As he thought of the patience and courage Lucretia-José must have displayed in her long climb from the ranks of the Revolutionaries to a seat on their inner councils he was filled with wondering admiration. It meant that for years she must have played a lone hand with extraordinary skill, all unsuspected by her enemies. Real brains, razor-sharp wits, and nerves of iron were requisite to pass unscathed through such an ordeal when the least slip meant exposure, and de Richleau counted these qualities beyond all praise. Even so he hated the idea that she should be mixed up in such a desperately dangerous business and have to associate with what he mentally called ‘that blood-lusting rabble’.
On the latter point he need not have bothered himself in the least. His assumption that her father was responsible for her assuming a second identity was only partially correct, and his mental picture of her as a spy in Simon’s house alone among her enemies, endeavouring to avoid notice and secretly hating all the people about her, was an entire misconception. She was quite at her ease and rather enjoying herself.
Her strange vocation had been born of a wildly romantic idealism, engendered by much reading of fiction and histories of those days when the Chivalry of Spain had saved Europe from the Moors, and of later centuries when the heroism of her great Captains had made her the mightiest power in the world. Her father had only gradually been won round to Lucretia’s project but having at last consented had helped her enormously. He had secured for her all the immense mass of data she had to master before she could make a start, and by spreading a rumour that she was the victim of a wretched skin trouble, which disfigurement rendered her so sensitive that he was unable to present her to his Spanish acquaintances, he had protected her from the risk of recognition when she entered on her new role.
At first she had loathed the people with whom she had to mix. Their whole outlook was so utterly at variance with her own passionate belief in the fitness of a Catholic and Monarchist Spain that it proved an almost unendurable strain to refrain from screaming at the blasphemies they uttered. Only the fact that she knew their jargon backwards and the story that she was the illegitimate daughter of a Catholic priest, which they swallowed greedily enough, gave her sufficient cover to remain unsuspected when she turned white from sheer horror at finding herself alone among these ghouls who thirsted for the blood of her friends and her class. In those early days the very smell of the unwashed crowds who gathered in the dreary meeting-halls had filled her with such nausea that it had been a struggle to prevent herself being physically sick. She felt that she would never be clean again from mental and bodily contamination but, as the months passed, familiarity with such surroundings brought a subtle change in her attitude.
She had begun to look with new eyes upon these denizens of a strange, squalid, twilight world. Some she recognised as professional trouble-makers who scraped a living from the meagre collections obtained after addressing meetings, but most were honest people made bitter by the injustices of fate. Once she had grasped the appalling conditions under which many of them were born and died, the ignorance that condemned them to slavery all their lives and how a whim of fashion or the ill-timed increase of a tax could rob hundreds of them of the bare pittance on which they lived, a new horror gripped her. She felt a terrible urge to give in order to alleviate a little of the suffering around her. But to do so would have been to betray herself. Moreover she was quick to realise that even her father’s riches would have done no more than the application of a little ointment to a cancerous sore.
The next stage had come with her gradual advancement; as a speaker meeting other speakers and with her election to a few not very important committees. It was then that she began to receive and accept invitations from minor leaders and saw them for the first time when they were not cursing capitalists or thundering atheistic blasphemies from their soap-boxes.
Before long realisation had come to her that in their private lives most of them could be as gentle, as kind, as courteous and much more generous, within their limited means, than the people amongst whom she had been brought up. She found that they possessed abundant humour too and an almost unbelievable fortitude when fate dealt harshly with them.
Yet her discoveries had not turned her for one moment from her purpose. Learning to know them, to admire some and even think of a number with genuine affection had convinced her more than ever that they were quite incapable of governing their own destinies. If their conditions were to be bettered they must submit to having their lives ordered for them; and not by a set of corrupt politicians but by those of her own caste who were above graft and self-seeking.
Her dual life had now become second-nature to her. As the Condesa Lucretia, it was her duty to betray their subversive operations in order to protect those whom she considered best fitted to govern her country; but as José Levida, by which name she was known among them, she showed a genuine sympathy for their aspirations to better the workers’ lot and a personal friendliness which many of them had ample proof went far deeper than mere words. This extraordinary capacity for keeping her work and her emotions in separate, water-tight compartments made her, as far as the forces of Revolution were concerned, the most dangerous woman in Europe.
