IN A MOORISH GARDEN
‘When love is not a blasphemy, it is a religion.’
THERE is perhaps a subtle significance in the fact that the greatest, the
cruellest, the most barbarous civil war of modern days, if not of all
time, owed its outbreak and its long continuance to the influence of a
woman. When Ferdinand VII. of Spain died, in 1833, after a reign broken
and disturbed by the passage of that human cyclone, Napoleon the Great,
he bequeathed his kingdom, in defiance of the Salic law, to his daughter
Isabella. Ferdinand’s brother Charles, however, claimed the throne under
the very just contention that the Salic law, by which women were excluded
from the heritage of the crown, had never been legally abrogated.
This was the spark that kindled in many minds ambition, cruelty,
bloodthirstiness, self-seeking and jealousy—producing the _morale_, in a
word, of the Spain of sixty years ago. Some sided with the Queen Regent
Christina, and rallied round the child-queen because they saw that that
way lay glory and promotion. Others flocked to the standard of Don
Carlos because they were poor and of no influence at Court. The Church
as a whole raised its whispering voice for the Pretender. For the rest,
patriotism was nowhere, and ambition on every side. ‘For five years we
have fought the Carlists, hunger, privation, and the politicians at
Madrid! And the holy saints only know which has been the worst enemy,’
said General Vincente to Conyngham when explaining the above related
details.
And indeed the story of this war reads like a romance, for there came
from neutral countries foreign legions as in the olden days. From
England an army of ten thousand mercenaries landed in Spain, prepared to
fight for the cause of Queen Christina, and very modestly estimating the
worth of their services at the sum of thirteenpence per diem. After all,
the value of a man’s life is but the price of his daily hire.
‘We did not pay them much,’ said General Vincente with a deprecating
little smile, ‘but they did not fight much. Their pay was generally in
arrear, and they were usually in the rear as well. What will you, my
dear Conyngham? You are a commercial people—you keep good soldiers in
the shop window, and when a buyer comes you serve him with second-class
goods from behind the counter.’
He beamed on Conyngham with a pleasant air of benign connivance in a very
legitimate commercial transaction.
This is no time or place to go into the history of the English Legion in
Spain, which, indeed, had quitted that country before Conyngham landed
there, horrified by the barbarities of a cruel war where prisoners
received no quarter and the soldiers on either side were left without pay
or rations. In a half-hearted manner England went to the assistance of
the Queen Regent of Spain, and one error in statesmanship led to many.
It is always a mistake to strike gently.
‘This country,’ said General Vincente in his suavest manner, ‘owes much
to yours, my dear Conyngham; but it would have been better for us both
had we owed you a little more.’
During the five years prior to Conyngham’s arrival at Ronda the war had
raged with unabated fury, swaying from the west to the east coast as
fortune smiled or frowned on the Carlist cause. At one time it almost
appeared certain that the Christino forces were unable to stem the rising
tide which bade fair to spread over all Spain—so unfortunate were their
generals, so futile the best endeavours of the bravest and most patient
soldiers. General Vincente was not alone in his conviction that had the
gallant Carlist leader Zumalacarreguy lived he might have carried all
before him. But this great leader at the height of his fame—beloved of
all his soldiers, worshipped by his subordinate officers—died suddenly,
by poison, as it was whispered, the victim of jealousy and ambition.
Almost at once there arose in the East of Spain one, obscure in birth and
unknown to fame, who flashed suddenly to the zenith of military glory—the
ruthless, the wonderful Cabrera. The name is to this day a household
word in Catalonia, while the eyes of a few old men still living, who
fought with or against him, flash in the light of other days at the mere
mention of it.
Among the many leaders who had attempted in vain to overcome by skill and
patriotism the thousand difficulties placed in their way by successive
unstable, insincere Ministers of War, General Vincente occupied an
honoured place. This mild-mannered tactician enjoyed the enviable
reputation of being alike unconquerable and incorruptible. His smiling
presence on the battlefield was in itself worth half a dozen battalions,
while at Madrid the dishonest politicians, who through those years of
Spain’s great trial systematically bartered their honour for immediate
gain, dreaded and respected him.
