out, a station official threw +open our door with a smiling, "Only to the next stop, ladies!" +and precipitated upon us three belated warriors. We groaned +inly with dark foreboding, for third-class occupancy of a first-class +carriage is apt to leave lively souvenirs behind. Our +three young soldiers, each with his personal effects bundled +up in an enormous red and yellow handkerchief, were of the +rudest peasant type, hardly lifted above animal and clod. Only +one was able to spell out anything of the newspaper we offered. +He labored over a large-lettered advertisement with grimy +thumb, twisting brows, and muttering lips, but soon gave it +up in sheer exhaustion. The hulking fellow beyond him was +continually on the point of spitting,—a regular Spanish pastime +in travel; but, determined that the carriage should not +suffer that offence, I kept strict watch on this chrysalis hero, +and embarrassed him into stark paralysis with questions on the +landscape whenever he was quite prepared to fire. The third +conscript was a ruddy, fair-haired boy of seventeen, who had +in rudimentary form the social instincts of a Spaniard, and in +his intervals of blue-eyed staring at the tawdry splendors about +him hammered our ears with some harsh dialect, his one theme +being the indignities and hardships of a Spanish soldier's lot. +Yet dull as they were, and ignorant of railway customs, they +knew enough to prefer broad cushions, whose variety of stains +did not trouble their enviable simplicity, to the rough and +narrow benches of the overcrowded third-class carriages, +and at the "first stop" they unanimously forgot to change. +But they were not unkindly lads, and after I had explained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">396</a></span> +to them a dozen times or so that my friend was suffering +from a headache and needed to lie down, and had, furthermore, +lawlessly suggested that they could make themselves +equally comfortable in the other first-class carriage, which +was not "reserved for ladies," they promised to leave us +at the second station; but their slow peasant hands fumbled +at the door so clumsily that the train was under way +again before the latch had yielded. It was not until we +had been fellow-travellers for two or three hours that they +finally stumbled into the neighboring compartment. From +this the conductor, who had been blind and deaf to past +proceedings, promptly ejected them, having no mind to let +them make acquaintance with his wine bottle, and our poor +exiles cast reproachful glances at us as they were hustled off +to their own place.</p> + +<p>We have sometimes talked enthusiastically of democracy, +but we did not discuss such exalted subjects then. Indeed, +we had enough to do in guarding our doors, often by frank +exercise of muscle, from further intrusion, and in trying to +provide ourselves with food and water. A struggling mob of +soldier boys besieged the refreshment stalls at every station, +and drained the jars of the water-venders long before these +could arrive at the car windows. At last, by a union of silver +and violence, we succeeded in gaining from an astounded +little girl, who was racing after the departing carriages, +all her stock in trade, even the great russet jar itself, +with its treasure of cold spring water. The historian +possesses a special genius for cooking over an alcohol lamp +on a rocking mountain train, and having augmented our knapsack +stores with scalded milk and knobby bread from a tavern +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">397</a></span> +near one of the depots, we lived like feudal barons "of our +own" for the rest of that memorable journey.</p> + +<p>Reminders of the pilgrims were all along our route. Overflowing +as Santiago's young knights were with martial and romantic +spirit, when the brigands did not give their steel sufficient +sport they would break lances for the love of ladies or on any +other conceivable pretext. We passed the bridge of twenty +arches, where ten companions in arms once posted themselves +for ten successive days, and challenged to the tilt every cavalier +who came that way in journey to the Compostela jubilee.</p> + +<p>All the afternoon we were climbing into the hill-country. +The waste slopes were starred with purple clumps of heather, +and crossed by light-footed maids, who balanced great bunches +of bracken on their heads. The patches of green valley, +walled in by those barren steeps, held each a few tumble-down +old houses, while elsewhere we noticed human dwellings that +seemed scarcely more than nests of mud plastered to the stone. +Yet the soil appeared to be cultivated with the most patient +thrift,—wheat and potatoes growing wherever wheat and +potatoes might. The view became a bewildering medley of +Scottish hills, Italian skies, and Gothic castles, with occasionally +a tawny and fantastic rock from the Garden of the Gods. +The city of Astorga, whose cathedral was founded, so the +pilgrims used to say, by St. James in his missionary tour, +greeted us from the midst of the flinty hills. These are the +home of a singular clan known as the Maragatos. They wear +a distinctive dress, marry only among themselves, and turn a +sullen look upon their neighbors.</p> + +<p>As night came on, the road grew so rough that we had to +cork our precious water-jar with a plump lemon. The historian +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">398</a></span> +was sleeping off her headache, except as I woke her at +the stations to aid in the defence of our ignoble luxury. We +remembered that queen of Portugal who made the pilgrimage +to Compostela on foot, begging her way. In the close-packed +third-class carriages it must have been a cramped and +weary night, and we did not wonder that young socialists +occasionally tried to raid our fortress. But we clung stoutly +to the door-handles, lustily sounding our war cry of "Ladies +only" in lieu of "Santiago," and early in the small hours had +the shamefaced pleasure of seeing the herd of drowsy conscripts, +with their red and yellow bundles, driven into +another train, where they were tumbled two or three deep, +the under layer struggling and protesting. One little fellow, +nearly smothered in the hurly-burly about the steps, cried out +pitifully; but the conductor silenced him with angry sarcasm: +"Dost mean to be a soldier, thou? Or shall we put thee in +a sugar-bowl and send thee back to mamma?"</p> + +<p>There was less need of sentry duty after this, but the night +was too beautiful for sleep. We were crossing the wild +Asturian mountains, the Alps of Spain, and a full moon was +pouring down white lustre on crag, cascade, and gorge. By +these perilous ways had streamed the many-bannered pilgrim +hosts,—men and women of all countries and all tongues +seeking the Jerusalem of the West. Each nation had its own +hymn to Santiago, and these, sung to the mingled music of +bagpipes, timbrels, bugles, flutes, and harps, must have pealed +out strangely on many a silver night. The poor went begging +of the rich, and often a mounted crusader cast his purse of broad +gold pieces on the heather, trusting Santiago and his own good +sword to see him through. Up and down these sheer ravines +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">399</a></span> +stumbled the blind and lame, sure of healing if only they could +reach the shrine. Deaf and dumb went in the pilgrim ranks, +the mad, the broken-hearted, the sin-oppressed; only the +troop of lepers held apart. Some of those foot-sore wayfarers, +most likely the raggedest of all, carried a secret treasure for +the saint. Some staggered under penitential weights of lead +and stone, and others bore loads of bars and fetters in token +of captivity from which St. James had set them free.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_479" id="i_479"></a> +<img src="images/i_479.jpg" width="416" height="417" alt="St. Paul, the First Hermit" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">St. Paul, the First Hermit</span></p> +</div> + +<p>But these pathetic shapes no longer peopled the moonlight. +Since it was the nineteenth century, a first-class passenger +might as well lie down and watch the gracious progress of the +moon across the heavens,—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Oft, as if her head she bowed,</p> +<p>Stooping through a fleecy cloud."</p> +</div> + +<p>But the clouds perversely made of themselves wayside +crosses, urns, cathedral towers; and just as one sky-creature, +"backed like a weasel" but with the face of Santiago, began +to puff a monstrous cigarette, I roused my dozing senses and +discovered that we were entering Lugo, the capital of Galicia, +and once, under Roman rule, of all Spain.</p> + +<p>This city of tumultuous history, stormed by one wild race +after another, and twice sacked in our own century, first by +the French and then by the Carlists, lay very peacefully under +the white dawn. While the chivalrous Spanish sun rose +unobtrusively, so as not to divert attention from the fading +graces of the moon, the historian made sustaining coffee, and +we tried to look as if we liked Galicia. This far northwestern +province is the Bœotia of Spain; its stupid, patient +peasantry are the butt of all the Peninsula, and to be called a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">400</a></span> +Gallego is to be called a fool. The country, as we saw it +from the train, was broken and hilly, but the Alpine majesty +of Asturias was gone. In the misty drizzle of rain, which +soon hushed the pipings of the birds, all the region looked +wretchedly poor. It was a wooded, watered, well-tilled +land, with tufts of heather brightly fringing every bank; but +the houses were mere cabins, where great, gaunt, dark-colored +pigs pushed in and out among bedraggled hens and half-clad +children. Women were working in the fields by five o'clock +in the morning, their saffron and carmine kerchiefs twisted into +horns above the forehead. Women were serving as porters +at the stations, carrying heavy trunks and loads of valises on +their heads. Women were driving the plough, swinging the +pickaxe in the quarries, mending the railway tracks. Short, +stout, vigorous brownies they were, and most of them looked +old.</p> + +<p>It was mid-forenoon when we reached Coruña, the seaport +whence sailed the Invincible Armada. We had meant to +rest there for the afternoon and night before undertaking the +forty-mile drive to Santiago, but the hotel was so filthy that, +tired as we were, there was nothing for it but to go on. +Tarrying only for bath and breakfast, we took our places in +a carriage which, setting out at one, promised to bring us +into Santiago in time for the eight o'clock dinner.</p> + +<p>This conveyance was a species of narrow omnibus, which +an Andalusian, an Englishman, a son of Compostela returning +home after a long sojourn in foreign parts, his young +wife of Jewish features, and our weary selves filled to overflowing. +Our Jehu had agreed to transport the six of us, +with our effects, for the sum of sixteen dollars; but deep was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">401</a></span> +our disgust when he piled our handbags, shawl straps, and +all our lesser properties in upon our wedged and helpless +forms, and crammed six rough Gallegos, with a reeling load +of trunks and boxes, on the roof. Remonstrance would be +futile. The places in the regular diligence were not only +taken for the afternoon but engaged for several days ahead, +and carriages are rare birds in Galicia. The Spanish gentlemen +merely shrugged their shoulders, the Englishman had but +that morning landed in Spain and could not speak a word of +the vernacular, and feminine protest was clearly out of order. +The four puny horses took the top-heavy vehicle at a rattling +pace down the granite-paved streets of Coruña, but hardly +were we under way when our griefs began.</p> + +<p>On our arrival that forenoon, a fluent porter had over-persuaded +us to leave our trunk at the station, letting him +retain the check in order to have the baggage ready for us +when we should pass the depot <i>en route</i> for Santiago. We +had been absent scarcely three hours, but meanwhile the +trunk had disappeared. A dozen tatterdemalions ran hither +and thither, making as much noise as possible, all the top +fares shouted contradictory suggestions, and our porter, heaping +Ossa-Pelions of execration upon the (absent) railroad +officials, declared that they in their most reprobate stupidity +had started the trunk on that eighteen-hour journey back to +Leon. They were dolts and asses, the sons of imbecile +mothers; but we had only to leave the check with him, and +in the course of an indefinite number of "to-morrows" he +would recover our property. We had grown sadder and +wiser during the last five minutes, however, and insisted on +taking that soiled inch of paper into our own keeping. At +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">402</a></span> +this the porter flew into a Spanish rage, flung back his fee +into my lap, and so eloquently expressed himself that we left +Coruña with stinging ears.