The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over (45 page)

“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 to-morrow. 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 Alcazar, 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 sympathise.

“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 Alcazar. She was working at some embroidery. She looked up quickly, evidently taken aback to see a stranger, and gave my companion an enquiring 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.

“You have a very lovely garden, Scnora,” I said because I had to say something.

She gave it. an indifferent glance.

“Yes, it is pretty.”

I felt suddenly embarrassed. I did not expect her to show me any cordiality, and I could not blame her if she thought my intrusion merely a nuisance. There was something about her that I could not quite make out. It was not an active hostility. Absurd as it seemed, since she was a young woman and beautiful, I felt that there was something dead in her.

“Are you going to sit here?” she asked her husband.

“With your permission. Only for a few minutes.”

“I won’t disturb you.”

She gathered her silks and the canvas on which she had been working and rose to her feet. When she stood up I saw that she was taller than Spanish women generally are. She gave me an unsmiling bow. She carried herself with a sort of royal composure and her gait was stately. I was flippant in those days, and I remember saying to myself that she was not the sort of girl you could very well think of being silly with. We sat down on the multi-coloured bench and I gave my host a. cigarette. I held a match to it. He still had my volume of Calderon in his hands, and now ho idly turned the pages.

“Which of the plays have you been reading?”

“El Medico de su Honra.”

He gave me a look, and I thought I discerned in his large eyes a sardonic glint.

“And what do you think of it?”

“I think its revolting. The fact is, of course, that the idea is so foreign to our modern notions.”

“What idea?”

“The point of honour and all that sort of thing.”

I should explain that the point of honour is the mainspring of much of the Spanish drama. It is the nobleman’s code that impels a man to kill his wife, in cold blood, not only if she has been unfaithful to him, but even if, however little she was to blame, her conduct has given rise to scandal. In this particular play there is an example of this more deliberate than any I have ever read: the physician of his honour takes vengeance on his wife, though aware that she is innocent, simply as a matter of decorum.

“It’s in the Spanish blood,” said my friend. “The foreigner must just take it or leave it.”

“Oh, come, a lot of water has flowed down the Guadalquivir since Calderon’s day. You’re not going to pretend that any man would behave like that now.”

“On the contrary I pretend that even now a husband who finds himself in such a humiliating and ridiculous position can only regain his self-respect by the offender’s death.”

I did not answer. It seemed to me that he was pulling a romantic gesture, and within me I murmured, Bosh. He gave me an ironic smile.

“Have you ever heard of Don Pedro Aguria?”

“Never.”

‘The name is not unknown in Spanish history. An ancestor was Admiral of Spain under Philip II and another was bosom friend to Philip IV. By royal command he sat for his portrait to Velasquez.”

My host hesitated a moment. He gave me a long, reflective stare before he went on.

“Under the Philips the Agurias were rich, but by the time my friend Don Pedro succeeded his father their circumstances were much reduced. But still he was not poor, he had estates between Cordova and Aguilar, and in Seville his house retained at least traces of its ancient splendour. The little world of Seville was astonished when he announced his engagement to Soledad, the daughter of the ruined Count of Acaba, for though her family was distinguished her father was an old scamp. He was crippled with debts, and the shifts he resorted to in order to keep his head above water were none too nice. But Soledad was beautiful and Don Pedro in love with her. They were married. He adored her with the vehement passion of which perhaps only a Spaniard is capable. But he discovered to his dismay that she did not love him. She was kind and gentle. She was a good wife and a good housekeeper. She was grateful to him. But that was all. He thought that when she had a child she would change, but the child came, and it made no difference. The barrier between them that he had felt from the beginning was still there. He suffered. At last he told himself that she had a character too noble, a spirit too delicate, to descend to earthly passion, and he resigned himself. She was too high above him for mortal love.”

I moved a little uneasily in my seat. I thought the Spaniard was unduly rhetorical. He went on.

“You know that here in Seville the Opera House is open only for the six weeks after Easter, and since the Sevillans don’t care very much for European music we go more to meet our friends than to listen to the singers. The Agurias had a box, like everybody else, and they went on the opening night of the season.
Tannhaüser
was being given. Don Pedro and his wife, like typical Spaniards, with nothing to do all day but always late, did not arrive till nearly the end of the first act. In the interval the Count of Acaba, Soledad’s father, came into the box accompanied by a young officer of artillery whom Don Pedro had never seen before. But Soledad seemed to know him well.

