The Car of Destiny 36 – Williamson · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 36Wiles and Enchantments
18
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 36
Wiles and Enchantments
WilliamsonEnglish
In spite of dykes and dams, said Dick, we had arrived at a place to visit which had once seemed to him as wonderful as finding the key of the rainbow. Yet here we were; and Granada—after we had entered at last by crossing still another river—came out from under its spell of enchantment when we saw it at close quarters. Only that wonderful hill above was magical still, as magical to the eye as when Ibraham the astrologer decreed its gardens.
More than half the miradored Moorish houses had given place to modern French ones; and descendants of the banished owners in far Tetuan and Tunis, might as well fling their keys and title-deeds away.
The dome of Isabella’s cathedral and the towers of old, old churches rose from among the roofs of commonplace streets; ordinary shops of yesterday and to-day ran up the steep hill towards the Alhambra; but at a great gateway—la Puerta de las Granadas, raised by Charles the Fifth—the centuries opened and let us drive through into the past.
At this hour of the morning, the deep green forest of the Alhambra park, beyond the classic arch, was still as the enchanted wood which hid from the world the Sleeping Beauty in her palace. The nightingales had gone to sleep, and the daylight birds had finished their first concert, but another voice was singing, the joyous high soprano of water—water unseen, rippling through subterranean channels; water seen tumbling in crystal runnels on either side of the road in its bubbling way downhill.
Still we saw nothing of the enchanted vermilion towers which draw all the world across sea and land. There was but a glimpse of ruddy battlements once at a turn of the road, through a netting of trees and branches; then we were in a green cutting in the deep wood, where two pleasant, old-fashioned hotels faced each other.
We were expected at the house named after that delicate and genial soul who awoke Europe and America to the charm of the Alhambra. I had hopefully telegraphed from Ronda that we would arrive early, en automobile; nevertheless, the landlord, knowing the route, was smilingly surprised to see us.
There was a telegram; that was the first thing we learned; and it was from Colonel O’Donnel; but he had no news to tell. He merely wired his advice that, if possible, Señor Waring should come back to Seville immediately, as his evidence was now wanted in the affair of the bomb.
Dick at once said that he would not desert me, but I urged upon him the advisability of going. He had seen me through my great adventure; and if Carmona and the others were in Granada there was nothing he could do at the moment which I could not do for myself. If he failed to appear in Seville, there might be trouble; and should I find that I needed his help, I would telegraph.
Pilar’s name was not spoken, but it rang in our thoughts, and Dick could not hide the flash of eagerness that lit his eyes. Perhaps by this time she would have made up her mind whether he were to have “yes” or “no” for his answer.
“My going shall depend on whether Carmona’s here or not,” he said; and I turned to the landlord with a question. Did he know whether the Duke of Carmona and his mother had come, and brought friends to their palace in Granada?
The Spaniard laughed. He knew but too well, since the arrival of the distinguished family had roused something like an emeute in his and other hotels. Carmona palace was perhaps the most interesting show-place left in the town of Granada, except the tombs of los Reyes Católicos in the cathedral. It was the palace where Boabdil had fled from his father’s wrath; and after the Alhambra and the Generalife it was the one thing that tourists came to see. Now they were prevented from seeing it by the arrival of the Duke and Duchess, a calamity which did not happen in the high season once in ten years. If the house (which had in these days but one grand suite of furnished and habitable rooms) was occupied by its owners, it was usually for a few weeks in the height of summer, after strangers had ceased to come south; or else in the autumn, before the time for travellers. Now there was great dissatisfaction among the foreign visitors, who considered themselves defrauded of their rights. Yesterday morning several parties of tourists had insisted upon an entrance, and in the afternoon, in fulfilment of the Duke’s request, two civil guards had been stationed before the door to keep would-be intruders at a distance.