</p> + +<p>It was the historian's trunk, stored with supplies for the +camera, as well as with sundry alleviations of our pilgrim lot, +but she put it in the category of spilled milk, and turned with +heroic cheerfulness to enjoy the scenery. The horses had +now drooped into the snail's pace which they consistently +maintained through the rest of their long, uphill way, for the +city of the Apostle stands on a high plateau. As we mounted +more and more, Coruña, lying between bay and sea, still shone +clear across the widening reach of smiling landscape. Maize +and vines were everywhere. So were peasants, who trudged +along in family troops toward Compostela. But whether +afoot or astride donkeys of antique countenance, they could +always outstrip our lumbering coach, and we were an easy +prey for the hordes of childish bandits who chase vehicles +for miles along the pilgrim road, shrieking for pennies in the +name of Santiago.</p> + +<p>About two leagues out of Coruña we did pass something,—a +group composed of a young Gallego and the most diminutive +of donkeys. The peasant, walking beside his beast, was +trying to balance across its back an object unwonted to those +wilds.</p> + +<p>"Strange to see a steamer trunk here!" I remarked, turning +to the historian; but she was already leaning out from the +window, inspecting that label-speckled box with an eagle gaze.</p> + +<p>"It's mine!" she exclaimed, and in a twinkling had +startled the driver into pulling up his horses, had leapt from +the coach, and was running after the peasant, who, for his part, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">403</a></span> +swerving abruptly from the main road, urged his panting +donkey up a steep lane. Nobody believed her. Even I, her +fellow-pilgrim, thought her wits were addling with our penitential +fasts and vigils, and did not attempt to join in so mad a +chase. As for the scandalized Spaniards, inside and out, they +shouted angrily that the thing was impossible and the señora +was to come back. The coachman roared loudest of all. +But on she dashed, ran down her man, and bade him, in inspired +Galician, bring that trunk to the omnibus at once. He +scratched his head, smiled a child's innocent and trustful smile, +and, like a true Gallego, did as he was told. By this time +masculine curiosity had been too much for the driver and +most of the fares, and they had scrambled after, so that the +few of us who kept guard by the carriage presently beheld an +imposing procession advancing along the road, consisting of a +Galician peasant with a steamer trunk upon his head, a group +of crestfallen Spaniards, and a Yankee lady, slightly flushed, +attended by an applauding Englishman.</p> + +<p>Beyond a doubt it was her trunk. Her name was there, a +New York hotel mark, which she had tried to obliterate with +a blot of Leon ink, and the number corresponding to the +number of our check. "By Jove!" said the Englishman. +As for the peasant, he said even less, but in some way gave +us to understand that he was taking the trunk to a gentleman +from Madrid. Thinking that there might have been a confusion +of checks in the station, we gave this childlike native a +<i>peseta</i> and a card with our Santiago address in case "the +Madrid gentleman" should suspect us of highway robbery. +Our fellow-passengers took the tale to Santiago, however; it +made a graphic column in the local paper, and none of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">404</a></span> +several Spaniards who spoke to us of the matter there doubted +that the trunk was stolen by collusion between the porter and +the peasant.</p> + +<p>Our next adventure was more startling yet. The coachman +had been heard, at intervals, vehemently expostulating +with a roof passenger who wanted to get down. "Man alive! +By the staff of Santiago! By your mother's head! By the +Virgin of the Pillar!" Whether the malcontent had taken +too much wine, whether he was under legal arrest, whether it +was merely a crossing of whims, we could not learn from any +of the impassioned actors in the drama; but, apparently, he +found his opportunity to slip unnoticed off the coach. For +suddenly the driver screamed to his horses, and, like a bolt +from the blue, a handsome, athletic fellow leapt to the ground +and rushed back along the dusty road, brandishing clenched +fists and stamping his feet in frenzy. In mid-career he paused, +struck a stage attitude, tore open his pink shirt, gasped, and +shook with rage. "Irving isn't in it," quoth the Englishman. +Then appeared, lurking by the roadside, a slouchy youth, on +whom our tragic hero sprang like a tiger, threw him down, +and stood panting over him with a gesture as if to stab. An +instant later he had seized his victim by the collar, dragged +him up, and was running him back to the coach. "You hurt +me," wailed the truant, "and I don't want to go." But go he +must, being bundled back in short order on the roof, where +harmony seemed to be immediately restored. While the men +were struggling, a lordly old peasant, stalking by, surveyed +them with a peasant's high disdain. We had already noted the +Irish look of the Galicians, but this magnificent patriarch, with +dark green waistcoat over a light green shirt, old gold knickerbockers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">405</a></span> +and crushed strawberry hose, had as Welsh a face, dark +and clean-cut, as Snowdon ever saw.</p> + +<p>Long sunset shadows lay across the hills; we had shared +with our companions our slight stores of sweet chocolate, +bread, and wine, and still we were not halfway to Santiago. +It was nine o'clock before our groaning equipage drew up at +a wretched little inn, incredibly foul, where it was necessary +to bait the exhausted horses. Mine host welcomed the party +with pensive dignity, and served us, in the midst of all that +squalor, with the manners of a melancholy count. Shutting +eyes and noses as far as we could, and blessing eggs for shells +and fruit for rind, we ate and gathered strength to bear what +St. James might yet have in store for us.</p> + +<p>The diligence had resumed its weary jog; we were all more +or less asleep, unconsciously using, in our crowded estate, one +another as pillows, when an uproar from the box and a wild +lurch of the coach brought us promptly to our waking senses. +One of the wheel horses was down, and the others, frightened +by the dragging harness, were rearing and plunging. Out we +tumbled into the misty night, wondering if we were destined, +after all, to foot it to Compostela in proper pilgrim fashion. +The poor beast was mad with terror, and his struggles soon +brought his mate to the ground beside him. The coachman, +so pompous and dictatorial at the outset, stood helplessly in +the road, at a safe distance, wringing his hands and crying like +a baby: "Alas, poor me! Poor little me! O holy Virgin! +Santiago!" The top fares, who had made good speed to <i>terra +firma</i>, were wailing in unison and shrieking senseless counsels. +"Kill thou the horse! Kill thou the horse!" one of them +chanted like a Keltic dirge. The coachman supplied the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">406</a></span> +antiphon: "Kill not my horse! Kill not my horse! <i>Ave +Maria!</i> Poor little me!" "Fools! Sit on his head," +vociferated the Englishman in his vain vernacular. The +horses seemed to have as many legs as centipedes, kicking all +at once. The coach was toppling, the luggage pitching, and +catastrophe appeared inevitable, when Santiago, such an excellent +horseman himself, inspired one of the roof passengers to +unbuckle a few straps. The effect was magical. First one +nag, and then the other, struggled to its feet; the coachman +sobbed anew, this time for joy; the Spanish gentlemen, who +had been watching the scene with imperturbable passivity, +crawled back into the diligence, the silent wife followed with +the heavy bag which her husband had let her carry all the +way, and the Anglo-Saxon contingent walked on ahead for +half an hour to give the spent horses what little relief we +might.</p> + +<p>The clocks were striking two when we reached the gates +of the sacred city, where fresh hindrance met us. The customs +officials were on the alert. Who were we that would +creep into Compostela de Santiago under cover of night, in +an irregular conveyance piled high with trunks and boxes? +Smugglers, beyond a doubt! But they would teach us a thing +or two. We might wait outside till morning.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_490" id="i_490"></a> +<img src="images/i_490.jpg" width="420" height="540" alt="Maids of Honor" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Maids of Honor</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Delighted boys from a peasant camp beyond the walls ran +up to jeer at our predicament. Our coachman, reverting to +his dolorous chant, appealed to all the saints. The top fares +shrilled in on the chorus; the Spanish gentlemen lighted +cigarettes, and after some twenty minutes of dramatic altercation, +a soldier sprang on our top step and mounted guard, +while the coach rattled through the gates and on to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">407</a></span> +<i>aduana</i>. Here we were deposited, bag and baggage, on +the pavement, and a drowsy, half-clad old dignitary was +brought forth to look at us. The coachman, all his social +graces restored, imaginatively presented the three Anglo-Saxons +as a French party travelling for pleasure. "But +what am I to do with them?" groaned the dignitary, and +went back to bed. An appalling group of <i>serenos</i>, in slouch +hats and long black capes, with lanterns and with staffs topped +by steel axes, escorted us into a sort of luggage room, and +told us to sit down on benches. We sat on them for half an +hour, which seemed to satisfy the ends of justice, for then +the <i>serenos</i> gave place to porters, who said they would bring +us our property, which nobody had examined or noticed in +the slightest, after daybreak, and would now show us the +way to our hotel. Our farewell to the coachman, who came +beaming up to shake hands and receive thanks, was cold.</p> + +<p>We had engaged rooms by letter a week in advance, but +they had been surrendered to earlier arrivals, and we were +conducted to a private house next door to the hotel. After +the delays incident to waking an entire family, we were +taken into a large, untidy room, furnished with dining table, +sewing machine, and a half dozen decrepit chairs. There +was no water and no sign of toilet apparatus, but in an +adjoining dark closet were two narrow cots, from which the +four daughters of the house had just been routed. Of those +beds which these sleepy children were then, with unruffled +sweetness and cheeriness, making ready for us, the less said +the better. Our indoor hours in Compostela, an incessant +battle against dirt, bad smells, and a most instructive variety +of vermin, were a penance that must have met all pilgrim +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">408</a></span> +requirements. And yet these people spared no pains to make +us comfortable, so far as they understood comfort. At our +slightest call, were it only for a match, in would troop the +mother, four daughters, maid, dog, and cat, with any of the +neighbors who might be visiting, all eager to be of service. +The girls were little models of sunny courtesy, and would +have been as pretty of face as they were charming in manner, +had not skin diseases and eye diseases told the tale of the +hideously unsanitary conditions in which their young lives +had been passed.</p> + +<p>But we had come to the festival of Santiago, and it was +worth its price. +</p> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXV</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">409</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE BUILDING OF A SHRINE</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2">(A historical chapter, which should be skipped.)