The Car of Destiny
maybe half-past. What does a little time matter? But mass is being said.
Who knows that the old Duchess may not have had a religious fit, and come
to hear it, bringing her friends?”
No more was needed to make me anxious to go in; and we entered the
cathedral, which is, to my mind, the most beautiful, inspiring, and poetic
in the world.
The two O’Donnels flitted away in the dusk, mysterious as the twilight of
the gods, and we guessed that they were going to hear mass. Soon they
found us again. They had not seen those for whom we searched; but the
procession was starting.
We made haste out before it, and none too soon, for it billowed forth
after us in a glitter of gold and purple vestments, and tall, bleached
palm-branches like beams of moonlight streaming against the blue of the
morning sky.
“They’re not here,” said Pilar, when the last gleaming crucifix and waving
palm, blessed by the bishop, had disappeared. “I was sure they wouldn’t
come. And—it does seem hard to disappoint you—but I’m afraid they won’t be
in their box this afternoon. Oh, we shall go, of course! But that will be
the time for the Duke to lend the Conde de Ambulato his box. Thursday will
be the great day, when the King will be in the royal box, and will walk
with his _cofradia_ of the cigarette-makers before Our Lady of Victory.
You know how anxious the Duke is to win back the favour of the royal
family; and he’ll hardly think it worth while to sit through the hours of
a procession unless he can be next door to the King, with a chance of an
invitation to his box.”
This was discouraging; still, I determined to be in the crowd during the
afternoon; and I knew well that, though the splendid show of _Semana
Santa_ was an old story to the O’Donnels, they would not fail me for a
moment.
Dick shamefacedly bought from one of many vendors an armful of blessed
palms for Pilar to tie under the house windows, as a protection against
the rage of thunder-storms throughout the coming year; and we drove to the
country with the great glistening fronds blowing behind the motor-car like
giant plumes.
I spent hours writing, tearing up, and rewriting a letter to Monica which
Pilar was to try and deliver if she could, and when she could. We lunched
and did our best to make careless conversation, as if we were not anxious
and excited—Dick and I for our own selfish reasons; the two others in
sympathy. We talked of Seville, past and present—once “Sultana of the
South,” still beautiful and gay, though her reign is over. “We are very
happy even now, among ourselves, we Sevillanos,” said the Cherub. “You
should see a _tertulia_, if you want to know how families can enjoy
themselves together. But there’s another side of the picture, too. English
and American people—there are a few—accuse us of being unsociable. They
say we never give invitations to luncheons and dinners as people of other
countries do; that a few calls are exchanged, and that is all, in an
intercourse, it may be, of many years.”
“Oh, I know what they say!” laughed Pilar. “I heard an American girl give
a friend of hers a description of families she knew in Seville. ‘You go to
call,’ said she; ‘and if the ladies are at home (they won’t be if they can
help it), you’re shown into a shut-up drawing-room smelling of mustiness.
In front of the fireplace, if there is any, or else the brazier-table, a
hard yellow or red satin sofa is drawn up, an armchair on each side. All
the rest of the furniture’s ranged in a straight row round the wall. It’s
in the afternoon, but you wait till the ladies dress, because if they’re
in they’re sure to be in wrappers, unless it’s so late that their carriage
is ready for the _paseo_. After you’re nearly gone to sleep, they come,
and you talk of any uninteresting things they can think of; never
interesting ones, because they’re kept for intimate friends’ gossip; and
the girls simper and stare as if you were a curiosity, because you’re
allowed to walk in the street without a maid.’ That’s being ‘sociable’ in
Seville, according to the American girl; and I’m afraid that she’s right
from a foreigner’s point of view.”
All this, to amuse us; but unfortunately it was far from amusing to Dick.
He sat looking introspective, and wondering no doubt, if Pilar meant to
hint that, so far as the door of her heart was concerned, foreigners might
save themselves the trouble of knocking.
Seeing him taciturn, as hostess she felt it her duty to console him, so
when luncheon was over an invitation to go and visit Vivillo, the beloved
bull, was delivered to all, with an especially beguiling look at Dick. He
accepted with suspicious alacrity, and to please her I said yes; while the
Cherub, who was evidently longing for a siesta, shrugged his shoulders
dutifully. It seemed that we could see the pasture which was Vivillo’s
drawing-room without trespassing upon Carmona’s land, on which I should
have been loth to set my foot, even for Pilar; but when, after twenty
minutes’ walk across meadows, we arrived at the hedge which divided the
Duke’s _ganaderia_ from Colonel O’Donnel’s farm, Dick would not be
satisfied with a distant inspection of the grazing bulls. Pilar (denuded
of her mantilla, but still in the black brocade, ready for the afternoon
in Seville) was going to pay a friendly call upon her darling, and Dick
was resolved upon an introduction.
Pilar cried gaily to a herdsman visible in the distance, and joyously
obedient to the girl’s evidently familiar voice, the young fellow came
running towards us, _garrocha_ in hand. Between him and the hedge which
separated the two properties, was a deep ditch which no bull, save in a
state of fury, would care to jump. But not far away a long plank lay half
hidden in rich grass, and the _ganadero_ dragged it nearer, without a
question, as if he knew already what was expected of him. Having pushed it
across the ditch, to form a bridge at the spot where the hedge was
thinnest, he took off his hat, and welcomed the gracious señor and
señorita home. Vivillo, said he, was well, but would be the better for a
sight of the señorita, who was the one human being he had seemed to love
since the day of the _tienta_ which had proved him brave.
