CHAPTER VIII
FIESTA
Fiestas (fyĕs´täs) (festivals) and fairs are the joy of the Spanish people. Some are held upon saints' days. In Spain one celebrates the birthday of the saint for whom one is named.
Tonight there was a fiesta in Triana, which is across the bridge from Seville. It is where the gypsies live.
Pilar was on her way to Triana with a group of her friends. She was dressed in her dancing costume. She wanted to dance and use her magic castanets. This would be the last time she could do so. For of all her mother's souvenirs, only the castanets were now left. And tomorrow —
But Pilar did not like to think about that tomorrow. Juan had sold everything else out of the wooden chest. Everything else had gone, even the wooden chest itself – gone to pay for food and medicines.
He had sold the very old bottle of sherry wine, which had come from a well-known cellar of Jerez (hā̍-rāth´), once called Scheriz.
In this cellar there is a cluster of huge barrels, upon which are written noted names, such as the Prince of Wales' and our own President's. They contain wines made in the year of each person's birth.
A family of well-trained mice lives in this cellar. When the attendant rings a bell and scatters bread upon the floor, these tiny creatures run out from behind the barrels.
Juan had also sold the small dagger of Moorish design. It had come from the town of Cordoba (kôr´dō̍-vä), once an important center. The famous Mosque of Cordoba, with its striped arches, was built by the Moors. But it has since been made into a Christian church.
King Charles V is supposed to have said to the Christian builders, "You have built what can be found anywhere, but you have spoiled what cannot be found anywhere else.
Cordoba is a white city of twisting streets. There are golden knobs upon some of the doors; ragged beggars fill the streets; and children seem to grow in doorways.
One sees in Cordoba those broad-brimmed hats which belong to that part of Spain called Andalucia (än´dä-lo͞o-thē´ä).
A legend tells how Andalucia received its name. Every saint in heaven had been given a spot over which to rule – every one, except poor little Saint Lucia. So she searched the world for a country, but most of the world had already been taken by other saints.
One day, however, she came to a land of sunshine and flowers, with which she was delighted. She asked if she might have it for her own, and a mysterious voice answered and said to her, "Anda, Lucia! (Go there, Lucia!)"
And that is why, the legend tells, this sunny part of Spain is called Andalucia.
Seville, too, is in Andalucia; and now let us go back to Seville and to Pilar.
Tonight Pilar had left her grandfather for the first time in many evenings. A neighbor had kindly offered to stay with him while she went to the fiesta. Pilar's heart had been crying out for music and dancing.
Across the bridge, over the Guadalquivir (gwä´dăl-kwĭv´ẽr) River, went the crowd of young people. They passed the Torre del Oro (tôr´rā̍ dĕl ō´rō) (Tower of Gold), where treasure once was stored.
In Triana there are many pottery shops; also there is a large American olive factory. It is said that the best olives are grown in sight of the Giralda Tower, which is in Seville.
At the fiesta, music and song filled the air. Lanterns were strung from poles. Booths lined the square. Nuts and fruits and cakes were sold. There were small wagons where men fried long, golden cakes like the doughnut.
Shawls, laces, paintings, toys, and fans for sale. Merry-go-rounds, sideshows, dancing, and more dancing. Pilar and her friends whirled about, kicking their legs, pointing their toes, rolling their eyes, and rippling their castanets.
At last, tired, but filled with rhythm and harmony, the group started for home.
After Pilar had left the fiesta, however, somebody asked about her. That somebody was a great dancing master.
He asked, "Who was that little beauty in the white costume trimmed with green? She played a pair of golden-voiced castanets.
Where does she live? I should like to have her as my pupil."
But nobody in Triana knew where Pilar lived, and, of course, her name is a common one in Spain.
On the way home, Pilar's spirits began to fall. She began to think of having to part with her precious castanets. How she wished that there might be some other way of – !
Suddenly she remembered Tony – Tony, the boy who had played bullfight with Juan years ago. It was weeks now since Juan had sent the old red cape to America and had written to Tony.
Juan had said that Tony was rich and generous and that he would help Pilar and her grandfather because he would remember Pilar's mother. But Pilar had begun to wonder whether Tony really would.
When she reached home, all the excitement of the fiesta had worn away. She was very unhappy. Tomorrow she must give up the castanets. Juan had said that he could sell them to a dancing master, who paid handsomely for antiques.
Pilar started to undress. She unpinned the brooch that fastened her costume at the throat. And all at once, her face lit up with a wonderful new idea.
She would take this brooch to Juan tomorrow. It was her own, part of her dancing costume. But she would far rather part with it than with her mother's castanets.
The brooch was a small painting called a miniature. It was the likeness of young Prince Alfonso, the brother of Queen Isabella of Spain.
Pilar hurried off to bed. And while she sleeps, let us listen to the "Mystery of the Young Prince."
CHAPTER IX
THE MYSTERY OF THE YOUNG PRINCE
Alfonso was only a boy. But some day he would be king, for he was next in line to his brother, King Henry. After him came his sister, Isabella, a beautiful little girl, earnest and thoughtful.
Alfonso felt himself to be Isabella's knight and protector. He had learned to ride and to use his sword like a true Spanish cavalier.
One day at twilight Isabella sat at the window, embroidering a Moorish design upon a bit of gold cloth. Alfonso, his studies over for the day, was reading to her.
Better than anything else, the Prince loved to read – which may have been the reason for what happened later – at least, for what is supposed to have happened. For nobody rightly knows the truth of the bitter story.
As the two children sat together, enjoying the happiest moment of their day, one of the King's spies secretly watched and listened.
He heard the Princess Isabella say, "Enough of that for now, Alfonso. Come. Read my favorite book."
Alfonso put down the book which he had been reading, and the spy noted well its title, "The Odyssey (ŏd´ĭ-sĭ)." He also had noted something else. Always before the Prince turned a page, he first moistened his finger with his tongue.
Squinting his eyes, the spy smiled wickedly to himself and stole away.
Several nights later, this same spy crept into the Prince's chamber and, feeling cautiously about, he at last found what he sought. It was a book, "The Odyssey."
Working with agile fingers, he opened the book, and upon each page he smeared a deadly poison. Then he returned the book to its place and left the room as quietly as he had entered.
Now trouble and discontent filled the country. Some of the people were not pleased with King Henry, and they wanted to place young Alfonso upon the throne.
The Prince and his sister began to live through turbulent times, and their peaceful hours together were over. Alfonso was thrown into prison, then suddenly freed again, to become an important figure in the kingdom.
He was told that soon he would be crowned king, for the rebels were going to overthrow his brother Henry. Whispered plans, secret schemes stirred in the air like poisonous insects. And the poisoned book lay where the spy had left it. The Prince found little time for reading.
But today he had managed to meet his sister, and the two were very happy to be together again for an hour of quiet reading.
Alfonso picked up the book, "The Odyssey," but Isabella said, "No, not that one, Alfonso. Today let us hear this most interesting novel. It tells why the wind blows, why we smell and taste and hear, all in the form of a story."
She smiled and handed him the other book. Good-naturedly Alfonso put down "The Odyssey." Had he but known it, he put from him death!
Soon afterwards, the prince was again torn from his sister, this time to live through one of the most dramatic events in his stormy young life.
One day a splendid procession made its way into the town of Avila. Among the cavaliers rode Prince Alfonso. His horse richly decked, he sat stiffly upon the saddle, clothed in armor. His boyish face was grave and stern.
As he passed, the people cried out, "Long live King Alfonso!"
A throne had been erected out upon the plains. On this throne sat what appeared to be a king. He held a scepter, and the crown upon his head gleamed brightly in the sun.
But as the cavalcade drew closer, it was seen that the figure had fallen over on its side like a sawdust doll. And indeed, that is just what it was – a scarecrow, made to represent King Henry.
The Prince and his followers stood upon the platform. A colorful crowd had gathered about them – monks in brown, monks in white and black, lords in bright-hued mantles, Moors with turbans on their heads, peasants, beggars, young and old.
