CRUELLY INTERRUPTED.
For the life of me I cannot say now who proposed it. I think the scheme
must have been evolved spontaneously between us. But the fact remains
that next morning saw Mrs. Cromwell and myself driving out through the
city _puerto_ by the railway station and the _Plaza de Toros_, and out
along the level road across the plain, towards the hills that skirt it.
She knew the island thoroughly--knew every inch of it, one might
say--and understood and appreciated the people of all grades. I could
not have found anywhere a more interesting companion.
The old Mallorcan nobility, the oldest in Europe, are but little in
evidence. They stay indoors, and outside their old palaces one hears
little about them. Even in Palma, where times change but slowly, times
have changed for them. They are woefully hard up--the result of heavy
gambling in a past generation, and the depreciation of land in this.
Indeed, with one exception, all classes down to the peasants are poor;
but they are not unhappy. It would be impossible to find a race more
contented with their lot. There is no absolute poverty. Bean porridge
can be got almost for the asking, and if one eats bean porridge enough,
one is not hungry. Their other wants are very few, and they are easily
supplied. So that, practically speaking, every one, even the very
poorest, is well off.
Life for the Mallorcan does not consist of making money. He rather goes
to the other extreme, and takes it as meant for doing nothing in, for
chatting, for smoking indifferent cigarettes, for strolling about under
a melodramatic black cloak with crimson plush lining, and for other
enjoyments. He has no marked objection to money when it comes to his
hand, but he will neither stoop nor climb to gather it. Allah has given
him a lovely and fruitful island, with a perfect climate, and a store
of philosophical contentment, and a theory of life called the
_manana_ theory which utterly eliminates hurry. He wisely does not
try to go against these things that Allah has arranged, and
consequently most of his time is spent in rigorous _far niente_.
It is only the women of Mallorca who work when they have got nothing
else to do. In these frequent intervals they whitewash their dwellings
and neighbourhood generally, which gives sanitation and neatness.
Of the only wealthy class in Mallorca she seemed reluctant to speak.
They were converted Jews, locally known as _Chuetas_. I found she
had somehow imbibed a notion that I too was a Jew; but when I
emphatically denied the impeachment, and said that I strongly hated
Jews, she told me about these _Chuetas_.
They are the Christianized lineal descendants of those Spanish Jews who
in the old days disliked the alternative _auto da fe_, and
preferred to 'vert. To-day they are a caste distinct to themselves,
intermarry, and are loathed by all the other natives with a great
loathing, and have no communications with outsiders except upon
business. Needless to say, this last item is a large one, and in
reality accounts for all the others. The Mallorcans are an easy-going
race, and if they get hard cash to-day, repayment is a matter for
_manana_, and therefore unworthy of consideration. And so the
_Chuetas_ have contrived to get the upper hand all through the
country. They might be forgiven for neglecting to toil and spin, for
that is the custom in general favour; but the other idiosyncrasy
rankles, and from noble to _puta_, every soul hates, abhors, and
detests them. A man, an Englishman, who had not entered the island till
middle life, told how he came there with tolerant notions, and thinking
the treatment of these tribesmen unjust, cultivated the acquaintance of
many of them. But he said he soon had to give them up. Their language,
their thoughts, their sentiments, their mode of life, were alike
disgusting. He understood why that low-grade _puta_ who had been
offered marriage by a wealthy _Chueta_ had spat in his face by way
of answer. They were utterly unfit to associate with. It was the old
tale: kick a dog for centuries and he becomes an utter cur, and cur he
will remain for centuries to come. And yet by a ghastly irony, the most
devout of the devout Palman Catholics is the hated and despised Palman
_Chueta_.
The mules were dragging our carriage across the plain whilst she told
me these things about the people, and at intervals she served me as
eyes to note the beauties that we passed. There were orchards of
almond-trees that seemed from a distance to be bearing a crop of
snowflakes, till one came nearer and could distinguish the delicate
pinks and mauves of their blossom; there were bushy algobras with rich
green foliage; oranges, bearing the last of that juicy crop which, when
fresh gathered, melts in the mouth like ice; olive-trees, with dry gray
leaves and trunks so grotesquely gnarled as to suggest arboreal pain.
The hot sun above, dappling the young corn and filling the stone
water-conduits with soft tree-shadows; the tinkling twitter of unseen
birds; the repose everywhere, made up a charm which my poor words
refuse to utter. And yet she made me feel it all, and more besides.
We approached the cup-edge of the mountain. To a Spaniard all trees
except fruit-trees mean so many cubic feet of wood for building or
charcoal. As Spain and Italy both know, climates change when the
forests go, and the crops suffer from long droughts or heavy deluges
which sweep the soil bodily away in spite of laboriously-built stone
terraces or concrete-lined water ducts. But that is for _manana_.
The timber is wanted for to-day, and down it comes. Yet from a merely
scenic point of view this ruthless axemanship is hardly to be deplored
where we were then. The rocks were bare, save for scattered dark-green
dottings of pine or ilex perched where they could not readily be come
at; they were full of fantastic shadows; they were shaven, gray, and
rugged; they were unspeakably grand.
The crags closed in as we went on, and the hiss of the stream which had
neared the road began to drown the bird-songs. Some of the hills beside
us were clothed with green shrubs, and some were gaunt and bare, of
homely gray splashed with red. Ahead there was a wee white house,
apparently balanced like an eagle's nest in an inaccessible eyrie. The
orchards had gone, but the stony land was still scratched up to receive
crops, and laboriously terraced to keep the soil from being swilled
into the sea.
The hills pressed farther together into a rocky gorge, with the rut of
the road perched high on one side, and the stream brawling away fifty
feet below. Goats with tinkling bells were flitting about the crags
like so many brown flies. One began to wonder whether the road was not
a _cul-de-sac_, and whether Valledemosa did not lie in some other
direction. There seemed absolutely no outlet except for wings.
But with an angle of the gorge one opened out a new scene. Another wide
valley lay ahead of us, through which the road wound steeply, past
women gathering the purple olives from the turf beneath the trees, past
laden orange-trees, and sprawls of prickly pears, and fields of
sprouting beans.
And then we came to two yellow gate-posts, on one of which was the date
1063, whilst the other bore this inscription: "VITAE IN INTROITV AEDIS
SANCTAE EXUS."
"Valledemosa is here," said my companion, "the village beside that
convent where Madame Dudevant brought Chopin to die, and from which she
took him away full of new life. The mules will bait here. It is for you
to say whether we go on or return to Palma."
"From the day when I lost my eyes to this day," was my reply, "I have
never known what it was to see the shapes that God has builded on the
face of the earth, or the colours with which He has painted them. Mind,
I have never whined for the sight that was taken away from me. I have
accepted my _Kismet_, and have made it as bright as thought and
contrivance could manage. I believe, without egotism, that there are
few blind men who have trained themselves to be as conscious of their
surroundings as I am. But my powers have great limitations. However
preternaturally sensitive a man may be to all manner of sounds, he
cannot tell everything from sound alone, not even though his sense of
touch besides is laboriously refined. Without the gift of sight there
must always be (so I had been forced to decide) a black gaping hiatus
which it seemed that no human power could fill. Of my helpers, till
yesterday, Sadi was the only one who showed the least fraction of
talent; yet even his best efforts could scarcely throw a glimmer
through the cloud.
"But to-day you have done what I believed no breathing person could do.
You have worked a miracle. You have made me to see as with mine own old
eyes. Heaven grant that this is not all a dream to be waked up from."
We spent that night at the Archduke's _hospitar_ at Miramar--near
Raymond Lully's birthplace--where free housing is given to any
passer-by for three days, with olives, salt, and oil, the typical trio,
provided. In the evening I told her across the _brazero_ a tale
that had never crossed my lips before, the tale of how I had lost my
eyes. I took her in my story to the south of Africa, and led her out
over green rolling veldt to a hawthorn-crowned kopje, where we lay out
of sight amongst the bushes. I explained to her that I was a diamond
merchant, and that I was waiting there for men who were to bring me
stones for sale. And then I told how, instead of those I expected,
others came out of the soft black tropical night, in turn mistaking me
also for some one else. They thought I was there for I.D.B.--I, an
honest trader--and not daring to kill, had loaded their guns with
rock-salt. I told her how the first charge had struck me full in the
face and destroyed my sight for ever; how I had got up and fled
shrieking away, and then lay hid for days in a clump of karoo-scrub
nursing my hideous pain, and wishing for the death which would not
come. And then I sketched to her the way that Sadi had found me, and
nursed me, and been with me in all those groping after years, paying
full tribute to his devotion.
When I had finished she said she wanted to ask me one question, if she
might do so without offence.
