Second, at frequent intervals units of the Guardia Civil appeared in full uniform and heavily armed. They stared with what I thought at the time was a menacing gaze, but which I suppose was only an impassivity, at the spectators, as if daring them to make any move against the Church. If the Holy Week procession was partly a military manifestation, it was also a police function, for the two elements were never far separated.
Third, when the parade had formed and it was time to march through the center of the city, political leaders of the community slipped into position, some as penitents lugging crosses, some as members of the confraternity but with their faces exposed, and some as honored marchers in morning coats and top hats; it was clear that no politician could hold office in Sevilla who did not conform to the observances of the Church. The presence of these officials was made conspicuous; they were preceded by bishops and soldiers and bands and guardia; they were accompanied by hushed and approving whispers from the crowd; they were clothed in a kind of extraterrestrial glory and formed as significant a part of the parade as any of the floats, the capstone, as it were, of the religious-military-police-political edifice that was Spain.
Pepe Gómez.
Of course, some years later I witnessed exactly the same kind of exhibitionism in New York City when I watched the St. Patrick’s Day parade along Fifth Avenue and saw that any Jewish politician who hoped for favor with the Irish electorate had better put in an appearance on that day. A few years after that, when I was myself running for Congress in a different part of America, my advisors warned me. ‘There is one thing a politician must do. March in the St. Patrick’s Day parade or else.’ I was as warmly received in my community as were the Sevilla politicians during their obligatory parade. In Sevilla it was only the appearances that were different. As a matter of fact, one year when Adlai Stevenson was in Sevilla for Holy Week he was invited to march with a confraternity, and as a wise politician he did so.
When I had watched the floats, supervising their exits and returns, I felt that I understood something of the spiritual quality of Holy Week, but it was two unplanned experiences which brought me close to the heart of the matter. The first had occurred on Palm Sunday, when I had been following Don Francisco’s float for more than ten hours. We stopped for some unknown reason in a small plaza, and the stevedores came out from under their boards and lounged about with beer bottles in their hands, for it was now daylight and the sun was growing hot. The soldiers, the guardia and the politicians had left us, for we were in the backwaters of the city far from the formal parade route; we were in a sense on our own and some members of the confraternity removed their hoods, and it was then that I came face to face with Don Francisco Mendoza Ruiz, so exhausted and beat down by the weight of his self-assumed cargo that I thought him close to fainting.
For a long, long moment we stood facing each other, and the mark of pain was so visible in his face that I had to acknowledge that here was a man who had truly assumed the burden of Jesus Christ in the moments of the passion. This was neither the play-acting of the men who carried the iron-ringed staves, beating them about as if they were marshals, nor the parade heroics of the armed soldiers looking as if they were about to enter battle, nor the posturings of the politicians as they exhibited their public spirituality. This was the face of an ordinary man who had assumed a burden that was almost more than he could bear; he was undergoing a religious experience that I had not ever come close to, and when I gave him a drink from my bottle he thanked me with an expression of ecstatic gratitude. I have never forgotten his face; he was not of the procession; he was the procession, standing at its very heart, and he was accepting as much of the passion of Jesus as any man could comprehend.
The whistles blew. The captain shouted at the workmen. The lines re-formed. And the staves thundered against the roadway. ‘One, two, three,’ came the signals, and slowly the Virgin rose into the sunlight, wavered unsteadily for a moment, then resumed her soft undulation as the huge structure moved forward once more. And behind the Virgin, so richly dressed and so wooden with her face staring straight ahead, struggled this weary barefooted man bearing his cross.
My second insight occurred on a street far removed from the little plaza. In the center of Sevilla, running from the commercial headquarters to the government buildings, is a narrow pathway which in ordinary circumstances would be an alley but which in Sevilla has become a major pedestrian thoroughfare. Its shops are the richest in the city. The big plate-glass windows behind which lounge the principal men of Sevilla, like a coterie of lesser gods on a lower Olympus, here seem more formidable than elsewhere. The pretty girls who throng the street are more relaxed. The corner restaurants are busier and the quiet bustle of the little pathway is more exciting.
Because of the manner in which this slim, beautiful street lies stretched out in the sunlight, it has for many centuries been known simply as Sierpes and has been termed by many ‘the loveliest street in Europe.’ To justify this, one must accept certain special definitions, for Sierpes cannot compare with a boulevard in Paris or with one of London’s wide streets. How little it is! I once measured its width at the Restaurante Calvillo and it was exactly fifteen shoe lengths across. To see Sierpes at its best is to understand the saying: ‘The three finest pleasures a man can know are to be young, to be in Sevilla, and to stand in Sierpes at dusk when the girls are passing.’ I would add a fourth: ‘And to stand in Sierpes during Holy Week when La Macarena is passing.’
The first evening I ever spent in Sierpes was when the floats of Holy Week were going by and even then I sensed that this must be the high point of the parade, for it was in their passage down this brilliant street that all participants tried to do their best. The rope-sandaled men stifling under the boards moved cautiously so as not to scrape the walls. The cries of the captains became whispers. The bands played in better rhythm and the professional soldiers marched with increased precision. At the entrance to Sierpes additional politicians slipped into line, so that they could be observed during the march past the city hall, which stands beyond the exit from Sierpes, and those penitents who were uncovered straightened up so that their faces might be seen. In those moments Sierpes became the focal point of Spain, for although similar processions were under way in Madrid and other cities, this was the famous one.
I now understood what had determined the width of the floats, because there were several tight spots in Sierpes where the tableaux of Jesus and Mary had to be borne just so in order for them to slip between projecting walls. Not many spectators could crowd into Sierpes; on the other hand, since it was the culminating point of the procession, as many as possible jammed in, chairs being sold at a premium. Directed by a group of young Spaniards, I had slipped in and wedged myself against a wall, where the floats passed me by at a distance of inches rather than feet. It was exciting to be so close to the carved figures and to see the nuances of their expressions; there was also a kind of animal pleasure in seeing now and then beneath the protecting curtains the softly moving feet of those who bore the floats and to hear their whispers, as if the spirits of the statues were speaking.
But as an insight into religious experience it did not compare with my earlier confrontation with the penitent; that had been a true revelation and this spectacle in Sierpes could be no more than a well-conceived parade. However, on Good Friday evening, as I was watching in Sierpes. I heard from a balcony projecting over the street the high, piercing scream of a Woman. ‘¡O Dios!’ she cried, and all movement along the pathway stopped. ‘¡O Dios!’ she repeated, and when the throng was silent she launched into the most strange and impassioned song I had ever heard. She had a deep effect upon the emotions of those who listened, for her voice alternated between throaty cries of pain and soaring evocations of ecstasy. She continued thus for some four or five minutes, pouring forth a personal song of devotion to Jesus Christ, and her performance was so powerful that all in Sierpes, marchers and witnesses alike, paid her the homage of silence, so that he
r voice rang out like a bell, floating over the massive crowds. She paused. No one moved. Then she entered the passionate coda of her song, with her voice ascending in spirals and fury until at the end she was possessed. Then silence, as if the crowd wanted to consider her song, then the sounds of the soldiers and the police and the clanking chains and the rustle of the float, as all resumed their march toward the city hall.
The woman had been chanting a saeta (arrow; in plural, ecstatic religious outcries), which would be heard throughout the city on this day. My Spanish friends tried to tell me that such songs were spontaneous outbursts of persons overcome by religious experience, but I found it hard to believe that this woman was an average person overcome by her identification with the passion; she was a professional singer if ever I heard one, and I thought that I was fortunate to have had her as my first saeta performer because she introduced the form in such a flawless setting that I have ever since been a devotee. A great saeta, well sung, is something one can never forget. But I felt sure she had been planted on that balcony with instructions as to when and how to sing for maximum effect.
Some hours later, on Good Friday night, when I had wormed my way to a different segment of Sierpes, across from a corner bar which had closed in honor of the procession, I watched as an ordinary man pressed in against the wall shook himself free when one of the great Virgins approached. Staring as if transfixed by the statue, this man threw back his head and poured forth a simple, unadorned song in praise of this Mother. It was an extraordinary song, more moving than the first, for it was uttered rather than sung professionally. It was an offering from this man to this intercessor and it was volunteered in humility and deep feeling. Its authenticity impressed the marchers and they stood at solemn attention as the singer’s voice grew stronger and his cry more fervent. Then suddenly he stopped and returned as if in embarrassment to his former position against the wall. The wooden staves with their iron rings beat against the pavement of Sierpes and the procession continued.
Roman soldiers preparing for the execution of Christ.
At the far end of Sierpes the floats exit to a large square along whose side stands the city hall, and it is here that the procession reaches its temporal climax, for on the wooden grandstands are seated the official families of the political leaders who have been marching down Sierpes. Now the various bands explode into a roar and additional soldiers and police slip into the parade. Very bright searchlights illuminate the scene and there is no place here for the singers of saetas.
From the city hall to the cathedral is a short distance along Sevilla’s main street, and here large areas of chairs have been rented out by the city government. Here also the parade prepares itself for the spiritual culmination of the procession, the entrance to the cathedral. This is much more impressive than it sounds, for Sevilla’s cathedral is one of the most enormous in Europe. Its aisles are so broad that the floats are able to pass through more easily than through Sierpes. I suppose all the Holy Week floats could fit into the cathedral with ease. As one astonished Frenchman wrote home: ‘I am sorry to tell you that Notre Dame could fit inside this cathedral without causing much stir.’
It stands in the center of the city and can be seen from miles out in the countryside. It is a barnlike structure and only in size does it compare with Toledo’s Gothic masterpiece, but it does have two features which make it unique. At one corner rises a graceful Moorish tower which once belonged to a mosque that was torn down to make way for the cathedral. This tower is called La Giralda (Weathervane), after the female figure representing faith which tops it, and it has become the symbol of the city. I have often seen it from points many miles away as the driver of my car would call, ‘Ah, La Giralda. Home at last.’ The second feature is less conspicuous but perhaps even more lovely, a large walled-in garden with cathedral cloisters at one end and long rows of orange trees which spread their fragrance through the area. It is called the Patio de los Naranjos (Court of the Orange Trees) and at any time of the year is worth visiting.