“ ‘Here is Pepe Alvarez,’ said the Count. ‘He’s just come back from Cuba and I insisted on bringing him to see you.’

“Soledad smiled and held out her hand, then introduced the newcomer to her husband.

“ ‘Pepe is the son of the attorney at Carmona. We used to play together when we were children.’

“Carmona is a small town near Seville, and it was here that the Count had retired when his creditors in the city grew too troublesome. The house he owned there was almost all that was left him of the fortune he had squandered. He lived in Seville now through Don Pedro’s generosity. But Don Pedro did not like him and he bowed stiffly to the young officer. He guessed that his father the attorney and the count had been concerned together in transactions that were none too reputable. In a minute he left the box to talk with his cousin, the Duchess of Santaguador, whose box was opposite his own. A few days later he met Pepe Alvarez at his club in the Sierpes and had a chat with him. To his surprise he found him a very pleasant young fellow. He was full of his exploits in Cuba and he related them with humour.

“The six weeks about Easter and the great Fair are the gayest in Seville, and the world meets to exchange gossip and laughter, at one festivity after another. Pepe Alvarez with his good nature and high spirits was in great request and the Agurias met him constantly. Don Pedro saw that he amused Soledad. She was more vivacious when he was there, and her laughter, which he had so seldom heard, was a delight to him. Like other members of the aristocracy he took a booth for the Fair, where they danced, supped and drank champagne till dawn. Pepe Alvarez was always the life and soul of the parties.

“One night Don Pedro was dancing with the Duchess of Santaguador and they passed Soledad with Pepe Alvarez.

“ ’Soledad is looking very beautiful this evening,’ she remarked.

“ ‘And happy,’ he replied.

“ ‘Is it true that once she was engaged to be married to Pepe Alvarez?’

“ ‘Of course not.’

“But the question startled him. He had known that Soledad and Pepe had known one another when they were children, but it had never crossed his mind that there could have been anything between them. The Count of Acaba, though a rogue, was :i gentleman by birth, and it was inconceivable that he could have thought of marrying his daughter to the son of a provincial attorney. When they got home Don Pedro told his wife what the duchess had said and what he had replied.

“ ‘But I was engaged to Pepe,’ she said.

“ ‘Why did you never tell me?’

“ ‘It was finished and done with. He was in Cuba. I never expected to see him again.’

“ ‘There must be people who know you were engaged to him.’ “ ‘I daresay. Docs it matter?’

“ ‘Very much. You shouldn’t have renewed your acquaintance with him when he returned.’

“ ‘Does that mean that you have no confidence in me?’

“ ‘Of course not. I have every confidence in you. All the same I wish you to discontinue it now.’

“ ‘And if I refuse?’

“ ‘I shall kill him.’

“They looked long into one another’s eves. Then she gave him a little bow and went to her room. Don Pedro sighed. He wondered whether she still loved Pepe Alvarez and whether it was on account of this that she had never loved him. But he would not allow himself to give way to the unworthy emotion of jealousy. He looked into his heart and was sure that it harboured no feeling of hatred for the young artilleryman. On the contrary, he liked him. This was not an affair of love or hate, but of honour. On a sudden he remembered that a few days before when he went to his club he noticed that the conversation suddenly failed, and, looking back, he seemed to remember that several of the group who were sitting there and chatting eyed him curiously. Was it possible that he had been the subject of their conversation? He shivered a little at the thought.

“The Fair was drawing to its end, and when it was over the Agurias had arranged to go to Cordova, where Don Pedro had an estate which it was necessary for him to visit from time to time. He looked forward to the peace of a country life after the turmoil of Seville. The day after this conversation Soledad, saying she was not well, stayed in the house, and she did the same the day following. Don Pedro visited her in her room morning and evening and they talked of indifferent things. But on the third day his cousin Conchita de Santaguador was giving a ball. It was the last of the season and everyone in her exclusive set would be there. Soledad, saying she was still indisposed, announced that she would stay at home.