Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“I pray your Grace not to contemplate so villainous a project,” is Don Juan’s reply. “You have enemies enough, methinks, without making more. I will not help you. I am willing to second you, as my liege and sovereign, in the field or the duelo, to the death, but by St. Helena or any other male or female saint, I cannot stand by you in a matter of open spoiling of your guest.”

“No, but the gems, the gems,” returns the king in the same whisper. “I never saw the like! I cannot take my eyes from them!”

“That may or may not be. It is no concern of mine, my lord. I am no merchant to adjudge their value; nor do I care for such toys except on the bosom of the fair, where I would be before your Grace in plucking them. Otherwise, let every man and every Moor, I say, possess his own; and if the emir likes to deck himself like a peacock he is free for me.”

As the day falls and the bells of the Giralda tower and of all the towers in the churches of Seville have ceased their clang, a sumptuous banquet is spread in the Hall of the Ambassadors.

Darker and darker grows Don Pedro’s brow as the feast continues, and more and more anxiously his eyes turn towards the entrance leading into the Patio de las Doncellas.

As the innumerable courses of pilaus and curries, conserves and sweetmeats are served in honour of his guests, with the finest wines of Xeres and Malaga, and golden basins with perfumed water and embroidered napkins are offered between each course, Don Pedro can scarcely master his impatience.

A stony silence falls on all the company from the grim humour of the king. Don Juan is absent, but Don Rodrigues with the other familiars are there, and Emanuel El Zapatero, now captain of the body-guard, stands behind his chair, and as if conscious that something is about to happen, never takes his eyes from his master’s face.

But the strangeness of the position reaches its climax when the emir, rising from the gold-embroidered divan on which he is stretched to pledge the king, Don Pedro neither moves nor responds in any way, but sits with his eyes fixed, as if fascinated, on the Balax in his turban.

Suddenly, at some secret sign given by Emanuel, he strikes the table with his fist, and from each of the pillared openings the hall is filled with troops, armed to the teeth, and behind his chair arises, as if by magic, the naked figure of a Nubian slave bearing an axe.

Ere one can draw breath he falls upon the Red King, who, taken unawares, has not even time to draw his dagger. At the same moment each Moorish knight is seized from behind by a Castilian trooper and dragged into the outer court of the Monteria, where he finds his horse, arms, and slave, receiving at the same time stern injunctions to cross the frontier of Castile before sunrise.

Alone in the hall, Don Pedro advances to where the unhappy Red King lies dead upon the floor, hard by the spot where the blood of Don Fadique stains the marble.

“Dog, and son of a dog!” he exclaims, “did you think to come to Seville to rival me? Dead or alive, I will have the rubies,” and, stooping down with his own hand he plucks them from his turban. “Such a stone as this,” he says, reflectively, holding up the Balax to the light, as if unable to detach his eyes from it, “I never saw, though I am cunning in gems. It is unequalled. It may save my crown. Who knows? Till then I will cherish it as a lover does his mistress. In my bosom I will place thee, wondrous stone, next to my heart of hearts.”1

Don Juan, though wholly disapproving these barbarities as useless and uncivilised, instead of falling away from his master like the rest, applies himself to strengthen his cause. To the dissipated and the young he holds out the prospect of unlimited license; to the ambitious, power; to the covetous, domains. Nothing is left undone that can determine the wavering and secure the doubtful. “The ultimate success of the pretender of Trastamare,” he says, “is an event utterly improbable; and even should he come, it would only be to enrich his own followers by a fearful reckoning among those who have opposed him.”

Subtle arguments these, and admirably suited to the temper of the times, when men’s minds were swayed either by venal and selfish motives, or by the terror of ruin and massacre.

Don Juan lives in a narrow street, a stone’s throw from the gate of the Alcazar. His house still remains, a curious monument of the times; a small, low building with a quaint projecting attic and casements guarded by rows of low Saracenic arches.

Of course there is a fountain in the small pillared patio where he received his friends. If it is the same little pillar of spray as in Don Juan’s time hummed and splashed through the long summer days, I cannot say, or if he was served by the identical Leporello we know so well, and scolded by the shrewish wife Doña Elvira, who always sings in “alt.” But it is certain that the low door of his house gave access nightly to crowds of rollicking guests and fair masked señoras, and that the king in disguise often stepped across the street from the Alcazar to take part in the revelry.

