July 5, 1845

A Grand Festival at Seville

It was the day of a grand gala at Seville.

The balconies were spread with silks and with the fine carpets of Grenada. A general holiday prevailed; the people received viands from the gates of the public institutions: even the kitchens of the monasteries gave something better than the wretched melopia upon that occasion. From sunrise, Pajaretan wine⁸⁶ had flowed from the fountain on the Esplanade.

The gipsies, mendicants, and the monks, had reaped an ample harvest; for, in Spain, on festival days, the people were denominated, according to a proverb, the “milch-cow of the monks and gipsies.” Each of these grades knew how to turn the credulity and goodness of the mass to advantage,—the former by means of relics, and the latter by fortune telling.

The imagination of the people,—that magician which is so powerful in burning climes,—never disappointed the intriguing mendicants of those classes on such occasions.

The beautiful Andalusian city had put aside, for at least one day, the mourning which it usually wore. Many hearts doubtless bled: profound griefs and bitter resentments dwelt in the souls of the Andalusians: nevertheless, those reckless children of the most beautiful country in the universe,—those votaries of pleasure who are more poetical and dramatic in nature, without knowing it, than the greatest writers or the first songsters of the age,—now indulged in draughts of rich wine and in the voluptuous dance. The Inquisition was forgotten—death was forgotten—the sbirri were forgotten—terror was forgotten: the Sevillians, become poets, musicians, and dancers, sang and leaped in a delirium of joy:—they only lived for the present moment;—and yet, strange to say, that festival was given in honour of the Inquisition!

The noble city of Seville celebrated the arrival of the Duke of Medina-Cœli within its walls. This nobleman was the “standard bearer of the faith,” and had come to take his place at the royal auto-de-fa which was to be offered up in the Andalusian capital to celebrate one of the innumerable triumphs of Charles the Fifth.⁸⁷

Evening was now come—beautiful and starlight as ever. The brisk and perfumed air, the excitement of the dance and the wine of the fountain, and the soft whisperings of lover’s tales, filled every heart with the most exalted delight. Never had the fandango, the bolero or the jacara been danced with so much spirit; never had the cana been chaunted with such voluptuous abandonment.⁸⁸ It was true that the Duke of Medina-Cœli, who paid for the festival from his own private resources, had exhibited himself in the light of a great and generous lord: he had copiously supplied the means of drinking exquisite wine to the hidalgos, the semi-moors, and the loungers of the great city.⁸⁹

Sweet were the songs that echoed through the streets of Seville upon this occasion. Of that bewitching vocal music let the following be taken as a specimen:⁹⁰

Or here, in some more retired spot, a young musician, having just bade farewell to the maiden of his heart, thus warbled to his guitar:—

We cannot resist the opportunity of turning into English verse a lay which was chaunted extempore, on this occasion,—warbled by a handsome youth beneath the balcony of her whom he loved, and whose eyes, it would appear, had transfixed his heart:—

Not less pathetic was the extemporaneous address of a poetical youth to a lady whose eyes were of a hue somewhat more tender than that of the generality of Andalusian damosels:—

But while the people thus gave vent to their joy, their love, their hope, or their aspirations, in the streets and squares of Seville, the great lords and the wealthy citizens were not backward on the score of festivity.

But principally were the saloons of the Count of Mondejar, the nephew and son-in-law of the Duke of Medina-Cœli, brilliant with light.⁹¹ After a sumptuous banquet, which had taken place in the palace of the Count, the guests retired to the magnificent drawing-rooms, where, reclining upon large divans of oriental luxury, they sipped delicious wines or iced sherbets, and indulged in animated discourse.

No ladies had been admitted to this gorgeous festival at the dwelling of the Count of Mondejar.

“This is a glorious triumph which our most Catholic monarch has obtained over the Protestants in Germany,” observed a young Castillian noble, the favourite of the Count, and now addressing himself to Don Rodriguez, an old man, whose dirty and shabby appearance contrasted strangely with the brilliant garbs of the other guests.

Nevertheless, in spite of his mean and threadbare attire, that old man possessed great ease of manner, and his dress seemed to be purposely designed by a proud cynicism, rather than the result of actual poverty.

He turned slowly towards the young man who had addressed him, and surveyed him without giving any reply to his remark.

“We shall have at least a month of festivity and public enjoyment,” continued the young nobleman,—“without reckoning the royal auto-de-fa, which will certainly be a splendid thing, if we may believe the programme.”

“Do not alarm yourself,” answered the old man, in a tone which the other took for approbation, but which was in reality filled with irony and bitterness.

