At first the duchess indignantly refused. She would never suffer the humiliation of appealing to her greatest enemy. Sooner might the ancient house of Dos Palos fall in ruin. The Archbishop was accustomed to dealing with tiresome women. He set himself with gentle cunning to induce her to change her mind and presently she consented to throw herself on the Frenchwoman’s mercy. With rage in her heart she sent a message asking if she might see her, and that afternoon was ushered into her drawing-room. The countess of course had been one of the first to hear the story, but she listened to the unhappy mother as though she had not known a thing about it. She relished the situation enormously. It was the crowning triumph to have the vindictive duchess on her knees before her. But she was at heart a good-natured woman and she had a sense of humour.
‘It’s a most unfortunate situation,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry that one of my servants should be the occasion of it. But I don’t exactly see what I can do.’
The duchess would have liked to slap her painted face and her voice trembled a little with the effort she made to control her anger.
‘It is not for my own sake I’m asking you to help. It’s for Pilar’s. I know, we all know, that you are the cleverest woman in the city. It seemed to me, it seemed to the Archbishop, that if there was a way out, your quick wit would find it.’
The countess knew she was being grossly flattered. She did not mind. She liked it.
‘You must let me think.’
‘Of course, if he’d been a gentleman I could have sent for my son and he would have killed him, but the Duke of Dos Palos cannot fight a duel with the Countess de Marbella’s coachman.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘In the old days it would have been so simple. I should merely have hired a couple of ruffians and had the brute’s throat cut one night in the street. But with all these laws they have nowadays decent people have no way of protecting themselves from insult.’
‘I should deplore any method of settling the difficulty that deprived me of the services of an excellent coachman,’ murmured the countess.
‘But if he married my daughter he cannot continue to be your coachman,’ cried the duchess indignantly.
‘Are you going to give Pilar an income for them to live on?’
‘Me? Not a peseta. I told Pilar at once that she should get nothing from me. They can starve for all I care.’
‘Well, I should think rather than do that he will prefer to stay on as my coachman. There are very nice rooms over my stables.’
The duchess went pale. The duchess went red.
‘Forget all that has passed between us. Let us be friends. You can’t expose me to such a humiliation. If I’ve ever done things to affront you I ask you on my knees to forgive me.’
The duchess cried.
‘Dry your eyes, Duchess,’ the Frenchwoman said at last. ‘I will do what I can.’
‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘Perhaps. Is it true that Pilar has and will have no money of her own?’
‘Not a penny if she marries without my consent.’
The countess gave her one of her brightest smiles.
‘There is a common impression that southern people are romantic and northern people matter-of-fact. The reverse is true. It is the northerners who are incurably romantic. I have lived long enough among you Spaniards to know that you are nothing if not practical.’
The duchess was too broken to resent openly these unpleasant remarks, but, oh, how she hated the woman! The Countess de Marbella rose to her feet.
‘You shall hear from me in the course of the day.’
She firmly dismissed her visitor.
The carriage was ordered for five o’clock and at ten minutes to, the countess, dressed for her drive, sent for José. When he came into the drawing-room, wearing his pale grey livery with such an air, she could not deny that he was very good to look upon. If he had not been her own coachman – well, it was not the moment for ideas of that sort. He stood before her, holding himself easily, but with a gallant swagger. There was nothing servile in his bearing.
‘A Greek god,’ the countess murmured to herself. ‘It is only Andalusia that can produce such types.’ And then aloud: ‘I hear that you are going to marry the daughter of the Duchess of Dos Palos.’
‘If the countess does not object.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Whoever you marry is a matter of complete indifference to me. You know of course that Doña Pilar will have no fortune.’
‘Yes, madam. I have a good place and I can keep my wife. I love her.’
‘I can’t blame you for that. She is a beautiful girl. But I think it only right to tell you that I have a rooted objection to married coachmen. On your wedding-day you leave my service. That is all I had to say to you. You can go.’
She began to look at the daily paper that had just arrived from Paris, but José, as she expected, did not stir. He stared down at the floor. Presently the countess looked up.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I never knew madam would send me away,’ he answered in a troubled tone.
‘I have no doubt you’ll find another place.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Well, what is it?’ she asked sharply.
He sighed miserably.
‘There’s not a pair of mules in the whole of Spain to come up to ours. They’re almost human beings. They understand every word I say to them.’
The countess gave him a smile that would have turned the head of anyone who was not madly in love already.
‘I’m afraid you must choose between me and your betrothed.’
He shifted from one foot to the other. He put his hand to his pocket to get himself a cigarette, but then, remembering where he was, restrained the gesture. He glanced at the countess and that peculiar shrewd smile came over his face which those who have lived in Andalusia know so well.
‘In that case, I can’t hesitate. Pilar must see that this alters my position entirely. One can get a wife any day of the week, but a place like this is found only once in a lifetime. I should be a fool to throw it up for a woman.’