This did not seem a hopeful outlook for me, in case I wished to try some such coup d’état as I had planned in Seville. But there would be other ways of reaching Monica, I told myself, when the landlord had gone on to say that the Duke was supposed to be seriously ill. If Carmona were suffering, he would not be able to watch the members of his household as closely as before, and it ought not to be impossible to let Monica know that I was in Granada. Once she understood that I was ready and waiting to take her away, means would be found to reach her.
There was only time, when Dick had finally decided to go, for a bath and breakfast before I spun him down to the station for the morning train.
Meanwhile I had learned that every room in our landlord’s two hotels was occupied, for it was the most crowded season. But I was to have a villa belonging to the hotels given to me for my entire use, a villa in an old Moorish garden of tinkling fountains, flowing rills, rose-entwined miradores, jasmine arbours, myrtle hedges, and magnolia trees. The Carmen de Mata Moros was to be mine for as few days or as many weeks as I chose to remain. Satisfied, therefore, that I should not have to camp under the trees of the park, I determined, when I had seen Dick off, to put up the car in the town of Granada, and reconnoitre the neighbourhood of the Carmona palace.
An inquiry here and there took me to the street without much delay. The palace, sacred to memories of Boabdil, his gentle Sultana Zorayda, and his stern mother Ayxa, was to be found on the outskirts of the Albaicín, that part of Granada once favoured by the Moorish aristocracy, now almost given up to the poorer Spaniards, and gypsies rich enough and sophisticated enough to desert their caves. Ferdinand and Isabel had granted the house to a rich Moorish noble who had fore-sworn his religion to help them in their wars, and who became the first Duque de Carmona, owner of many estates and many palaces.
My landlord had not been misinformed. The fine entrance, with its fifteenth century Spanish coat of arms over the Moorish portal, was kept by two civil guards. I walked up, and with the air of a tourist, inquired how soon the palace would be open to visitors. The men could not tell me. Was the Duke ill? They believed so. And as I could get nothing further from them I walked away.
Above, on the hill, clustered the red towers of the Alhambra. I fancied that in those towers there must be windows which overlooked the patio of Boabdil’s old palace, and I resolved to prove this presently, but I was not yet ready to leave the Albaicín.
I had brought down my Kodak as an excuse for lingering, and now I began, within sight of Carmona’s doors, to take leisurely snapshots. When I had been thus engaged for nearly half an hour, I saw a young woman, evidently a servant, leaving the palace with a small bundle under her arm; and without appearing to notice her, I strolled in the direction she was taking. Once beyond eyeshot of the civil guards, I spoke to the girl, taking off my hat politely.
“You are from the Duke of Carmona’s?” I said. “I am an acquaintance of his, and intended to call, but I hear he is seeing no one.”
“That is true, señor,” replied the girl, a handsome creature of the gypsy type, with bold eyes which took in every detail of my features and clothing. “His Grace arrived very fatigued and is obliged to lie in bed; which is inconvenient, as there are foreign guests who must be so constantly entertained by Her Grace the Duchess, that she has no time to nurse her son.”
“I trust he has a clever doctor,” said I.
“Oh, a very clever one,” the girl answered eagerly. “Not an ordinary physician, but a wonderful person. My brother knows him well, and goes into the Sierra to find herbs and flowers for his medicines and balsams.”
Evidently the girl was proud of the acquaintance, and I humoured her.
“Such remedies are good in cases of fever and malaria,” I said.
“And for many other things,” she persisted. “His Grace has contracted some poisoning of the hand. I do not know how; but he is better already, and will no doubt soon be well. If the señor would care to send a line of sympathy, I might arrange for it to reach the Duke. At present not even the most intimate friends are admitted, but I am in the confidence of Her Grace’s maid, who came with her from Seville. Indeed I’m now on the way to do an errand for her.”
I caught at this opening.
“I should like to send a note,” I said, “but not to the Duke.”
Having got so far, I took a roll of bank-notes from my pocket, as we strolled slowly on together. A young woman so anxious to convey an impression of her own importance, must have ambitions beyond her place in life.