</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span>hat most Spanish of Spaniards, Alarcón, is pleased +in one of his roguish sketches to depict the waywardness +of a certain poetaster. "Alonso Alonso was +happy because he was thinking of many sad things,—of the +past centuries, vanished like smoke, ... of the little span of +life and of the absurdities with which it is filled, of the folly +of wisdom, of the nothingness of ambition, of all this comedy, +in short, which is played upon the earth."</p> + +<p>Alonso Alonso would be in his very element in Santiago de +Compostela. The "unsubstantial pageant faded" of the +mediæval world is more than memory there. It is a ghost +that walks at certain seasons, notably from the twentieth to +the twenty-eighth of July. The story of the birth, growth, +and passing of that once so potent shrine, the Jerusalem of the +West, is too significant for oblivion.</p> + +<p>The corner-stone of the strange history is priestly legend. +The Apostle James the Greater, so runs the tale, after preaching +in Damascus and along the Mediterranean coast, came in +a Greek ship to Galicia, then under Roman rule, and proclaimed +the gospel in its capital city, Iria-Flavia. Here the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">410</a></span> +Virgin appeared to him, veiled, like the mother of Æneas, in +a cloud, and bade him build a church. This he did, putting +a bishop in charge, and then pursued his mission, not only in +the remote parts of Galicia, but in Aragon, Castile, and Andalusia. +At Saragossa the Virgin again flashed upon his sight. +She was poised, this time, on a marble pillar, which she left +behind her to become, what it is to-day, the most sacred object +in all Spain. A chip of this <i>columna immobilis</i> is one of the +treasures of Toledo. The cathedral of the <i>Virgen del Pilar</i>,—affectionately +known as Pilarica,—which James then +founded at Saragossa, is still a popular goal of pilgrimage, the +marble of the holy column being hollowed, at one unshielded +spot, by countless millions of kisses. The Apostle, on his +return to Jerusalem after seven years in Spain, was beheaded +by Herod. Loyal disciples recovered the body and set sail +with it for the Spanish coast. Off Portugal occurred the +pointless "miracle of the shells." A gentleman was riding +on the shore, when all at once his horse, refusing to obey the +bit, leapt into the sea, walking on the crests of the waves +toward the boat. Steed and rider suddenly sank, but promptly +rose again, all crusted over with shells, which have been ever +since regarded as the emblem of St. James in particular, and +of pilgrim folk in general.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"How should I your true love know</p> +<p class="i1">From another one?</p> +<p>By his cockle hat and staff</p> +<p class="i1">And his sandal shoon."</p> +</div> + +<p>The Santiago "cockle," which thus, as a general pilgrim +symbol, outstripped the keys of Rome and the cross of Jerusalem, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">411</a></span> +is otherwise accounted for by a story that the body of St. +James was borne overseas to Galicia in a shell of miraculous +size, but this is not the version that was told us at the shrine.</p> + +<p>The two disciples, Theodore and Athanasius, temporarily +interred their master in Padron, two leagues from Iria, until +they should have obtained permission from the Roman dame +who governed that region to allow St. James the choice of a +resting-place. Her pagan heart was moved to graciousness, +and she lent the disciples an ox-cart, in which they placed the +body, leaving the beasts free to take the Apostle's course. It +is hardly miraculous that, under the circumstances, Lady +Lupa's oxen plodded straight back to Iria and came to a stop +before her summer villa. Since this was so clearly indicated +as the choice of the saint, she could do no less than put her +house at his disposal. In the villa was a chapel to the war-god +Janus, but when the body of Santiago was brought within +the doors, this heathen image fell with a crash into a hundred +fragments. Here the saint abode, guarded by his faithful disciples, +until, in process of time, they slept beside him. The +villa had been transformed into a little church, so little that, +when the Imperial persecutions stormed over the Spanish provinces, +the worshippers hid it under heaps of turf and tangles +of brier bushes. Those early Christians of Iria were slain or +scattered, and the burial place of St. James was forgotten of +all the world.</p> + +<p>In the seventh century, a rumor went abroad that the +Apostle James had preached the gospel in Spain. The legend +grew until, in the year 813, a Galician anchorite beheld from +the mouth of his cavern a brilliant star, which shone persistently +above a certain bramble-wood in the outskirts of Iria. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">412</a></span> +Moving lights, as of processional tapers, twinkled through the +matted screen of shrubbery, and solemn chants arose from the +very heart of the boscage. Word of this mystery came to +the bishop, who saw with his own eyes "the glow of many +candles through the shadows of the night." After three days +of fasting, he led all the villagers in procession to the thicket +which had grown up, a protecting hedge, about the ruins of +the holy house. The three graves were found intact, and on +opening the chief of these the bishop looked upon the body +of St. James, as was proven not only by severed head and pilgrim +staff, but by a Latin scroll. The swiftest horsemen of +Galicia bore the glorious tidings to the court of the king, that +most Christian monarch, Alfonso II, "very Catholic, a great +almsgiver, defender of the Faith." So loved of heaven was +this pious king, that once, when he had collected a treasure +of gold and precious stones for the making of a cross, two +angels, disguised as pilgrims, undertook the work. When, +after a few hours, Alfonso came softly to the forge to make +sure of their honesty and skill, no artisans were there, but +from an exquisitely fashioned cross streamed a celestial glory. +So devout a king, on hearing the great tidings from Galicia, +lost no time in despatching couriers to his bishops and +grandees, and all the pomp and pride of Spain, headed by +majesty itself, flocked to the far-off hamlet beyond the Asturian +mountains to adore the relics of Santiago.</p> + +<p>Now began grand doings in Iria, known henceforth as the +Field of the Star, <i>Campus Stellæ</i>, or Compostela. Alfonso had +a church of stone and clay built above the sepulchre, and +endowed it with an estate of three square miles. The Pope +announced the discovery to Christendom. A community of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">413</a></span> +twelve monks, with a presiding abbot, was installed at Compostela +to say masses before the shrine. For these beginnings +of homage the Apostle made a munificent return. A wild people, +living in a wild land at a wild time, these Spaniards of the +Middle Ages were shaped and swayed by two sovereign +impulses, piety and patriotism. These two were practically +one, for patriotism meant the expulsion of the Moor, and +piety, Cross above Koran. It was a life-and-death struggle. +The dispossessed Christians, beaten back from Andalusia and +Castile to the fastnesses of the northern mountains, were fighting +against fearful odds. They felt sore need of a leader, for +although, when their ranks were wavering, the Virgin had +sometimes appeared to cheer them on, hers, after all, was but +a woman's arm. It was in the battle of Clavijo, 846, that +Santiago first flashed into view, an invincible champion of the +cross.</p> + +<p>Rameiro, successor to Alfonso II, had taken the field +against the terrible Abderrahman of Cordova, who had +already overrun Valencia and Barcelona and was demanding +from Galicia a yearly tribute of one hundred maidens. This +exceedingly Moorish tax, which now amuses Madrid as a rattling +farce in the summer theatre of the <i>Buen Retiro</i>, was no +jesting matter then. Not only the most famous warriors of +the realm, Bernardo del Carpio in their van, but shepherds +and ploughmen, priests, monks, even bishops, flocked to the +royal standard.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"A cry went through the mountains when the proud Moor drew near,</p> +<p>And trooping to Rameiro came every Christian spear;</p> +<p>The blesséd Saint Iago, they called upon his name:—</p> +<p>That day began our freedom, and wiped away our shame."</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">414</a></span> +The hosts of Cross and Crescent met in battle-shock near +Logroño. Only nightfall saved the Christians from utter +rout, but in those dark hours of their respite the apparition +of Santiago bent above their sleeping king. "Fear not, +Rameiro," said the august lips. "The enemy, master of +the field, hems you in on every side, but God fights in your +ranks." At sunrise, in the very moment when the Moslem +host was bowed in prayer, the Christians, scandalized at the +spectacle, charged in orthodox fury. Their onset was led +by an unknown knight, gleaming in splendid panoply of war. +Far in advance, his left hand waving a snowy banner stamped +with a crimson cross, he spurred his fierce white horse full +on the infidel army. His brandished sword "hurled lightning +against the half-moon." At his every sweeping stroke, +turbaned heads rolled off by scores to be trampled, as turbaned +heads deserve, under the hoofs of that snorting steed. +The Son of Thunder had found his function, which was +nothing less than to inspirit the Reconquest. Henceforth +he could always be counted on to lead a desperate assault, +and "<i>Santiago y Cierra España!</i>" was the battle-cry of +every hard-fought field. So late as 1212, at the crucial +contest of Las Navas de Tolosa, the "Captain of the Spaniards" +saved the day.</p> + +<p>Whatever may be thought of such bloody prowess on the +part of Christ's disciple, the fisherman of Galilee, he could +not have taken, in that stormy age, a surer course to make +himself respected. All Europe sprang to do honor to a +saint who could fight like that. Charlemagne, guided by the +Milky Way, visited the shrine, if the famous old Codex +Calixtinus may be believed, with its convincing print of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">415</a></span> +Apostle sitting upright in his coffin and pointing the great +Karl to the starry trail. In process of time the Gran Capitan +came bustling from Granada. The king of Jerusalem did +not find the road too long, nor did the Pope of Rome count +it too arduous. England sent her first royal Edward, and +France more than one royal Louis. Counts and dukes, lords +and barons, rode hundreds of miles to Compostela, at the +head of feudal bands which sometimes clashed by the way. +Saints of every clime and temper made the glorious pilgrimage,—Gregory, +Bridget, Bernard, Francis of Assisi. +To the shrine of St. James came the Cid in radiant youth +to keep the vigil of arms and receive the honors of knighthood, +and again, mounted on his peerless Bavieca, to give +thanks for victory over the five Moorish kings. It was on +this second journey that he succored the leper, inviting him, +with heroic disdain of hygiene, to be his bedfellow "in a +great couch with linen very clean and costly."