The real Don Juan lives in evil times. Seville is growing desperate with the tyranny of the king. The name of Enrique el Caballero is whispered everywhere as a saviour to an oppressed people. It is said indeed that he has again been proclaimed king at Cahorra by his followers, at the head of the Grandes Compagnies, and that Charles V. of France treats with him as friend to friend.

The priests despise Don Pedro because he lies under an interdict, and no masses can be said in the churches; the libertines hate him because he judges them severely and gives such large measure to himself; and the lovers and husbands because no woman is safe.

No two men are of the same mind in this divided city. The houses are barricaded, the towers turned into fortresses, the iron lattices of the windows, where true lovers whisper, into loopholes for pikes and arrows; the black crosses in the plazas are stained with blood, and the dead often lie unburied in the calle. In all these disorders Don Juan is a leader, cutting down the king’s enemies like dogs, and anathematising all rebels to his cause. “Let us make merry ere we die,” is the cry of the Sevillianos, not knowing what may befall; and so they pass the time in the certainty of coming warfare between Don Enrique and the king, in rioting and profligacy.

The very priests live like gallants, and the nuns trail silken gowns. Merry-makings and orgies are held even in the churches, and drinking and dancing are common among the graves, much to Don Juan’s delight as a scoffer and a blasphemer, who gaily foots it to a rattling measure with the bones.

From dancing the citizens get to fighting; a few cry for Don Pedro, but more shout for El Caballero and thus from bad to worse the evil days pass along.

There is a homely proverb which says, “The devil will have his own.” This is proved in the history of Don Juan de Mañara. During an orgy, at which another noted gallant and profligate, Don Santiago de Augebo, is present, a gitana of great beauty slips in to sell flowers to the noble señors lounging in drunken mirth among the wine-cups.

Impudent gitana! Swords are drawn and a free fight for her possession instantly ensues, Don Santiago getting the upper hand and seizing on her, spite of her screams.

“Now, by all the saints and devils!” cries Don Juan, touched by the genuine terror of the girl, “give us also a chance, Señor Caballero,” and as the other opposes him, although in his own house, he draws his rapier and falls on him with such thundering blows that Santiago sinks insensible on the floor.

The gitana, somewhat above her class, and very beautiful, kisses Don Juan’s hand, which he returns by raising her and pressing his lips to hers. Then plunging his hand into the depths of his doublet he pulls out a well-filled purse, which he gives her with a glance out of his wicked eyes, such as the stage Don Giovanni bestows on Zerlina and with like effect, much to the amazement of the company, who rise up to shout and laugh as he conducts her with mock solemnity to the gate of the patio– especially Don Santiago, by this time recovered, and swearing secret vengeance on Don Juan.

To the Leporello of that day, by name Gesuelo, Don Juan secretly issues his commands to find out all he can about the gitana, which is done by the ready-witted knave, who tells him her name is Caritad, and that her father abandoned her mother at her birth.

But next morning, with the fumes of last night’s wine the image of Caritad vanishes, and he orders a great supper in honour of Don Pedro, to which all the gallants of Seville are bidden.

“Death to the king’s enemies” is the toast, and Don Pedro himself graces the board with his presence. But a cloud of care rests on his young face. All looks dark. The Black Prince, on whose help he has so firmly relied, has not responded to his repeated calls for help, while Enrique is supported by the presence of the redoubtable Du Guesclin or Clayquin as he is called in contemporary history. Now they have entered Spain, and actually Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca, Palencia, and other cities of the north are with them. The King of Portugal is doubtful in his allegiance, the passes of the Pyrenees swarm with French adventurers and rebels, tramping down to join Enrique’s camp at Logroño; and worse than all, his little son, Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s child, his only male heir and successor, is dying. Ever since the death of Blanche the horrors of a violent and speedy death possess him. Do as he will, curse, carouse, murder, and blaspheme, he cannot shake off the sinister foreboding. The murder of the Rey Bermejo has alienated the Moors, and Seville, his own Seville, is wavering.