During the days that followed his arrival at Ronda and release from the
prison there, Frederick Conyngham learnt much from his host and little of
the man himself, for General Vincente had that in him with which no great
leader in any walk of life can well dispense—an unsoundable depth.
Conyngham learnt also that the human heart is capable of rising at one
bound above differences of race or custom, creed and spoken language. He
walked with Estella in that quiet garden between high walls on the trim
Moorish paths, and often the murmur of the running water which ever
graced the Moslem palaces was the only sound that broke the silence. For
this thing had come into the Englishman’s life suddenly, leaving him
dazed and uncertain. Estella, on the other hand, had a quiet
_savoir-faire_ that sat strangely on her young face. She was only
nineteen, and yet had a certain air of authority, handed down to her from
two great races of noble men and women.
‘Do all your countrymen take life thus gaily?’ she asked Conyngham one
day; ‘surely it is a more serious affair than you think it.’
‘I have never found it very serious, señorita,’ he answered. ‘There is
usually a smile in human affairs if one takes the trouble to look for
it.’
‘Have you always found it so?’
He did not answer at once, pausing to lift the branch of a mimosa tree
that hung in yellow profusion across the pathway.
‘Yes, señorita, I think so,’ he answered at length, slowly. There was a
sense of eternal restfulness in this old Moorish garden which acted as a
brake on the thoughts, and made conversation halt and drag in an Oriental
way that Europeans rarely understand.
‘And yet you say you remember your father’s death?’
‘He made a joke to the doctor, señorita, and was not afraid.’
Estella smiled in a queer way, and then looked grave again.
‘And you have always been poor, you say, sometimes almost starving?’
‘Yes—always poor, deadly poor, señorita,’ answered Conyngham with a gay
laugh; ‘and since I have been on my own resources frequently—well, very
hungry. The appetite has been large and the resources have been small.
But when I get into the Spanish army they will no doubt make me a
general, and all will be well.’
He laughed again, and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.
‘See here,’ he said, ‘your father’s recommendation to General Espartero
in a confidential letter.’
But the envelope he produced was that pink one which the man called
Larralde had given him at Algeciras.
‘No—it is not that,’ he said, searching in another pocket. ‘Ah! here it
is—addressed to General Espartero, Duke of Vittoria.’
He showed her the superscription, which she read with a little
inclination of the head, as if in salutation of the great name written
there. The greatest names are those that men have made for themselves.
Conyngham replaced the two letters in his pocket and almost immediately
asked:
‘Do you know anyone called Barenna in Ronda, señorita?’ thereby proving
that General Espartero would do ill to give him an appointment requiring
even the earliest rudiments of diplomacy.
‘Julia Barenna is my cousin. Her mother was my mother’s sister. Do you
know them, Señor Conyngham?’
‘Oh no,’ answered Conyngham, truthfully enough. ‘I met a man who knows
them. Do they live in Ronda?’
‘No; their house is on the Cordova road, about half a league from the
Customs station.’
Estella was not by nature curious, and asked no questions. Some who knew
the Barennas would have been glad to claim acquaintance with General
Vincente and his daughter, but could not do so. For the Captain-General
moved in a circle not far removed from the Queen Regent herself, and
mixed but little in the society of Ronda, where, for the time being, he
held a command.
Conyngham required no further information, and in a few moments dismissed
the letter from his mind. Events seemed for him to have moved rapidly
within the last few days, and the world of roadside inns and casual
acquaintance into which he had stepped on his arrival in Spain was quite
another from that in which Estella moved at Ronda.
‘I must set out for Madrid in a few days at the latest,’ he said a few
moments afterwards; ‘but I shall go against my will, because you tell me
that you and your father will not be coming North until the spring.’
Estella shook her head with a little laugh. This man was different from
the punctilious aides-de-camp and others who had hitherto begged most
respectfully to notify their admiration.
‘And three days ago you did not know of our existence,’ she said.
‘In three days a man may be dead of an illness of which he ignored the
existence, señorita. In three days a man’s life may be made miserable or
happy—perhaps in three minutes.’
And she looked straight in front of her in order to avoid his eyes.
‘Yours will always be happy, I think,’ she said, ‘because you never seem
to go below the surface, and on the surface life is happy enough.’
He made some light answer, and they walked on beneath the orange trees,
talking of these and other matters—indulging in those dangerous
generalities which sound so safe, and in reality narrow down to a little
world of two.