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_499" id="i_499"></a> +<img src="images/i_499.jpg" width="623" height="374" alt="Dancing the Sevillana" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Dancing the Sevillana</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Even in the ninth century such multitudes visited the +sepulchre that a society of hidalgos was formed to guard the +pilgrims from bandits along that savage route, serve them as +money-changers in Compostela, and in all possible ways protect +them from robbery and ill-usage. This brotherhood gave +birth to the famous Order of Santiago, whose two vows were +to defend the pilgrims and fight the Mussulmans. These +red-cross knights were as devout as they were valiant, +"lambs at the sound of the church-bells and lions at the call +of the trumpet." Kings and popes gave liberally to aid their +work. Roads were cut through Spain and France, even +Italy and Germany, "to Santiago." Forests were cleared, +morasses drained, bridges built, and rest-houses instituted, as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">416</a></span> +San Marcos at Leon and the celebrated hostelry of Roncesvalles. +Compostela had become a populous city, but a city +of inns, hospitals, and all variety of conventual and religious +establishments. Even to-day it can count nearly three hundred +altars. In the ninth century the modest church of +Alfonso II was replaced by an ornate edifice rich in treasures, +but in the gloomy tenth century, when Christian energies +were arrested by the dread expectation of the end of the +world, the Moors overran Galicia and laid the holy city +waste. The Moslem general, Almanzor, had meant to +shatter the urn of Santiago, but when he entered Compostela +with his triumphant troops, he found only one defender there, +an aged monk sitting silent on the Apostle's tomb. The +magnanimous Moor did not molest him, nor the ashes his +feebleness guarded better than strength, but took abundant +booty. When Almanzor marched to the south again, four +thousand Galician captives bore on their shoulders the treasures +of the Apostle, even the church-bells and sculptured +doors, to adorn the mosque of Cordova. The fresh courage +of the eleventh century began the great Romanesque cathedral +of Santiago. Donations poured in from all over Europe. +Pilgrims came bowed under the weight of marble and granite +blocks for the fabric. Young and old, men and women, +beggars and peasants, princes and prelates, had a hand in the +building, cutting short their prayers to mix mortar and hew +stone. Artists from far-off lands, who had come on pilgrimage, +lingered for years, often for lifetimes, in Compostela, +making beautiful the dwelling of the saint.</p> + +<p>The great epoch of Santiago was the twelfth century, when +there succeeded to the bishopric the able and ambitious Diego +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">417</a></span> +Gelmirez, who resolved that Compostela should be recognized +as the religious centre of Spain, and be joined with Jerusalem +and Rome in a trinity of the supreme shrines of Christendom. +He was a man of masterly resource, persistence, pluck. Not +too scrupulous for success, he found all means good that made +toward the accomplishment of his one splendid dream. The +clergy of Santiago, who had hitherto borne but dubious repute, +he subjected to instruction and to discipline, calling learned +priests from France to tutor them, and sending his own, as +they developed promise, to sojourn in foreign monasteries. +He zealously promoted the work on the cathedral, rearing +arches proud as his aspiration, and watch-towers strong as +his will. He invested the sacred ceremonies, especially the +ecclesiastical processions, with extraordinary pomp, so that +the figure of Alfonso VI, conqueror of Toledo, advancing +through the basilica in such a solemn progress, appeared less +imposing than the bishop himself, crowned with white mitre, +sceptred with ivory staff, and treading in his gold-embroidered +sandals upon the broad stones that pave the church as if on +an imperial palace floor. Gelmirez was indefatigable, too, in +building up the city. Eager to swell the flood of pilgrimage, +he founded in Compostela, already a cluster of shrines and +hostelries, still more churches, inns, asylums, hospitals, together +with convents, libraries, schools, and all other recognized +citadels of culture. He fought pestilence and dirt, +introducing an excellent water supply, and promoting, so far +as he knew how, decent and sanitary living. He was even +a patron of agriculture, bringing home from his foreign journeys, +which took him as far as Rome, packets of new seed +slipped in among parcels of jewels and no less precious budgets +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">418</a></span> +of saintly molars and knuckle-bones. But these missions +abroad, having always for chief object the pressing of +his petition upon the Holy See, involved costly presents to +influential prelates, especially the red-capped cardinals. The +revenue for such bribes he wrung from the Galician peasantry, +who gave him a measure of hate with every measure of grain. +Gelmirez had so many uses for money that no wonder his +taxes cut down to the quick. The lavish offerings sent by +sea to the shrine of Santiago, ruby-crusted crucifixes of pure +gold, silver reliquaries sparkling with emeralds and jacinths, +pontifical vestments of richest tissue and of rarest artistry, +well-chased vessels of onyx, pearl, and jasper, all that constant +influx of glistening tribute from the length and breadth of +Christendom, had drawn Moorish pirates to the Galician waters. +To guard the treasure-ships, repel the infidels, and, incidentally, +return tit for tat by plundering their galleys, the warrior +bishop equipped a formidable fleet, and kept it on patrol off +the coast,—a strange development from the little fishing-boat +whence James and John trailed nets in the lake of Galilee.</p> + +<p>The audacity of Gelmirez reached its height in his struggle +with the Queen Regent, Urraca of unlovely memory, for the +control of the child king, Alfonso VII. This boy was the +grandson of Alfonso VI, "Emperor of Spain," who survived +all his legitimate children except Urraca. The father of the +little Alfonso, Count Raymond of Burgundy, was dead, and +Urraca had taken a second husband, Alfonso the Battle-maker. +The situation was complicated. The Battle-maker wore the +crowns of Aragon and Navarre, Urraca was queen of Leon +and Castile, while the child, by his grandfather's will, inherited +the lordship of Galicia. The Bishop of Santiago, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">419</a></span> +baptized the baby, had strenuously opposed Urraca's second +marriage. As that lady had, nevertheless, gone her own wilful +way, setting at naught the bishop's remonstrance and +inciting Galicia to revolt against his tyranny, Gelmirez had +kidnapped the royal child, a puzzled little majesty of four +summers, and solemnly crowned and anointed him before the +High Altar of St. James, declaring himself the protector of the +young sovereign. Urraca soon wearied of her Aragonese +bridegroom, and, casting him off, took up arms to defend her +territories against his invasion. The powerful bishop came +to her aid with men and money, but exacted in exchange an +oath of faithful friendship, which Urraca gave and broke and +gave again. Meanwhile the popular hatred swelled so high +against Gelmirez that an open insurrection, in which many +of his own clergy took part, drove him and the Queen to seek +refuge in one of the cathedral towers, while the rebels burned +and pillaged in the church below. The bishop barely escaped +with his life, fleeing in disguise from Compostela; but soon +the baffled conspirators saw him at his post again, punishing, +pardoning, rebuilding—as indomitable as St. James himself. +The election of Diego's friend, Calixtus II, to the papacy, +gave him his supreme opportunity. Money was the prime +requisite, and Gelmirez, not for the first nor second time, +borrowed of the Apostle, selling treasures from the sacristy. +The sums so raised were carried to the Pope, across the +bandit-peopled mountains, by a canon of Santiago masquerading +as a beggar, and by a trusty group of particularly ragged +pilgrims. This proof of ecclesiastical ripeness overcame all +papal scruples, and Calixtus, despite the clamor of enemies +and rivals, raised Santiago to the coveted archbishopric. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">420</a></span></p> + +<p>The first half of his great purpose effected, Gelmirez strove +with renewed energy to wrest from Toledo the primacy of +Spain. He fortified Galicia, hurled his fleet against Moorish +and English pirates, built himself an archiepiscopal palace +worthy of his hard-won dignities, stole from Portugal the +skeletons of four saints to enhance the potency of Santiago, +and made much of the skull of the Apostle James the Less, +which Urraca had presented in one of her fits of amity. But +this time the reverend robber was not destined to success. +The Archbishop of Toledo formed a powerful party against +him, Calixtus died, even the king, whom Gelmirez had armed +knight in the cathedral of Santiago and had crowned a second +time at Leon, grew restive under the dictation of his old tutor. +The smouldering hatred of Galicia again flamed out. The +aged archbishop once more had to see his church polluted, its +treasures plundered, its marvels of carved work, stained glass, +and gold-threaded vestments spoiled and wasted by that senseless +rabble which had twisted out from under his heavy foot. +Faint and bleeding from a wound in his head, too white a head, +for all its pride, to be battered with stones, Gelmirez had +almost fallen a victim to the mob, when two of his canons +snatched him back to the refuge of the High Altar, barring +the iron-latticed doors of the <i>Capilla Major</i> against those savage +sheep of his pasture. The outrage was so flagrant that, for very +shame, pope and king, though both had accepted the bribes of +his enemies, responded to his appeal, and assisted him to +resume that rigorous sway which lasted, all told, for something +like forty years.</p> + +<p>Such was the man and such the process that made the +shrine of Santiago the third in rank of mediæval Christendom. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">421</a></span> +Under the rule of Gelmirez Compostela had become +one of the principal cities of the Peninsula, a seat of arts and +sciences where Spanish nobles were proud to build them +palaces and to educate their sons. The mighty influx of pilgrims, +which went on without abatement century after century, +nearly twenty-five hundred licenses being granted, in the single +year 1434, to cockle-hatted visitors from England alone, filled +the place with business. Inn-keepers, physicians, money-changers, +merchants were in flourishing estate, and a number +of special industries developed. One street was taken up by +booths for the sale of polished shells. Another bears still the +name of the jet-workers, whose rosaries, crucifixes, stars, +gourds, staffs, and amulets were in high demand. Souvenirs +of Santiago, little crosses delicately cut and chased, mimic +churches, towers, shrines gave employ to scores of artists in +silver and mother-of-pearl. The enormous revenue from the +sale of phials of healing oil and from the consecrated candles +must needs go to the Apostle, but the cunning craftsmen who +loaded their stalls with love-charms had a well-nigh equal +patronage.</p> + +<p>The finished cathedral was consecrated in 1211, and in +1236 the royal saint, Fernando III, sent to Compostela a +train of Mohammedan captives, bringing back on their +shoulders the bells Almanzor had taken. These had been +hung, inverted, in the beautiful mosque of Cordova to serve +as lamps for the infidel worship, but at last St. James had his +own again. Thus Santiago trampled on the Moors, and his +ashes, or what had passed for his ashes, slept in peace, with +nothing to do but work miracles on blind and crippled +pilgrims, until, in 1589, an army of English heretics, led by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">422</a></span> +the horrible Drake, landed in Galicia. These Lutheran dogs +were not worthy of a miracle. The archbishop and his +canons, with the enemy hammering on the gates of Compostela, +hastily took up and reburied the three coffins of the +original shrine, so secretly that they could not be found again. +In 1879, however, a miscellany of brittle bits of bone was +brought to light by a party of determined seekers, and these +repulsive fragments, after scientific analysis conducted in an +ecclesiastical spirit, were declared to be portions of three +skeletons which might be ages old. Leo XIII clenched the +matter by "authenticating" one of them, apparently chosen +at random, as the body of Santiago. But although for us +of the perverse sects, the contents of that magnificent silver +casket, the centre of the Santiago faith, could arouse no thrill +of worship, the Pilgrim City itself and its storied, strange +cathedral were the most impressive sights of Spain. +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_410" id="i_410"></a> +<img src="images/i_410.jpg" width="602" height="415" alt="Within the Cloister" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Within the Cloister</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXVI</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">423</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE SON OF THUNDER</p> +<div class="poem p2"> +<p class="o1">"Thou shield of that faith which in Spain we revere,</p> +<p>Thou scourge of each foeman who dares to draw near,</p> +<p>Whom the Son of that God who the elements tames</p> +<p>Called child of the thunder, immortal Saint James."