A VISIT TO THE JEWELLER'S
If God in His majesty made the Spains and the nations which people
them, perhaps it was His mercy that convoked the Spanish cities--as His
servant Philip piled rock upon rock and called it Madrid--and made
cess-pits for the cleansing of the country.
Behold the Castilian, the Valencian, the Murcian on his glebe, you find
an exact relation established; the one exhales the other. The man is
what his country is, tragic, hag-ridden, yet impassive, patient under
the sun. He stands for the natural verities. You cannot change him,
move, nor hurt him. He can earn neither your praises nor reproach. As
well might you blame the staring noon of summer or throw a kind word to
the everlasting hills. The bleak pride of the Castillano, the flint
and steel of Aragon, the languor which veils Andalusian
fire--travelling the lands which gave them birth, you find them scored
in large over mountain and plain and riverbed, and bitten deep into the
hearts of the indwellers. They are as seasonable there as the flowers
of waste places, and will charm you as much. So Spanish travel is one
of the restful relaxations, because nothing jars upon you. You feel
that you are assisting a destiny, not breaking it. Not discovery is
before you so much as realisation.
But in the city Spanish blood festers, and all that seemed plausible in
the open air is now monstrous, full of vice and despair. Whereas,
outside, the man stood like a rock, and let Fate seam or bleach him
bare; here, within walls, he rages, shows his teeth, blasphemes, or
sinks into sloth. You will find him heaped against the walls like
ordure, hear him howl for blood in the bull-ring, appraise women, as if
they were dainties, in the _alamedas_, loaf, scratch, pry where none
should pry, go begging with his sores, trade his own soul for his
mother's. His pride becomes insolence, his tragedy hideous revolt, his
impassivity swinish, his rock of sufficiency a rook of offence. God in
His mercy, or the Devil in his despite, made the cities of Spain.
And yet the man, so superbly at his ease in his enormous spaces, is his
own conclusion when he goes to town; the permutation is logical. He is
too strong a thing to break his nature; it will be aggravated but not
deflected. Leave him to swarm in the _plaza_ and seek his nobler
brother. Go out by the gate, descend the winding suburb, which gives
you the burnt plains and far blue hills, now on one hand, now on the
other, as you circle down and down, with the walls mounting as you
fall; touch once more the dusty earth, traverse the deep shade of the
ilex-avenue; greet the ox-teams, the filing mules, as they creep up the
hill to the town: you are bound for their true, great Spain. And
though it may be ten days since you saw it, or fifty years, you will
find nothing altered. The Spaniard is still the flower of his rocks.
_O dura tellus Iberiae_!
From the window of his garret Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia could overlook
the town wall, and by craning his neck out sideways could have seen, if
he had a mind, the cornice-angle of the palace of his race. It was a
barrack in these days, and had been so since ruin had settled down on
the Ramonez with the rest of Valladolid. That had been in the
sixteenth century, but no Ramonez had made any effort to repair it.
Every one of them did as Don Luis was doing now, and accepted misery in
true Spanish fashion. Not only did he never speak of it, he never
thought of it either. It was; therefore it had to be.
He rose at dawn, every day of his life, and took his sop in coffee in
his bedgown, sitting on the edge of his bed. He heard mass in the
Church of Las Angustias, in the same chapel at the same hour. Once a
month he communicated, and then the sop was omitted. He was shaved in
the barber's shop--Gomez the Sevillian kept it--at the corner of the
_plaza_. Gomez, the little dapper, black-eyed man, was a friend of
his, his newspaper and his doctor.
He took a high line with Gomez, as you may when you owe a man twopence
a week.
That over, he took the sun in the _plaza_, up and down the centre line
of flags in fine weather, up and down the arcade if it rained. He saw
the _diligence_ from Madrid come in, he saw the _diligence_ for Madrid
go out. He knew, and accepted the salutes of every _arriero_ who
worked in and out of the city, and passed the time of day with Micael
the lame water-seller, who never failed to salute him.
At noon he ate an onion and a piece of cheese, and then he dozed till
three. As the clock of the University struck that hour he put on his
_capa_--summer and winter he wore it, with melancholy and good reason;
by ten minutes past he was entering the shop of Sebastian the
goldsmith, in the Plaza San Benito, in the which he sat till dusk,
motionless and absorbed in thought, talking little, seeming to observe
little, and yet judging everything in the light of strong common sense.
Summer or winter, at dusk he arose, flecked a mote or two of dust from
his _capa_, seated his beaver upon his grey head, grasped his malacca,
and departed with a "Be with God, my friend." To this Sebastian the
goldsmith invariably replied, "At the feet of your grace, Don Luis."