Bugles rang out, and drums rolled. The little Prince stood, proudly royal, in his armor. His blond hair showed under the visor which had been pushed back from his head.
Then the Archbishop snatched the crown from the head of the scarecrow king and roared, "Thus lose the royal dignity which you have guarded ill."
And one of the cavaliers roughly kicked the figure off its throne. There were cries and shouts and some gasps of horror. Alfonso was seated upon the throne and crowned King of Avila.
Petty wars, robberies, and murders followed. Part of the country was in favor of King Henry, while the rebels supported Alfonso. A terrible battle took place in Toledo. Houses were burned and people massacred.
A few days later, Alfonso arrived in the town.
Those who had burned and massacred bowed down to the young king, saying, "We will fight for your cause if you will approve this massacre."
Alfonso replied, "God forbid that I should approve such horrors!"
The next thing he knew, Alfonso's country was plunged into war. The rebels were to meet the King's men in conflict.
The night before the battle Alfonso, rest-less and unhappy, paced his chamber. Why must men fight? Why must they kill one another? The Prince loved power; but better than power, he loved peace.
Wherever he went, he always took along some of his books. Now upon the table lay several, and among them was "The Odyssey." Alfonso laid his hand upon his favorite work and was about to take it up when he let it fall again.
No, he could not read tonight. His heart was too heavy. He missed his sister and, too, he kept thinking of their future – a stormy prospect. For Isabella no doubt would be forced to marry some distasteful noble. And he? With enemies upon all sides, if he were not killed in war, he might well be murdered in his sleep.
Next day in full armor, his sword drawn, the boy King of Avila went out to meet his foe. Fighting bravely, by his soldiers, it is said that he was last to leave the battle.
There came a time when Alfonso set forth upon a journey, accompanied by a group of nobles. Among his traveling companions were several of the King's followers, one of them that same spy who had smeared poison upon the leaves of Alfonso's book.
As evening overtook the party of travelers, they drew rein in the town of Cardenosa, and planned to stop there for the night.
As usual, Alfonso had brought along his books. But too often had his enemies been disappointed, so now they planned a trick. It was a trick which would force the Prince into their cruel trap.
They removed all but one of Alfonso's books from his chamber. The one left was placed in plain view upon the table. It was "The Odyssey."
Wondering what had become of the others, but too weary to find out, the Prince settled himself to read before retiring for the night. As he opened the book he smiled, remembering Isabella and how she had always urged him to read something else.
Well, tonight he might do as he pleased, for he was quite alone. Tonight he might read "The Odyssey," which he had not opened for so long.
Page after page he turned with a finger moistened by his tongue. And an hour passed.
Late during the night, a messenger rode madly into the town of Segovia where the Princess Isabella was living.
"The King of Avila is dying!" the messenger gasped. "He calls for his sister, the Princess Isabella!"
Isabella rode furiously through the night and when she reached Cardenosa, she was met by the Archbishop of Toledo. He held out his hand to her, and in his face there was pity and grief. Before he even told her, Isabella knew that her beloved brother was dead.
Some claimed that enemies had given him poisoned fish. Others believed that he had died of a fever. Still others told the story which you have just heard. But whether or not it is true will remain a mystery forever.
There is a wonderful cathedral in Burgos, whose Gothic spires point upward like lace fingers. They point to a hill above the city, upon which rests the Miraflores Chapel.
Inside this chapel is a beautiful statue of a boy. He wears a royal mantle and kneels before a praying desk. The boy is Alfonso.
When Henry died, it was the earnest little Isabella who became queen. Today in the Cathedral of Granada – that white and gold and silver cathedral – are the tombs of Queen Isabella and her husband, King Ferdinand.
They are carved of marble, and Isabella's pillow sinks down deeper than Ferdinand's with the weight of her head. They say that this is because her head held more brains than his.
We know she was a wise, good queen and we love her because she helped Christopher Columbus and listened to his dreams.
But just suppose Alfonso had not died. Suppose, instead, that he had lived and ruled. Do you believe Alfonso would have listened to Columbus' dreams and understood as did his sister Isabella? And, had he not, where should we be today?