They were thus engaged when the servant came to announce that the horse
which the General had placed at Conyngham’s disposal was at the door in
accordance with the Englishman’s own order. He went away sorrowfully
enough, only half consoled by the information that Estella was about to
attend a service at the Church of Santa Maria, and could not have stayed
longer in the garden.
The hour of the siesta was scarce over, and as Conyngham rode through the
cleanly streets of the ancient town more than one idler roused himself
from the shadow of a doorway to see him pass. There are few older towns
in Andalusia than Ronda, and scarce anywhere the habits of the Moors are
so closely followed. The streets are clean, the houses whitewashed
within and without. The trappings of the mules and much of the costume
of the people are Oriental in texture and brilliancy.
Conyngham asked a passer-by to indicate the way to the Cordova road, and
the polite Spaniard turned and walked by his stirrup until a mistake was
no longer possible.
‘It is not the most beautiful approach to Ronda,’ said this garrulous
person, ‘but well enough in the summer, when the flowers are in bloom and
the vineyards green. The road is straight and dusty until one arrives at
the possession of the Señora Barenna—a narrow road to the right leading
up into the mountain. One can perceive the house—oh, yes—upon the
hillside, once beautiful, but now old and decayed. Mistake is now
impossible. It is a straight way. I wish you a good journey.’
Conyngham rode on, vaguely turning over in his mind a half-matured plan
of effecting a seemingly accidental entry to the house of Señora Barenna,
in the hope of meeting that lady’s daughter in the garden or grounds.
Once outside the walls of the town he found the country open and bare,
consisting of brown hills, of which the lower slopes were dotted with
evergreen oaks. The road soon traversed a village which seemed to be
half deserted, for men and women alike were working in the fields. On
the balcony of the best house a branch of palm bound against the ironwork
balustrade indicated the dwelling of the priest, and the form of that
village despot was dimly discernible in the darkened room behind. Beyond
the village Conyngham turned his horse’s head towards the mountain, his
mind preoccupied with a Macchiavellian scheme of losing his way in this
neighbourhood. Through the evergreen oak and olive groves he could
perceive the roof of an old grey house which had once been a mere
hacienda or semi-fortified farm.
Conyngham did not propose to go direct to Señora Barenna’s house, but
described a semicircle, mounting from terrace to terrace on his
sure-footed horse.
When at length he came in sight of the high gateway where the ten-foot
oaken gates still swung, he perceived someone approaching the exit. On
closer inspection he saw that this was a priest, and on nearing him
recognised the Padre Concha, whose acquaintance he had made at the Hotel
of the Marina at Algeciras.
The recognition was mutual, for the priest raised his shabby old hat with
a tender care for the insecurity of its brim.
‘A lucky meeting, Señor Englishman,’ he said; ‘who would have expected to
see you here?’
‘I have lost my way.’
‘Ah!’ And the grim face relaxed into a smile. ‘Lost your way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it is lucky that I have met you. It is so easy to lose one’s
way—when one is young.’
He raised his hand to the horse’s bridle.
‘You are most certainly going in the wrong direction,’ he said; ‘I will
lead you right.’
It was said and done so quietly that Conyngham had found no word to say
before his horse was moving in the opposite direction.
‘This is surely one of General Vincente’s horses,’ said the priest; ‘we
have few such barbs in Ronda. He always rides a good horse, that Miguel
Vincente.’
‘Yes, it is one of his horses. Then you know the General?’
‘We were boys together,’ answered the Padre; ‘and there were some who
said that he should have been the priest and I the soldier.’
The old man gave a little laugh.
‘He has prospered, however, if I have not. A great man, my dear Miguel,
and they say that his pay is duly handed to him. My own—my princely
twenty pounds a year—is overdue. I am happy enough, however, and have a
good house. You noticed it, perhaps, as you passed through the village,
a branch of palm against the rail of the balcony—my sign, you understand.
The innkeeper next door displays a branch of pine, which, I notice, is
more attractive. Every man his day. One does not catch rabbits with a
dead ferret. That is the church—will you see it? No? Well, some other
day. I will guide you through the village. The walk will give me
appetite, which I sometimes require, for my cook is one whose husband has
left her.’