"Nothing you would say," I replied, "can annoy me."
"Then tell me, Mr. Pether, were you a registered diamond merchant out
there?"
"I was. I swear I was. Had I been there for Illicit Diamond Buying I
should have deserved all I got, and more besides. But after being
blinded, where was the use of trying to retaliate? of proving it was
all a mistake? of pressing for a money recompense? Imprisoning a man,
or fining him, or even blinding him in turn, could not restore my
eyes."[3]
[3] _Note, by another hand._--Inquiries pushed by me,
Taltavull, through the agents of my brotherhood in the
neighbourhood of Du Toit's Pan, have elicited the following
communication: "Pether, more generally known as Conkleton, was a
regular Jew Kopjewalloper from Petticoat Lane. He had abundance
of money, and was the pest of the diamond fields. Several of his
runners were caught and convicted, but no case could ever be
framed against him in person, as he flourished before the days of
Diamond Registration. However, the charge of I.D.B. grew so
strong against him that at last the boys took the law into their
own hands and rock-salted him. Afterwards he disappeared. The
lesson appeared to have been sufficient. Rock-salt, so they say,
when fired into the skin, hurts." The name of my informant cannot
be divulged; but he is a most earnest worker in the Great Cause,
and I, Taltavull, will pledge my credit on his veracity.
(Signed) TALTAVULL.
_Anarchist Headquarters, Barcelona._
And then I went on to tell her how it was a pure platonic love for
diamonds themselves that had turned me to trade in those lovely stones;
how their iridescent glitter delighted my eye, and how the very act of
handling them in their dull, rough, uncut state was a joy to me that
almost amounted to monomania. The theme pleased her, and she asked me
to go on. I had not spoken of diamonds once during all those long years
of darkness, and to discourse about them again to any one who took the
obvious interest in them that she did was for me an indulgence nothing
short of delicious. And when we parted for the night, and I found
myself once more alone, I was almost surprised that I had said nothing
about this new enterprise in the diamond industry which fortune had
thrown in my way. "I feel sure," I told myself, "that she will share
this great secret. She is the one person in this world for me to trust.
But I cannot part with it yet. Besides, I have only known her two days.
Time enough when we get back to Palma."
We went out afoot after breakfast next morning, and during all that day
I revelled in the beauties of Miramar, the finest piece of cliff and
coast scenery in Europe. There is one of the many watch-towers here, a
gray old building whose architect was dead before the Pharaohs or even
the Phoenicians began to pile stones together, and yet the old citadel
has not bent one inch to all that string of time. We ascended half-way
outside up a ladder, and entered a small domed chamber. Then we climbed
together on to the roof, which is half a covered sentry-house, half a
balustraded lookout post. We could hear the rattle of the surf creaming
away twelve hundred feet below, and could look down almost sheer into
the many-hued blue water; and behind there were mountains rising
steeply up into the clouds. The view was incomparable.
Then we went down again, winding along a narrow path that was edged
with flowering heath, and gained a jutting crag which seemed almost to
overhang the water; and going on farther amongst the wind-brushed
pines, we came to another spot which we had previously viewed from
above. It was a little round stone oratory perched on the crest of a
jutting pinnacle, and linked to the main rock by a narrow causeway
which rested on a slender arch. It was lit by a lantern in the roof,
and over the altar was the marble effigy of a man of years.
I do not know why it was, but as we stood on the balcony outside that
tiny chapel, leaning over the rail, and listening to the murmur of the
woods beside and of the waters beneath us, I almost felt impelled to
there and then show my companion that little wooden case I carried in
my breast-pocket, and tell her of the vast and wonderful secret it
contained. In fact, I believe it was the very greatness of the impulse
which made me resist it. I am the last man to be called superstitious,
but it seemed to me then that old Lully's shade was hovering near his
birthplace, and was busying itself in my direction. I did not like the
guidance, and so resisted it; and directly afterwards we strolled back
across the bridge, and on through the woods again.
I cannot, I will not tell in detail how the next few days passed. The
little idyl concerns no one but myself--and one other--and there is no
reason to desecrate them by bawling its delicate folds abroad. Suffice
it to say that we went on through Deya to Soller, and then taking
mules, climbed the mountain passes to the convent of Nuestra Senora de
Lluch.
