There is no art among the provincial people of Spain. In fact, I do not know any place where there is such an utter indifference to it. Once the hotel keeper came into my bedroom and saw a water color I had done hanging on the wall. It was a careful rendition of the passageway in front of my room. There were the tiles on the floor, the plaster walls with the door halfway down, and, at the end, beneath a window, stood a large jar (exactly like the one in which I imagine the Forty Thieves were concealed) full of pampas grass. I should have thought a child would have recognized it. But mine host said, politely:
“One of your artistic results from our river?”
“No,” emphatically.
“Oh, then it is the cathedral?”
I gave it up. Had I been a sensitive man, I think I would have stopped painting then and there.
The Church is the doctor, lawyer, teacher, amanuensis, and theater. The festivals are more beautiful than I have seen anywhere. From May to October there is never a cloud in the sky, and during this time is held the Fiesta de la Vieja Negra. The ceremony takes place in the public square, and at midnight of that July night the roofs of the town are crowded with people while the sky looks like an inverted bowl of black over their heads. The legend is that the little Virgin, only three feet high and carved out of dark wood, landed in a boat on the shores of the Mediterranean. In her hand was a scroll which directed that she be drawn inland by two white oxen and that where they lay down must be built a temple. This is the Cathedral of Elche, the roof of which is of blue tiles and glitters like an amethyst or turquoise. The procession of the fiesta begins at twelve o’clock and proceeds in stately fashion to the square. Everything connected with the Virgin herself is black—black-robed priests, black casket and draperies—with all else a blaze of light and color. I was much affected and ready to fall on my knees and become a Roman Catholic. The mayor, in evening clothes, awaits her, carrying in his hand a black velvet flag about ten by twelve feet, with no insignia. When the procession stops he walks solemnly forward, all alone, across the square. When directly in front of the Virgin he raises the flag in his hands and, amid dead silence, waves it slowly in her face, back and forth. The third time the staff snaps and down falls the flag at her feet. There is a wild yell of: “Fiesta! Fiesta!” Everyone believes a miracle has happened.
The story is that when the Vieja was first installed, a Moorish Chieftain jeered at her and waved his flag in her face, wherefore she caused it to break in his hand, and he fell down converted. Now year after year the miracle is repeated. I was told that the flagpole is cut to the center on one diameter and gauged, when turned, to break at the right moment.
The fiesta of Elche takes place within the cathedral. I was fortunate enough to be able to witness the ceremony from a small window just below the dome and hundreds of feet above the people. The first part is the cleansing of the temple of the Jews. A large crowd in rags and gabardines, with beards, evidently false, attempt to come in, but are fallen upon by the audience, flagellated, and flung out of the church. All having quieted again, a most dramatic thing happens. Suddenly, seemingly, the whole dome (a part twenty-five feet in diameter) begins to move and slowly come down. From my seat I could now and then see the operation of the windlass, but to the people below it must have looked like the petals of a water lily detaching themselves and opening into a golden flower. The stamens held two men angels with golden wings and wearing costumes hundreds of years old, so beautiful that I did not notice the colors. I have never seen any fabric so wonderful except the old Breton communion lace and the costumes of the Javanese dancers. The pistil had, for a stigma, a cherub—as far as they could see below—in empty air. He was a beautiful ten-year-old boy held only from behind by a gilded shaft of steel with two little places for his feet. As he descended and came about opposite me, he fainted away, but the two men’s arms flashed out to hold him, so that it was not noticed below. Then the angels scatter the pollen—little bits of gold leaf—all over the church, and as this is supposed to be very holy and of great curative value, everyone strives to pick up a piece. The boy angel, supposedly come down from heaven, delivers to the Virgin the palm branch which is symbolic of a productive year. Just at this moment a tiny sparrow (not on the program) circled our heads like a soul in flight. The angels begin to rise, are carried to the dome, the petals of the huge flower close, and the whole ceremony seems to have been but a figment of the imagination.
One’s point of view of the human race out of doors becomes exactly reversed upon going from Brittany to Spain. In the former country one sees the head, with the coif, as a white spot against a background of green; and in the latter the head is black against the landscape. The ideas of modesty are also exactly reversed; for a Breton peasant to show her hair means that she is not virtuous, while the Spanish constantly go about with the head uncovered. The Spanish have no sense of privacy; they stare on every occasion and do not hesitate to go into anyone’s home without knocking—there are no locks on the doors, so one cannot prevent this. They never pull down the shades from any desire of seclusion, and rather think it taking away their privileges if anyone else does. A beautifully dressed woman and daughter will pass you with downcast eyes, but if you turn quickly you will probably see them standing perfectly still, facing you and gaping. The children go about naked, and used to climb upon the grill of our veranda to stare at us and beg to taste our food.
A few days after my son was born I noticed something peculiar in the actions of the midwife and the women about. They kept wailing: