When the Cherub dies and is gathered to his Irish and Spanish fathers (far
distant be the day!) he will not know a happy moment in Paradise unless he
is doing something ingenuously kind for somebody. It is my conviction that
he will have to be made a guardian angel; and I mentioned this theory to
him as he took me to the house of Ramiro Olivero, ex-bull-fighter, present
professor of Spanish dancing.
The others were waiting in the car, as, according to the Cherub’s plan of
campaign, he and I were to visit Olivero alone.
We climbed many stairs to the flat where the celebrated man lives and
conducts his school for dancing. He it was who came to the door, and it
was a sight worth seeing to watch his somewhat hard, middle-aged features
relax in response to cherubic murmurings.
Colonel O’Donnel remembered Señor Olivero since the time when he was a
_banderillero_; oh, incomparably the most brilliant _banderillero_ of his
day. Then, afterwards, what triumphs as a _torero_! Ah, that was something
for an old admirer to remember. Not to regret, naturally, since the señor
was as great an artist in his present profession as in that other
doubtless sacrificed to family affections.
This gentleman whom he (Colonel O’Donnel) now ventured to introduce was
from England, travelling with a friend from the States who wrote articles
on Spain for well-known journals. The American could speak no Spanish, but
with the gentleman from England it was like the native tongue. Therefore
it was he who most often attended important ceremonies, and made notes for
his friend to work up into articles. This entertainment in which Señor
Olivero was assisting the Duke of Carmona, for instance; it would be all
that was characteristic of Spain, as well as beautiful. If the señor would
allow the gentleman from England to enter the Alcázar as one of his
guitarists, an article could be made for the great American newspapers
which would not only be a credit to the journalist, but would widely
advertise the skill of Señor Olivero and his pupils.
If every man has his price, it was not derogatory to his merits that these
pearls of flattery should be the price which bought Olivero. Not a penny
was to be paid for the favour. When the word “money” was hinted, rather
than spoken, the ex-hero of the bull-ring waved it away with a superb
gesture. But he would be glad to see the articles when they appeared; and
this was promised, for Dick must write them for the neglected papers he
was supposed to represent.
In return for the promise (and the compliments), it was arranged that I
should present myself at his house about ten o’clock (the dance was timed
to begin at 10.45), there dress for my part, and be furnished with a
guitar. Once inside the Alcázar I need not play upon the instrument; but,
said Olivero, it was well that I should be able to do so if called upon.
My costume was to be a short _chulo_ jacket and tight-hipped, loose-legged
grey trousers, with a low-collared, unstarched shirt, and a broad-brimmed
grey sombrero de Cordoba. With this hat, well tipped over my eyes, in
moonlight or even spasmodic rose-and-gold bursts of coloured fire,
recognition would be impossible at a distance; and I meant to keep at a
distance from all the Duke’s party—with one exception.
By the time the plan was mapped out, it was nearly seven o’clock, but the
O’Donnels still urged me to dine at the Cortijo de Santa Rufina. The
Gloria would eat up the six miles distance in ten minutes; I could bathe
and dress before 8.15, when dinner would be ready (a telegram had been
sent to the servants from Cordoba), and rested and refreshed, I could
start for Seville in the car again at half-past nine.
So we flashed out across the Guadalquivir, by way of the bridge of Isabel
Segunda, into that strange suburb which gave Trajan birth, and my family
their name; ancient Trajana, now Triana, town of potters, picadores, and
gypsies.
Dark-browed boys played _toreros_ to our car as bull, their coats
_muletas_, sticks their _banderillas_, yelling and springing lithely aside
as the enemy rushed on them. Girls, handsome as Carmen, flung us flowers,
staring boldly eye to eye; and this was my welcome to the place near which
the Casa Trianas had once lived and thought themselves great!
Almost could I have seen the towers of the old house—now the property of
the King—as we passed into open country again; but I did not speak, nor
did the others, though the thought in my mind must have been in Pilar’s
and Colonel O’Donnel’s.
Five miles more, through falling dusk and sweet country scents and we
turned off the main road into another, gleaming white as a path of snow in
the opal twilight. Then, in a wide-reaching plantation of olives, spraying
silver on a ruddy soil where glimmered irrigation tanks and grinding
mills, we came upon a large, irregular clump of white buildings grouped
together, and made one by a high wall with an open belfry at one corner.
“Here we are at home!” exclaimed the Cherub with a contented sigh, as he
gently touched Ropes’ shoulder. “Welcome, dear friends, to the Cortijo de
Santa Rufina. It, and all within its walls, is at your disposition.”
We drove in through a wide gate in the outer wall, where there was a
clamour of greeting from the steward, many servants, and more dogs, dogs
of all races, who selected Pilar for their wildest demonstrations. In a
second she was out of the car, and half drowned in a wave of tumultuous
doghood. Laughing, shaking hands with the servants, patting or suppressing
greyhounds, collies, setters, retrievers, she had never seemed so
charming. This was the _real_ Pilar—Pilar at home; the Pilar it would be
next to impossible to uproot from such associations. Again, poor Dick! And
now he no longer tried to hide the loving admiration in his eyes. I think
he would even have done his best to fondle a wild bull or two of her
acquaintance had they been among the friends who gave her welcome.
Away boomed the Gloria to the stables—the sole garage at the Cortijo—while
we were bidden through the Moorish entrance-porch and wrought-iron
_cancela_ into a _patio_ surrounded on all sides by an arcade, roofed with
green and brown tiling. The supporting pillars were of pale pink brick,
not marble, and the pavement was of brick also, interset with a pattern of
small blue tiles. But the tiles were old and good; from a carved stone
basin in the middle of the court sprang the tall crystal stem of a
fountain, blossoming into diamonds; pearly arum lilies, pink azaleas, and
pale green hydrangeas bloomed in huge white and blue and yellow pots from
Triana, of the same beautiful shapes made before Santa Justa and Santa
Rufina knew they were saints, and undertook to keep the Giralda from
falling.
The windows leading into the rooms surrounding the _patio_ were large as
doors, and all were hospitably open, giving through thin curtains glimpses
of old furniture carefully grouped to please a woman’s dainty taste. Pilar
again—always Pilar! Here were her _lares_ and _penates_; and she was a
goddess among lesser household gods. I knew that it would be safer for
Dick to say a hasty good-bye upon the threshold; but I knew also that no
power on earth could force him to do it.
“This is only a farm, you know,” said the girl, meekly, all the while
dimpling with pride in her home and what she had made it; “for we are only
farmers, aren’t we, Papa.”
Our rooms—Dick’s and mine—were not overstocked with furniture; but there
were two or three things for which an antiquary would have pawned his
soul. On one side, our windows looked upon the _patio_; on the other, we
gazed through iron bars over olives and meadows where grain was green.
There was no sound save the tinkling rain of the fountain, and now and
then the sleepy note of a bird, or a far-away lowing of cattle—perhaps the
welcoming bellow of Vivillo, the brown bull which was the sole possession
of Carmona coveted by Pilar.
The two servants who waited at dinner were wreathed in smiles at seeing
again their master and mistress; and their occasional furtive glances of
interest in my direction made me wonder if they had not received
mysterious instructions as to how they must answer any questions
concerning me. But, whatever those instructions might be, I was sure they
would be loyally carried out; for the Cherub is a man servants would obey
through torture until death, if these days were as the old.
At half-past nine Ropes was ready to spin me back into Seville. We arrived
earlier than need be; and having made an appointment to meet at a quiet
hotel, where Ropes would await me from half-past eleven till half-past
twelve, I decided to walk past Carmona’s house and reconnoitre.
I knew where to find it, in the Calle de las Dueñas; but if I had hoped
for a tell-tale glimpse within, as in a London or Parisian mansion, I was
disappointed. Once a Moorish palace, it showed a closed, secretive front
to the narrow street. But I knew, for I had read, that within there were
six courtyards, ninety marble pillars, half a dozen fountains, a garden of
orange and magnolia trees, with myrtle hedges clipped to represent the
ducal arms; that there were vast treasures of statuary, pictures by
Velasquez, Murillo, and Alonso Cano; gold-inlaid plate armour; tapestry
from the Netherlands not to be surpassed at the Royal Palace at Madrid.
I knew that these splendours would loom large in the eyes of Lady
Vale-Avon, and might count for something even with Monica, who confessed
to a love of all things beautiful. I thought of the famous Carmona jewels,
which would belong to the wife of the Duke, while she lived, as they had
belonged to generations of Duchesses. Above all, I thought of the
incomparable Blanca Laguna pearl and its glistening maids of honour,
which, by this time perhaps, had been shown to Monica. There were few
girls in Spain, or in the world, I remembered hearing my mother say, who
could resist that pearl as a bride. And now it was offered to Monica, a
penniless girl of eighteen, whose beauty formed her sole dowry.
There, behind the cold reserve of those white walls with the shut,
brass-studded doors and barred windows, she was being fêted by the Duke,
dining on gold plate, in a tapestried room fragrant with orange flowers. I
could see the pictures. I could see the look in Carmona’s eyes as they
turned to her, saying, “all this is yours if you will have it.” And
Carmona’s eyes were handsome eyes; I had to admit that, in justice.
Would she hold true to me—true to a man with no palaces, no lands, no
priceless pearls, and only half as many hundreds a year as her other lover
had thousands? Would she be able to resist her mother, now that mother had
seen with her own eyes how much there was to fight for and to win?
The question would come. But with it came a vision of Monica herself, pure
and sweet as beautiful, loyal and loving as she was lovely. And I said to
myself, “Yes, she will be true.”
It was with the clear ringing of these words in my mind that I turned my
back upon the house of Carmona.
Once I had passed into the Alcázar with Olivero’s band of dancers and
guitarists I was free to do as I pleased. And I pleased to escape from my
laughing, chattering companions before the arrival of the Duke and his
guests, and the illuminations in their honour. There was no better place
to wait and watch for the opportunity I wanted, than in the mock-Moorish
kiosk at the end of the lower garden. From there I could see without being
seen; and the moment a chance came I should be ready to take it.
It was early still, but Olivero lost no time in marshalling his little
army into place, that they might make a good effect as a _tableau vivant_
when the great people came. He seated his six men with guitars, their
sombreros at precisely the right angle on their glossy black heads, and in
a row of chairs in front six young women in black dresses with black lace
mantillas, the red and yellow ribbons of their castanets already in their
hands. Then, at intervals, he grouped the dancers, youths, and pretty
girls, carefully dressed in the costumes of different provinces, making a
bouquet of bright colours in the light of a few concealed lamps which
supplemented the silver radiance of the moon, now almost at the zenith.
The minutes passed. The dancers talked in subdued tones which scarcely
disturbed the nightingales. A breeze rustled the crisp leaves of the
orange trees and myrtle hedges; far away the voice of the watchman told
the hour of eleven, echoed by the chiming bells of a church clock; and the
last stroke had not sounded when there was a burst of merry voices in a
distant avenue. Carmona and his friends had come—late, of course—or there
could have been no Andalucíans among them; and suddenly, as if on a
signal, the gardens pulsed with rose-coloured light. In the pink blaze I
saw Monica, slender and fair as a lily, in a white dress sparkling with
silver; but I had only time to see that she walked beside Carmona, when
the rose flame died down and left the garden pure and peaceful under the
moon.
For an instant the soft light seemed darkness, and I lost the white
figure. When it sprang to my eyes again in a sharp emerald flash, while
all the hidden fountains in the garden walks spouted jewels, others were
grouped round it; only the gold crown of rippling hair shone out clear as
a star for me among other women’s dark coils and braids.