“Nothing can be finer than an auto-de-fa,” continued the young man, whose name was Don Carlos, “and I understand that on the present occasion the Grand Inquisitor has reserved for us Don Manuel Argoso, the former governor of Seville.”

“A true Christian,” said the old man gravely.

“Ah!” exclaimed Don Carlos. “He was the intimate friend of Don Stephen de Vargas, who always gave himself the airs of a philosopher. He deserves the faggot—does he not, Don Rodriguez de Valero?”⁹²

“Don Stephen is a noble youth, but he has enemies,” was the calm reply. “He never would agree to serve in the militia of the Holy Office. But you, Don Carlos,—you who are to marry the daughter of the Count of Mondejar,—are you prepared to enter that same service?”

“Not quite,” answered Don Carlos, in a melancholy tone. “I intend to speak upon the subject this evening to his lordship the Duke of Medina-Cœli.”

“The opportunity is a good one,” said the old man sarcastically: “pray do not lose sight of it.”

“What!” ejaculated Don Ximenes, an Arragonese nobleman: “are you about to become a familiar of the Holy Office?”

“Certainly. Can I otherwise aspire to the hand of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Count of Mondejar?”

“I should not like such an employment,” said Don Ximenes, with an ominous shake of the head.

“On the contrary—the service is an excellent one!” ejaculated Don Rodriguez de Valero, in a loud voice. “To be a familiar of the Inquisition, Don Ximenes, is to sit astride upon the very wheel of fortune! What families in Spain enjoy such wealth and influence as those of Medina-Cœli and Mondejar? Believe me, that if Don Manuel Argoso and Don Stephen dc Vargas had belonged to the Holy Office, they would not now be the one on the point of roasting alive, and the other compelled to wander amidst mountains and valleys;—and if Donna Dolorez had only chosen Peter Arbuez, or even his favourite Don Joseph, as her confessor, that charming heretic would not now be poor and friendless, without perhaps a stone to serve as her pillow!”

“Silence, Don Valero: you will endanger your own safety,” said Don Ximenes.

“Never fear,” was the reply, “they take me for a madman.”

The other guests were all too much occupied with their own discourse to pay any attention to Don Rodriguez de Valero.

“In Spain, now-a-days,” continued the old man, “there is only one kind of honour—and that is to belong to the master; and you know well that the master is the Inquisition.”

“Don Rodriguez, if you continue in this manner,” cried the Arragonese, “I would not give a maravedi for your head.”

“Don Rodriguez is privileged, and can say what he chooses,” observed Don Carlos.

“I am not worth the trouble of a denunciation,” said Don Rodriguez; and with these words, he quitted the assembly abruptly.

At that moment the Grand Inquisidor, accompanied by the Duke of Medina-Cœli, entered the room.

The Duke was a very old man, with a yellowish complexion, and a sharp piercing black eye. His habits were ascetic; his step was uneven, his voice hoarse and strong for so delicate a looking man; and his head was constantly turning about, with a nervous movement on his shoulders.

This great nobleman and Peter Arbuez saluted the assembly; then the Duke addressed himself to Don Carlos, saying, “Young man, my son-in-law, the Count of Mondejar, has spoken to me of a certain wish which you have expressed. I have said a word to his Eminence, the Lord Arbuez, and I hope that he will not refuse you the favour you demand.”

“Don Carlos,” said the Grand Inquisidor, “I am delighted to behold your zeal in the service of religion.”

“Do not be timid,” exclaimed the Duke; “his Eminence knows your merit; he is aware that your blood is pure.”

Don Carlos made no reply. That young nobleman, who, two days previously, would have given all he possessed in the world to become a Familiar of the Holy Office—the condition upon which the Count of Mondejar had promised to accord him the hand of his daughter—was now ashamed of the situation on which he was thus to enter.

The Duke of Medina-Cœli did not comprehend this hesitation; and, turning towards the Grand Inquisidor, said, “My lord, this young cavalier will become a staunch defender of the holy Catholic religion.”

Peter Arbuez presented his hand to Don Carlos to kiss, and observed, in a dulcet tone, “Tomorrow, after grand mass, fail not to be at the cathedral, to receive your initiation from my own hand.”

Don Carlos bowed without making any reply.

At that moment a domestic entered, and announced Donna Dolorez Argoso.

The Damsel’s Supplication

Great was the astonishment of the Grand Inquisidor as this name fell upon his ears, introductory as that announcement was to the entrance of the daughter of the late governor of Seville; but, suddenly perceiving the door of an adjacent apartment to be open, he led the Duke of Medina-Cœli hastily along with him into that room.