He supped sparingly, and the last act of his day was his one act of
luxury; his cup of chocolate or glass of _agraz_, according to season,
at the Cafe de la Luna in the Plaza Mayor. This was his title to table
and chair, and the respect of all Valladolid from dusk until nine--on
the last stroke of which, saluting the company, who rose almost to a
man, he retired to his garret and thin bed.
Pepe, the head waiter at the Luna, who had been there for thirty years,
Gomez the barber, who was sixty-three and looked forty, Sebastian the
goldsmith, well over middle age, and the old priest of Las Angustias,
who had confessed him every Friday and said mass at the same altar
every morning since his ordination (God knows how long ago), would have
testified to the fact that Don Luis had never once varied his daily
habits within time of memory.
They would have been wrong, of course, like all clean sweepers; for in
addition to his inheritance of ruin, misfortunes had graved him deeply.
Valladolid knew it well. His wife had left him, his son had gone to
the devil. He bore the first blow like a stoic, not moving a muscle
nor varying a habit: the second sent him on a journey. The barber, the
water-seller, Pepe the waiter, Sebastian the deft were troubled about
him for a week or more. He came back, and hid his wound, speaking to
no one of it; and no one dared to pity him. And although he resumed
his routine and was outwardly the same man, we may trace to that last
stroke of Fortune the wasted splendour of his eyes, the look of a dying
stag, which, once seen, haunted the observer. He was extraordinarily
handsome, except for his narrow shoulders and hollow eyes, flawlessly
clean in person and dress; a tall, straight, hawk-nosed, sallow
gentleman. The Archbishop of Toledo was his first cousin, a cadet of
his house. He was entitled to wear his hat in the presence of the
Queen, and he lived upon fivepence a day.
Manvers, reaching Valladolid in the evening, reposed himself for a day
or two, and recovered from his shock. He saw the sights, conversed
with affability with all and sundry, drank _agraz_ in the Cafe de la
Luna. He must have beamed without knowing it upon Don Luis, for his
brisk appearance, twisted smile and abrupt manner were familiar to that
watchful gentleman by the time that, sweeping aside the curtain like a
buffet of wind, he entered the goldsmith's shop in the Plaza San
Benito. He came in a little before twilight one afternoon, holding by
a string in one hand some swinging object, taking off his hat with the
other as soon as he was past the curtain of the door.
"Can you," he said to Sebastian, in very fair Spanish, "take up a job
for me a little out of the common?" As he spoke he swung the object
into the air, caught it and enclosed it with his hand. Don Luis, in a
dark corner of the shop, sat back in his accustomed chair, and watched
him. He sat very still, a picture of mournful interest, shrouding his
mouth in his hand.
Sebastian, first master of his craft in a city of goldsmiths, was far
too much the gentleman to imply that any command of his customer need
not be extraordinary. Bowing with gravity, and adjusting the glasses
upon his fine nose, he replied that when he understood the nature of
the business he should be better instructed for his answer. Thereupon
Manvers opened his hand and passed over the counter a brass crucifix.
It is difficult to disturb the self-possession of a gentleman of Spain;
Sebastian did not betray by a twitch what his feelings or thoughts may
have been. He gravely scrutinised the battered cross, back and front,
was polite enough to ignore the greasy string, and handed it back
without a single word. It may have been worth half a _real_; to watch
his treatment of it was cheap at a dollar.
Manvers, however, flushed with annoyance, and spoke somewhat loftily.
"Am I to understand that you will, or will not oblige me?"
Sebastian temperately replied, "You are to understand, senor caballero,
that I am at your disposition, but also that I do not yet know what you
wish me to do." Manvers laughed, and the air was clearer.
"A thousand pardons," he said, "a thousand pardons for my stupidity. I
can tell you in two minutes what I want done with this thing." He held
it in the flat of his hand, and looked from it to the jeweller, as he
succinctly explained his wishes.
"I want you," he said, "to encase this cross completely, in thin gold
plates." Conscious of Sebastian's portentous gravity, perhaps of Don
Luis in his dark corner, he showed himself a little self-conscious also
and added, "It's a curious desire of mine, I know, but there's a reason
for it, which is neither here nor there. Make for me then," he went
on, "of thin gold plates, a matrix to hold this cross. It must have a
lid, also, which shall open upon hinges, here--" he indicated the
precise points--"and close with a clasp, here. Let the string also be
encased in gold. I don't know how you will do it--that is a matter for
your skill; but I wish the string to remain where it is, intact, within
a gold covering. This casing should be pliable, so that the cross
could hang, if necessary, round the neck of a person--as it used to
hang. Do I make myself understood?"
The Castilians are not a curious people, but this commission did
undoubtedly interest Sebastian the jeweller. Professionally speaking,
it was a delicate piece of work; humanly, could have but one
explanation. So, at least, he judged.