That was the end of the adventure. Jose Leon continued to drive the Countess de Marbella, but she noticed when they sped up and down the Delicias that henceforward as many eyes were turned on her handsome coachman as on her latest hat: and a year later Pilar married the Marqués de San Esteban.
The point of honour
SOME YEARS AGO, being engaged on writing a book about Spain in the Golden Age, I had occasion to read again the plays of Calderón. Among others I read one called El Médico de su Honra, which means the Physician of his Honour. It is a cruel play and you can hardly read it without a shudder. But re-reading it, I was reminded of an encounter I had had many years before which has always remained in my memory as one of the strangest I have ever known. I was quite young then and I had gone to Seville on a short visit to see the celebration of the Feast of Corpus Christi. It was the height of summer and the heat was terrific. Great sail-cloths were drawn across the narrow streets, giving a grateful shade, but in the squares the sun beat down mercilessly. In the morning I watched the procession. It was splendid and impressive. The crowd knelt down as the Host was solemnly carried past, and the Civil Guards in full uniform stood at salute to do homage to the heavenly King. And in the afternoon I joined the dense throng which was making its way to the bull-ring. The cigarette girls and the sewing girls wore carnations in their dark hair and their young men were dressed in all their best. It was just after the Spanish-American war, and the short, embroidered jacket, the skin-tight trousers, and the broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat were still worn. Sometimes the crowd was scattered by a picador on the wretched hack that would never survive the afternoon, and the rider, with conscious pride in his picturesque costume, exchanged pleasantries with the facetious. A long line of carriages, dilapidated and shabby, overfilled with aficionados, drove noisily along.
I went earl
y, for it amused me to see the people gradually filling the vast arena. The cheaper seats in the sun were already packed, and it was a curious effect that the countless fans made, like the fluttering of a host of butterflies, as men and women restlessly fanned themselves. In the shade, where I was sitting, the places were taken more slowly, but even there, an hour before the fight began, one had to look rather carefully for a seat. Presently a man stopped in front of me and with a pleasant smile asked if I could make room for him. When he had settled down, I took a sidelong glance at him and noticed that he was well-dressed, in English clothes, and looked like a gentleman. He had beautiful hands, small but resolute, with thin, long fingers. Wanting a cigarette, I took out my case and thought it would be polite to offer him one. He accepted. He had evidently seen that I was a foreigner, for he thanked me in French.
‘You are English?’ he went on.
‘Yes.’
‘How is it you haven’t run away from the heat?’
I explained that I had come on purpose to see the Feast of Corpus Christi.
‘After all, it’s something you must come to Seville for.’
Then I made some casual remark about the vast concourse of people.
‘No one would imagine that Spain was bleeding from the loss of all that remained of her Empire and that her ancient glory is now nothing but a name.’
‘There’s a great deal left.’
‘The sunshine, the blue sky, and the future.’
He spoke dispassionately, as though the misfortunes of his fallen country were no concern of his. Not knowing what to reply, I remained silent. We waited. The boxes began to fill up. Ladies in their mantillas of black or white lace entered them and spread their Manila shawls over the balustrade so as to form a gay and many-coloured drapery. Now and then, when one of them was of particular beauty, a round of applause would greet her appearance and she would smile and bow without embarrassment. At last the president of the bull-fight made his entry, the band struck up, and the fighters, all glittering in their satin and gold and silver, marched swaggering across the ring. A minute later a great black bull charged in. Carried away by the horrible excitement of the contest, I noticed, notwithstanding, that my neighbour remained cool. When a man fell and only escaped by a miracle the horns of the furious beast, and with a gasp thousands sprang to their feet, he remained motionless. The bull was killed and the mules dragged out the huge carcass. I sank back exhausted.
‘Do you like bull-fighting?’ he asked me. ‘Most English do, though I have noticed that in their own country they say hard enough things about it.’
‘Can one like something that fills one with horror and loathing? Each time I come to a fight I swear I will never go to another. And yet I do.’
‘It’s a curious passion that leads us to delight in the peril of others. Perhaps it’s natural to the human race. The Romans had their gladiators and the moderns have their melodramas. It may be that it is an instinct in man to find pleasure in bloodshed and torture.’
I did not answer directly.
‘Don’t you think that the bull-fight is the reason why human life is of so little account in Spain?’
‘And do you think human life is of any great account?’ he asked.
I gave him a quick look, for there was an ironical tone in his voice that no one could have missed, and I saw that his eyes were full of mockery. I flushed a little, for he made me on a sudden feel very young. I was surprised at the change of his expression. He had seemed rather an amiable man, with his large soft friendly eyes, but now his face bore a look of sardonic hauteur which was a trifle disquieting. I shrank back into my shell. We said little to one another during the rest of the afternoon, but when the last bull was killed and we all rose to our feet he shook hands with me and expressed the hope that we might meet again. It was a mere politeness and neither of us, I imagine, thought that there was even a remote possibility of it.