At that moment Donna Dolorez entered the apartment which they had thus abruptly left.

When her eyes caught sight of so many persons, the young lady became confused, and glanced around in search of the master of the house.

The Count of Mondejar had risen at the mention of her name; but, perceiving the Grand Inquisidor disappear with the Duke of Medina-Cœli, he was so afraid of offending Peter Arbuez, that he had scarcely power to advance to meet the daughter of his old friend; he remained standing close by the seat from which he had risen, and muttered a few words of common-place politeness.

Dolorez advanced towards him with an air at once noble and touching.

A murmur of admiration circulated throughout the assembly, in spite of the terror which they experienced at the sight of “a heretic,” so great was the effect produced by that almost superhuman beauty, united to dignity of soul.

“My lord,” said Dolorez, perceiving the Count of Mondejar grew pale and trembled at her approach, “is the presence of a fugitive so fatal at your mansion, that she should change into sorrow the joy which animates this noble assembly?”

The Count pointed to a seat without making any reply; and, when Dolorez had thrown herself, almost exhausted with fatigue and despair, upon the richly-sculpted ottoman, she remained for some minutes without uttering a word. The count also maintained a profound silence—a silence at once constrained and embarrassed.

In spite of her courage, Dolorez experienced that natural timidity which, in a young lady, who finds that she is not encouraged to speak, speedily degenerates into actual suffering! Her brow became suffused with a burning glow! she felt her heart beat violently in her bosom, and her trembling lips could not articulate a word.

Those who beheld that strange scene, awaited the event with a species of breathless anxiety.

Perceiving Dolorez in that state, the Count of Mondejar experienced a deep compassion for that lovely and youthful creature, formerly so brilliant, now so poor, so friendless, and who presented herself to him in the humble garb of a daughter of the people. But the Grand Inquisidor and the Duke of Medina-Cœli were in an adjoining room, the door of which had windows covered with a silk curtain, and whence they could therefore perceive all that took place. The life and fortune of a Spanish nobleman was as dependent upon the Inquisition, as the fate of the meanest hind; and the Count of Mondejar was not exempt from that profound terror of the dread tribunal, which destroyed all the natural chivalry of the Spanish character.

Dolorez murmured to herself, “My father is lost!”

Then, calling all her courage to her aid, she rose from her seat with the most admirable modesty, and with an air of nobleness which made a deep impression upon those present.

“My lord,” she said, addressing herself to the Count of Mondejar, “I see how painful my presence is to you, and I cannot feel vexed with you on that account, as I am also aware how dangerous it is. Misfortune is contagious; but I dare not retreat from the presence of an imperious duty! My father languishes in the prisons of the Inquisition—calumniated, oppressed, he will become a victim to a dread fate, unless his friends come to his aid. Once has he been subjected to the torture; again was he to have been examined—the day was fixed for the second ordeal, but his weakness compelled the postponement of that terrible test. You were his friend once, my lord; you are great and powerful—oh! save my father!”

“Even if I should be desirous to do so,” answered the Count, “I have not the power.”

Then Dolorez turned towards the assembly, and exclaimed, “My lords, you have all been the friends of my father; save him—save him!”

A dead silence prevailed, and Dolorez clasped her hands in despair.

At that moment Don Rodriguez de Valero, who had overheard all, entered the room abruptly, and, advancing courteously towards the young lady, exclaimed, “Lady, I will appear as a witness in favour of your father, if the Lord Mondejar will consent to be another.”

“Oh, thank you—thank you!” cried Dolorez; “may heaven reward you.”

At that moment a satanic and awe-inspiring laugh echoed through the apartment; the glass door opened, and the Grand Inquisidor advanced, exclaiming, “Don Rodriguez, we do not receive the testimony of madmen.”

At sight of Peter Arbuez, Dolorez uttered a loud scream, and fainted.

The Count of Mondejar, pale and embarrassed, knew not how to act. The Grand Inquisidor looked at him in a particular manner; the Count recovered his presence of mind, and rang the bell.

Two valets answered the summons.

“Transport that lady hence in my own litter,” he said, in a loud tone.

The valets obeyed; and Dolorez, still insensible, was borne away in the arms of the two servants.

The Count left the room by another door. At the expiration of a few moments he returned, a deep blush upon his countenance.

“My lord of Mondejar,” said the Grand Inquisidor, “whenever it shall please God to call unto himself his Grace of Medina-Cœli, you shall succeed him as standard bearer to the Holy Office.”

“My lord,” said Don Rodriguez, advancing, “God defend me from going to Paradise if you are to exercise the office of Grand Inquisidor there!”