The Episode at Toledo

by Ann Bridge

  ‘She took it off and gave it to me, before I came here,’ the young man said. ‘She wished Luzia to wear it also, if we could get your consent to our engagement.’

  The Duke was delighted. He looked again at the ring. ‘Yes, the setting is completely characteristic of that period,’ he said. ‘This makes me more anxious than ever to meet your Mother, Nicholas. It is something to give up one’s son to a young woman,’ he went on, smiling, ‘but to surrender one’s engagement-ring also!—this is generosity indeed. Very well; put it on her hand.’

  ‘It will have to be altered before she can wear it—it is too big,’ Nick said, nevertheless obediently slipping the ring on to Luzia’s finger.

  ‘It becomes you, my child,’ the old man said. ‘See that you live so as to become it.’

  Chapter 7

  Nick drove into São Pedro do Sul, the nearest town, there and then, and despatched a telegram to his parents; he sent it in French to facilitate its arrival at Pau, and wrote it out in block capitals. On his way back he met the Gralheira Land-Rover—he learned later that the chauffeur was taking in a telegram, similarly prepared, from the Duke to his Mother, expressing the utmost pleasure at the engagement, and warmly urging the Heriots to come and stay at Gralheira as soon as possible.

  Dinner that night was a festive affair. The Duke got out some of his finest champagne; the Portuguese make a very good version, but for this occasion, he explained, they must drink French wine, since France was the Heriots’ adopted country. There were toasts—everyone was very gay. Hetta in particular was delighted; in the general happiness she forgot her private worries for a little while. When the two telegrams were mentioned—‘Have you telegraphed to Mrs. Jamieson?’ she asked Luzia.

  ‘No—I did not think of it.’

  ‘But you must let her know—after all, it was because of her that you went to Larège; otherwise you would never have met Nick!’

  ‘This is true,’ their host said. ‘Miss Probyn must be told—you owe her very much, my child, besides your fiancé!’

  ‘I do this; I will write the telegram tonight, Fausto can take it early tomorrow. I ought to have thought of it.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in England who should be told at once?’ the Duke asked, looking at Nick.

  ‘Only my grandparents, and I expect my Mother will see to that—she conducts the family correspondence,’ the young man replied.

  ‘Then doubtless she will put the announcement in The Times,’ the old gentleman said. ‘This should be done as soon as all close relations have been informed, of course.’

  Nick was rather startled; he had not realized that the Duke read The Times as regularly as he did the Portuguese papers. He said that ‘the parents’ would probably think of that.

  Gil was driving back to Lisbon that night. Usually he returned early on a Sunday evening, but on this occasion he stayed for dinner, ‘to drink Luzia’s health’. During their walk in the afternoon Hetta had taken occasion to ask him, rather vaguely, about her recent suspicions and fears. She and Luzia, and Atherley himself, had settled to make no reference at Gralheira to the episode at the cigarral; her broken wrist was the result of a perfectly normal accident, as far as the Ericeira household knew—and she was not sufficiently sure of her ground to take Gil into her confidence. Still, he was in the Ministry of External Affairs, so she had sounded him out, cautiously.

  ‘What happens if Communist agents are found operating in Portugal?’

  ‘If they are caught, the Security Police deal with them—as they did with those who kidnapped you, Madame Atherley!’

  Hetta had never heard very definitely what had happened to her captors; she had at first been too shattered by her experience, and then too busy falling in love with Atherley, and becoming engaged to him. Now, after a period in Spain, she had an uncomfortable idea of what probably lay behind Richard’s easy phrase ‘rounded up’. She put another question.

  ‘But if they were Spaniards?’

  ‘Then of course they would be handed over to the Spanish authorities; their Security Police are even tougher than our P.I.D.E. But it is most improbable that Spaniards would operate here. Why do you ask?’ He had seemed surprised.

