We followed him through large, dark rooms, high-ceiled and airy; caught glimpses of a mighty marble bath in a cool green chamber, of a kitchen where they cook with charcoal, and finally halted in a place mysterious as an alchemist’s laboratory. There were cauldrons of beaten copper, measures for wet and dry, an antique balance with brass weights, strange glass vessels, a press, an old still. As we stood admiring a huge marble mortar, Concepcion came into the laboratory. She wore a short white dress and apron, and, on her chatelaine, a bunch of big keys.
“Always on time!” Pemberton exclaimed. “At half past nine every morning Concepcion unlocks the despensa, and gives out whatever is needed for the day.”
“The grapes for the agraz are pounded in that mortar,” said Concepcion, who saw I was interested in the strange vessels, “and those big stone rollers are used for crushing and grinding the chocolate.”
“Do you remember how good the smell of chocolate is, when they are making you a cup at home?” said Pemberton. “Imagine what it must be to have the whole house filled with it! Ah! the making of the chocolate is an important event. Rodrigo and I are always impatient for it to begin.”
“When the time has come to make the chocolate,” Concepcion went on, “the cacao is bought. It comes in great sacks,—the best from the Havana, cinnamon from Ceylon—being sure it is the most fresh—sugar the finest, and supreme vanilla. When all is ready, we call the chocolateros, two good men, who make the chocolate under my direction, according to a family recipe. When it all is finished, it is poured out into those large troughs to cool. Then it is cut in squares; each large square is just big enough to make a cup of chocolate for grown-up people; and the little squares to make the children’s chocolate. When hard, it is put away on these shelves; as the cupboard is airy it keeps itself for a year.” When she learned that some housekeepers bought their chocolate ready made, Concepcion was scandalized. “It will be mixed with flour of chestnuts, or other inferior things; there is no chocolate like the Andalusian!” she declared.
In the despensa, a cool, stone grotto, hams, sausages, dried herbs, onions, and scarlet peppers hung from the roof; a dozen bloated goatskins leant against the wall.
“The oil,” Pemberton explained, “was brought in from the farm on mule-back this morning. When it settles, we shall draw it off in those amphoræ;” he pointed to a row of two-handled, red clay jars. “Those tarros are full of pork,—we killed a hundred pigs last November. The best of the meat is sent in town to us, the rest is kept at the farm for our work people; we feed our laborers in Andalusia, you know, and feed them well.”
Concepcion told us that she herself always gave out the day’s provisions; this was important, else disastrous things might happen. She stood by and saw cook take the pork from the tarro, where it was packed in the “butter of pig,” or the game from the smaller barrels. These lower ones were full of the partridges Pemberton shot last season; some days he got a dozen, some days twenty. Those that were not eaten or given away were slightly boiled and packed in the butter of pig. They would keep six months if great care were used in taking them out, and only the wooden spoon touched the pig butter. If, as had happened, a careless servant puts in her hand to take out a partridge or a bit of pork, the whole tarro is lost; nothing can save it from going bad. The same is true of olives, put up in those tall tinajas. Once a human hand,—a metal spoon is almost as bad,—is dipped into that home-made pickle of vinegar, water, lemon, salt, and laurel leaves, the whole tinaja is ruined.
“These nice comfortable-looking round jars are made especially to hold Manchegan cheeses,” said Pemberton. “They’re like Parmesan, only better, made of sheep and goats’ milk mixed. Once a year they bring them from La Mancha to sell; we always lay in a large stock; packed in those jars, with enough oil poured in to cover them, they keep indefinitely. Here is the cook. The momentous council of the day is about to open. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house, while Concepcion gives the orders. We’ll have a look at the roses first.”
Behind the patio was a second court, with orange and lemon trees; at one end grew an ancient cedar with hollow trunk and strange roots, like splay feet, that gripped the earth. A whiff of orange blossoms, the tinkle of a guitar, the voice of an unseen singer chanting a low wailing malageña greeted us as we entered. The walls were a living glory of roses; the yellow Bankshires hung in starry bunches; the white rose vines flung out floating banners of green, thick sprinkled with rose snow. A golden pheasant strutted and preened itself in the sun; from an aviary came the chatter of a happy family of birds.