The Car of Destiny
in her black mantilla.
The vast oblong of the Plaza de la Constitución was already humming with
the excitement of a moving crowd. The lane between chairs and tribune was
thronged with the poor of the town and peasants from the country, who
would have no seats and must press for places to see the procession; but
there was no ill-natured pushing, and gentlest care was taken not to crush
the toddling, star-eyed children who tumbled under people’s feet. Soldiers
laughed and edged their way past clinging groups of pretty girls. Civil
guards, looking as if they had stepped out of old pictures, strove to keep
order, their shouts lost among the cries which filled the air; cries of
water-sellers bearing big earthen vessels; cries of those who wheeled
cargoes of roasted peanuts in painted ships; cries of crab-sellers; cries
of shabby old men, and neat, white-capped boys, hawking fresh-fried
_calientes_, sugared cakes, and all kinds of _dulces_ on napkin-covered
trays.
English and American tourists in panamas wandered through the throng
searching for their numbered chairs; vendors of seats shouted reduced
prices; bareheaded women with brown babies in their arms offered
programmes of the week’s processions; tattered boys shrieked the daily
papers, and coloured post-cards; while from the balconies of private
houses ladies in black mantillas, children in white, and foreigners in gay
colours looked down upon the scene.
So passed an hour, while the boxes and best seats began to fill. Spanish
families of the middle class, men and women in black, took front seats of
the tribune, where the empty royal box made a brave splash of gold and
crimson; but more slowly came members of the aristocracy and officers in
blue and gold; and, jostled by the crowd, I waited in suspense.
Colonel O’Donnel had gone to his club for news of the box which, by
strategic means, he had been trying to get. Pilar and Dick had gone with
him, to remain in the car chaperoned by Ropes, until he should come out;
so that I had no means of learning whether the Cherub had triumphed or
failed. All I knew was, that a club acquaintance whose wife was ill, might
be induced to offer his box, close to the royalties, to a second
acquaintance in exchange for one directly behind that which the Duke of
Carmona had taken. If this could be arranged, the O’Donnels would be given
the latter, in exchange for—only the Cherub knew what. Borne back and
forth with the moving throng, like a leaf in an eddy, my eyes seldom
strayed for long from the tribune. Would the Carmona household come? Would
the O’Donnels be their neighbours?
At last I saw Pilar and the two men entering the tribune. Yes, they had
succeeded, I could tell from the Cherub’s description of the Duke’s box.
But Carmona’s was still empty.
The procession had not yet appeared, though the first _cofradia_ had been
due in the Plaza an hour ago, and twilight was falling over the vast
square, ethereally clear and pale. Only the figure of Faith on the soaring
Giralda, turned as if to watch the scene, still glittered in the sun; and
its dazzling brilliance had faded before a bugle note rang out, poignant
as a cry of bitter sorrow from a breaking heart.
This was the herald of a brotherhood with its sacred images; and the
police began to sweep the crowd before them out of the lane between the
chairs and tribune. Slowly the flock was forced along by the shepherd
dogs; and as the way cleared, forth from the dim tunnel of Las Sierpes
marched, with arms reversed, a squad of civil guards; then a company of
mounted soldiers, their bugles still wailing that sad warning of some
piteous spectacle to come.
The cavalry passed; it was but a modern preface to a mediæval poem which,
following closely, brought with it into the Plaza sad ghosts, grim ghosts,
sainted ghosts of long past days.
Headed by one of their number bearing aloft an exquisite crucifix, walked
a band of penitents carrying great lighted candles. Their white robes of
linen swept in long pointed trains over the cobbles, the silver buckles on
their black shoes glinting with each step; through the narrow slits in the
blue _capuchas_, whose conical peaks tapered far above the wearers’ heads,
their dark eyes burned with mysterious intensity. Two and two they moved,
noiseless as bats save for the tap of silver batons, making an avenue of
gliding stars, like will-o’-the-wisps, from the black mouth of Las Sierpes
across the length of the Plaza.
Then suddenly, in that dark, distant tunnel flashed something luminous,
something that moved, swung in air higher than the heads of men, something
that was like a great blazing casket of jewels or a cloud of fireflies.
It came on, halting, starting again, reaching the open square, and
revealing itself as an illuminated platform supporting a crucified Christ,
life size, with no detail spared of tragedy and torture.
One of those fine sculptures of painted wood, such as I had seen at
Valladolid, the sixteenth century artist had spent his soul in showing to
believers what Christ had suffered that they might be saved; and so
startling was the appeal of this terrible figure to the sympathies, that
for an instant I found myself forgetting everything except a wild desire
to rescue it.
As the _paso_, with its quivering silver lamps and strewn flowers, came
near to where I stood, I could see, beneath the long velvet curtains which
draped the platform, twenty pairs or more of slowly moving feet; and the
frequent pauses were accounted for.
I watched the heart-rending figure pass round the corner of the Plaza, out
of sight, swallows wheeling overhead as if once more to pluck the thorns
from that bleeding brow; and as it vanished, far away in the dusk of Las
Sierpes appeared another illumined mystery of clustering stars. Out from
darkness into hyacinth twilight it floated, a canopied platform of purple
velvet, crusted with silver and gold; under the glittering roof a virgin,
who seemed to stand praying in a garden of tall lilies, lit by a sacred
silver flame.