  ‘Oh, it was a hypothetical question,’ she replied rather lamely. ‘Some agents were caught in Spain the other day, I believe.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it!’ the young man commented sourly—‘but not surprised. Since the Civil War Spain is full of Communists who have gone underground. The situation is much worse there than it is here, where they never got much of a hold. That is why the Spanish Security Police are so tough—they have to be. And anyhow Spaniards are rather cruel, in a way our people are not. I suppose they have more Moorish blood; the Moors used to be hideously cruel.’

  This conversation had not helped Hetta very much; in fact all it had done was to add a further facet to her malaise. Even if her suspicions were somehow proved to be correct, it would be a horrible thing to have been instrumental in handing men over to certain cruelty—Gil’s words about the Moors stuck like a burr in the back of her mind.

  Nick and his host made an early start next morning; by seven they were out in the vineyards to see the almost ritual cutting of the first bunch. After that the women worked methodically along the rows of vines, tossing the bunches into large baskets; they examined each one carefully, pinching out any unripe or mouldy grapes, before doing so. As the baskets were filled men came along and carried the full ones off to the adega, re-placing them with empties; it was all done very smoothly, and with a precision which Nick admired. It was some hours before the two men returned, hot and thirsty, for long cool drinks in the morning-room.

  ‘Yes, it is a magnificent crop,’ her Father said, in answer to a question from Luzia. ‘In fact Oliveira has been rather foolish this year—he miscalculated, and did not notify enough of our regular ranchos, so he has had to take on some strangers. I noticed at least three faces that I did not recognise. I do not care for casual labour; I prefer to employ the same people year after year.’

  Hetta pricked up her ears at this. Three strange faces! Might these be the men she had seen? Her disquiets returned, and it was rather uneasily that two evenings later, after an early dinner, she joined the others when they walked across to pay one of the Duke’s surprise visits to the adega.

  ‘Oh, but you must come and see it,’ Luzia protested, when she hesitated. ‘I expect they will have the musica up tonight, and then it is so gay.’

  In fact the scene in the adega, when they paused in the doorway to watch, was gay in the extreme. The treading was now well under way, and the chilly masses of grapes in the granite lagares had been reduced to the consistency of rather runny black-currant jam, the lagrima, as it is called before fermentation begins. In this dark syrupy stuff the treaders, with linked arms, were prancing to and fro; they had removed their trousers and were wearing very short flowered cotton pantettes. The musica had indeed come in, to cheer them on; under the unshielded electric lights a concertina and a couple of guitars, accompanied by several tambourines, were playing a lively folktune, and the shed was full of men and women dancing on the cement floor, while others beat time with their hands, or sang the words of the song. Luzia took a tambourine from one of the girls and handed it to Hetta—‘Beat it!’ she said peremptorily, and joined the dancers. In spite of herself Hetta was caught by this gaiety; she perched on a stool and pounded on her tambourine till the ball of her thumb ached. The Duke, looking pleased, asked the foreman of the ranchos if fermentation was beginning? Yes, in the earliest lagare, the nearest one; he dipped a thermometer in a metal frame, such as one uses for fruit-bottling, into the liquid, wiped it with his fingers, and held it out to be examined.

  ‘What does that tell you, Sir?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Fermentation brings on a rise of temperature; in this lagare it has begun. If you feel in the next one I expect you will find that it is still cold. The lagrima is very cold indeed.’

  ‘Where can I wa
sh my hands?’ the young man asked.

  ‘You need not do that,’ his host replied, laughing a little. ‘Fermentation is one of the most powerful sterilising agents that exist; it eliminates all impurities.’

  Nick put his hand into the next lagare. ‘It’s icy,’ he said, startled. ‘May I feel in this near one too?’

  ‘Of course—but it is not very warm yet; it is only part-way to becoming mosta—must, one should say in English.’

  Nick was full of questions. How often did they take the temperature of the must? How long must fermentation go on? Pleased, the Duke continued to explain the processes of wine-making; but Hetta, still mechanically pounding her tambourine, studied the faces of the treaders. Yes—in the furthest of the three lagares she saw a grey head, and then the man with the moustaches who had peered so intently at her through the reeds. When she could get her host’s attention she pointed them out to him—‘Are those two some of the strangers?’