But quite by chance, two or three days later, we did. I was in a quarter of Seville that I did not know very well. I had been that afternoon to the palace of the Duke of Alba, which I knew had a fine garden and in one of the rooms a magnificent ceiling reputed to have been made by Moorish captives before the fall of Granada. It was not easy to gain admittance, but I wanted very much to see it and thought that now, in the height of summer when there were no tourists, with two or three pesetas I might be allowed in. I was disappointed. The man in charge told me that the house was under repair and no stranger could visit it without a written permission from the Duke’s agent. So, having nothing else to do, I went to the royal garden of the Alcázar, the old palace of Don Pedro the Cruel, whose memory lives still among the people of Seville. It was very pleasant among the orange trees and cypresses. I had a book with me, a volume of Calderón, and I sat there for a while and read. Then I went for a stroll. In the older parts of Seville the streets are narrow and tortuous. It is delicious to wander along them under the awnings that stretch above, but not easy to find one’s way. I lost mine. When I had just made up my mind that I had no notion in which direction to turn I saw a man walking towards me and recognized my acquaintance of the bull-ring. I stopped him and asked whether he could direct me. He remembered me.
‘You’ll never find your way,’ he smiled, turning round. ‘I’ll walk a little with you until you can’t mistake it.’
I protested, but he would not listen. He assured me it was no trouble.
‘You haven’t gone away then?’ he said.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve just been to the Duke of Alba’s house. I wanted to see that Moorish ceiling of his, but they wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Are you interested in Arabic art?’
‘Well, yes. I’ve heard that that ceiling is one of the finest things in Seville.’
‘I think I could show you one as good.’
‘Where?’
He looked at me for a moment reflectively as though wondering what sort of a person I was. If he was, he evidently came to a satisfactory decision.
‘If you have ten minutes to spare I will take you to it.’
I thanked him warmly and we turned back and retraced our steps. We chatted of indifferent things till we came to a large house, washed in pale green, with the Arabic look of a prison, the windows on the street heavily barred, which so many houses in Seville have. My guide clapped his hands at the gateway and a servant looked out from a window into the patio, and pulled a cord.
‘Whose house is this?’
‘Mine.’
I was surprised, for I knew how jealously Spaniards guarded their privacy and how little inclined they were to admit strangers into their houses. The heavy iron gate swung open and we walked into the courtyard; we crossed it and went through a narrow passage. Then I found myself suddenly in an enchanted garden. It was walled on three sides, with walls as high as houses; and their old red brick, softened by time, was covered with roses. They clad every inch in wanton, scented luxuriance. In the garden, growing wildly, as if the gardeners had striven in vain to curb the exuberance of nature, were palm-trees rising high into the air in their passionate desire for the sun, dark orange-trees and trees in flower whose names I did not know, and among them roses and more roses. The fourth wall was a Moorish loggia, with horseshoe arches heavily decorated with tracery, and when we entered this I saw the magnificent ceiling. It was like a little bit of the Alcázar, but it had not suffered the restorations that have taken all the charm from that palace, and the colours were exquisitely tender. It was a gem.
‘Believe me, you need not regret that you have not been able to see the duke’s house. Further, you can say that you have seen something that no other foreigner has seen within living memory.’
‘It’s very kind of you to have shown it to me. I’m infinitely grateful.’
He looked about him with a pride with which I could sympathize.
‘It was built by one of my own ancestors in the time of Don Pedro the Cruel. It is very likely that the King himself more
than once caroused under this ceiling with my ancestor.’
I held out the book I was carrying.
‘I’ve just been reading a play in which Don Pedro is one of the important characters.’
‘What is the book?’
I handed it to him and he glanced at the title. I looked about me. ‘Of course, what adds to the beauty is that wonderful garden,’ I said. ‘The whole impression is awfully romantic.’
The Spaniard was evidently pleased with my enthusiasm. He smiled. I had already noticed how grave his smile was. It hardly dispelled the habitual melancholy of his expression.
‘Would you like to sit down for a few minutes and smoke a cigarette?’
‘I should love to.’
We walked out into the garden and came upon a lady sitting on a bench of Moorish tiles like those in the gardens of the Alcázar. She was working at some embroidery. She looked up quickly, evidently taken aback to see a stranger, and gave my companion an inquiring stare.
‘Allow me to present you to my wife,’ he said.
The lady gravely bowed. She was very beautiful, with magnificent eyes, a straight nose with delicate nostrils, and a pale smooth skin. In her black hair, abundant as with most Spanish women, there was a broad white streak. Her face was quite unlined and she could not have been more than thirty.
Collected Short Stories: Volume 1 Page 42