As the banquet proceeds and the heads of the guests begin to turn under the effect of the choice wines of Andalusia, passed round in golden cups and goblets, Don Juan suddenly rises and drinks the health of the hereditary ally of Castile– the hero of Crécy and Poitiers – Edward, the Black Prince – now lying encamped in Guienne at Bordeaux; extols his prowess and generosity, and cunningly passing on to vaunt the respect and affection he bears to his master the king, announces his speedy arrival in Spain with the flower of the English chivalry unrivalled in the world.

Don Juan knows this is a lie, and that the Black Prince has shown no sign, but that matters little if only he can succeed in impressing the company with the belief that he is on the road to fight Don Enrique. Indeed, to do this is the principal aim of the banquet, and he takes care to bring forward the intelligence at a moment when no one is in a condition either to canvass or to dispute it.

The name of the Black Prince is coupled with those of the English knights who accompany him – Captain de Buch, Thomas of Canterbury, Montfort, and the gallant and elegant Chandos. The feats of arms performed in the taking of Toledo by Don Pedro are remembered, and also the ugliness of the women, except indeed the Jewesses. The humiliating particulars of Don Enrique’s flight are detailed, and loud laughter ensues at his sham coronation at Burgos. But no one dares to mention that the Grandes Compagnies have entered Castile commanded by the Comte de la Marche, of the royal blood of St. Louis, and Du Guesclin, and that with Don Enrique they are marching upon Seville!

At the mention of his brother’s name the king’s passion blazes out; he clenches his fist and the veins swell on his forehead. Starting to his feet, his blue eyes travel round the room, as if he would read on each countenance the bias of the mind within. Then, seizing a jewelled cup, which he holds on high, he drinks: “Death to the bastard, and by the Holy Cross of Compostella may he burn in Hell!”

There is a pause. No one echoes this savage curse of brother to brother. Even the well-seasoned profligates around are sobered for an instant by the unnatural toast.

In the general silence which follows, Leporello or Gesuelo makes his way to his master with a musk-scented letter in his hand, bound with a blue ribbon.

Cutting the ribbon with his dagger, Don Juan (like a man accustomed to such missives) glances at the signature, then lets it fall. What matter? It is signed Amina. Who is Amina? He has already forgotten!

When the king rises to depart, Don Juan accompanies him to the portal of the Alcazar, followed by the soberer guests. The open letter lies upon the floor. It is perceived by Don Santiago who, raising it on the point of his rapier, reads these words aloud: “Come to me, false one, come ere I die. Amina.”

Shouts of laughter follow, and deep draughts of wine are drunk to speed her parting soul to purgatory; not forgetting the health of the gitana Caritad, with whom Don Santiago swears he will cut out Don Juan.

Meanwhile Don Juan wanders on from the Alcazar into the dark streets. A vague notion possesses him he is going to visit some one, but if it be his new love Caritad, or his ancient flame Amina, of whom he has long lost sight, or both, he cannot clearly define. From the streets he turns into the Plaza de San Francesco, and perceives a light in a house opposite the Palace of the Ayuntamiento (the first floor still remains, all miradores, like the wooden houses in England). On approaching, a silken ladder appears attached to the balcony.

“By St. Anthony! a public tryst!” Don Juan mutters. “Which of the fair ones I seek thus openly hangs out the signal?”

Then he falls into a deep cogitation as to the owner of the house. But Gesuelo has the list of the three hundred and three noble ladies he loves in Seville, and such peasants too who are worthy of his attention, and it was thus he came to know Zerlina, and gave such trouble to that poor fool Masetto. For the life of him, he cannot now remember who lives here, but in a confused way he recalls the letter which he feels for in his vest and misses.

“Confusion,” he mutters to himself. “Into whose hands has it fallen? Meanwhile, here goes!” he cries aloud, “Caritad or the Devil; it is all the same to me, so it be a woman,” and he vaults on the rounds of the ladder and swings himself up to the bars of the balcony.

Within he pauses. All is dark. Somehow, the abundant moon shining outside does not penetrate into the room. To see clearly he must remove his mask, when he discerns from an inner chamber the glimmering of a taper.