The dark face sparkled at sight of the money, and tactfully I explained that my principal interest centred in a young guest of the Duchess’s. Any person who could take word from me to her, unknown to others, would be well rewarded. I should not think five hundred pesetas too much, to give for such a service.
A hint was enough. In an instant the girl became a woman of business and a mistress of intrigue. She would not, she said, dare attempt to deliver a note. It would be simpler, less dangerous for all concerned, to be at work in a corridor through which the English señorita must pass; to murmur a few words which would attract her attention; to receive a verbal message in return; and to bring it to me when she could—not to-day; that would be impossible; but to-morrow evening about nine, at which time she had already permission to go out.
Should I trust her? Her face was one to inspire a man’s admiration rather than trust, but I had no alternative. If I surrendered this chance, I should hardly find another as promising; and as I must depend upon someone in Carmona’s house, why not upon this woman? The bribe I offered was tempting enough to keep her true, if anything could.
I hesitated no more than a moment in accepting her amendment of my proposal, since she assured me it was impossible to make an appointment sooner. And the message I sent Monica was cautiously worded.
The friends who had seen her last in the cathedral of Seville were anxious to see her again, and begged that she would arrange to meet them as soon as possible, to carry out the plan which had been interrupted.
The girl repeated these words after me, promised to remember them and give me the answer to-morrow night at nine, in case any message were entrusted to her. We were not to meet at the same place, however, but on the Alhambra Hill, in the road leading up from the “Wasinton” (as she called the hotel) to the Carmen de Mata Moros. She had a brother living not far from there, she said, whom she expected to visit the following evening. I offered half the money in advance as an incentive to loyalty, and it was accepted with dignity. Then, when we were parting, I asked if one could see into the palace patio from the Alhambra, which towered above us on the height.
“From the middle window of the Sala de Ambajadores the señor will find himself able to see very well,” she answered. “And there is still another patio, into which there is a better view from the gardens of the Generalife. Certainly the gardens are very high and far; but if the señor has a spy-glass of some sort? And if he chooses I can try to tell the young lady that he will be first in one place, then in the other, hoping for a sight of her. Let us say, in the afternoon between four and six at the Alhambra; after that, at the Generalife, till the sun is gone.”
This neat plan was worth an extra twenty-five peseta note, and I gave it. Afterwards, having no other personal affairs to distract my attention, I wandered through the streets of Granada and into the chill cathedral before going up to make acquaintance with the Carmen de Mata Moros.
When I had seen the villa, with its enchanting terraced garden, hanging on the hillside high above the Vega, a wild hope blazed within me that I might snatch Monica, persuade the English Consul to marry us, and keep her here for the honeymoon, flaunting my happiness in Carmona’s face. Of course the idea was fantastic, but it gave me a few moments of happiness.
I lunched in the garden under the thick shade of nisperos trees, and before the time agreed upon I started to walk to the Alhambra.
Not for worlds would I have taken a guide to show the way. All my life, since the days when my mother told me legends of treasure hidden and Moorish warriors enchanted, the Alhambra had been a fairy dream to me. There was no one in the world, save only Monica, whose company I would have craved for this expedition. Other people’s thoughts and impressions of the place might be better than mine, but I did not want to hear them; I wanted only my own.
Under the huge leaning elms, which people who trust guide-books attribute to Wellington, I wandered until I came to a great red tower, with a horseshoe arch for entrance. There on the keystone was the carved hand; beyond, over the arch within, the key; and remembering the legend that never would disaster come until the Hand had grasped the Key, I knew that this must be the Gate of Justice.