"You can stay here if you choose," observed my companion, as our mules
drank out of the fountain basin in the courtyard. "Inside the big
doorway yonder is written up '_Silencio_' and '_Vir prudens
tacebit_,' but the monks are not overstrict, and, like the Archduke
at Miramar, they offer free hospitality to all wayfarers. If you have
never stayed in a convent of this kind before, the experience will
amuse you."
"And you?"
"Oh, I shall go on to Pollensa, and you can join me there, if you
choose, to-morrow."
"But why not remain here?"
She laughed. "I'm afraid I belong to the anti-monkish sex. True, they
might offer me house-room--I do not say they wouldn't--but I do not
care for putting myself in the way of being refused."
"Then," said I, "I don't think a convent is very much in my way just at
present. I will push on for Pollensa too."
And so thither we went together, covering the short distance to Alcudia
on the afternoon of next day.
But at Alcudia there was a rude awakening, and, thanks to a woman's
wit, a narrow escape awaiting me. It turned out that Cospatric and
Haigh had added brains to their own council in the form of a
scoundrelly anarchist, and were hot-foot upon the trail. Mrs. Cromwell
heard my name mentioned as she came back into the _cafe_ from some
small errand in the town, and instead of returning to the sitting-room
upstairs, ordered coffee and sat down near three strangers who were
talking in English. She was soon in conversation with them, and from
one and the other cleverly elicited the whole tale of their adventure.
They seemed overjoyed, poor fools, to discover in her tastes for
pottery, music, and tattooing, and waxed garrulous without the smallest
suspicion. Much was incomprehensible to her, but she sat on there far
into the night, thinking that what she could learn might be of service
to me.
Made anxious by her absence, I had descended the narrow stairs to
inquire after her, and nearly burst in upon their conclave. A
recognition of their voices made me pull up with my fingers on the
latch, and then return with a cat's tread to the place whence I had
come.
A week ago my first impulse would have been to evacuate the spot there
and then, so that even if I were followed, my start would be a good
one. But the last few days had changed me much. From being absolutely
self-reliant, I had grown to be curiously dependent again. I shrank
from taking a flight alone. And, moreover, there was another thing that
held me back: I could not bear to rush away so suddenly from my
companion. It seemed to me that if I deserted her then, I should never
see that woman more; and rather than that should befall, I was prepared
to brave anything. So I waited in that bare, whitewashed sitting-room,
and waited and waited till she came, fearing desperately for the safety
of my great treasure, yet determined to expose it to any risk rather
than beat retreat alone.
It was a torturing vigil.
* * * * *
The clocks had long struck midnight, and the _sereno_ had several
times raised his dirge-like chaunt in the street outside, before my
companion came to me. She wasted no time in preliminaries. I think she
could see by my outward expression that I knew how danger threatened,
and so she told in as few words as possible what she had learnt. "I
hope you can understand it," she said at the conclusion. "I confess the
most is gibberish to me, but it seemed to concern you, and so I thought
would be interesting."
"I am deeply grateful. But let me explain."
"Don't think it an obligation, Mr. Pether. There seems to be some
little mystery about the matter, and I do not want to pry into your
affairs."
"I wish you would."
"Why?"
"Because then I could feel that you took an interest in me."
"Believe me, I do--a deep interest."
I groped and found her hand. It pressed mine with a slight tremble.
"You pity me because I am blind."
"I am deeply grieved for your misfortune."
"Ah"--I dropped the hand, and sighed regretfully--"only pity. But,
then, what else could I expect?"
"What would you have?" she asked softly.
"I had hoped for love. I had prayed that I might be loved, as I love."
And then? Why, honestly, I do not know how it came about, but in a
minute or so each knew concerning the other all there was to tell.
"I should not even mind resigning the Recipe now that I have got you,"
I told her.
"Ah, but," she said, with a little laugh, "if we are going into
partnership, you and I, the interests of the firm must be looked after.
There is no packet leaving the island for two days, so you must wire
Sadi in Palma to hire a steamer and have it ready for us. The train
leaves La Puebla at 7.55. We will go down to meet it by that."
"But Cospatric and his friends will most certainly go by the same
train."
She put her lips to my ear and whispered, and then we laughed, and I
took paper and pen and wrote a long letter.
She read over my shoulder.
"Admirable. Monsieur l'Aveugle, your friends will either stay here and
rave, or else start on a wild-goose chase across the mountains to
Soller. And we, you and I, Nat, we will go far away, away to----"
She did not finish the sentence. She stooped and kissed me instead.
[_Michael Cospatric again resumes speech._]