The Car of Destiny
but certain it is that in less than the five minutes allowed by Pilar for
the working of her father’s fascinations, we were inside the forbidden
precincts, accompanied by a lamb-like attendant.
It was from him that we must learn what we wished to know; but it would be
unwise to betray a premature thirst for information on any subject save
the history or beauties of the Alcázar. Asking a question now and then of
our guide, we wandered from _patio_ to _patio_, from room to room of that
wonderful royal dwelling once called “the house of Cæsar.” Many a rude
shock and vicissitude had it sustained when Goths fought for it with
Romans, when Moors seized it from Christians, when Christians won it back,
and conducted themselves within its jewelled walls in ways unworthy of
their faith and boasted chivalry, yet the beauties which Pedro the Cruel
restored in admiring imitation of the Alhambra, glowed still with undimmed
splendour, in the sunshine of this twentieth century afternoon.
If I had not been preoccupied by my own private and extremely modern
anxieties, I should have let imagination work the spell it longed to work,
and make of me some humble character gliding shadow-like, but ever
observant, through tale after tale of the “Arabian Nights.” In just such a
palace as this had the Seven Calenders lost each an eye; behind any one of
these fretted arches might one come upon a king, half man, half jet-black
marble. The most captious of genies could have found no fault with the
Hall of the Ambassadors save the absence of the roc’s egg; and despite my
impatience the storied enchantment of the place soon had me in its grip.
Scheherezade, I said to myself, could have invented no tales to surpass in
thrilling interest the scenes which had been enacted here. The drama of
widowed Egilona and her handsome Moorish prince, ruined by her love; the
tragedy of Abu Said, done to death by Pedro for the sake of his “fair
ruby, great as a racket ball,” and the store of gems for which men still
search secretly in hidden nooks of the Alcázar; the murder of the young
Master of Santiago, who came to Pedro as an honoured guest; the love story
of Maria de Padilla, whose spirit, the guardian whispered, could be seen
to this day flitting in moonlight and shadow along her favourite garden
walks, or trailing white robes through rooms which had been hers.
“Perhaps, as the moon is full, Maria will appear to-night in the garden to
the Duke of Carmona and his guests,” said Pilar; and I knew from this
preface that our probation was at an end.
The attendant laughed. “Perhaps,” he replied; “but I think there will be
too much noise to please her. The Duke has engaged a troupe of dancers and
guitarists to entertain his friends.”
“No doubt King Don Pedro used to amuse his in the same way,” remarked the
Cherub, “employing the forerunners of Ramiro Olivero and his school
maybe.”
“It is Ramiro Olivero who performs to-night,” said the attendant, playing
into our hands.
“Of course! He is the favoured one in such affairs,” assented the Cherub.
“It ought to be a pretty entertainment, and interesting to the Duke’s
English guests. It will be somewhere in the gardens?”
“In the lower garden of the Moorish kiosk,” was the unsuspecting reply.
Pilar looked at me, and her eyes said, “The key you wanted is in your
hand.”
XXVII
MOONLIGHT IN THE GARDEN
When the Cherub dies and is gathered to his Irish and Spanish fathers (far
distant be the day!) he will not know a happy moment in Paradise unless he
is doing something ingenuously kind for somebody. It is my conviction that
he will have to be made a guardian angel; and I mentioned this theory to
him as he took me to the house of Ramiro Olivero, ex-bull-fighter, present
professor of Spanish dancing.
The others were waiting in the car, as, according to the Cherub’s plan of
campaign, he and I were to visit Olivero alone.
We climbed many stairs to the flat where the celebrated man lives and
conducts his school for dancing. He it was who came to the door, and it
was a sight worth seeing to watch his somewhat hard, middle-aged features
relax in response to cherubic murmurings.
Colonel O’Donnel remembered Señor Olivero since the time when he was a
_banderillero_; oh, incomparably the most brilliant _banderillero_ of his
day. Then, afterwards, what triumphs as a _torero_! Ah, that was something
for an old admirer to remember. Not to regret, naturally, since the señor
was as great an artist in his present profession as in that other
doubtless sacrificed to family affections.
This gentleman whom he (Colonel O’Donnel) now ventured to introduce was
from England, travelling with a friend from the States who wrote articles
on Spain for well-known journals. The American could speak no Spanish, but
with the gentleman from England it was like the native tongue. Therefore
it was he who most often attended important ceremonies, and made notes for
his friend to work up into articles. This entertainment in which Señor
Olivero was assisting the Duke of Carmona, for instance; it would be all
that was characteristic of Spain, as well as beautiful. If the señor would
allow the gentleman from England to enter the Alcázar as one of his
guitarists, an article could be made for the great American newspapers
which would not only be a credit to the journalist, but would widely
advertise the skill of Señor Olivero and his pupils.
If every man has his price, it was not derogatory to his merits that these
pearls of flattery should be the price which bought Olivero. Not a penny
was to be paid for the favour. When the word “money” was hinted, rather
than spoken, the ex-hero of the bull-ring waved it away with a superb
gesture. But he would be glad to see the articles when they appeared; and
this was promised, for Dick must write them for the neglected papers he
was supposed to represent.