What Don Luis may have thought of it, there's no telling. If you had
watched him closely you would have seen the pupils of his eyes dilate,
and then contract--just like those of a caged owl, when he becomes
aware of a mouse circling round him.
But while Don Luis could be absorbed in the human problem, it was not
so with his friend. Points of detail engaged him in a series of
suggestions which threatened to be prolonged, and which maddened the
Englishman. Was the outline of the cross to be maintained in the
casing? Undoubtedly it was, otherwise you might as well hang a
card-case round your neck! The hinges, now--might they not better be
here, and here, than there, and there? Manvers was indifferent as to
the hinges. The fastening? Let the fastening be one which could be
snapped-to, and open upon a spring. The chain--ah, there was some
nicety required for that. From his point of view, Sebastian said, with
the light of enthusiasm irradiating his face, that that was the cream
of the job.
Manvers, wishing to get out of the shop, begged him to do the best he
could, and turned to go. At the door he stopped short and came back.
There was one thing more. Inside the lid of the case, in the centre of
the cross, he wished to have engraved the capital letter M, and below
that a date--12 May, 1861. That was really all, except that he was
staying at the Parador de las Diligencias, and would call in a week's
time. He left his card--Mr. Osmund Manvers, Filcote Hall, Taunton;
Oxford and Cambridge Club--elegantly engraved. And then he departed,
with a jerky salute to Don Luis, grave in his corner.
That card, after many turns back and face, was handed to Don Luis for
inspection, while Sebastian looked to him for light over the rim of his
spectacles.
"M for Manvers," he said presently, since Don Luis returned the card
without comment. "That is probable, I imagine."
"It is possible," said Don Luis with his grand air of indifference.
"With an Englishman anything is possible."
Sebastian did not pretend to be indifferent. He hummed an air, and
played it out with his fingers on the counter as he thought. Then he
flashed into life. "The twelfth of May! That is just a week ago. I
have it, Senor Don Luis! Hear my explanation. This thing of nought
was presented to the gentleman upon his birthday--the twelfth of May.
The giver was poor, or he would have made a more considerable present;
and he was very dear to the gentleman, or he would not have dared to
present such a thing. Nor would the gentleman, I think, have treated
it so handsomely. Handsomely!" He made a rapid calculation. "_Ah,
que_! He is paying its weight in gold." Now--this was in his air of
triumph--_now_ what had Don Luis to say?
That weary but unbowed antagonist of hunger and despair, after
shrugging his shoulders, considered the matter, while Sebastian waited.
"Why do you suppose," he asked at length, "that the giver of this thing
was a man?"
"I do not suppose it," cried Sebastian. "I never did suppose it. The
cross has been worn"--he passed his finger over its smooth back--"and
recently worn. Men do not carry such things about them, unless they
are----"
"What this gentleman is," said Don Luis. "A woman gave him this. A
wench."
Sebastian bowed, and with sparkling eyes re-adjusted his inferences.
"That being admitted, we are brought a little further. M does not
stand for Manvers--for what gentleman would give himself the trouble to
engrave his own name upon a cross? It is the initial of the giver's
name--and observe. Senor Don Luis, he is very familiar with her, since
he knows her but by one." He looked through his shop window to the
light, as he began a catalogue.
"Maria--Mariquita--Maritornes--Margarita--
Mariana--Mercedes--Miguela----" He stopped short, and his eyes
encountered those of his friend, fast upon him, ominous and absorbing.
He showed a certain confusion. "Any one of these names, it might be,
Senor Don Luis."
"Or Manuela," said the other, still regarding him steadily.
"Or Manuela--true," said Sebastian with a bow, and a perceptible
deepening of colour.
"In any case--" Don Luis rose, removed a speck of dust from his _capa_,
and adjusted his beaver--"In any case, my friend, we may assume the
12th of May to be our gentleman's birthday. _Adios, hermano_."
Sebastian was about to utter his usual ceremonial assurance, when a
thought drove it out of his head.
"Stay, stay a moment, Don Luis of my soul!" He snapped his fingers
together in his excitement.
"_Ah, que_!" muttered Don Luis, who had his hand upon the latch.
"A birthday--what is it? A thing of every year. Is he likely to
receive a brass crucifix worth two maravedis every year, and every year
to sheathe it in gold? Never! This marks a solemnity--a great
solemnity. Listen, I will tell you. It marks the end of a liaison.
She has left him--but tenderly; or he has left her--but regretfully.
It becomes a touching affair. Do you not agree with me?"
Don Luis raised his eyebrows. "I have no means of agreeing with you,
Sebastian. It may mark the end of a story--or the beginning. Who
knows?" He threw out his arms and let them drop. "Senor God, who
cares?"