One morning shortly after their arrival at Madrid, the two went to the
great picture-gallery, of all picture-galleries the most delightful.
“When you shall have seen Murillo’s Conceptions,” Elena said, “you will
see the difference between a sweet human nature and a supernatural
creature. Raphael has painted good and beautiful women full of religious
feeling; Murillo has painted the miraculous woman. The Spaniard had a
vision of the Divine.”
“You have been in Madrid before?”
“For two years,” said Elena quietly.
They entered the large hall. It was early for visitors; but two artists
were there copying. One had had the courage to set his easel up before
one of Murillo’s large Conceptions.
Tacita seated herself before that heavenly vision, and became absorbed
in it. It was a revelation to her. The small picture in the Louvre had
made but a slight impression on her, weary as she was with sight-seeing.
But here was a reflection of heaven itself in the exquisite figure that
floated before her supported on a wreath of angels, the white robe
falling about her in veiling folds, and the long cerulean scarf full of
that same wind that shook the house wherein waited the Apostles and the
Marys when the Holy Ghost descended upon them. The two little hands were
pressed palm to palm, the long black hair fell down her shoulders, her
large black eyes, fixed on some dawning, ineffable glory, were full of a
solemn radiance, her delicate face was like a white lily in the
sunshine. The figure was at once childlike, angelic, and imposing.
Tacita had not removed her eyes from the picture when Elena came to
touch her arm, and whispered: “Do you know that you have not winked for
half an hour?”
Tacita roused herself. “I scarcely care to look at anything else now,”
she said. “I will glance about the room there, and then go home.”
She went into the Isabella room, and walked slowly along the wall.
Nothing dazzled her after that Murillo. Even Fra Angelico’s angels
looked insipidly sweet beside its ethereal sublimity. The “Perla” kept
her but a moment. Those radiant black eyes of the “Concepcion” seemed to
gaze at her from every canvas. She was about leaving the room, when
something made her turn back to look again at an unremarkable picture
catalogued as “A Madonna and Saints.” Of the two catalogues she saw, one
ascribed it to Pordenone, the other to Giorgione. She glanced at it
without interest, wondering why she had stopped. The Madonna and Child,
and the woman who held out to them a basket of red and white roses might
just as well not have been painted for any significance they had; and
she was about turning away when she caught sight of a face in the
shadowed corner of the canvas behind the kneeling woman.
This was no conventional saint. The man seemed to be dressed in armor,
and his hand rested on a sword-hilt or the back of a chair. The shadows
swathed him thickly, leaving the face alone distinct. One guessed at a
slight and well-knit figure. The face was bronzed, and rather thin, the
features as delicate as they could be without weakness. Dark auburn hair
fell almost to the shoulders, a slight moustache shaded the lip, a small
pointed beard the chin. The brows were prominent, and strong enough to
redeem a weak face, even; and beneath them were the eyes that go with
such brows, penetrating, steady, far-seeing, and deep-seeing. Those eyes
were fixed on the Madonna and Child, not in adoration, but with an
earnest attention. He stood erect, and seemed to be studying the
characters of those two beings whom the woman before him knelt to
worship. Yet, reserved and incisive as the look was, something of
sweetness might be discerned in the man’s face.
Tacita, half turned to go away, remained gazing at that face,
fascinated. What a fine strength and purity! What reserve and what
firmness! It was a face that could flash like a storm-cloud. Would
anything ever make such a man fear, or be weak, careless, or cruel?
Elena came and stood by her, but said nothing.
“Behold a man,” said Tacita, “whom I would follow through the world, and
out of the world!”
Her companion did not speak.
“Why was I not in the world when he lived in it!” the girl went on. “Or
why is he not here now! Fancy that face smiling approval of you! Elena,
do the dead hear us?”
“The living hear us!” replied the woman. “Is the air dead because you
cannot see it? Is it powerless because it is sometimes still? It is only
the ignoble who go downward, and become as stones.”
She spoke calmly and with a sort of authority.
They went out together.
“We are late for our luncheon,” Elena said as they got into their
carriage. “We must lose no time, if we are to see the king and queen go
out to drive. Are you decided to leave Madrid to-morrow?”
“I don’t know,” Tacita replied absently.
“I shall want to know this evening, dear; so try to make up your mind. I
want to send for some of my people to meet us. I hope that you will like
my people.”
“If they are like you, I shall love them,” Tacita said.
“How long will you be content to stay with us?” the woman asked.
“How can I say, Elena? You have told me that your people are quiet,
kind, and unpretending. That is pleasant, but only that is not enough
for a long time. I want to see persons who know more than I do, who can
paint, play on instruments, dance, sing, model, write poetry, speak with
eloquence, and govern with strength and justice. I think that my heart
would turn to lead if I had to live forever with people who were
uncultivated. But if your people are like you, they are not merely
simple. You know a great deal more than I do; and you are always
_simpatica_.”
“By simplicity, I do not mean ignorance,” her friend said. “Professor
Mora was simple. Some barbarous persons are very involved and obscure.”
“Oh! if you speak in that sense”—
They ate their luncheon, stepped into the carriage that was waiting for
them, and drove to the Plaza del Oriente. A good many persons were
standing about the streets there waiting to see the young king and
queen, Alfonso and Cristina, drive out. It was a gathering of leisurely,
serious-looking people, with very few among them showing signs of
poverty. The sky was limpid above the trees; and in the square opposite
the corner at which our travelers waited, a bronze horseman seemed
leaping into the blue over their topmost boughs.
