The Car of Destiny
coarse green pottery, jars of flowers, or astonished babies.
There was no space for dwellers in these shadowed lanes to rush from their
houses before our car, when warned by the “choof, choof” of the motor as
we rattled over the “agony stones,” that something extraordinary was
coming; but mothers shrieked for their offspring, while young girls hailed
their friends to the free show; and men, women, and children jostled each
other good-naturedly in every window and door as we approached, pouring
out in our wake, though seemingly half afraid even then that the dragon
might take to charging back upon them.
Beautiful faces peered from behind rusty bars, with eyes to tempt any man
to “eat iron,” as the saying is. Dark men with sun-warmed eyes, and black
heads wrapped in handkerchiefs of scarlet silk, stared curiously at
Pilar’s veil; and when we emerged from the stone-and-plaster labyrinth,
into a wider space where the hotel stands like an ancient palace, we were
swamped by the laughing crowd which had formed into a trotting procession
behind us.
Just as the marble whiteness of the _patio_ cooled our eyes, down the
stairs came those with whom my thoughts had raced ahead; the Duchess of
Carmona; Monica and her mother; behind them the Duke.
Monica grew rose-red at sight of us. Her elders, not in the Duke’s
confidence concerning the Gloria’s disabilities, appeared as little
surprised as pleased; but Carmona’s various and visible emotions included
extreme astonishment. I looked at him, my cap off for the ladies, smiling
and nonchalant as if nothing had happened since our last meeting; and
despite the self-control inherited from Oriental ancestors, for an instant
he tried in vain to hide mingled rage and bewilderment. Possibly he might
have fancied that we had come by train, had not Ropes been starting the
car at that moment, _en route_ for some resting-place masquerading as a
garage; and the “choof, choof” of my Gloria came in through the open doors
like a defiant laugh.
Then he must have wondered how, by all that was demoniac, we had contrived
to track him to Toledo!
“This is quite a surprise, Señor Duque!” said I, as we met in the _patio_
at the foot of the stairs.
“Ye—es,” he answered, tugging at his moustache, and wishing us and our car
on some uninhabited planet.
“And a great pleasure!”
“Um—er—of course,” he mumbled; and I dared not meet Monica’s laughing
eyes, lest our lips should laugh as well.
They went to lunch; but we were not many moments behind, and Pilar,
murmuring in my ear, “Cats may look at a king, whether the king likes or
not,” gaily selected a table next to the others. She then kept up a stream
of talk with Monica, exchanging impressions of Madrid. “Didn’t you love
the shops?” she asked. “And shall you buy Toledo things to-day; scarf-pins
and hatpins and paper-knives; or did you buy too many yesterday?”
“I think I bought _just enough_,” said Monica, with a quick smile. “But I
shall get more here. We’re going to a metal work-shop, after the
cathedral.”
But this was sheer audacity, and was punished as I feared it would be.
Not wishing to pursue with too conspicuous violence, lest we defeat our
object, we let Carmona’s party leave the dining-room before us. A quarter
of an hour later we followed, going out into the strange grey streets,
haunted by men and women who have made history. Dick (armed with a book by
Leonard Williams, greatest of authorities on Spain) was allowed to walk
beside Pilar, while that most unsuspecting and kindly of chaperons, the
Cherub, bestowed his society on me. But, according to his habit, he was
often silent, giving me time to dream of Toledo’s past.
Picturesque enough were the figures of to-day in the old grey capital of
the Visigoths, yet they were not as real for me as other figures which
only my mind’s eye could see.
Here was the long, flat façade of the building legend had chosen as the
palace of Wamba the Benefactor—the Farmer King. I saw the old man waking
to life in the dungeon where the treachery of one loved and trusted had
thrown him, dressed in the monkish garb which never again could be changed
for robes of state. I saw a haggard company of Jews marching into
“Tarshish,” scarred and bleeding from the persecutions of Nebuchadnezzar
who had flung them from Jerusalem. I saw Moorish men fighting to take
Toledo—the “Lookout,” “the Light of the World,” and fighting again to save
it for themselves.
There, in the towering Alcázar, had Rodrigo betrayed his beautiful queen,
Egilona, for the still more beautiful Florinda, daughter of Julian,
Espatorios of Spain; at least, so legend said, mingling the romantic music
of its ballads inextricably with the deep organ notes of history. Below,
on the cliff above the Tagus, in the Tower of Hercules, had Rodrigo taken
the painted linen cloths from the enchanted casket, and seen the awful
vision of the Moorish horde with his own figure fleeing before them, one
day when he forgot the prophecy which warned all kings of Spain against
entering that mysterious, locked door.
Up this narrow street in the town, behind that barred window with its
curious cannon-ball decorations, perhaps the incomparable Doña Flor of
Dumas’ “Bandit” had smiled and pierced the heart of the “Courier of Love”
with her beauty.
It was like awaking from a brilliant dream when the Cherub stopped
abruptly, to point up at the vast, incongruous bulk of the cathedral
towering over us. But there was nothing incongruous in the rich, Gothic
splendour within; and my sole shock of disappointment came when I gave up
hope of finding Monica.
They had punished her by changing their plan of campaign, and I must seek
her elsewhere. But I could not wrench my friends from this great monument
of Spanish glory, merely because I cared more to look on Monica Vale’s
face than the face of any saint, carved or painted by a master’s hand.
