Things seen in Spain

by C. Gasquoine Hartley

The most characteristic of the ceremonies are the religious processions, which take place on each day during the week, and all day long on Good Friday. At Granada and many other towns the Church processions have been given up; but at Seville the custom remains unchanged from the Middle Ages. The whole city is given up to the pasos, vehicular traffic is stopped, all business ceases. Everyone, from the Archbishop and the Alcalde downwards, assembles in the public squares, where seats are erected, in the streets, or in the balconies and windows of the houses, to witness the performance. It is an amazing sight, this multitude gathered to watch the procession of an image! But the Spaniards give themselves up to it with simple abandonment. Nothing seen in Spain will give so true an impression of the part that religion takes in the life of the people. The stranger will feel himself carried back at least three centuries.

The pasos, which are carried in these processions, consist of a single sacred figure, or a group of figures illustrating a scene from the Passion. Many of the statues have real beauty; they are the work of Montañés, the seventeenth-century sculptor, whose polychrome carvings express so perfectly the Spanish religious spirit. Borne by twenty-five invisible carriers, at an extremely slow pace, the sacred groups pass through the streets of the city. Each paso is followed by the members of the cofradia, or brotherhood, to whom the statue belongs. They are dressed in the costume of their Order, the long gown, usually of white cloth, with the peaked cowl covering the head. Each brother carries a lighted candle. Companies of acolytes, white and scarlet robed, swing censers and chant anthems. A line of gendarmes, in capes of vivid red, march in advance to clear the way. Women clad in white walk beside them; barefooted, they are fulfilling a vow. The sacred figures, and especially the Virgin, to whom the chivalrous Spaniard has always rendered his homage, are vested in rich gowns of silk and velvet, enriched with jewels of such great price that a soldier with drawn sword walks on guard behind. The platforms on which the statues rest are thickset with lighted tapers and laden with flowers.

The slow procession proceeds through the densely crowded streets and squares to the accompaniment of solemn music, with which mingle the vivas and bravas of the spectators. Before the doors of the City Hall there is a pause to greet the Alcalde, who rises from his velvet chair. Then the procession passes onwards through the reverent, bare-headed crowd to the cathedral. The women, black-robed and with black mantillas, in the balconies, where rows of lamps and candles burn, rise in reverence. One and another sings an ardent petition, with eyes fastened on the sacred figure. Now a young girl presses forward in the crowd with a gift of marigolds, which are placed at the Virgin’s feet.

There is a completeness and simplicity in the worship, the great crowd, rich and poor, women and men, all moved by one strong emotion. And the spell of the strange scene penetrates the spirit; one forgets its pagan, mediæval childishness; one begins to understand how these outward symbols have had power to hold the faith of the people.

The cathedral is the chief centre of all the ceremonies; and the vast edifice—Santa Maria is the largest Gothic church in the world—which is not too vast for its part in the great functions, is seen best on these days of festival. The gold and silver plate, all the splendid Church treasures—silver candelabra beyond counting, jewelled censers, chalices, and crosses, golden keys and diamond stars, Arfe’s rich and delicate monstrance—have been laid out by the side of the great altar. Crimson drapings cover the walls; the priests wear their terno celeste, vestments of blue and gold. The great doors are wide open, and all day long the people come and go in endless procession, as the pageants of the pasos arrive and then depart. The Mass, with its elaborate ritual, is sung to the Spanish music of Eslava; the Sacrament is borne in priestly procession. Each day has its special function. On Palm Sunday is the consecration of the palms and olive branches; on Maundy Thursday the typical Spanish ceremony of the washing of feet takes place; on Good Friday there is the Passion Sermon; and on Saturday the Cirio Pascual, the great candle, 25 feet high and 770–880 pounds in weight, is consecrated.

All the days the cathedral is filled with relays upon relays of worshippers: some kneel upon the bare stones, one by one or in groups together; some stand; others sit on the chairs they have brought with them. The black dresses and mantillas of the women mingle with the bright colours of the peasants who have come from the country districts. There is something social, well-nigh domestic, in the scene. In the intervals between their devotions the women chatter loudly together and use their fans; children play about as if in their own homes; even dogs and cats are there, quite unmolested. The Spaniard is wholly at home in his church, which to him is so much a part of the world and his daily life that he can talk, eat, sleep, and transact business, there.

As the week advances an indescribable emotion grows, which culminates on the Saturday, when, at ten o’clock in the morning, the Veil of the Temple is rent in twain. The great purple curtain, which has hung in front of Roldan’s beautiful Christ upon the Cross, is sharply drawn by hidden cords. The signal is given; all the bells of the city ring out joyously, the great organ peals forth jubilees of victory, Gloria in Excelsis soars out in choral chants. It is the moment of supreme emotion. The multitude falls upon its knees before the great symbol of the accomplished Passion.

This is the end of the Holy Week ceremonies. The women put off their black, and now appear in white lace mantillas and dresses predominantly white. In the afternoon the children’s festival of the lambs takes place. Then on Easter Sunday the bull-fight is celebrated.