</p> + +<p class="i10">—<i>Hymn to Santiago</i>, in George Borrow's translation.</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span>atigues of the journey and discomforts of our +lodging melted from memory like shadows of the +night when we found ourselves, on the morning of +July twenty-fourth, before that rich, dark mass of fretted +granite, a majestic church standing solitary in the midst of +spreading <i>plazas</i>. These are surrounded by stately buildings, +the archiepiscopal palace with its memories of Gelmirez, +the royal hospital founded by Ferdinand and Isabella for +the succor of weary pilgrims, ancient colleges with sculptured +façades, marvellous old convents whose holy fathers were +long since driven out by royal decree into hungry, homesick +exile, and the columned city hall with its frontal relief of the +battle of Clavijo and its crowning statue of St. James. The +great, paved squares, the magnificent stairways and deeply +recessed portals were aglow with all Galicia. Peasants in +gala dress, bright as tropic birds, stood in deferential groups +about the pilgrims, for there were actual pilgrims on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">424</a></span> +scene, men and women whose broad hats and round capes +were sewn over with scallop-shells, and whose long staffs +showed little gourds fastened to the upper end. They wore +rosaries and crucifixes in profusion, and their habit was spangled +with all manner of charms and amulets, especially the +tinsel medals with their favorite device of St. James riding +down the Moors. We bought at one of the stalls set up +before the doors for sale of holy wares a memento of the +famous old jet-work, a tiny black hand, warranted, if hung +about the neck, to cure disorders of the eyes. We fell to +chatting with a pilgrim who was shod in genuine sandal +shoon. A large gourd was tied to his belt, the rim of his +hat was turned up at one side and caught there with a rosy-tinted +shell, and his long, black ringlets fell loose upon his +shoulders, framing a romantic Dürer face. He talked with +us in German, saying that he was of Wittemberg, and once +a Lutheran, but had been converted to the true faith on a +previous visit to Spain. Since then he had footed his penitential +way to Jerusalem and other distant shrines. As his +simple speech ran on, we seemed to see the mountains round +about Santiago crossed by those converging streams of mediæval +pilgrims, all dropping on their knees at the first glimpse +of the cathedral towers. With that sight the fainting were +refreshed, the lame ran, and jubilant songs of praise to Santiago +rolled out in many languages upon the air.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Primus ex apostolis,</p> +<p>Martir Jerusolinus,</p> +<p>Jacobus egregio,</p> +<p>Sacer est martirio."</p> +</div> + +<p>In those Ages of Faith all the gates of the city were choked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">425</a></span> +with the incoming tide, the hostels and cure-houses overflowed, +and the broad <i>plazas</i> about the cathedral were filled with dense +throngs of pilgrims, massed nation by nation, flying their +national colors, singing their national hymns to the strangely +blended music of their national instruments, and watching for +the acolyte who summoned them, company by company, into +the august presence-chamber of St. James. His shrine they +approached only in posture of lowliest reverence. Even +now, at the end of the nineteenth century, our first glance, as +we entered the lofty, dim, and incense-perfumed nave, fell on +a woman-pilgrim dragging herself painfully on her knees up +the aisle toward the High Altar, and often falling prostrate to +kiss the pavement with groans and tears.</p> + +<p>Mediæval pilgrims, when they had thus won their way to +the entrance of the <i>Capilla Mayor</i>, and there received three +light blows from a priestly rod in token of chastisement, were +granted the due indulgences and, in turn, laid their offerings +before the great white altar. Still there sits, in a niche above, +the thirteenth-century image of St. James, a colossal figure +wrought of red granite, with stiffly flowing vestments of elaborately +figured gilt. His left hand grasps a silver staff, with +gilded gourd atop, and his right, whose index finger points +downward to the burial vault, holds a scroll inscribed, "Hic +est corpus divi Jacobi Apostoli ac Hispaniarum Patroni." +Once he wore a broad-brimmed hat all of pure gold, but this +was melted down by Marshal Ney in the French invasion. +At that time the sacred vessels were heaped like market produce +into great ox-carts, until the cathedral had been plundered +of ten hundredweight of treasure. It was "the end of the +pilgrimage" to climb the steps behind this statue and kiss its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">426</a></span> +resplendent silver cape, studded with cockle-shells and besprinkled +with gems. But the pilgrims of the past had much +more to see and worship,—the jewelled crown of the Apostle +set upon the altar, his very hat and staff, the very axe that +beheaded him, and other relics to which the attention of the +modern tourist, at least, is not invited. Yet even we were +conducted to the Romanesque crypt beneath the High Altar, +where stands another altar of red marble, decorated by a +relief of two peacocks drinking from a cup. This altar is +surmounted by a bronze pedestal, which bears the sumptuous +ark-shaped casket with its enshrined handfuls of dubious dust.</p> + +<p>Our latter-day pilgrims seemed well content with the measure +of wealth and sanctity which Moorish sack and English piracy, +French invasion and Carlist wars, had spared to the cathedral. +In the matter of general relics, nevertheless, Santiago suffers +by comparison with the neighbor cathedral of Oviedo, which +proudly shows a silver-plated old reliquary, believed by the +devout to have been brought in the earliest Christian times +from Rome. This chest contains, in addition to the usual +pieces of the true cross and thorns from the crown, such +remarkable mementos as St. Peter's leathern wallet, crumbs +left over from the Feeding of the Five Thousand, bits of +roast fish and honeycomb from Emmaus, bread from the +Last Supper, manna from the wilderness, a portion of Moses' +rod and the mantle of Elijah. Oviedo possesses, too, that +famous cross which the angels made for Alfonso II, and one +of the six water-jars of Cana. But the relic chapel of Santiago +makes up in quantity whatever it may lack in quality, +holding bones, garments, hair-tresses, and like memorials of a +veritable army of martyrs, even to what Ford disrespectfully +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">427</a></span> +calls "sundry parcels of the eleven thousand Virgins." Special +stress is laid on a Calvary thorn which turns blood-red +every Good Friday, and a drop, forever fresh, of the Madonna's +milk. If pilgrims are not satisfied with these, they can walk +out to Los Angeles, an adjacent village, whose church was +built by the angels. Eccentric architects they were in choosing +to connect their edifice with the cathedral of Santiago by +an underground beam of pure gold, formerly one of the +rafters in God's own house.</p> + +<p>We had speech of several pilgrims that first morning. One +was a middle-aged, sun-browned, stubby little man, whom +during the ensuing week we saw again and again in the cathedral, +but never begging, with the most of the pilgrims, at the +portals, nor taking his ease in the cloisters,—a social promenade +where the laity came to gossip and the clergy to puff +their cigarettes. This humble worshipper seemed to pass all +the days of the festival in enraptured adoration, on his knees +now before one shrine, now before another. We found him +first facing the supreme architectural feature of the cathedral, +that sublime and yet most lovely <i>Portico de la Gloria</i>. He +was gazing up at its paradise of sculptured saints and angels, +whose plumes and flowing robes still show traces of azure, +rose, and gold, with an expression of naive ecstasy. He told +us that he came from Astorga, and had been nine days on the +way. He spent most of his time upon the road, he added, +visiting especially the shrines of the Virgin. "Greatly it +pleases me to worship God," he said, with sparkling eyes, and +ran on eagerly, as long as we would listen, about the riches +and splendors of different cathedrals, and especially the robes +and jewels of the <i>Virgen del Pilar</i>. He seemed in his devout +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">428</a></span> +affection to make her wealth his own. One of the most +touching effects of the scene was the childlike simplicity with +which the poor of Galicia, coming from such vile hovels, felt +themselves at home in the dwelling of their saint. Not even +their sins marred their sense of welcome. In the cloisters we +encountered an old woman in the pilgrim dress, her staff wound +with gay ribbons, limping from her long jaunt. She told us +frankly that she was "only a beggar" in her own village, and +had come for the outing as well as to please the priest, who, +objecting to certain misdemeanors which she had the discretion +not to specify, had prescribed this excursion as penance. She +was a lively old soul, and was amusing herself mightily with +the Goya tapestries, and others, that adorned the cloisters in +honor of the time. "You have a book and can read," she +said, "and you will understand it all, but what can I understand? +I can see that this is a queen, and she is very fine, +and that those are butchers who are killing a fat pig. But +we who are poor may understand little in this world except +the love of God." Others of the pilgrims were village folk +of Portugal, and, taken all together, these modern wearers of +the shell were but a sorry handful as representing those noble +multitudes who came, in ages past, to bow before the shrine. +The fourteen doors of the cathedral then stood open night +and day, and the grotesque lions leaning out over the lintels +could boast that there was no tongue of Europe which their +stone ears had not heard. Three open doors suffice in the +feast days now, but with the new flood of faith that has set +toward Lourdes, pilgrimages to Santiago, as to other Latin +shrines, are beginning to revive.</p> + +<p>Mass was over at the late hour of our arrival, but nave and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">429</a></span> +aisles, transepts and cloisters, hummed with greetings of friends, +laughter of children, who sported unrebuked about those stately +columns, and the admiring exclamations of strangers. We +were often accosted in Spanish and in French and asked from +what country we came, and if we "loved the beautiful church +of the Apostle." When we were occasionally cornered, and +driven in truthfulness to say that we were Yankees, our more +intelligent interlocutors looked us over with roguish scrutiny, +but increased rather than abated their courtesies. As for the +peasants, their geography is safely limited. Noticing that our +Spanish differed from theirs, they said we must be from Castile, +or, at the most, from Portugal. At all events we were +strangers to Santiago, and they merrily vied with one another +in showing us about and giving us much graphic information +not to be found in guide-books.</p> + +<p>Much of their lore appears to be of their own invention. +The superb <i>Puerta de la Gloria</i>, wrought by a then +famous architect sent from the king of Leon, but known +to us to-day only as Master Mateo, was the fruit of twenty +years' labor. This triple porch, which runs across the west +end of the nave, being finally completed, Master Mateo seems +to have symbolized the dedication of his service to the Apostle +in a kneeling statue of himself, facing the east, with back to +the richly sculptured pillar of the chief portal. The head of +this figure is worn almost as round and expressionless as a +stone ball by the caresses of generations of childish hands. +The little girls whom we watched that morning as they patted +and smoothed the much-enduring pate told us, kissing the +marble eyes, that this was a statue of St. Lucia, which it +certainly is not. In another moment these restless midgets +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">430</a></span> +were assaulting, with fluent phrases of insult, the carven +faces of certain fantastic images which form the bases of the +clustered columns. The children derisively thrust their feet +down the yawning throats, kicked the grotesque ears and +noses, and in general so maltreated their Gothic victims that +we were moved to remonstrate.