Yes, there he was—the “lively one,” well named indeed!—grazing for the
moment off there to the south-east. Could not the señorita see his brown
back among the grey and black ones, farthest away? But she had only to
call. Vivillo knew her voice and would answer to it as to no other. It was
really a marvel. And was it true that she had begun negotiating for his
purchase? Ah, it was a pity that such a _toro bravo_ would not have his
chance to fight in some splendid _corrida_, where the noblest bulls of
Spain must meet the most skilled of the _espadas_. He—Mateo—had often
thought what a grand spectacle it would be to see Fuentes and Vivillo
together. But—well, better waste the best bull that ever grazed on these
pastures, and please the señorita. For her interests it was a good thing
that the Señor Duque seldom or never troubled to come and see _los toros_,
for if his eye once lit upon Vivillo he would never part with him for any
money, except for the honour of the _corrida_.
“Then be sure you don’t let the Duke have a hint!” laughed Pilar, happy
and fearless as a boy, as she squeezed through the hedge and tripped
across the plank, followed by Dick.
“She is perfectly safe,” said the Cherub, in answer to an uneasy look from
me. “She’s as well known over there almost as the herdsmen who tend the
bulls from their birth; besides, she has some curious influence over
animals. I have never seen anything like it in another human being, though
I have read of such things. Since she was a child, I have no longer had
any fear for her over there; and Señor Waring is safe also, while he keeps
with her and Mateo, unless he were foolish enough to make some
demonstration. But for me, I am no friend of _los toros_ when they are at
home.”
Dick and Pilar were in Carmona’s pasture now, moving towards a troop of
grazing bulls, magnificent creatures whose terrible horns and silken hides
(branded with double circles under a crown) glittered in the sun. Scarcely
a head was tossed in honour of the new-comers; but as Pilar raised her
girlish voice to give a peculiar call, I saw a dark form in the distance
separate itself from a group. Then a brown, lean-flanked bull, nobly armed
with horns grand as the antlers of a stag, bounded away from his
companions, and rushed in so straight a line towards Pilar, that in spite
of the Cherub’s words, my heart was wrenched.
But I need not have feared. While the young herdsman and Dick stood by
passive and admiring, this _toro bravo_ of famous fighting breed reduced
his run to a canter, and trotted up to Pilar as tamely as if he had been a
belled _cabestro_.
The girl, opening a large knotted handkerchief which she had brought
filled with sweet biscuit, took a step or two forward to meet the bull.
Nestling against his huge head, powerful enough to bear up a horse and
rider impaled upon his horns, she calmly fed the great beast from her
store. Never could there have been a more beautiful picture since the day
when another bull submitted to the caresses of Europa.
Vivillo scarcely deigned to look at Dick, who made some bids for his
favour. All his chivalrous soul of _toro bravo_ was absorbed in pleasure
at Pilar’s return, gratitude for her remembrance of him. I would scarcely
have believed that it could be real, had I not seen it.
For ten minutes she stayed, Dick close at her side, always ignored by the
bull; then she returned and walked towards us, slowly, the herdsman
keeping near and Vivillo marching after in a resolute way which would have
turned grey the hair of a nervous man or woman.
But if Dick were conscious of his nerves in such an unusual situation, he
did not show it. His head was bent over Pilar’s, talking earnestly, and
though she never looked up at him in answer, once she broke out laughing,
so merrily, I wondered what he had said.
In our own meadow again, safely delivered from the bulls, Pilar slipped
instantly to her father’s side and began chattering about Vivillo, who
stood by the ditch looking wistfully after her as he chewed his last
biscuit. Dick and I were thus thrown together; and though Dick’s face is
no tell-tale, I guessed somehow that his mind was not as calm as his
features.
“I should think that might have been a little upsetting to an amateur,” I
said.
“Maybe,” answered Dick, absent-mindedly. “But it isn’t that, if I’m
looking queer. Say Ramón, I’ve done it.”
“What?”
“Proposed to a girl for the first time in my life. What’s more, I
grovelled. I called Vivillo a lamb, though at the moment he was looking
more like several dozen lions. I told her if she’d marry me, she could
have him and any other bulls sitting about on our hearthrug; that we’d
have a nice big one on purpose.”
“That ought to be an inducement—even from a heretic.”
“Oh, confound you, don’t harp on that. I’m mad about the girl. I know all
you’re suffering, and if I ever put on superior airs, I take them back and
swallow them.”
Even a man heartbroken would have had to grin; and Pilar had persuaded me
not to be heartbroken yet. If I laughed, I sympathized too, and liked Dick
better than ever because we were eating the same bitter-sweet orange of
which the voice had sung. It seemed that Pilar had neither accepted nor
refused him, but had asked for time to think; and he would have been a
little encouraged if she had not suddenly said, “Don Cipriano _loves_
bulls.”
At five o’clock we spun into Seville, with the car, for nobody knew at
what time the procession might begin; nobody ever did know, it appeared.
And Pilar was no longer merrily boyish, but feminine and seductive again