“I think this could not happen outside of Spain, the most democratic of all countries,” Pemberton went on. “Here every man is equal, not merely in the law’s eye, but—what’s far more important—in his own eyes, and proves it by allowing no other man to show better manners than he. These girls, the fine flower of Seville, may safely take their part, add their beauty and their grace as the crowning attraction of the Feria, because the man in the street will be as polite to them as the gentleman in the drawing-room.”
“Bendita sea la madre que ti pario,” blessed be the mother that bore thee. It was Miquel’s parting compliment to the señoritas, as he made his way out of the crowd. In the caseta visitors came and went; Luz was surrounded by admirers. An old man servant handed a tray with agraz, a drink made of pounded unripe grapes, clarified sugar and water, and bolardos, little sugar cakes to dissolve in this nectar of Andalusia. The seguidilla was followed by a sevilliana. When the buoyant feet seemed tired O’Shea sang copla after copla: the last he might have learned from his mother. It is at least as old as he:
| “Dos besos tengo en el alma que no se apartan de mi; el ultimo de mi madre, y el primero que te di.” | Two kisses I have in my soul That will not part from me; The last my mother gave me, And the first that I gave thee. |
VI
A HOUSE IN SEVILLE
RODRIGO, Pemberton’s son, a grave child with eyes of brown fire, met us at the gate of the patio; by his side stood a white lamb, with a wreath of yellow primroses round its neck.
“You recognize the fleece of Huelva?” said Pemberton, “this is one of Miquel’s flock; every child must have its pet lamb at Easter, you know.” He opened the ancient iron gate,—the bars were lilies, tenderly wrought as if of a more precious metal,—and we passed through the Zaguan (vestibule) into the patio paved with marble, surrounded on all four sides by a corridor like a cloister. Behind the Moorish columns, graceful as palm trees, were walls lined with azulejos, blue, green, yellow glazed tiles of fascinating design, bewildering color. In the middle of the patio a jet of water leapt from an urn, danced in the sun, broke into a shower of living diamonds, fell laughing to a marble basin.
“In summer we practically live in this patio, that long bamboo chair is my favorite place. I lie there and read, or puzzle out the designs on those tiles,—they’re over a hundred,—and listen to the fountain and the birds. What more does a man want in hot weather? Take care, Rodrigo, don’t drown him!”
The child was trying to make the lamb drink; the gold fish darted from side to side in fright as its pink nose ruffled the water.
“We’re still living up-stairs; by Corpus Christi we shall have embajado, as they say here. That means, moved down-stairs. It’s the universal custom—the poorest house in Seville has two stories, the upper for cold weather, the lower for hot; you can’t fancy the difference in the climate. When moving day comes, the awning is drawn over the patio, we bring all the furniture from the upper to the lower rooms—exactly the same size and shape, so everything fits—hang pictures and mirrors in the corridor; put the piano here, the plants from the terrace there between the columns. We’ll have a look at the summer quarters, if you like; it may give you some idea of how we live in Seville in hot weather.”