</p> + +<p>"But why should you abuse them? What are these creatures, +to be punished so?"</p> + +<p>"<i>They are Jews</i>," hissed our little Christians with an +emphasis that threw new light on the Dreyfus <i>affaire</i>. But +an instant more, and these vivacious, capricious bits of Spanish +womanhood were all absorbed in aiding a blind old peasant +who had groped her way to the sacred Portico for its especial +privilege of prayer. The central shaft, dividing into two the +chief of the three doorways, represents the Tree of Jesse, the +patriarchal figures half-enveloped in exquisitely sculptured +foliage. The chiselled capital shows the Trinity, Dove and +Son and Father, with adoring angels. Above sits a benignant +St. James, whose throne is guarded by lions, and over all, in +the central tympanum of the sublime doorway, is a colossal +figure of our Lord, uplifting His wounded hands. About +Him are grouped the four Evangelists, radiant with eternal +youth, and eight angels bearing the instruments of the Passion, +the pillar of the scourging, whips, the crown of thorns, the +nails, the scroll, the sponge, the spear, the cross. Other +angels burn incense before Him, and the archivolt above is +wrought with an ecstatic multitude of elders, martyrs, and +saints, so vivid after all these centuries that one can almost +hear the blithe music of their harps. It is the Christ of Paradise, +enthroned amid the blest, to whom His presence gives +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">431</a></span> +fulness of joy forevermore. Above the lesser doors on either +side are figured Purgatory and Hell. The fresh and glowing +beauty, so piquant and yet so spiritual, the truly celestial +charm of this marvellous Portico which Street did not fear to +call "one of the greatest glories of Christian art," was never, +during this festal week, without its throng of reverent beholders, +the most waiting their turn, like our old blind peasant, +to fit thumb and finger into certain curious little hollows +on the central shaft, and thus offer prayer which was sure of +answer. Minute after minute for unbroken hours, the hands +succeeded one another there,—old, knotted, toilworn hands, +the small, brown hands of children, jewelled hands of delicate +ladies, and often, as now, the groping hand of blindness, with +childish fingers helping it to find those mystical depressions in +the agate. Some of the bystanders told us that St. James had +descended from his seat above the capital, and laid his hand +against the column, leaving these traces, but more would have +it that the Christ Himself had come down by night from the +great tympanum to place His wounded hand upon the shaft. +Street records that he observed several such petitioners, after +removing the hand, spit into the mouths of the winged dragons +that serve as base to the pillar; but that literally dare-devil +form of amen must now have gone out of fashion, for we did +not see it once.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_519" id="i_519"></a> +<img src="images/i_519.jpg" width="416" height="624" alt="The Trampler of the Moors" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Trampler of the Moors</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Toward noon we strolled out into the grand <i>plaza</i> before +the west façade and found it a multitudinous jam of expectant +merrymakers. Even nuns were peeping down from a leaf-veiled +balcony. We seemed to have been precipitated out of +the Middle Ages into an exaggerated Fourth of July. All the +city bells were pealing, rockets and Roman candles were sputtering, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">432</a></span> +and grotesque fire-balloons, let off from a parapet of the +cathedral, flourished bandy legs and "Sagasta noses" in the +resigned old faces of the carven images. And then, amid +the acclamations of all the small boys in the square, sallied +forth the Santiago giants. These wickerwork monsters, +eight all told, are supposed to represent worshippers from +foreign lands. They go by couples, two being conventional +pilgrims with "cockle-shell and sandal shoon"; two apparently +Moors, with black complexions, feather crowns, and +much barbaric finery; two nondescripts, possibly the French +of feudal date; and two, the leaders and prime favorites, +regular Punch caricatures of modern English tourists. John +Bull is a stout old gentleman with gray side-whiskers, a vast +expanse of broadcloth back, and a single eye-glass secured by +a lavender ribbon. The British Matron, in a smart Dolly +Varden frock, glares with a shocked expression from under +flaxen puffs and an ostrich-feathered hat. The popular attitude +of mind toward these absurdities is past all finding out. +Not the children alone, but the entire assemblage greeted them +with affectionate hilarity. The giants, propelled by men who +walked inside them and grinned out on the world from a slit +in the enormous waistbands, trundled about the square, followed +by the antics of a rival group of dwarfs from the city +hall, and then made the round of the principal streets, executing +clumsy gambols before the public buildings.</p> + +<p>On the morning after, July twenty-fifth, the great day +of the feast, anniversary of the Apostle's martyrdom, these +same overgrown dolls played a prominent part in the solemn +cathedral service. The Chapter passed in stately progress to +the archbishop's palace to fetch his Eminence, and later to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">433</a></span> +the ancient portals where the silver-workers once displayed +their wares, to greet the Royal Delegate. At their head +strutted this absurd array of giants. The High Mass was +superb with orchestral music and the most sumptuous robes +of the vestiary. The "King of Censers," the splendid <i>botafumeiro</i> +of fourteenth-century date, made so large, six feet high, +with the view of purifying the cathedral air vitiated by the +hordes of pilgrims who were wont to pass the night sleeping +and praying on the holy pavements, flashed its majestic curves, +a mighty fire bird, from roof to floor and from transept to transept. +It is swung from the ceiling by an ingenious iron +mechanism, and the leaping, roaring flames, as the huge censer +sweeps with ever augmenting speed from vault to vault, +tracing its path by a chain of perfumed wreaths, make the +spectacle uniquely beautiful. Knights of Santiago, their +white raiment marked by crimson sword and dagger, received +from the Royal Delegate "a thousand crowns of gold," the +annual state donation, instituted by Rameiro, to the patron +saint. The Delegate, kneeling before the image of Santiago, +prayed fervently that the Apostle would accept this offering +of the regent, a queen no less devout than the famous mother +of San Fernando, and would raise up Alfonso XIII to be +another Fernando, winning back for Spain her ocean isles +which the heretics had wrested away, even as Fernando restored +to Compostela the cathedral doors and bell which the +infidel Moors had stolen. His Eminence, who is said to +have accumulated a fortune during his previous archbishopric +in Cuba, in turn besought St. James to protect Catholic +Spain against "those who invoke no right save brute force, +and adore no deity except the golden calf." In most magnificent +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">434</a></span> +procession the silver casket was borne around the +nave among the kneeling multitudes. And then, to crown +these august ceremonies, forth trotted our friends, the giants, +into the open space before the <i>Capilla Mayor</i>. Here the six +subordinate boobies paused, grouping themselves in a ludicrous +semicircle, while pompous John Bull and his ever scandalized +British Matron went up into the Holy of Holies and +danced, to the music of guitars and tambourines, in front of the +High Altar.</p> + +<p>Every day of that festal week the cathedral services were +attended by devout throngs, yet there was something blithe +and social, well-nigh domestic, in the atmosphere of the scene +even at the most impressive moments. Kneeling groups of +peasant women caught the sunshine on their orange kerchiefs +and scarlet-broidered shawls. Here a praying father would +gather his little boy, sobbing with weariness, up against his +breast; there a tired pilgrim woman slumbered in a corner, +her broad hat with its cockle-shells lying on her knees. Rows +of kneeling figures waited at the wooden confessionals which +were thick set along both aisles and ambulatory. Several +times we saw a priest asleep in the confessional, those who +would pour out their hearts to him kneeling on in humble +patience, not venturing to arouse the holy father. Young +officers, leaning against the pillars, smiled upon a school of +Spanish girls, who, guarded by veiled nuns, knelt far along +the transept. Pilgrims, standing outside the door to gather +alms, vied with one another in stories of their travels and the +marvels they had seen.</p> + +<p>But at night, walking in the illuminated <i>alameda</i>, where +thousands of Japanese lanterns and colored cups of flame +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">435</a></span> +made a fantastic fairyland, or dancing their country dances, +singing their country songs, practising their country sports, +and gazing with tireless delight at the fireworks in the +spacious <i>Plaza de Alfonso Doce</i>, the worshippers gave themselves +up to frankest merriment. Through the days, indeed, +there was never any lack of noisy jollity. From dawn to +dawn again cannon were booming, drums beating, bagpipes +skirling, tambourines clattering, songs and cries resounding +through the streets. Four patients in the hospital died the year +before, we were told, from the direct effects of this continuous +uproar. But the thunder height of the <i>fiesta</i> is attained toward +midnight on the twenty-fourth, the "Eve of Santiago," when +rockets and fire-balloons are supplemented by such elaborate +devices as the burning of "capricious trees" and the destruction +of a Moorish façade built for the occasion out from the +west front of the cathedral. At the first ignition of the +powder there come such terrific crashes and reverberating +detonations, such leaps and bursts of flame, that the peasant +host sways back and the children scream. An Arabic doorway +with ornate columns, flanked on either side by a wall of +many arches and surmounted by a blood-red cross, dazzles +out into overwhelming brilliancy, all in greens and purples, +a glowing, scintillating, ever changing vision. Soon it is +lustrous white and then, in perishing, sends up a swift succession +of giant rockets. The façade itself is a very Alhambra +of fret and arabesque. This, too, with thunder bursts +reveals itself as a flame-colored, sky-colored, sea-colored +miracle, which pales to gleaming silver and, while we read +above it the resplendent words "The Patron of Spain," is +blown to atoms as a symbol of Santiago's victory over the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">436</a></span> +Moors. This makes an ideal Spanish holiday, but the cost, +borne by the city, is heavy, there is distinct and increasing +injury to the cathedral fabric, and all this jubilee for archaic +victories over the Moslem seems to be mocked by the hard +facts of to-day.