I stayed, therefore, finding such consolation as I could in the jewelled
gleam of rare old glass, the magnificence of bronze doors; tombs of kings
and heroes; and all the wonders of gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds
which, stored in the sacristy, do honour to the famous Black Virgin, the
cathedral’s Queen.
Coming out again into the town was like stepping with a single stride back
from Europe into Africa; for nowhere can Moslem and Christian
civilizations be more closely tangled than in Toledo. Moorish streets were
like scimitar strokes cleft deep in the city; narrow chasms lined with
secretive houses, giving here and there a glimpse of some bright, flowery
_patio_, through half-open doors studded with iron bosses, and heavy
enough to resist a siege; yet above the tiled roofs soared Christian
spires in the translucent blue.
No one cared for us now that we were no longer gods in a car, except an
occasional beggar, to whom the Cherub would murmur, “God will aid you,
sister!” “Pardon me, brother!” and then, changing his mind, drop a penny
into a withered old hand, or a pink, childish palm.
“They’ll leave the shopping to the last, because Lady Monica told us it
was to be done first,” said Pilar sagely; so we wandered through the
shabby aisles of Rag Fair, Pilar hoping against hope to unearth a
treasure; because, did not a man once pick up, for a song, a Greco worth a
fortune, and did not one always find something at least amusing in the Rag
Fair of Madrid? Thence we went on to the Moorish mosque, which the
Visigoths began, and so to San Juan de los Reyes, which, Pilar said, I
must like better than anything else in Toledo, because she did. With an
air of possession she explained the votive chains of captive Christians
darkly festooning the outer walls, and I did not tell her I had heard the
story long ago. She shuddered as she pointed to the crucifix which used to
go with the procession of the _auto-da-fé_. “Only think how different
times are now!” said she. “When Philip the Second was going to be married
to his bride, not fourteen, a great show in honour of the marriage was a
burning of heretics, here in the Zoco—the market-place of Toledo! I
shouldn’t have cared much to see a royal wedding then. I don’t even like
to look at that crucifix, it gives me such thoughts. But see, aren’t those
carved stone galleries where Ferdinand and Isabel used to hear mass, like
two great chased silver goblets? I hope the king and queen never sat there
watching the poor wretches bound before marching off to the Zoco to die;
but I’m sure Isabel wouldn’t: she was so sweet, she must often have wished
she hadn’t made that awful promise to Torquemada.”
“You’re Catholic, yet you say that!” I exclaimed, as we stood looking at
the gorgeous shields of Los Reyes Católicos. Dick was near, listening with
concealed eagerness for the girl’s answer,—and no wonder, since he was
Protestant, and not the man to be a turncoat, even for his love.
“Oh yes, I’m Catholic,” said she. “But,”—half whispering,—“Spaniards, even
the most ardent Catholics, didn’t really love the Inquisition. It was
thrust on them; and—I suppose in those brutal old days it was a horrible
excitement to see the burnings. It’s natural to us Latins to have
excitement; and after years of such dreadful ones as we had in those
times, do you wonder the people clamour for bull-fights?”
“Then you don’t think we Protestants deserve burning?” asked Dick, staring
at the crucifix.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“But you—couldn’t make a real _friend_ of one, I suppose, or—er—let
yourself care about one much?”
“I should try and convert him—or her.”
“Supposing you couldn’t?”
“Then, I’d have to like him—or her—in spite of all. And he—or she—would
have to leave my religion alone. But I’m tired of solemn things; and
brother Cristóbal’s dying to buy metal-work.”
I don’t think that Dick knew whether he had been encouraged or not. And he
must have remembered that the Conde de Roldan is the best and most
eligible of Catholics. Poor Dick! Perhaps he was beginning to realize how
much easier it is to advise another man to be sensible than to be sensible
yourself.
Pilar had been right in her surmises as to the workings of Carmona’s mind.
When we came to the showroom of the Fabrica de Espadas, where the dusk was
shot with a thousand gleams and glitters of strange weapons, there were
those we had sought in vain till now. The Duchess, yellow with fatigue,
was resting her stout person on a bench in the long, low room, Lady
Vale-Avon beside her, looking tired and bored. But Carmona was at the
glass-covered counter, begging Monica’s advice in the selection of his
purchases.
His back was towards us as we entered, and, unnoticed by him, we saw him
hold up to the light a small sharp dagger, with a handle beautifully
ornamented. He was indicating with his finger, for Monica’s benefit, the
delicate tracery upon gold, when, warned by lack of attention and
wandering glances on the part of his companion, he turned in our
direction. Then, hastily laying down the dagger, he pushed it away as
though resenting the intrusion of our eyes.
“After all, we went to the Cave of Hercules,” said Monica, “and to the
house where the Moorish nobles were supposed to be murdered; so we missed
you when we got to the cathedral. Señorita O’Donnel, do come and help me
choose presents for some girls at home, in England.”
She spoke brightly, yet wistfully, as if wondering whether she would be
allowed to go back to those girls, a girl herself, and able to call
England home.
Pilar crossed to her at once, and Dick and I followed. The good Cherub
tactfully engaged the attention of the Duchess and Lady Vale-Avon, looking
so innocent that it was more than they could do to be rude to him. And
while the Duke sulked, we picked out wonderful knives and forks for our