In return for the promise (and the compliments), it was arranged that I
should present myself at his house about ten o’clock (the dance was timed
to begin at 10.45), there dress for my part, and be furnished with a
guitar. Once inside the Alcázar I need not play upon the instrument; but,
said Olivero, it was well that I should be able to do so if called upon.
My costume was to be a short _chulo_ jacket and tight-hipped, loose-legged
grey trousers, with a low-collared, unstarched shirt, and a broad-brimmed
grey sombrero de Cordoba. With this hat, well tipped over my eyes, in
moonlight or even spasmodic rose-and-gold bursts of coloured fire,
recognition would be impossible at a distance; and I meant to keep at a
distance from all the Duke’s party—with one exception.
By the time the plan was mapped out, it was nearly seven o’clock, but the
O’Donnels still urged me to dine at the Cortijo de Santa Rufina. The
Gloria would eat up the six miles distance in ten minutes; I could bathe
and dress before 8.15, when dinner would be ready (a telegram had been
sent to the servants from Cordoba), and rested and refreshed, I could
start for Seville in the car again at half-past nine.
So we flashed out across the Guadalquivir, by way of the bridge of Isabel
Segunda, into that strange suburb which gave Trajan birth, and my family
their name; ancient Trajana, now Triana, town of potters, picadores, and
gypsies.
Dark-browed boys played _toreros_ to our car as bull, their coats
_muletas_, sticks their _banderillas_, yelling and springing lithely aside
as the enemy rushed on them. Girls, handsome as Carmen, flung us flowers,
staring boldly eye to eye; and this was my welcome to the place near which
the Casa Trianas had once lived and thought themselves great!
Almost could I have seen the towers of the old house—now the property of
the King—as we passed into open country again; but I did not speak, nor
did the others, though the thought in my mind must have been in Pilar’s
and Colonel O’Donnel’s.
Five miles more, through falling dusk and sweet country scents and we
turned off the main road into another, gleaming white as a path of snow in
the opal twilight. Then, in a wide-reaching plantation of olives, spraying
silver on a ruddy soil where glimmered irrigation tanks and grinding
mills, we came upon a large, irregular clump of white buildings grouped
together, and made one by a high wall with an open belfry at one corner.
“Here we are at home!” exclaimed the Cherub with a contented sigh, as he
gently touched Ropes’ shoulder. “Welcome, dear friends, to the Cortijo de
Santa Rufina. It, and all within its walls, is at your disposition.”
We drove in through a wide gate in the outer wall, where there was a
clamour of greeting from the steward, many servants, and more dogs, dogs
of all races, who selected Pilar for their wildest demonstrations. In a
second she was out of the car, and half drowned in a wave of tumultuous
doghood. Laughing, shaking hands with the servants, patting or suppressing
greyhounds, collies, setters, retrievers, she had never seemed so
charming. This was the _real_ Pilar—Pilar at home; the Pilar it would be
next to impossible to uproot from such associations. Again, poor Dick! And
now he no longer tried to hide the loving admiration in his eyes. I think
he would even have done his best to fondle a wild bull or two of her
acquaintance had they been among the friends who gave her welcome.
Away boomed the Gloria to the stables—the sole garage at the Cortijo—while
we were bidden through the Moorish entrance-porch and wrought-iron
_cancela_ into a _patio_ surrounded on all sides by an arcade, roofed with
green and brown tiling. The supporting pillars were of pale pink brick,
not marble, and the pavement was of brick also, interset with a pattern of
small blue tiles. But the tiles were old and good; from a carved stone
basin in the middle of the court sprang the tall crystal stem of a
fountain, blossoming into diamonds; pearly arum lilies, pink azaleas, and
pale green hydrangeas bloomed in huge white and blue and yellow pots from
Triana, of the same beautiful shapes made before Santa Justa and Santa
Rufina knew they were saints, and undertook to keep the Giralda from
falling.
The windows leading into the rooms surrounding the _patio_ were large as
doors, and all were hospitably open, giving through thin curtains glimpses
of old furniture carefully grouped to please a woman’s dainty taste. Pilar
again—always Pilar! Here were her _lares_ and _penates_; and she was a
goddess among lesser household gods. I knew that it would be safer for
Dick to say a hasty good-bye upon the threshold; but I knew also that no
power on earth could force him to do it.
“This is only a farm, you know,” said the girl, meekly, all the while
dimpling with pride in her home and what she had made it; “for we are only
farmers, aren’t we, Papa.”
Our rooms—Dick’s and mine—were not overstocked with furniture; but there
were two or three things for which an antiquary would have pawned his
soul. On one side, our windows looked upon the _patio_; on the other, we
gazed through iron bars over olives and meadows where grain was green.
There was no sound save the tinkling rain of the fountain, and now and
then the sleepy note of a bird, or a far-away lowing of cattle—perhaps the
welcoming bellow of Vivillo, the brown bull which was the sole possession
of Carmona coveted by Pilar.
The two servants who waited at dinner were wreathed in smiles at seeing
again their master and mistress; and their occasional furtive glances of
interest in my direction made me wonder if they had not received
mysterious instructions as to how they must answer any questions
concerning me. But, whatever those instructions might be, I was sure they
would be loyally carried out; for the Cherub is a man servants would obey