</p> + +<p>The Santiago festivities, of which the half has not been +told, closed on Thursday afternoon, July twenty-seventh, with +a procession through the streets. We waited a weary while +for it before the doors where the old jet-workers used to set +their booths, amusing ourselves meantime by watching the +house maids drawing water from the fountain in the square +below. These sturdy Galicians were armed with long tin +tubes which they dextrously applied to the spouting mouths +of the fountain griffins, so directing the stream into the +straight, iron-bound pails. Not far away the market women +covered the flags with red and golden fruit. A saucy beggar-wench, +with the blackest eyes in Spain, demanded alms, and +when we had yielded up the usual toll of coppers, loudly +prayed to Santiago to pardon us for not having given her +more on this his holy festival. At last out sallied the band, +followed by those inevitable giants, and amid mad ringing of +bells and fizzing of invisible rockets, forth from the venerable +portals issued standards, crosses, tapers, priests in white and +gold, and platformed effigies of pilgrims, saints, and deities. +Then came bishops, cardinals, and archbishop, ranks of +military bearing tapers, the alcalde and his associates in the +city government with antique escort of bedizened mace-bearers, +a sparkling statue of St. James on horseback busily +beheading his legions of Moors, a bodyguard of all the +pilgrims in attendance on his saintship, and finally the <i>Virgen del Pilar</i>, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">437</a></span> +at whose passing all the concourse fell upon their +knees. Churches in the line of march had their own images +decked and ready, waiting in the colonnaded porches to fall +into the procession. The market women and the maids at +the fountain threw kisses to the Christ Child, leaning in blue +silk frock and white lace tucker against a cross of roses, but +the boys waved their caps for St. Michael, debonair that +he was with blowing crimson robe, real feather wings fluttering +in the breeze, and his gold foot set on the greenest of +dragons.</p> + +<p>The procession came home by way of the great west doors, +opened only this once in the round year. The setting sun, +bringing out all the carven beauty of that dark gray façade, +glittered on the golden balls and crosses that tip the noble +towers, and on the golden staff of St. James and the golden +quill of St. John, where the two sons of thunder stand colossal +in their lofty niches. A baby, in yellow kerchief and cherry +skirt, toddling alone across the centre of the square, pointed +with adoring little hand at the mounted image of Santiago, +which halted at the foot of the grand stairway, his lifted sword +a line of golden light, while the deep-voiced choir chanted his +old triumphal hymn. John Bull and the British Matron, +stationing themselves on either side as a guard of honor, stared +at him with insular contempt. As the chant ceased, St. James +chivalrously made way for the <i>Virgen del Pilar</i>, a slender figure +of pure gold poised on an azure tabernacle, to mount the steps +before him. The bells pealed out to welcome her as she +neared the portals, and an ear-splitting explosion of a monster +rocket, with a tempest-rain of sparks, announced the instant +of her entrance beneath the chiselled arch. Behind her went +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">438</a></span> +the penitents, arduously climbing the long stone flights of that +quadruple stairway upon their knees. These, too, were but +shadows of those mediæval penitents who of old staggered +after this procession, bowed under the weight of crosses, or +scourging themselves until they fainted in their own trail of +blood. Yet it is still strange and touching to see, long after +the inner spaces of the cathedral are dim with evening, those +kneeling figures making their painful progress about aisles and +ambulatory, sobbing as they go, and falling forward on their +faces to kiss the pavement that is bruising them.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_530" id="i_530"></a> +<img src="images/i_530.jpg" width="420" height="531" alt="Santiago Cathedral" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Santiago Cathedral</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="b13 center p6">XXVII</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">439</a></span></p> +<p class="center">VIGO AND AWAY</p> + +<p class="blockquot p2">Hasta la Vista!</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">O</span>ur plan for the summer included a return trip +across Spain, <i>via</i> Valladolid, Salamanca, and Saragossa +to Barcelona and the Balearic Isles; but the +bad food and worse lodging of Galicia, the blazing heat and +the incessant, exhausting warfare against vermin, had begun to +tell. That Spanish fever with which so many foreigners make +too intimate acquaintance was at our doors, and we found ourselves +forced at last to sacrifice enthusiasm to hygiene. The +most eccentric train which it was ever my fortune to encounter +shunted and switched us across country to Vigo in +about the time it would have taken to make the journey donkeyback. +Here we tarried for a week or so, gathering strength +from the Atlantic breezes, and when, one sunny August day, +a stately steamboat called for an hour at Vigo harbor on her +way from Buenos Ayres to Southampton, we went up over the +side. Our shock of astonishment at the cleanliness around us +could not, however, divert our attention long from the receding +shores of Spain, toward which one of us, at least, still felt a +stubborn longing.</p> + +<p>They lay bright in the midday sunshine, those green uplands +of Galicia, mysterious with that patient peasant life of +which we had caught fleeting, baffling glimpses. Still we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">440</a></span> +seemed to see the brown-legged women washing in the brook +and spreading their coarse-spun, gay-bordered garments on +the heather; children, with the faces of little Pats and little +Biddies, tugging a bleating sheep across the stepping-stones, +or boosting an indignant goat over the wall; lean pigs +poking their noses out of the low, stone doorways, where +babies slept on wisps of hay; girls in cream-colored kerchiefs, +starred with gold, bearing loads of fragrant brush or +corded fagots on their heads. As the evening should come +on, and the sea-breeze stir the tassels of the maize, we knew +how the fields would be dotted with impromptu groups of +dancers, leaping higher and higher and waving their arms in +ever wilder merriment,—a scene pastoral down to the pigs, +and poetic up to those gushes of song that delight the listener.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"I went to the meadow</p> +<p class="i1">Day after day,</p> +<p>To gather the blossoms</p> +<p class="i1">Of April and May,</p> +<p>And there was Mercedes,</p> +<p class="i1">Always there,</p> +<p>Sweetest white lily</p> +<p class="i1">That breathes the air."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"North-wind, North-wind,</p> +<p class="i1">Strong as wine!</p> +<p>Blow thou, North-wind,</p> +<p class="i1">Comrade mine!"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The Virgin is spreading handkerchiefs</p> +<p class="i1">On the rosemary to dry.</p> +<p>The little birds are singing,</p> +<p class="i1">And the brook is running by. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">441</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"The Virgin washes handkerchiefs,</p> +<p class="i1">And spreads them in the sun,</p> +<p>But St. Joseph, out of mischief,</p> +<p class="i1">Has stolen every one."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>It was only now and then that we had realized a touch of +genuine fellowship with these Galician peasants. I remember +a little thirteenth-century church, gray crosses topping its low +gray towers, one of which was broken off as if a giant hand +had snapped it. In the porch a white-headed woman, in a +gold-edged blue kerchief and poppy-red skirt, was holding a +dame-school. It took her all the morning session, she told +us, to get the fifty faces washed, but in the afternoon the +children learned to read and knit and play the choral games. +She had ten cents a month for every child, when the parents +were able to pay. From a convenient hollow in a pillar of +Arabic tradition she proudly drew her library,—a shabby +primer and a few loose leaves of a book of devotion. As +we talked, the midgets grew so restless and inquisitive that +she shook her long rod at them with a mighty show of fierceness, +and shooed them out of the porch like so many chickens. +Then she went on eagerly with the story of her life, telling +how she was married at fifteen, how her husband went "to +serve the king" in the second Carlist war, and never came +back, and how her only daughter had borne nine children, of +whom eight died in babyhood, "<i>angelitos al cielo</i>," having +known on earth "only the day and the night." The last +and youngest had been very ill with the fever, and the afflicted +grandmother had promised that noble Roman maiden, the +martyr saint of the little gray church, to go around the edifice +seven times upon her knees, if only the child might live. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">442</a></span> +vow had been heard, as the presence of a thin-faced, wistful +tot by the old woman's side attested, but so far only three of +the seven circuits had been made. "It tires the knees much." +But even with the words she knelt again, kissing the sacred +threshold, and began the painful, heavy, shuffling journey +around the church, while the baby, with wondering gray eyes, +trotted beside her, clinging to the wrinkled hand. When at +last, with puffs and groanings, the old dame had reached the +carven doorway again, she rose wearily, rubbing her knees.</p> + +<p>"A sweet saint!" she said, "but <i>ay de mi!</i> such gravel!"</p> + +<p>We ought, of course, to have been impressed in Galicia +with its debasing ignorance and superstition, and so, to a certain +extent, we were. We went to see a <i>romeria</i>, a pilgrimage +to a hilltop shrine, on one of our last afternoons in Vigo, +and found a double line of dirty, impudent beggars, stripped +half naked, and displaying every sort of hideous deformity,—a +line that reached all the way from the carriage-road +up the rugged ascent to the crest. We had to run the gantlet, +and it was like traversing a demoniac sculpture-gallery +made up of human mockeries. We had to push our way, +moreover, through scene after scene of vulgar barter in things +divine, and when at last the summit was achieved, the shrine +of the Virgin seemed robbed of its glory by the ugliness, +vice, and misery it overlooked. Spain is mediæval, and the +modern age can teach her much. But with all her physical +foulness and mental folly, there still dwells in her that mediæval +grace for which happier countries may be searched in vain.</p> + +<p>Yet Spain is far from unhappy. It is beautiful to see out +of what scant allowance of that which we call well-being, may +be evolved wisdom and joy, poetry and religion. Wearied as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">443</a></span> +we two bookish travellers were with lectures and libraries, we +rejoiced in this wild Galician lore that lives on the lips of the +people. The written Spanish literature, like other Spanish +arts, is of the richest, nor are its laurels limited to the dates +of Cervantes and Calderon. The modern Spanish novel, for +instance, as Mr. Howells so generously insists, all but leads +the line. But Spain herself is poetry. What does one want +of books in presence of her storied, haunted vistas,—warrior-trod +Asturian crags, opalescent reaches of Castilian plain, +orange-scented gardens of Andalusia? A circle of cultivated +Spaniards is one of the most charming groups on earth, but +Spaniards altogether innocent of formal education may be +walking anthologies of old ballads, spicy quatrains, riddles, +proverbs, fables, epigrams. The peasant quotes "Don Quixote" +without knowing it; the donkey-boy is as lyric as +Romeo; the devout shepherd tells a legend of the Madonna +that is half the dream of his own lonely days among the hills. +Where Spanish life is most stripped of material prosperity, it +seems most to abound in suggestions of romance. This despised +Galicia, the province of simpletons, is literary in its +own way. The hovel has no bookshelf, but the children's +ears drink in the grandmother's croon:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"On a morning of St. John</p> +<p class="i1">Fell a sailor into the sea.</p> +<p>'What wilt thou give me, sailor, sailor,</p> +<p class="i1">If I rescue thee?'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'I will give thee all my ships,</p> +<p class="i1">All my silver, every gem,</p> +<p>All my gold,—yea, wife and daughters,</p> +<p class="i1">I will give thee them.' +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">444</a></span></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'What care I for masted ships,</p> +<p class="i1">What care I for gold or gem?</p> +<p>Keep thy wife and keep thy daughters,</p> +<p class="i1">What care I for them?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'On the morning of St. John</p> +<p class="i1">Thou art drowning in the sea.</p> +<p>Promise me thy soul at dying,</p> +<p class="i1">And I'll rescue thee.'