CAMPANINI AS DON JOSÉ." my next engagement in the spring called me to Nice, I resolved, meanwhile, to take a trip to Andalusia.

My first ride on Spanish soil was to Seville; my first tour in Seville, to the noted cigar factory, every corner and crevice of which I should have known.

The Fabrica de Tabacos is the largest building in Seville, a monumental edifice several stories high, of pleasing architectural style; as I was told that the factory directly adjoined the garden of the Palacio San Telmo, in which the Duke of Montpensier resides, I thought, at first, that I was at that place. A pretty iron grating incloses a large paved court; the porter's lodge is at the fence, and I saw military sentinels under the high

arch of the palace. The edifice, however, proved to be the tobacco factory. I would never have thought that such a palace would have been built for a vice of the sterner sex.

Nothing about it betrayed the factory; the district even in which it stands is the most aristocratic in Seville.

After presenting our cards in the office at the right of the gateway we received passes to visit the factory. Ladies, and especially strangers, are very rarely seen there, and as I walked between the sentinels I was as much stared at by them as if I had been in my Carmen costume. The yellow coats and red trousers of the Spanish soldiers, as they are always represented in our operas, have long been done away with, and lightblue ones have been substituted. The picture of the tobacco factory, especially the scene in the first act of "Carmen," is in reality much less picturesque and less rich in coloring than it is represented on the smallest stage upon which I ever sang that opera.

Imagination and reality are usually in conflict with one another.

We went up a wide, monumental staircase to the first story. In a large dusky vestibule a few old women were crouched down beside a coal pan, on the edge of which stood a coffeepot and several cups. One of the women arose upon our entering, took our cards and led us into a room, at which at first sight I stood still with astonishment. Never in all my life had I seen anything similar. A long, almost endless colonnade was before me, enshrouded in a mysterious gloom

pierced by white stripes of light, which penetrated from the sunny outer world into the interior. As far as the eye could see I beheld between the pillars nothing but a sea of sitting female figures in checkered medley, in constant motion. Numberless large tables stood on the dirty red tile floor, and around each table sat from four to six young girls ranging in age from twelve to twenty years, who were busily engaged in turning cigarettes. Next to them stood large baskets with finely cut tobacco,

and on the tables before them were the small papers. With astonishing dexterity they filled the latter by means of a small brass tube fastened to the little finger, rolled the paper, and instead of pasting the cigarettes they closed them by folding over the edges at both ends.

ers.

Almost all of these thousands of girls wore in their thick raven hair a coquettish white or red rose, made of paper. Indeed, at some of the stone pillars I noticed the venders of the paper flowMany wore the hair curled round about the face and powdered, and even on the faces a layer of powder was plainly visible. Others again had the hair parted and wore it smoothly. Some had such large, brilliant, inquisitive eyes that a painter would hardly dare to reproduce them.

Beside many of these interesting creatures I noticed, to my great surprise, that there were babies, too-and indeed what else could they do with their babies? They take them along to the factory in the morning and place them in empty tobacco baskets at their sides or into cradles, and while they are busy turning cigarettes they set one foot on the cradle, causing it to rock incessantly.

On the walls, on the many columns and pillars, in every available place, hung shawls, foulards, dresses, jackets, scarfs and sashes of the most varied colors, from the black foulards to the delicate pink dresses-between them lemon yellow, orange, bright red, light blue and green; in one word, a confusion of color and of dresses, as if at a gigantic bal masqué the guests had taken off their overgarments and hung them on the wall. And still the thousands of girls seemed clad in similar-colored costumes, with blue, red or yellow scarfs thrown about the shoulders, the same colors which Murillo uses to such advantage in his paintings, but not as we are accustomed to seeing them in the opera of "Carmen" on the stage.

The impression of this sea of color in constant motion, of light and shade, with occasionally passing bright stripes of light, was quite overwhelming. Besides that, a buzzing, a murmuring, a rustling noise of paper, a click of scissors, all as monotonous as the roaring of a distant mighty waterfall.

Among the thousands who sat here around the tables I found but few really pretty faces; many were bewitching, but all fascinated me with something strange, yet interesting. When I close my eyes even now I see the picture vividly before me, and if I could but paint I believe I could put upon the canvas many of those faces from memory. The melancholy, naïvely inquisitive expression of their large black eyes will never be effaced from my memory. Those who fascinated me most of all were the many gitanas from the Sevilian gypsy suburbTriana," easily recognized by their dark complexion, fiery eyes and quick temperamant. Those, then, were my country women from the opera; those were the Carmens.