Tacita glanced about her, at the people, the palace gate from which the
royal cortége would issue, at the bronze horseman in the air; and then,
turning a little to the other side, saw a man leaning carelessly against
the trunk of a tree—saw him, and nothing else.
She felt as though she had received an electric shock. There before her
was the face of the Giorgione picture, every feature as she had studied
it that morning, and the very expression of which she had felt the
power. He was gazing at the palace gate, not as though waiting to see,
but already seeing. One would have said that the walls were transparent
to him, and that he was so absorbed in observing that king and queen
whom no one else saw as to be oblivious to all about him.
His dress was some provincial or foreign costume. Black velvet
short-clothes were held at the waist by a fringed scarf of black silk.
His short jacket of black cloth was like a torero’s in shape. He wore a
full white shirt, black stockings and sandals, and a scarlet fez on his
dark hair in which the sunshine found an auburn tint.
Tacita gazed at him with eyes as intent as his own. The smileless lips,
the brow with its second sight, the pointed beard and faintly bronzed
skin—they were the same that she had but an hour or two before engraven
on her mind in lines as clear and sharp as those of any antique
intaglio.
The stranger had not seemed aware of her observation; and the distance
at which he stood from her gave no reason for his being so. But
presently, when she began to wonder if he would ever stir, he went
quietly to a poor woman who, with a child in her arms, leaned against
the fence behind him, and took the child from her.
She looked surprised, but yielded in silence. The infant stared at him,
but made no resistance. He had not looked directly at either of them,
nor addressed them. He brought the child to the carriage, and held it
out, his eyes lowered, not downcast, nor once looking at its occupants.
Both Tacita and Elena silently placed a silver coin in the child’s hand.
The man retreated a step, respectful, but not saluting, and carried the
child to its mother. She showed in receiving it the same silent surprise
with which she had yielded it to him. The stranger returned to his
former position under the tree. He had not looked at any one, nor spoken
a word; yet he had displayed neither affectation nor rudeness. A winged
seed could not have floated past with more simplicity of action, nor yet
with more grace.
There was a stir among the people. Two horsemen had issued from the
palace gate, and an open carriage followed, behind which were again two
other cavaliers. Tacita descended hastily from the carriage. In doing so
she glanced at the tree against which the stranger had leaned; but he
was no longer to be seen.
The royal carriage passed by, its occupants bowing courteously to the
young traveler who courtesied from her post on the sidewalk. The queen
was pale and sad-looking, the spirited face of the young king had
something in its expression that was almost defiant. The spectators were
cold and merely civil. At such a sight one remembers that kings and
queens have also hearts that may be wounded, and that they sometimes
need and deserve compassion. Few of them, indeed, have willfully grasped
the crown; and on many of them it has descended like a crown of thorns.
“The king gives the queen the right hand, though she is queen consort
only,” Tacita said as they drove away. “In Italy the king regnant must
absolutely have the right; and etiquette is quite as imperative in
placing the gentleman at the lady’s left hand. Consequently, the king
and queen of Italy do not drive out together. Gallantry yields to law,
but evades a rudeness.”
She was scarcely conscious of what she was saying. Her eyes were
searching the street and square. “What is his name?” she exclaimed
suddenly, without any preface whatever.
“His name is Dylar,” answered Elena. “He will make a part of the journey
with us.”
“He is from your place?” Tacita asked. She could not have told whether
she felt a sudden joy or a sudden disenchantment.
“Yes, he is from our place.”
“The child was not his?”
“Oh, no!”
“Why did he bring it to us?”
“Probably he saw that they were poor.”
“Does he know them?”
“He must know that they are poor, or he would not have asked charity for
them.”
“He asked nothing,” said Tacita.
“Yet you gave.”
“It is true; he did ask and seemed sure of receiving. Why does he make a
part of the journey with us?”
“He knows the way and the people. He will meet us when we cross the
mountains.”
“I wonder if they are the mountains that my grandfather remembered!”
thought Tacita, and asked no more. Some feeling that was scarcely fear,
but rather a sense of coming fate, began to creep over her. She had
entered upon a path from which there was no retreat, and something
mysterious was stealing about her and closing her in.
“Dylar is here,” Elena said as they drove into the gardens of the
Ritiro. “Shall we stop and speak to him? I want to tell him when we will
leave Madrid. What shall I say?”
“We will leave to-morrow morning,” Tacita said, looking eagerly around.
Already it seemed to her a wonderful thing to hear this man speak.
He was walking to and fro under the trees, and came to the side of their
carriage immediately. He glanced at Tacita, and slowly bowed himself in
something of an oriental fashion. One might have hesitated whether to
compare his manner to that of a perfectly trained servant come to take
orders, or to the confident reserve of a sovereign about to hear if his
orders had been obeyed. “The signorina has decided to set out to-morrow
morning,” Elena said to him. “We shall not stop anywhere.”
“I will meet you at the orange-farm,” the man answered quietly.
The voice was clear and low, the enunciation perfect.
He looked at Tacita with a reassuring kindness. “Elena knows all that is
necessary,” he said. “Trust to her, and have no fear.”
She felt herself in the presence of a superior. “I have no fear now,”
she replied; and thought, “How did he know that I was afraid!”
He drew back, and they went on their way, neither speaking of what had
occurred.