Now, a spell fell upon me. It was as if the Hand had come down to touch me on the shoulder, and give the Key to hidden wonders, which only I might be allowed to see. That was the fiction with which I pleased myself; for he who comes to the most famous of places is as truly a discoverer as he who finds a new world. No matter how much he has read, how many faithful photographs seen, he must discover everything anew, since it is certain that nowhere will he find anything more than he has within himself. The picture he sees will fit the frame his mind can give, and no one ever has, no one ever will, see there exactly what he sees. If a man’s mind cannot create a beautiful frame, then the picture must have but a poor effect for him, and he will go away belittling it.
Now, I believed that I had been making a fine jewelled frame for this picture of the Alhambra, and I hoped that I deserved the Key which the Hand had lent.
Inside the gateway, when I had climbed a winding lane, I found myself in the great Place of the Cisterns, which, with the vast incongruous palace half finished by Charles the Fifth, I recognized from many pictures; but not yet would I look down over Granada and the Vega. I would wait until I could stand at a window in the Hall of the Ambassadors and see what I had been promised. So, without a glance over the parapet, I walked on to an open door, where stood two or three men in gold-laced hats. One moved resignedly forward to act as guide, but a word and a piece of silver convinced him that I was a person who might be trusted alone, though I lacked a student’s ticket.
I passed through the room devoted to officialdom, and then—the time had come to use the key, for I was already in fairyland; the covers of the “Arabian Nights” had closed on me, and shut me in between the pages.
Physically I was not alone; for there were faded and strident tourists in the marble-paved court of the Alberca, whom I fain would have had stopped outside and put into appropriate costume for fairyland; but spiritually I had the place to myself.
The little glittering fish, like tropical flowers under green glass, flashed towards me through the beryl water, just as ancestor fish had flashed when jewelled hands of harem beauties crumbled cake into the gleaming tank. My mother had told me a legend, that fair favourites of banished sultans prayed to return after death to the Alhambra, in the bronze and gold, rose and purple forms of these fish of the Alberca; and now I half believed the story. Where—since Mahomet grants no heaven to women—could they be happier than here? Floating ever under their roof of emerald, did they think themselves more fortunate than their husbands, lovers, and brothers permitted to rest within the Alhambra walls in the guise of martens wailing shrilly for days that might not come again?
Dreaming, I passed into the Court of Lions, where I and the twelve quaint, stone guardians of the place stared at one another across a few feet of marble pavement that measured centuries. Each prim beast, beautiful because of his crude hideousness differing from his fellows; each with a different story to tell if he would. Which one remembered that night when the brave Abencerrages faced death, there in the hall to the right, where the fountain kept ominous stains of brown? Which had the seeing eye in these fallen times, to watch when the ghost of those noble Moors passed by silent and sad in the moonlight? Upon which had blood-drops spattered when the boy princes died for jealous Fatima’s pleasure? Which had known the touch of Morayma’s little hand or lovely Galiana’s?
I asked the questions; yet the deep answering silence of the court, and of all this hidden, secret, fairy palace seemed to say so much that it was not like silence, but reserve.
“The Alhambra is music and colour and knowledge,” I said to the lions. “When I am gone I shall shut my eyes and hear as well as see it; hear the magic music of the silence, played on silver lutes of Moors, and tinkling fountains, a siren’s song to draw me back again; and I shall know and feel things which I’ve never been able to think out quite clearly before.”
Would Monica come here? I wondered. No face more lovely than hers had ever looked down from those latticed windows supported by pillars delicate as a child’s white arm. If I could but see her face now! Not seeing it, I knew that no place, however beautiful, could be perfect for me. Shadows of sorrow, of separation, would stand out the blacker against the sunlit, jewelled walls of the fairy palace; and even happiness must sing in minor notes here, lest it strike out a discord in the tragic poem of the Alhambra. No wonder, in losing their crown jewel, the Moors lost hope, and with it all the art and science which had set them far above their Christian rivals! No wonder they plunged, despairing, into the deserts they had left, mingling among savage races as some bright spring mingles with a dark subterranean river, never to glitter in the light again.
But none of my day dreams cheated me into losing count of time.