The crowding lilies, as the _paso_ came nearer, were only white, waxen
candles after all, but in their light the image of the Virgin gained a
womanliness and beauty extraordinary. Her gorgeous trailing robe of
gold-embroidered velvet, her under gown of satin scintillating with
diamonds, her blazing crown of jewels, the sparkling rings on her delicate
fingers, her necklaces, her bracelets, were such as the Mother of Christ
never dreamed of in her simple life; and half the watchers knew grinding
poverty, which a few of her gems might relieve.
That thought, I knew, would leap to many minds; but they would be the
minds of foreigners; and I, being Spanish, understood. I saw what this
procession of emblems meant to these people, rich and poor alike. They
were being reminded, in the realistic and dramatic way which appealed best
to their imaginations, of all Christ had suffered for them, of all the
mother-woman had endured. The gems, which to alien minds were incongruous,
crystallized their tears, their love, their gratitude; and Our Lady’s
jewels were the jewels of the poor—rich possessions which could not be
taken from them, joys for ever, objects of their highest pride.
Bending in gentle grief, the fair face bowed, the graceful figure passed
in fragrance of lilies, perfumed wax, and incense sending blue clouds from
silver censors swung by white-robed boys. With her, as she moved, went
music—our Lady’s own music, sad and beautiful as moonlight on a lonely
grave, cool as peace after hot pain.
Now the box in the tribune I had watched so long was filled with
strangers. Pilar had been right. Carmona had given his place to friends.
But with that soft, haunting music in my ears, sweet as remembered days of
joy, I could not fear anything. Somehow I was at peace, with good thoughts
in my mind and hope in my heart.
Brotherhoods in black, brotherhoods in purple, and _paso_ after _paso_
went by; Christus bending under the weight of the cross, Christus praying
among sleeping disciples in Gethsemane, Our Lady of the Rosary, Our Lady
of Tears, flaming rivers of light, suns rising out of purple clouds.
Night folded over the great square, with its crowd of people. No one had
gone away. Electric lights burst out and made the scene like the
auditorium of some vast theatre; but the stage and auditorium were one.
Then the full moon, yellow as honey, looked over the thronged roof-gardens
of tall houses opposite the tribune, and sailed high in heaven.
It was past nine o’clock when Colonel O’Donnel touched me on the shoulder.
“We saw you long ago,” he said. “You are so tall. Shall we go home to
dinner? But on Thursday you will have another chance.”
Thursday! and there were three days in between. I wished that he could
have left me in my dream of peace as long as it might last.
XXX
THE HAND UNDER THE CURTAINS
Like a dream the three days passed; but not a dream of peace, for that I
lost with the last echo of the Virgin music and the fragrance of her
lilies.
Dick thought himself miserable, but I would gladly have changed my state
of mind for his. Sometimes he hoped, sometimes he despaired, but at all
times he was really very happy, if only he had known it. He enjoyed
visiting the Murillos with Pilar and the Cherub when I had no heart to go.
He borrowed the motor to whisk them out to Italica. He went with the
O’Donnels late every afternoon for the drive in the fashionable _paseo_
along the river side, as pleased with the five handsome mules, in their
smart Spanish harness of white and crimson rope and brown leather, as if
they had been his own.
As for me, I would not go, although Dick urged that, in the never-ending
double line of fine carriages, we might meet the Duchess of Carmona’s. But
I did not dare to see Monica again after what had happened unless there
were some hope that Pilar could speak for me, or that I could speak for
myself. Still, I could not resist questioning the family in the evening.
Had they heard tidings of her? Had they seen her?
Presently there was news, but not good news. The engagement was known, and
was being talked of everywhere. The story was that the wedding would be
soon, as the Duchess was not strong, and professed herself anxious to see
her son married. Gossip said also that the marriage would be celebrated in
Madrid directly after the festivities of the royal wedding were over, so
that the young duchess, as the wife of a grandee of Spain, could become
lady-in-waiting to the bride-queen, when _los Reyes_ returned from their
honeymoon at La Granja.
The Cherub told me these things only because I insisted on hearing all;
and on Wednesday evening I dragged further details from Pilar. They had
passed the Duchess, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica in the Carmona carriage,
the handsomest in Seville; and the Duke had been on horseback, looking
more attractive than Pilar had ever seen him in the _chulo_ costume, worn
at times as an amusing affectation by some young aristocrats of Andalucía.
I could picture him in the wide-brimmed grey sombrero, the tight short
jacket, and trousers fitting close as a glove until they widened below the
knee. Yes, the dress would suit him; and Pilar admitted reluctantly that
he was a perfect rider. I was horribly jealous, ready to fancy that, after
all, Monica had actually begun to care for him.
There had been a procession on Wednesday, but it was not an affair of
importance; and with Thursday, and the presence of the King, all the
greatest events of this _Semana Santa_ were to begin.
Early in the afternoon there was washing of poor men’s feet by the great
ecclesiastics in the cathedral, the King remaining at the Alcázar to