Hour by hour passes. Night falls. And now hundreds of wax-candles blaze forth on the daises, and each penitent carries a gigantic taper in his hand. Thus this endless and mysterious procession of lights moves on to the cathedral, passes through its magnificent nave, and out again through the other doors into the streets.
The cathedral has opened its treasure-house for the “Semana santa” and displayed all its pomp. The candles of the gigantic bronze candelabrum (the renowned Tenebrario) as well as on the altar the sacred wax-candle weighing several hundredweight. A huge sepulchre has been erected to the glory of Christ, in which the Holy of Holies is kept during Passion week. Hundreds of lamps and candles illuminate the golden-white four-storey edifice, which is over 30 metres high, and flooded with a wondrous glowing halo.
The celebrated miserere of Eslava is performed in the cathedral on the night of Good Friday. But, alas! it is impossible to enjoy the sacred tunes owing to the general noisy inattention around. Weary forms are sitting on the steps of the chapels and around the grave of Columbus. Here a mother is suckling her infant, there an animate heap of rags is wrapt in sleep, and all the while there is a continual pushing and elbowing to get to the front.
However we must not judge of all this in the light of serious northern church festivals. This would only lead us to drawing both severe and wrong conclusions. Perhaps this manner may be an historical development. Has not our Teutonic Christianity also wedded itself to much that is ancient heathenism? For instance Christmas and the winter solstice festival. Much that is Moorish obtains in Spain to this day. Perhaps even—unconsciously—the conception of the purpose of a place of worship. Was not the mosque often enough a secular place of meeting for the Moslems, and at the same time a university? However, enough of conjectures. It is a fact that the worship of the Lord and the Virgin Mary is for the Spaniard a service of love. Whether the occasion be Trinity or Passion week, it is one of joyful praise of Heaven.
I shall always remember one quiet hour permeated with the holy spirit of Easter among these joyful and yet pious Easter days.—I had mounted the Giralda, that jewel of erstwhile Moorish minaret architecture, the cathedral tower. At my feet lay the white sea of houses. The town was bathed in sunshine. The beautiful blue dome of heaven spread its mighty arch over the holiday-making land as though protecting and blessing it. The faint music of the mass far below was wafted up to me, when suddenly a booming vibration filled the air, and all the tower bells, which had been silent so long, peeled out across the sunlit country: Christ is arisen! The sister bells of all the other towers echoed the message across the spring clad country.
O
The Patio ([40], [42-49]). It is a favourite expression to call Seville the town of bright court-yards. Those court-yards which light and fill the house with sunshine. The Sevillian house, or rather the Andalusian house, is not a building such as our houses, fronting on the street, but one that fronts to an inner court, turning its back on the street. The outsides of the houses are bare of ornament, almost windowless; a secret to the passer-by. All their beauty is displayed yardwards. There wealth obtains in all its pomp, and poverty unfolds its modest ornaments. The narrow passage—the Zaguan—leading from the street to the court is closed by a railed gate. The gallery—to which access is gained by steps leading from the court—is supported by columns. The rooms of the upper stories lead to the gallery. To cool the air there is a fountain in the middle of the court surrounded by palms, araucarias, laurels, orange-trees, oleanders and flowers in pots. The walls are covered with multi-coloured tiles. Against them brightly up-holstered furniture, chairs, and sometimes even a piano; the inevitable guitar is in a corner. Climbing plants festoon the court.
Practically this is the centre of the whole family life. Friends are received here, hours passed in argument, singing, music and dancing—whether in company or alone, dreaming away the hours, listening to the plashing of the fountain, it is in the court—the soul of the house—that most time is spent.
O
There is nothing commonplace about Spanish houses. They still retain their peculiarity impressed on them by the patina of age. Many have tumbled down under the burden of years. Many are dead; but they “died in beauty”. The period of their prosperity still lingers on in the churches and ornate façades of deserted squares.