  ‘The one with the grey hair is—yes, and that rather villainous-looking fellow with the moustaches.’

  ‘And do they eat and sleep with the others, in the place you showed us?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He was a little surprised at her interest in some casual labourers. But Hetta was determined to find out all she could while she had the chance.

  ‘I wonder where they come from?’ she speculated; the Duke spoke to the foreman.

  ‘He thinks they are Spaniards,’ he told her, ‘but he has no idea from what place they came. Of course we are not very far from the frontier here. Antonio does not think they are very accustomed to treading grapes,’ he added, smiling, ‘but at least they make up the team for the third lagare, so we are fortunate to have them.’ He turned back to Nick, and went on telling him about fermentation. ‘In the later stages it gives off carbon dioxide gas.’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous for the men?’

  ‘Oh no; it is very heavy, and only hangs in the air a few inches above the surface of the mosta. But if you hold a lighted match in it, it goes out instantly.’

  ‘I must see that!’ the young man said again—his eagerness pleased his host.

  ‘You shall—we will come down later on. For that, it is better when the wine is being rested; then the manta has formed on the top of the fluid, and the gas is undisturbed above that.’

  ‘The manta being?’

  ‘The stalks and skins and pips; they rise to the surface and form a sort of crust during the resting period.’

  Nick was amused that the Duke spoke only of the wine being rested; obviously the ranchos took their rest and food then too, but the important repose was that of their product! He asked how soon the gas might be expected to appear?

  ‘In another three or four days, shortly before the wine is run off.’

  Hetta, listening idly, her thoughts elsewhere, caught his words. Three or four days more treading; so the strangers would presumably remain at least for so long. That gave her only three days for certain, to make up her mind whether to mention her suspicions to anyone. She had very little to go on, in any case; but her main concern now was less the fear of being thought foolish than of doing something from which her heart and her conscience alike recoiled. If only she could ask advice from a completely independent source—but there was no one but the old Duque, who would certainly feel involved, and probably go straight to the authorities.

  Luzia noticed her friend’s silence and abstraction as they walked home, as she had noticed her hesitation about going to the adega at all; she asked her if she was tired?

  ‘No, not in the least.’

  It occurred to the young girl that perhaps Hetta was fretting for her husband, and to entertain and distract her she suggested that they might go for an expedition next day. ‘You have never been to Sta Maria da Trapa, have you, Hetta?’ she asked.

  ‘No—what is that?’

  ‘Oh, it is a most beautiful place—a convent of Cistercian nuns, with wonderful buildings, and unique statues. And it is a lovely drive there over the Serra. Papa!’ she called, interrupting her Father’s conversation with Nick—‘Hetta has never been to Sta Maria da Trapa. Could we not go tomorrow? She ought to see it, and Nick too.’

  ‘Nick cannot see much of it, since it is a convent of nuns,’ her Father replied.

  ‘Papa, do not be a tease! He can see the outer cloisters, and the Coro Baixo, and those fascinating painted statues, and the treasure.’

  ‘Yes, he can see those. Go by all means.’ He turned to Hetta. ‘A former acquaintance of yours is there just now, whom I think you used not to care for very much in old days.’

  ‘Who is that, Papa?’

  ‘Monsignor Subercaseaux.’

  ‘What is he doing there?’ Luzia asked in surprise.

  ‘He has not been well, and is gone there to rest and recuperate in the care of the good nuns, and to benefit from the mountain air. But you will not need to see him,’ he added to Hetta, with a small ironical smile.

  ‘Do you come, Papa?’

  ‘No, my child—I shall stay with my wine.’

  ‘I think perhaps I will ask the de Freitas to come with us,’ Luzia said. ‘They are staying at São Pedro do Sul, and their car is being repaired after that smash they had; they must be very dull, and he knows so much. We could pick them up on the way. I telephone’—and she ran off and did so.