Drawing his sword he rushes forward and finds himself before a couch closely shrouded. With haste he removes the draperies and beholds a lady sleeping. Stooping to observe her more closely, with a beating heart he removes a veil, and his eyes fix themselves on the hideous aspect of a corpse festering in its shroud! This is his first warning.

Later, at midnight, in the ancient quarter of the Macerena, Don Juan falls in with a funeral procession, with torches, singing, and banners. It is some grandee of high degree, doubtless – there are so many muffled figures, mutes carrying silver horns, the insignia of knighthood borne upon a shield, a saddled horse led by a shadowy page, and the dim forms of priests and monks chanting death dirges.

Don Juan can recall no death at court or among the nobles, and this is plainly a funeral of quality. Nor can he explain a midnight burial, a thing unknown except in time of war or plague; so, advancing from the dark gateway where he stood to let the procession pass, he addresses himself to one of the muffled figures and asks: “Whose body are they bearing to the Osario at this strange time?”

“Don Juan de Mañara” is the reply. “Will you follow, and say a prayer for his sinful soul?”

As these words are spoken, the procession seems to pause, and one advances who flings back the wreaths of flowers which lie around the face, and lo! Don Juan beholds his own visage in the coffin!

Spellbound he seems to join the ghastly throng which wends its way to the Church of Santa Iñes. Here other spectral priests appear to meet it and carry the bier into the nave, where next morning he is found by the nuns, coming into matins, insensible on the floor! This is the second warning.

After this the name of Don Juan was heard no more at court. Whither he went, no one knew, not even Gesuelo. At length he was discovered in a monastic dress, living in a hospital he had founded for the old and bedridden, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, opposite the Golden Tower where Don Pedro kept his treasure, – a quaint old building which still remains close to the custom-house. You cannot pass a day in Seville without remarking it as you follow along the wharf crowded with merchant ships and steamers, placed a little back but conspicuous by its whiteness.

On an ancient portal, much ornamented in that barocco style into which Seville fell when ceasing to be Moorish, are graven these words:

Sancta Caridad

Domus Pauperum

Scala Cœli.

On one side are the high windows of a Gothic hall, where aged men sit, so shrunk and old one seems to think death has forgotten them. A low iron-bound door leads you farther into the nave of a noble church, supported by twisted pillars such as Raphael loved to paint as the background of his frescoes.

It is very still and rather dark, for red blinds are drawn over the windows, but you plainly perceive the high altar, gay with coloured marbles, and on the highest step where you plant your foot there is a monumental slab let into the pavement, engraven with these words:

Cenizas del peor

Nombre que ha habido

en el Mundo,

Don Juan de Mañara.2

The disappearance of Don Juan from the stormy scene was little heeded by Don Pedro in all the confusion of civil war. He was but a bolder sinner than the rest, and that he had turned from the devil to the priest was a contemptible proof of weakness.

No gallant rode down the bank of the Guadalquivir without launching a sneer at the old Gothic pile where, habited in sackcloth, he tended the sick and the dying to the last day of his life.

A riotous band still remained about the king for midnight adventure, to spoil churches, sack convents, waylay travellers, fight duels, and guzzle good Val de Peñas within the gilded walls of the Alcazar. But even the terrified nobles by-and-by fall away from Don Pedro, who has hardened into such a tyrant men fly from him as from a fiend.

CHAPTER XVII

Don Enrique again Crowned King – Flight of Don Pedro

THE time has now come that Don Pedro knows not where to turn. All Spain is divided by civil war. Seville, his own Seville, is full of conspirators, awaiting the arrival of Don Enrique to declare for him; and the Black Prince, on whom he so confidently reckoned, remains absolutely deaf to his appeals.

Even were he willing to repent, he is for ever shut out from salvation in this world and the next. No church is open to him; no priest, however base, dare shrive him for his sins. He is as one accursed.

What those words were, traced by the dying hand of Blanche, no man yet knows – not his closest friends, and they are few; but ever since a strange gloom clings to him which never lifts, and in his sleep he wrestles as in throes of agony.

Events succeed each other with dramatic rapidity. His ally, Charles the Bad, King of Navarre, alarmed at the passage of the French, breaks the alliance and joins with the King of Aragon against him.

