There is no art among the provincial people of Spain. In fact, I do not know any place where there is such an utter indifference to it. Once the hotel keeper came into my bedroom and saw a water color I had done hanging on the wall. It was a careful rendition of the passageway in front of my room. There were the tiles on the floor, the plaster walls with the door halfway down, and, at the end, beneath a window, stood a large jar (exactly like the one in which I imagine the Forty Thieves were concealed) full of pampas grass. I should have thought a child would have recognized it. But mine host said, politely: “One of your artistic results from our river?” “No,” emphatically. “Oh, then it is the cathedral?” I gave it up. Had I been a sensitive man, I think I would have stopped painting then and there. The Church is the doctor, lawyer, teacher, amanuensis, and theater. The festivals are more beautiful than I have seen anywhere. From May to October there is never a cloud in the sky, and during this time is held the Fiesta de la Vieja Negra. The ceremony takes place in the public square, and at midnight of that July night the roofs of the town are crowded with people while the sky looks like an inverted bowl of black over their heads. The legend is that the little Virgin, only three feet high and carved out of dark wood, landed in a boat on the shores of the Mediterranean. In her hand was a scroll which directed that she be drawn inland by two white oxen and that where they lay down must be built a temple. This is the Cathedral of Elche, the roof of which is of blue tiles and glitters like an amethyst or turquoise. The procession of the fiesta begins at twelve o’clock and proceeds in stately fashion to the square. Everything connected with the Virgin herself is black—black-robed priests, black casket and draperies—with all else a blaze of light and color. I was much affected and ready to fall on my knees and become a Roman Catholic. The mayor, in evening clothes, awaits her, carrying in his hand a black velvet flag about ten by twelve feet, with no insignia. When the procession stops he walks solemnly forward, all alone, across the square. When directly in front of the Virgin he raises the flag in his hands and, amid dead silence, waves it slowly in her face, back and forth. The third time the staff snaps and down falls the flag at her feet. There is a wild yell of: “Fiesta! Fiesta!” Everyone believes a miracle has happened. The story is that when the Vieja was first installed, a Moorish Chieftain jeered at her and waved his flag in her face, wherefore she caused it to break in his hand, and he fell down converted. Now year after year the miracle is repeated. I was told that the flagpole is cut to the center on one diameter and gauged, when turned, to break at the right moment.