Organised by the Confraternity of Jesus, the great feature of the procession is the magnificent series of carved groups (known as pasos) representing scenes from the Biblical narrative. These are the work of the great master Salzillo, who is said to have carved no fewer than 1792 wooden figures in his long life of seventy-six years. During the eighteenth century the Trades Guilds of Murcia gave special support to the Confraternity. They are accordingly granted the privilege of carrying the different pasos in the procession. Thus the “Kiss of Judas” is borne by the bakers; Santa Veronica by the weavers; while the tailors carry the gigantic group of the Last Supper. The bearers, all alike clad in purple, carry lighted candles and musical instruments. Their hoods shroud their heads, the eyes alone being visible through slits; a knotted rope girdles the waist, and stockings of coarse white wool, instead of the bare feet demanded by the original statute, acknowledge the claims of the twentieth century.
It is six o’clock on Good Friday morning. The streets are thronged with eager sightseers; heads are devoutly bared and many a plain wooden cross is displayed to mark the sympathy of the crowd. A band of mounted gendarmes clears the way. The standard-bearer chants to the populace that “This is done in remembrance of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Smothered in flowers the first five pasos are borne along. Then to the sound of drum and trumpet, with the ringing of bells and the blare of bugles, Our Father Jesus passes, enveloped in a cloud of flaming candles, accompanied by the Holy Brotherhood. The remaining pasos follow close, the clergy and the representatives of King and Bishop bringing up the rear.
The pasos themselves will repay inspection. Though abounding in ludicrous anachronisms, often in flabby sentiment, they are beautifully carved and superbly mounted. It is said that £1000 was offered by an enthusiastic German for the uplifted arm of St. Peter in the “Kiss of Judas.”
The first group of the Last Supper is of enormous size, requiring no fewer than twenty-four bearers during the procession. Among the tailors of the city there is keen competition for this honour, for the splendid collation that is offered by the pious to the lifeless feasters is later sold by auction for the benefit of the bearers. The price it fetches is no small one, for it is regarded as true pain béni, bringing happiness to those who eat. The Agony in the Garden is reputed of supernatural design and is known as “The Pearl of Salzillo.” The Angel Gabriel is considered unrivalled, and the legend goes that the Duke of Wellington bid £80,000 for this one figure. The figures are magnificently clothed, the sword and crown of Jesus being set down in the accounts of the brotherhood at £200 and £120 respectively. Perhaps the finest of the groups is that which comes last—our Lady of Dolours, whose expression of supreme sorrow has rarely been equalled whether by chisel or brush. It is said that the sculptor copied it from the countenance of his own daughter, to whom, with this end in view, he had deliberately presented a forged letter announcing the suicide of her betrothed. The pasos are deposited in the Ermita de Jesus, where they can be seen by the traveller.
In the town of Murcia itself the influence of the Cross has almost completely banished the Crescent. Gone is the Alcazar, where the Amirs mimicked the State of Cordoba and Toledo; gone is the mosque, where thousands of turbaned heads bowed daily towards Mecca. But in the centre of the city is one of those squares found in every southern and eastern city, which in Spain is always named after the Constitution, in Italy after Victor Emmanuel, and in France after the Republic. To cross it in the afternoon would mean sudden death, for Murcia is one of the hottest corners of Europe. But later a gentle breeze springs up and the citizens troop out to meet with friends upon the Malecon and admire the charming view of the Segura valley, which, as M. Brunhés has said, is “an admirable zone of model agricultural establishment.” This fertile huerta bespeaks industry as great as that of the Swiss or Scottish peasant, for the worship of sloth with which Mr. O’Shea charges the Murcian people is groundless and unjust.
A visit to the Cathedral will exhaust the architectural sights of Murcia. Even this is not of first-class interest. Dating in parts from 1386 and Gothic in style, the west front is Churrigueresque, though fortunately not in the most florid style of that unhappy architect. The earthquake of 1829 and a fire in the middle of the last century have greatly damaged the interior, but the general effect is sufficiently striking. The choir-stalls of carved walnut are very beautiful, but the reredos is poor. The eighth wonder of the world, in the opinion of the inhabitants, is the little Velez Chapel modelled on the Constable’s Chapel at Burgos, but parts of it, according to Don Rodrigo Amador de los Rios, show the painful caprices and aberrations which announce the death agony of a powerful art. Just beyond the Junteron Chapel, with its wealth of beautifully sculptured figures and designs in the most exuberant Renaissance style, is the urn where the city carefully guards the internal organs of Alfonso the Learned—a gruesome legacy but one greatly valued.
Much older than Murcia, the old Visigothic capital Carthagena has preserved even fewer monuments of antiquity, though it has not lost the military character first impressed upon it by its founder Hasdrubal. For this is the first arsenal of Spain and perhaps its strongest fortress. Its splendid sheltered harbour is defended by powerful forts and formidable batteries. Their fire has not always been directed upon the enemies of Spain. For many months in 1873 over them waved the red flag of the Intransigents, the extreme communistic republicans, who, simultaneously with the Carlists of the north, threatened to ruin Castelar’s Government at Madrid. The acquisition of the great national arsenal without firing a shot was, of course, of the utmost advantage to the determined revolutionaries. The garrison, in addition to the enthusiastic population, included several revolted battalions of regular troops under General Contreras.
Against this terrible stronghold of the Revolution, General Martinez Campos advanced with an army from Madrid, with orders to reduce the place with the utmost despatch. This was easier said than done. Supplies were lacking; the advantage in artillery lay entirely with the besieged. The Carlists effected diversions in favour of the Intransigents—an odd coalition. Meanwhile three of the revolutionary vessels were seized by a Prussian squadron as pirates—an utterly unjustifiable interference with the domestic affairs of another State. The Prussians and Italians exacted, moreover, a war indemnity of 50,000 pesetas from the Cantonal Junta, which body became a prey to internal dissensions. One of its members was assassinated. Taking advantage of these embarrassments of the besieged the republican troops redoubled their efforts. Señor Castelar came down from Madrid to assume the supreme command, and Martinez Campos was superseded by General Lopez Dominguez. An incessant bombardment was kept up, the besieged responding shell by shell. In January the frigate Tetuan was burnt to the water’s edge, and a day or two later the explosion of the magazine destroyed hundreds of the garrison. The end was near. The city had for half a year defied almost the whole kingdom and withstood the covert attacks of foreign Powers. The Government troops forced their way into wretched, blood-drenched Carthagena; Galvez, Contreras, and the leaders of the cantonal movement escaped by sea in the ironclad Numancia, which far exceeded the Government vessels in speed, and took refuge in Algeria. Thus collapsed a movement which was, after the Commune of Paris, the most determined organised attempt ever made to subvert the existing constitution of European society.
I have given at some length this chapter in the history of Carthagena, partly because the town has little interest of itself, and partly because these events though so recent and significant are ignored by most writers of travel books. Out of so much evil good came at last, for these well-nigh fatal disorders opened the eyes of the Spaniards to the instability of the Madrid Government and formed the prelude to the reign of peace inaugurated by the accession to the throne of King Alfonso XII.
Boasting less than most Spanish provinces of sights that appeal only to the casual tourist, Murcia is interesting as a region of perpetual struggle and bloodshed; of struggle against nature, of struggles between differing religions, and of the deadly internecine feuds of race and race.