</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"'I commend the sea to God,</p> +<p class="i1">And my body to the sea,</p> +<p>And my soul, Sweet Mother Mary,</p> +<p class="i1">I commit to thee.'"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And well it was for this bold mariner that he did not take +up the Devil's offer, for everybody knows that those who have +signed away their souls to the Devil turn black in the moment +of dying, and are borne, black and horrible, to the sepulchre.</p> + +<p>In this northwestern corner of Spain are many mountain-songs +as well as sea-songs. One of the sweetest tells how +the blue-robed Virgin met a young shepherdess upon the hills +and was so pleased with the maiden's courtesy that she straightway +bore her thence to Paradise, not forgetting, this tender +Mary of Bethlehem, to lead the flock safely back to the +sheepfold. The love of the Galician peasantry for "Our +Lady" blends childlike familiarity with impassioned devotion.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"As I was telling my beads,</p> +<p class="i1">While the dawn was red,</p> +<p>The Virgin came to greet me</p> +<p class="i1">With her arms outspread."</p> +</div> + +<p>Her rank in their affections is well suggested by another of +the popular <i>coplas</i>. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">445</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"In the porch of Bethlehem,</p> +<p class="i1">Sun, Moon, and Star,</p> +<p>The Virgin, St. Joseph,</p> +<p class="i1">And the Christ Child are."</p> +</div> + +<p>With their saints these Spanish peasants seem almost on a +household footing, not afraid of a jest because so sure of the +love that underlies it.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1"> +"St. John and Mary Magdalen</p> +<p class="i1">Played hide and seek, the pair,</p> +<p>Till St. John threw a shoe at her,</p> +<p class="i1">Because she didn't play fair."</p> +</div> + +<p>Yet there is no lack of fear in this rustic religion. There +is many a "shalt not" in the Galician decalogue. One must +not try to count the stars, lest he come to have as many wrinkles +as the number of stars he has counted. Never rock an +empty cradle, for the next baby who sleeps in it will die. So +often as you name the Devil in life, so often will he appear to +you in the hour of death. If you hear another name him, +call quickly, before the Devil has time to arrive, "Jesus is +here." It is ill to dance alone, casting your shadow on the +wall, because that is dancing with the Devil. But the Prince +of Darkness is not the only supernatural being whom Galicians +dread. There is a bleating demon who makes fun of +them, cloudy giants who stir up thunderstorms, and are +afraid only of St. Barbara, witches who cast the evil eye, +but most of all the "souls in pain." For oftentimes the dead +come back to earth for their purgatorial penance. You must +never slam a door, nor close a window roughly, nor kick the +smallest pebble from your path, because in door or stone or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">446</a></span> +window may be a suffering soul. To see one is to die within +the year. If you would not be haunted by your dead, kiss the +shoes which the body wears to the burial.</p> + +<p>It is well to go early to bed, for at midnight all manner +of evil beings prowl up and down the streets. Who has +not heard of that unlucky woman, who, after spinning +late and long, stepped to the window for a breath of air +exactly at twelve o'clock? Far off across the open country +she saw a strange procession of shining candles drawing +nearer and nearer, although there were no hands to hold +them and no sound of holy song. Straight toward her house +came those uncanny lights, moving silently through the +meadow mists, and halted beneath her window. Then the +foremost one of all begged her to take it in and keep it carefully +until the midnight following. Scarcely knowing what +she did, she closed her fingers on the cold wax and, blowing +out the flame, laid away the taper in a trunk, but when, at +daybreak, after a sleepless night, she raised the lid, before her +lay a corpse. Aghast, she fled to the priest, who lent her all +the relics of the sacristy; but their united power only just +availed to save her from the fury of the spirits when they +returned at midnight to claim the taper, expecting, moreover, +to seize upon the woman and "turn her to fire and ashes."</p> + +<p>Sometimes a poor soul is permitted to condense the slow ages +of Purgatory into one hour of uttermost torment. Galicians +tell how a young priest brought his serving-maid to sorrow +and how, to escape the latter burning, she shut herself, one +day when the priest was engaged in the ceremonial of High +Mass, into the red-hot oven. On his return, he called her +name and sought her high and low, and when, at last, he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">447</a></span> +opened the oven door, out flew a white dove that soared, a +purified and pardoned soul, into the blue of heaven. The +science of this simple folk is not divorced from poetry and +religion. The rainbow drinks, they say, in the sea and in the +rivers. The Milky Way, the Road to Santiago, is trodden +every night by pale, dim multitudes who failed to make that +blessed pilgrimage, from which no one of us will be excused, +in time of life. When the dust stirs in an empty house, good +St. Ana is sweeping there. When babies look upward and +laugh, they see the cherubs at play. Tuesday is the unlucky +day in Spain, whereas children born on Friday receive the gift +of second-sight, and those who enter the world on Good +Friday are marked by a cross in the roof of the mouth and +have the holy touch that cures diseases. It is a fortunate +house beneath whose eaves the swallow builds,</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"For swallows on Mount Calvary</p> +<p class="i1">Plucked tenderly away</p> +<p>From the brows of Christ two thousand thorns,</p> +<p class="i1">Such gracious birds are they."</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"><a name="i_539" id="i_539"></a> +<img src="images/i_539.jpg" width="420" height="550" alt="St. James" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">St. James</span></p> +</div> + +<p>The Galicians, butt of all Spain for their dulness, are shrewd +enough in fact. It is said that those arrant knaves, the gypsies, +dare not pass through Galicia for fear of being cheated. +Like other unlettered peasants, Gallegos whet their wits on +rhyming riddles.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2-6">"Who is the little pigeon,</p> +<p class="i4">Black and white together,</p> +<p class="i3">That speaks so well without a tongue</p> +<p class="i4">And flies without a feather?"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"A tree with twelve boughs and four nests on a bough,</p> +<p>In each nest seven birdlings,—unriddle me now."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">448</a></span>In many of their proverbial sayings one gets the Spanish +tang at its best. "A well-filled stomach praises God."</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Why to Castile</p> +<p class="i1">For your fortune go?</p> +<p>A man's Castile</p> +<p class="i1">Is under his hoe."</p> +</div> + +<p>And I fear if my comrade were to speak, in Spanish phrase, +of our return to Galicia, she would bid St. James expect us +"on Judgment Day in the afternoon." +</p> + +<p class="center p6 b13"><b>Works by Alice Morse Earle</b></p> +<hr class="l15" /> +<p class="center p2 b15"><b>CHILD LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS</b></p> + +<p class="center"><i>Profusely Illustrated</i></p> + +<p class="center">Crown 8vo. Cloth. Gilt top. $2.50</p> + +<p><b>Commercial Advertiser:</b></p> + +<p>"Once more Mrs. Earle has drawn on her apparently inexhaustible store +of colonial lore, and has produced another interesting book of the olden +days.... Mrs. Earle's interesting style, the accuracy of her statements, +and the attractive illustrations she always supplies for her books make the +volume one to be highly prized."</p> + +<p><b>Buffalo Express:</b></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Alice Morse Earle performs a real historical service, and writes an +interesting book. It is not a compilation from, or condensation of, previous +books, but the fruit of personal and original investigation into the +conditions of life in the American colonies."</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p class="center b15"><b>HOME LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS</b></p> + +<p><b>Education:</b></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Earle has made a very careful study of the details of domestic life +from the earliest days of the settlement of the country. The book is +sumptuously illustrated, and every famed article, such as the spinning-wheel, +the foot-stone, the brass knocker on the door, and the old-time +cider mill, is here presented to the eye, and faithfully pictured in words. +The volume is a fascinating one, and the vast army of admirers and students +of the olden days will be grateful to the author for gathering together +and putting into permanent form so much accurate information concerning +the homes of our ancestors."</p> + +<p><b>Literature:</b></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Earle's fidelity in study and her patient research are evident on +every page of this charming book, and her pleasantly colloquial style is +frequently assisted by very beautiful illustrations, both of the houses of the +colonists, from the primitive cave dug out of the hillside and made to +answer for warmth and shelter, to the more comfortable log cabin, the +farmstead with its adjacent buildings, and the stately mansion abiding to +our own day."</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p class="center b15">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center">66 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK</p> + +<p class="center b15 p6"><b>AMONG ENGLISH HEDGEROWS</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>By CLIFTON JOHNSON</b></p> + +<p class="center"><i>With an Introduction by HAMILTON W. MABIE</i></p> + +<p class="center"><b>Illustrated. Cr. 8vo. Cloth extra. Gilt top. $2.25</b></p> + +<p>"'Among English Hedgerows' is one of the most beautiful of illustrated +books, containing, as it does, a great number of half-tone reproductions +of Mr. Johnson's admirable photographs.</p> + +<p>"The author, as far as possible, lived the life of the people who figure in +these pages, and we have delightful accounts of village characters, and +glimpses of quaint old English homes.</p> + +<p>"Hamilton W. Mabie, who furnishes the introduction, well summarizes +Mr. Johnson's merits as 'a friendly eye, a hearty sympathy, and a very +intelligent camera, and that love of his field and of his subject which is +the prime characteristic of the successful painter of rural life and country +folk.'"—<i>Illustrated Buffalo Express.</i></p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p class="center b15"><b>ALONG FRENCH BYWAYS</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>By CLIFTON JOHNSON</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>Illustrated. Cr. 8vo. Cloth extra. Gilt top. $2.25</b></p> + +<p>"A book of leisurely strolling through one of the most picturesque +countries of Europe, enlivened with description and anecdote, and profusely +illustrated.... Mr. Johnson is not only a delightful writer, but is +one of the best landscape photographers of whom we have knowledge."—<i>Boston +Transcript.</i></p> + +<p>"This book shares the merits of Mr. Johnson's 'Among English Hedgerows': +simplicity of theme and treatment, sympathy and love of nature."—<i>The +Mail and Express.</i></p> + +<p>"A book of strolling, a book of nature, a book of humble peasant life +intermingled with the chance experiences of the narrator."—<i>The Worcester +Spy.</i></p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p class="center b15">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center">66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Spanish Highways and Byways, by Katharine Lee Bates + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPANISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 38767-h.htm or 38767-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/7/6/38767/ + +Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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