Enrique, worshipped by his followers, is again solemnly crowned within the ancient capital of Burgos, in that lovely cathedral, embroidered like a state robe, lately completed, his padrino and godfather being the great warrior Du Guesclin, the first commander of the age, although it is said he can neither read nor write.

The Comte de la Marche, cousin of Blanche, and also of the House of Bourbon, represents the King of France, and stands on his right hand on the steps of the high altar, under that glorious window which floods the space with light, along with marshals and generals, Castilian and French, condes and great lords of Aragon, and a lordly show of knights and caballeros from Leon and Andalusia.

The troops are, as usual in such levies, mixed in nationalities and wanting in unity and discipline, but commanded by Du Guesclin who dares contemplate defeat?

“Remember, most valiant constable,” had said to him his master Charles, the King of France, son of the unfortunate John, prisoner in England, “I shall owe you more than if you gained me a province, if you destroy the murderer of Blanche.”

Nor should this command be forgotten in Du Guesclin’s justification later on; Charles was his liege lord; he had issued his orders, and in the feudal spirit of the age, at any price Du Guesclin is bound to obey.

Open and generous, Enrique makes gifts to all, forgetting he has as yet nothing to bestow. Condes and princedoms drop from his hand on all around (real châteaux en Espagne). There is no end to his largesse, and so successful is this method that in twenty-five days he holds the south and marches on Toledo, where he is received with cries of “Long live Enrique the merciful, who comes to save us from our enemy, Don Pedro.”

Again Enrique is at the lordly Alcazar overlooking the everlasting plains, from whence he was so ignominiously driven by Don Pedro and the Jews. Again behold him, the very picture of a young king whom fortune favours, as he descends the stately flights of stairs and moves once more among the magnificent ranges of colonnades which hold up the great patio, to receive the salutations of long lines of knights and nobles who have flocked from all parts to his standard.

What a tossing of feathers and flash of arms around! True lovers’ knots on shields and shoulders, helmets shaded with waving plumes, lances bound with gaily-embroidered scarves, the inlaid handles of swords and falchions sparkling with gems, and corselets and breastplates bound in with glittering girdles.

Enrique comes in war but he wears the dress of peace, as one at ease, certain of success. Let Pedro flaunt the morions, casques, shields, bucklers, and weapons of conflict, Enrique has already assumed the débonnaire air of a well-established monarch sure of his subjects’ love. (That he is a bastard with no legal right to the throne is forgotten in the general triumph.)

Graceful and polished in his manners as becomes El Rey Caballero, the personal charm he exercises over all who approach him is unbounded, especially when compared to the morose cynicism of Don Pedro, who mocks ere he destroys.

Sir Hugh Calverley and many English knights and esquires of the free companies which have overrun France in the late wars are with him during the present inactivity of the Black Prince at Bordeaux, and his old friend and loyal supporter, the Asturian noble, Don Jaime Alvarez, rules his counsels as heretofore. Pope Urban V., incensed at the blasphemies and profligacy of Don Pedro, subsidises and blesses him. Even the rough warrior Du Guesclin yields to the fascination of his address, an influence destined soon to lead him to the commission of a crime by which his good name is for ever tarnished.

No female element fills in the frame of this chivalrous court. He has a wife, her name casually occurs, but there all information ends. At all events, no woman takes a prominent part in his career, as with his brother Don Pedro.

Meanwhile the king, warned by his ministers that he is no longer safe in Seville, rides out of the gates guarded by a small troop of men-at-arms, commanded by the faithful Emanuel, and accompanied by his chancellor, Fernando de Castro, Don Martino Lopez de Cordova, Grand Master of Alcantara, Don Diego Gomez, Don Mem Rodrigues, a warlike captain who has taken the place of Don Juan de Mañara in his confidence, and some others.

You may count his adherents on your fingers they are so few. Even that pampered villain Garcia de Padilla has forsaken him since his sister’s death, and gone over to the winning side, and along with him are Orosco, Mendoza, and La Vega.

The three daughters of Maria de Padilla accompany him, young girls whose names leave no record on the page of history – Costanza married John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, son of Edward III., and thus established a claim, often asserted but never seriously entertained, to the throne of Castile; and Isabel, the younger, espoused his brother Edmund of Cambridge.