Old ebony chairs with crimson velvet cushions and the Carmona arms in
heavy gilding, had been sent to the Alcázar from the Duke’s house, for the
entertainment. The party sat down, and the dancing began, to the
_flamenco_ music of guitars and the clacking of castanets; the _fandango_,
the _bolero_, the _malagueña_, the _chaquera vella_; all the classical
dances of old Spain, and each one a variant on the theme of love, the
woman coy, coquettishly retreating; the man persuading or demanding, the
woman yielding in passionate abandonment at last.
In the midst of a _sevillana_ I came out from the shadows of the kiosk and
walked without a sound of rattling pebble or cracking twig, along a path
which the moon had not yet found.
The high backs of the ebony chairs were turned to me. I could not even see
the heads of the people who sat in them; but I had watched them take their
places, and I knew that Monica’s chair was the outside one on the end, at
the right.
Everyone was absorbed in watching the dance. As it approached its
tempestuous climax of joy and love, I moved into the deep shadow of a
magnolia tree, close to Monica—so close that, reaching out from behind the
round trunk which screened me, I touched her hand.
With a start, she glanced up, expecting perhaps to find that the breeze
had blown a rose-branch across her fingers. Instead, she saw my face; for
I had taken off the wide-brimmed grey sombrero and bared my head to her.
For a second she looked straight into my eyes, as if she doubted that she
saw aright. Then, an unbelievable thing happened. Her eyes grew cold as
glass. Her lips tightened into a line which I had not dreamed their soft
curves could take. Her youth and beauty froze under my gaze. With a
haughty lifting of her brows, and an indescribable movement of her
shoulder which could mean nothing but scornful indifference, she turned
away as if impatient at having lost a gesture of the dancers.
Astounded, I stepped back; and so vast was the chasm of my amazement that
I floundered in it bewildered, unable even to suffer.
Then came a pang of such pain and anger as I had never known—anger not
against the girl, but against Carmona; and the knife which pierced me was
dipped in the poison of jealously. My impulse was to leap out from the
shadow and strangle him. My hands tingled for his neck, and through the
drumming of the blood in my ears I could hear the crack his spine would
make as I twisted it. For that instant I was a madman. Then, something
that was myself conquered.
Horror of the savage thing just born in me overflowed in an icy flood that
swept it, drowning, out of my soul. But never again, so long as I may
live, shall I condemn a man who kills another in one blind moment of rage.
Even when the red glaze was gone from before my eyes, I could not trust
myself to stand there, looking at Carmona as he smiled and patronized the
dancers by clapping his hands. I turned away, not stopping until I had
regained the kiosk.
There I sat down, elbows on knees, head in my hands, trying to analyse
that look on Monica’s face, trying to tell myself that I must have
mis-read it—that such an expression as I imagined could not have been
there for me.
Perhaps, as I suddenly appeared behind a veil of flickering moonlight and
shadow she had not known who I was. She had mistaken me for some
impertinent stranger, and rather than give an alarm, she had hoped that a
frown might rid her of the intruder. Then, I had gone without giving her a
second chance to recognize me.
After a few minutes of such reflections, I almost persuaded myself that I
had been a fool and was wholly to blame for what I suffered. At least, I
said, I owed it to her to make sure that the look had been for me, and the
suspense must end to-night. I would know, even if I made her answer me
under the eyes of Carmona and the others.
But a moment later I saw that I need not be driven to such extremes.
The first part of the dance was over; the Duke and his guests were walking
through the gardens in the interval. They were coming my way—coming to the
kiosk. As they advanced, I retreated into shadow. I let the group linger
at the kiosk, admiring the beautiful _azulejos_; I let them move on; then,
as Monica loitered purposely behind the others, drooping and evidently
sad, I put myself in front of her.
“Monica,” I said, “what has happened? You—”
The girl flung up her head, and though there was a glitter of tears in her
eyes and her face was white under the moon, she stared defiance. “Don’t
speak to me,” she said. “I never wish to see you again. I’m going to marry
the Duke of Carmona.”