One among them particularly interested me. She was neither pretty nor coquettish, and from her eyes gleamed a world of passion of the basest kind. Had I been a man I would have been afraid of her-more on account of her love, perhaps, than of her hatred. The whole of Bizet's opera, Mérimée's entire novel, came to my mind while I gazed at her and involuntarily thought of the pale Gretchens with light-blue eyes and blond

As I walked on the gypsy followed me with her burning gaze, but the directress pulled at my sleeve, saying: "Indeed, she is a fine one! She has already turned many a man's head. She could tell you some!" I wondered at this in silence. This gitana was not pretty, and not in the least amiable. What, then, could it be that lured men into her net?

The hum and buzz continued, here as well as in the other large halls of the factory; quick hands on all sides, clicking of scissors, rustling of paper, hasty handling, and into the basket fell the completed white cigarettes, as if they had been the work of a magic wand.

Then came other girls with coquettish walk, swaying about, with short dresses, and delicate feet in pretty shoes, who carried the baskets into another hall, where still others wrapped the cigarettes in packages of twenty each. They appeared not to be counting them, as if they felt the right number from long practice. Perhaps they cannot count any further than up to twenty? And why should they? They never have more money than a few pesetas to handle. Sometimes they spend their whole lifetime in this tobacco palace. Their art is rolling cigarettes; their aim is a smart Sunday frock; their entire happiness, a Corrida de Toros; their whole romance, a temporary flirtation with a soldier or a carretero; their end?-misery.

Upon leaving this palace of labor I breathed happily once more in the balmy air of the "Delicias," and in my carriage drove to the shady banks of the Guadalquivir, for it was just the hour of the "paseo.' On the way back, in passing again the Fabrica de Tabacos, I heard a large bell ringing (quite familiar to me, from the first act of "Carmen"), the signal for the end of labor. I left the carriage, and with my companions stood at the iron gate to see the swarm of girls pass by. There they came, in pairs or in groups of six or more, some with cigarettes in their mouths, fan in hand, and flirting with the sentinels, just as it is in the opera. But how different was their clothing! Not one wore the costume well known on the stage, as we wear it in "Carmen," in the "Barber of Seville," in the "Black Domino," and other operas. That is still worn only at special national festivities, in the Passion Week, or at the Corrida de Toros, the bullfight; and I believe I would have been marveled at like a wonder of the world had I appeared among them in one of my "Carmen" costumes. But the dress which these modern Carmens wear is not ugly. Of course the dresses are long and barely disclose the toes, but they are made in

varied light colors, of flowered calico, carefully ironed and very clean. They all wear about the shoulders the pride of the Andalusian of to-day, the light mantilla of wool or silk, trimmed with long flowing fringe and with large embroidered flowers. The head is bare, and as an only ornament in the rich black mass of hair is the paper rose. Everything is so coquettishly arranged, so dexterously draped, that it is a pleasure to behold. To this add the elastic gait, the light swaying of the hips, the graceful fan play, and we can learn much even from the poor cigarette girls.

I had expected to see a number of adorers, beaux, husbands, standing at the gate of the factory, awaiting their "Dulcineas." But no one was to be seen. We strangers were the only ones who seemed to take any interest in this odd sight -this filing out of six thousand girls. No Don José, no Escamillo, no Zuniga was there.

And as I was standing thus, my gypsy who had stared at me so sturdily came suddenly along at a quick pace. She was alone; indeed, others seemed to shun her. As she passed me she took the rose from her hair, and silently handed it to me. I wanted to give her a silver coin for it, but she refused it impetuously. I begged my husband to ask her for her address; for, on account of the opera, it interested me to learn more regarding her. She looked at my husband in astonishment, yet roguishly, and in a trice became very talkative, explained with great circumlocution where she lived, remarked that she danced the "flamenco" very well, and that for the señorita pointing to me-she would lay cards. Then she threw me a kiss and danced away.

That same evening, after long deliberation, we started on our way to the Triana, the gypsy district on the other side of the dirty Guadalquivir,