Who knows if Nirvana may not be the heavenly period our seventh day is the figure of? The mists rise in clouds, and fall in rain, and flow in rivers, and fall into the ocean, and are the ocean, only to rise again and follow the same great circle with a thousand variations. All things move in circles. If there be progress in it all, if the worlds rise as they go round toward some future, greater sun, who knows? Perhaps mankind has grown up from lower intelligences: I see no contradiction of Christian faith in it, and no detriment to human dignity, all intelligence being pure in essence, though it may accumulate impurities. The grain and the grape have to grow through the dark earth and the dull plant before they reach the point of blossom and fruit. Why should not the fire-seed of our spirit have been planted low down in creation? The supposition rounds our orbit and makes all things harmonious. And this heavenly Sabbath, too, may grow from Nirvana to Nirvana, up to some supreme and unimaginable—"
She stopped, put her hand to her forehead with a little "Oh!" then turned, smiling, to her companion. "Poor Icarus!" she said.
"I wish the woman who was afraid she might not be amused throughput eternity could hear you," Mrs. Lindsay remarked. "You have certainly made it full enough, and very comfortable, too. Your Nirvana is quite delicious, after all that goes before it."
They became silent, each absorbed in watching the country through which they were passing. There was the bridge over which Columbus was passing, sick at heart with disappointment, when he was overtaken by good tidings and the messengers of that splendid woman and queen "whose strength was in her courage, whose sole prudence was honor." There was Loja, with its memories of the "Gran Capitan," whom they had adopted among their heroes while at Cordova. There was the Peñon de los Enamorados, from which Southey's "Laila and Manuel" leaped into eternity. There was Antequera, with the Madonna's vase of lilies for her arms. And at last there rose a beautiful tower out of the fresh, green country, and some one said, "The Giralda!" and they were in Seville,—sweet, coquettish Seville, lovely, poetic Seville, where the sky is violet-colored on the soft nights when people walk the streets till dawn under the moon and stars.
It was Holy Week, and the processions had already begun when they arrived. On their first afternoon, but half rested from their journey, and still in a dreamy haze with all its beauty, they went out into their balconies in the Calle de las Sierpes to see the pageant. It is a narrow street, in which no carriages are allowed to enter, and the white walls of the houses at either side were nearly covered with crowded balconies from the ground-floor to the roof. Rows of chairs were set at the edges of the pavement, leaving room only for the procession to pass between them.
Nothing could have been more unreal and charming than the scene, viewed in that strange, undazzling daylight, almost like transparent shadow, which prevails between high near walls: it was a whole city turned into a vast theatre. There was a low murmur of talk all about; fans waved languidly; the ladies were nearly all in black, with veiled heads. Through the centre moved the procession. There were tableaux with life-sized figures on great platforms borne on men's heads,—all the story of the Redemption told in them with art and splendor. And now a Madonna, sparkling with gold and jewels, stood alone under her canopy, her gold-wrought velvet train a marvel of richness. Now an Addolerata lifted her clasped hands and face of anguish; and then the whole street was tossing like a bed of flowers in the wind with the marguerite-clusters of white plumes of the Roman legion, all purple velvet and gold to their very buskins. And how superbly they all walked, as if conscious of a subject world beneath their feet!
"Oh, they carry the S.P.Q.R.!" Aurora said, delighted at this reminder of her country.
