“I play the guitar myself, after a fashion, not Spanish fashion, alack!” said Patsy. “Shade of Espinal! I won’t leave Ronda till I have had a lesson. He lived here, Espinal, who gave the fifth string, perfected the guitar, made it what it is—what it can be in a Spaniard’s hands.”
A tall, arrogant-looking priest, with head held high, passed at this moment and challenged us with the eye, as the British officer had challenged us at Gibraltar. It seemed that he was master here, as that other had been master on the Rock.
“If I were a priest of Ronda I should hold up my head,” said Patsy, “just because Espinal was a priest. He did other things worth doing beside giving us the fifth string: invented the decima, wrote a book, Marcus de Obregan, that’s read to-day, three hundred years after; translated Horace—a pleasant task—lived to be eight years older than the Sibyl, died at ninety, still in the ring, still fighting. I like Ronda; let’s buy a house and settle here!”
“Almoneted’s house for choice,” said J., and they began alloting quarters forthwith. The window with the north light should be the studio, the room on the courtyard far from noise, the library. In every town we visited, and they approved of, they made plans for passing the rest of our lives there.
The convent chapel smelt of lavender. The sunlight pouring through the rose window over the high altar was so strong that you saw tiny motes floating in the sunbeams. They could not have been dust, for the chapel was immaculate, a temple of purity from the worn marble flags under foot to the swinging silver lamps overhead, all freshly trimmed like the lamps of the wise virgins. The Virgin’s lace handkerchief was a triumph of clear starching. She was dressed in black and wore only a few of her jewels—the Sibyl said—because it was Lent; we should see her at Easter! The Virgin’s velvet dress was in the style of the sixteenth century; she wore a hoop, a ruff, and a long pointed bodice.
The Sibyl was not devout. She took the holy water to cross herself, mechanically, and made the most indifferent little duck for a courtesy as she passed before the altar. She looked with a cold eye on dear San Antonio di Padua, though he must be popular in Ronda, from the number of candles burning before him. Her indifference was in marked contrast to the piety of two freshly powdered young ladies, who were coming out of the chapel as we entered. They were of the great world; their combs and shoes were unquestionably from Paris.
“But the eyes, the eyes are Andalusian, and the torrents of black hair piled and puffed under those blessed black mantillas!” murmured Patsy, as they passed, smelling sweet of heliotrope and rice powder. The taller had a rosary of gold and pearls in her left hand, a fan in the right; the pearls slipped through her fingers, her lips moved; she was evidently “telling her beads.” As they passed the statue of Santa Teresa, both knelt and crossed themselves with extraordinary reverence.
“Remember what Don Jaime said,” Patsy reminded us; “that the common people of Spain take their religion very easily; everybody did when he was young, till the Queen Mother made it fashionable to be devote, when she came to Spain, bringing back the Jesuits and all the rest of them in her train. As a boy, the Don never remembers having seen a monk or a nun.”
In spite of her “indifference,” the Sibyl had held stanchly to her proposal that we should visit the convent where she had learned to sew and to embroider. Mass was just over, the priest had left the altar, the sacristan was snuffing out the candles. We had a glimpse of black veiled figures passing slowly behind the altar from one unseen chamber to another; they were followed by slighter, more lightly moving figures in white that flitted ethereally where the others walked solidly. Two by two they passed behind the altar with a noiseless step. When the last one had vanished, the priest and the sacristan disappeared into the sacristy, and we were left alone, with San Antonio and the other saints.
One end of the chapel was shut off by two heavy iron gratings, one behind the other. On the other side of the grill was a close-latticed screen, through which we could see a heavy, black curtain; the movement of the folds showed that we were being watched by some one on the other side of the triple barrier. After a short delay a novice slipped quietly into the chapel, a sprite of a girl with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, dressed in white serge and crisp linen. She asked us for “alms for the Holy Sacrament.” Patsy produced our offering. The little novice’s eyes opened roundly as her small red hand closed on the coin; she courtesied, so prettily, and flitted away as lightly as she came. As she passed the grill, she breathed some word of necromancy—it sounded like “blankichisserando.” Then, silently, the black curtain was withdrawn; we saw a stout red porteress with a bunch of huge keys in her hand, a key turned grudgingly in a rusty lock, a hinge squeaked, the lattice parted, the convent walls flew back! We had a glimpse of veiled figures flying helter skelter; then through the grim, double iron grating we looked into the sanctum sanctorum of the nuns. A long, lonely room with rows of uncomfortably narrow, high-backed benches and narrow tables, over which hung some good crystal chandeliers filled with wax candles. Though it shone with neatness, it was the most cheerless living-room imaginable. In the middle, close to the grating, stood a tall, graceful woman, who looked like a Vestal of ancient Rome. Her taper, aristocratic hands were folded in a clasp that suggested strength rather than meekness; her small head, finely set upon the shoulders, was held high and proudly.