If my messenger were true, soon Monica would be in one of the patios of Carmona’s palace, looking up at the Alhambra towers. “The middle window as you go into the Hall of the Ambassadors,” I repeated, and found my way back through the court of the Alberca; for you do not need to know the Alhambra to find your way from sala to sala, seen a hundred times in imagination.
So beautiful had I guessed that room above all others, that I had not expected to be surprised; yet I was surprised, and oddly excited, for supreme beauty is always exciting to the Latin mind. A vast bower of jewels, and old point-lace embroidered with tarnished gold threads and yellowing pearls, it seemed; its portals lace-curtained too; rich hanging folds of lace and fringe, like the lifted drapery of a sultan’s tent, supported on delicate poles of polished ivory.
Behind me was the beryl block of the fish-pond, set in silver instead of marble by the sunshine in the court. Before me, across the pink-jewelled dusk of the Sala de los Ambajadores, a blue and green picture of sky and mountains was framed by lace and precious stones.
I walked to the middle window and looked sheer down over tall tree-tops to the valley of the Darro, where the roofs of the Albaicín clustered together, softly grey and glistening as the ruffled plumage of nestling birds.
Far away to the left lay the Vega, shimmering under a mist of heat, which gave the look of a crystal sea engulfing the plain, trees and scattered villages gleaming through the transparent flood. Straight before my eyes, on the cactus-clothed shoulder of a hill opposite the tower, glittered a splash of whitewash dotted with black holes, which were the doors and windows of gypsy caverns. And above me, to the right on a higher hillside, rose the towers and miradores of that ancient “summer palace of delights,” the Generalife.
One sweeping glance gave me these details; then, adjusting the field-glass I had brought, I fixed my attention on a house near the Albaicín, which I easily identified as Carmona’s palace.
Gazing down from such a height, I had a bird’s-eye view of double patios thick with clustering shrubs, orange trees, and cypresses. The powerful glasses brought out clearly the delicate marble pillars supporting the Moorish archways of the upper gallery in one of these patios; but the other was shrouded for me by a group of cypresses.
For a long time I waited—hours it seemed; but no one moved along the gallery or appeared in the half-shuttered windows that looked down into the court; and at last I decided to try the gardens of the Generalife, which I had been told commanded the second patio.
Once, said legend, a prince had been secluded by his father in those gardens and those towers, lest he see the face of a woman, and learn sorrow through love; nevertheless, he had found out the great secret, and had had news of the most beautiful lady in the world. I hoped, as I walked along the avenue of cypresses, that I might be as fortunate; and in the gardens all things spoke of love. There, under the giant cypress, the handsome Abencerrage had come to keep the tryst which cost his head, and thirty-five others as noble. There, at the top of that shaded flight of stone steps, whose balustrades were jewelled with running water, Prince Ahmed had sat to play his lute. From that arcaded balcony Zorayda had looked when love was young, and Boabdil still the lover. In the mirrors of the water-patio Galiana had bent to her own image and asked, “Am I worthy to be loved?”
Out of the tangle of red and white roses, bunched in with golden oranges and scented blooms mingling together in one huge bouquet, I looked to find my love. It was true, I could see clearly now into the cypress patio; and suddenly a white figure came out from a window upon the gallery. The glass at my eye, I thought I recognized Monica’s slender girlishness; but a moment later a larger form appeared. The two women stood together looking up, Lady Vale-Avon pointing towards the towers of the Alhambra or the Generalife.
Was it possible she saw me? Yet no, she could not without glasses. But if Monica had indeed been told where I would be at a certain time, could she not have contrived some means to elude her mother and come to the balcony alone?
Long after the two vanished I lingered; waited until sunset; waited until the sky was flooded with rose and gold, and towers and hills were purple in a violet mist. But Monica did not come again.
If she had not been given the message, what guarantee had I that she would receive the other far more important?
It was in a fever of uncertainty that I must spend the next four-and-twenty hours.