  Luzia’s motive in inviting her car-less friends to join their expedition was not purely disinterested. Since her Father was not coming, an extra couple would mean that she could see more of Nick than if they went only with Hetta. But Hetta had her own reasons for hoping earnestly that the de Freitas would accept, and for thankful rejoicing when Luzia came back and said that they were delighted to come and were bringing a niece with them. Monsignor Subercaseaux was just exactly what she had been longing for, an independent person before whom she could lay her problem; and it would be much easier to escape from a number of people than from two. It was true that when she had first known the Monsignor immediately after her escape from Hungary, she had formed a rather unfavourable opinion of him; he was her Mother’s confessor, and she considered that he was not only worldly himself, but encouraged her parent in a quite excessive snobbery and concern for social success. But that was a long time ago; marriage, and several years of diplomatic life, had dissolved many of her early prejudices—she looked back with shame on the intolerance of her illinformed judgements in those days, for which her adored Father Antal Horvath had rebuked her at the time. She remembered his very words, à propos, precisely, of the Monsignor—‘And must all God’s servants be cast in the mould of which Hetta Páloczy approves?’ His sternness had made her cry, then; now she knew for herself that he was right, and thanked Heaven for the chance of seeing the social priest. See him she must—and before she went to sleep she composed a brief note in her room, begging him to see her immediately. She made several attempts before she found a formula which satisfied her as being sufficiently urgent, and yet not seeming hysterical. After all, he might well have disliked her, too!

  Sta Maria da Trapa lies at the head of a long shallow valley on the further, northern side of the Serra; the pine-clad slopes make a dark background to the complex of grey granite or whitewashed buildings. The road to it from Gralheira is rough and narrow, but the drive is a glorious one; great hills rise on either side, deep valleys sink away below. Professor de Freitas knew a great deal—Luzia was quite right about that—and on the way, from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, he gave the party in the big Humber some account of the convent’s history. A saintly princess retired to it in the thirteenth century, reformed the dress and manner of life of its occupants, and endowed it richly on her death. Hardly anything of the original house remains; owing to the royal scale of these endowments the place was repeatedly rebuilt, and what they were to see, the Professor told them, belonged almost wholly to the 17th and 18th centuries. ‘But those, with us, were a good period, architecturally,’ he pronounced.

  They could only agre
e when, on arriving, he led them into the outer cloister, a great open square surrounded by large plain arches, surmounted by an exquisitely graceful baroque pediment containing an oval window above every arch, with urns topped by flambeaux in between—the whole lime-washed to a dazzling whiteness. But when he took them over to admire the carving on the well-head in the centre Hetta slipped out and round to the entrance of the convent proper, where she pulled hard on a small chain; a thin tinkling answered her pull. After what seemed to her a long time, in her anxiety and impatience, she heard steps and the jingle of keys inside the massive door; bolts were shot back, and the door was opened a little way, revealing a very old bent nun. Hetta, in her rather uncertain Portuguese, asked for ‘the Monsignore’, and held out her note; the nun looked doubtful, but said that she would enquire if he would see a visitor. Hetta managed to slip in past her, and said firmly that she would wait in the portress’s small cubby-hole of a lodge; she was afraid that if she stayed outside she might be caught by the others, and her plan interfered with. The nun, looking more doubtful than ever, gave her a chair, and went shuffling and jingling away.

  A long pause ensued. Hetta waited in a fever of nervousness. Would he see her? Would she be able to make her fears sound reasonable? She tried to compose herself, and said some fervent prayers. At last the old portress came back, led her upstairs and along several corridors, and showed her into a typical convent parloir—a vase of flowers stood on a bare wooden table so polished that the sweet-peas were reflected in its shining surface, four plain wooden chairs were ranged round the walls, a large crucifix hung over the mantel-piece. Then the door opened again, and in came Monsignor Subercaseaux.

  ‘My dear Mrs. Atherley!—this indeed is a great pleasure! Is your husband with you? Oh, he remains in Madrid? I should so much like to see him again—in the past he and I were—fellow-conspirators, let us say! I trust he is well? And you? But what have you done to your hand?’

  This effusiveness was at once a relief to Hetta, and rather threw her off balance. She began by using his question about her hand, which was still in a sling, as an entrée en matière.