It is to this massive cathedral that the floats finally move. They leave the street, pass through the cathedral door and stop for ecclesiastical blessing. The hooded confraternity kneel and the penitents drag their chains before the altar, some with ankles bleeding from the irons. In silence the float leaves the cathedral and the politicians duck away. The stevedores wait for the first stopping point, then crawl out and head for the nearest bar to refresh themselves before the long march back to their home church.
One would miss the spirit of Holy Week if he saw only the solemnity. In the silent crowds are groups of young girls who would otherwise not be allowed on the streets, and boys follow them. There is much pinching and bumping and hushed giggling, and for many girls their first fumbling introductions to sex come at this time. As Pepe Gómez told me, ‘We don’t always crawl out from under the boards to get a drink or listen to a saeta. It’s fun to look up the girls’ dresses as they stand on the balcony.’ The excitement is keenest in those moments when some popular Virgin passes, for then the boys and the girls press together without supervision and give meaning to the cry that will later be shouted to the Virgin as she returns to her church; ‘Oh, dearest Virgin! How I remember you!’
On Sunday two significant things happen. The faithful gather in the cathedral to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, but not much is made of the matter, for Sevilla in spring is concerned mainly with the Crucifixion. And promptly at five in the afternoon Holy Week ends in the blare of a brass band whose lively tempos herald the beginning of the Easter bullfight, first of the season.
In the weeks that follow, depending upon the year’s timetable, activity begins in two widely separated quarters of the city. The first is the more important historically; the second is the more significant today. Many centuries ago a channel was dredged connecting Sevilla with the Río Guadalquivir, which flows some distance to the west, and this enabled Sevilla to function as the major port of the south, even though it lay many miles from the ocean. On the flat land that lies between the channel and the river, gypsies now begin to gather and are in the process of erecting a tent city with restaurants, bars, trading points and other appurtenances. They appear to be preparing a traditional gypsy fair, with spiced foods, crooked horse races and beautiful fortunetellers.
That is not their intention. For as one studies the strange town he sees an uncommonly large number of horses, mules and donkeys. From outlying rural areas come peasants who would normally have little association with gypsies; the processions of Holy Week were not attractive enough to lure these peasants, but the gypsies do. Experts from France and Portugal also arrive, and the last time I was there three tall gentlemen from Texas appeared in spurs and sombreros.
For this is the famous horse fair of Sevilla, dating back two thousand years to the days when Romans came here to buy horses for their generals. Some think that it was this primitive trading that later called forth the processions of Holy Week; certainly it formed the vital nucleus around which the rest of the present complex fair was built.
When I was in Las Marismas, watching birds with Don Luis Ybarra González, we had discussed Sevilla’s horse fair, and at that time he had explained, ‘The fair probably goes back to Roman days, but sometime in the eighteenth century it was discontinued. In 1847 my great-grandfather, the Conde de Ybarra, was serving as mayor of Sevilla. He loved horses, had a bull ranch of his own and one day got the idea of having an old-style fair. So in its present form it dates only from 1847.’ To it come horse traders from all parts of southern Spain, eager to test their trading skill against the practiced gypsies. There is much bargaining, much riding of horses back and forth across the dusty plains, much noise.
If a man likes horses, this rough-and-ready market with no rules and little order would delight him. It is conducted under a blazing sun and has about it a strange and ancient quality. I have attended at three different times and found it difficult to believe that I was in the twentieth century; always I have
thought it regrettable that most visitors to Sevilla miss the horse fair, because in many ways it is one of the most authentically Spanish parts of the spring celebration.
Last time I was there a gypsy boy of eleven was showing a donkey to a suspicious farmer from a vineyard north of Cádiz. Boy and man studied the donkey for more than an hour, and if they found anything unusual in the beast, I did not. The boy kept stressing the good points of the animal while the man parried with his suspicions about the wind, the hooves, the obviously weak back, the splayed foot and the visible sore near the tail.
Hoping by some dramatic gesture to conclude the sale, the boy took the donkey’s halter and cried, ‘But observe how he runs.’ The beast would not move. Repeatedly the boy urged the animal to show his unusual skills, but apparently the donkey had none. All this time the farmer stood aside in contemptuous silence until finally the child screamed at him, ‘Sir, you have bewitched him!’
Two hours later I observed the same boy with the same donkey arguing patiently with the same farmer. During the whole of the horse fair one can see such bargaining taking place along the banks of the Guadalquivir.
I once spent the better part of a morning with a tall gypsy named Antonio Suero Varga from the Extremaduran town of Almendralejo. He was broad-shouldered, had dark hair and very dark eyes and carried the badge of the gypsy horse trader, a rattan cane with which he conducted most of his business. ‘Look at that horse. Have you ever seen finer legs for heavy work?’ With his cane he would point out the special features of the animal he was trying to sell, but after I had been with him for a while I heard him say, as he jabbed at a mule with a weak back, ‘You expect an honest man … Let’s say a farmer who has to earn his living … You want him to buy a mule like that?’