About forty people were gathered in the big blue-and-gold drawing-room which ran the whole length of the back of Simon’s house and its chairs had all been turned to face a small buhl table behind which sat the chairman of the meeting.
He was a stoutish, fresh-faced Englishman of moderately prosperous aspect and benign expression, but one glance at his blue eyes showed that he would tolerate no disorder.
With business-like brevity he introduced Comrade Hay P. Hinkler as a visitor from the States who had made a special study of Spanish affairs, in his capacity as Professor of Economics, and could give them an unbiased account of the events that had led up to the present situation.
The Professor was a thin, scraggy man with untidy hair. Lucretia had not encountered him before but after he had been speaking for three minutes she wrote him off as negligible. He was boringly erudite upon the awakening of the proletariat which had led to revolutions in other countries, but she could see at once that he was hopelessly ignorant about the real state of Spain and had no appreciation of the backwardness of the Spanish workers. However, he knew the complicated history of Spanish politics in the present century backwards, and Lucretia, who knew it even better, listened with polite resignation.
He related how King Alfonso had broken his oath to the Constitution by refusing to summon the Cortes so that they might confirm or annul, by their vote, the powers Primo de Rivera had taken to himself on seizing the Dictatorship, and of how a public promise had been given that the Dictatorship should only last for a period of ninety days, to tide the country over a crisis, but had been arbitrarily maintained for six years.
When he passed to the way Primo had suppressed the Liberal Press and closed the Universities he became almost vehement, but he tailed off again when he entered on the tangle of warring policies which divided the parties of the Left during their first period of Government after the ex-King’s expulsion.
He then spoke of the Reactionary Government which had succeeded the Liberals and taken a bitter vengeance for all that its supporters had suffered during the three years the Progressives had held power. They had side-tracked the new agrarian laws, overdue for half a century, by which the wretched lot of the peasants was to have been ameliorated. They had protected and encouraged their old cronies, the greedy priests, who had battened like vultures for generations on the living flesh of Spain. Their tyranny had ground like an iron-shod heel into the necks of the workers until the miners of the Asturias could bear no more and revolted.
That 1934 rebellion had proved abortive as they all knew. Hundreds of gallant men who had made a despairing stand for the remnants of their freedom had been mercilessly butchered by the soldiers sent against them.
The nation-wide horror at those brutal atrocities had returned the Progressives to po
wer again in the Elections held five months ago. The present Government were enlightened men of liberal views. All they asked was peace in which to right the wrongs from which the bulk of their countrymen had suffered all too long and a fair deal would be given to all classes. But would they get that peace? No. The Professional Army, the hereditary curse of Spain, stood sullenly in the background. It had made and unmade Governments for as long as any of them could remember. Now, it was up to its old tricks, and abundant proof would be laid before them that its chiefs were actively engaged in plotting a new Military Dictatorship.
Would they allow the Spanish people to be crushed unaided and suffer a renewal of slavery under another Mussolini, or were they prepared to assist their Spanish brothers in maintaining their own constitutionally elected Government by force of arms?
“That, folks,” ended Professor Hinkler with simple dignity, “is the question I have been asked to put to you. If you do not give your help it means that one more bulwark of Democracy goes down, And it is not Spain alone which will be affected. With the cessation of freedom there the French Fascists may be emboldened to show their ugly claws. With Europe a Fascist bloc from the Mediterranean to the Baltic, what hope have the peoples of other nations of retaining their systems of Government based on the will of the people? Speaking for the United States centre, from which I come, we answer this appeal in the spirit of our great President Abraham Lincoln. Whatever it may cost us this must be done lest the word Democracy perish from the vocabulary of the peoples of the world.”
Lucretia-José hardly bothered to look round. Perhaps she had slightly underrated the Professor. The fact that he had maintained an academic calm, except when speaking of the reprisals against the Reds for their attempted revolution of 1934, had lent a certain weight to his arguments, but whoever had made that speech on fundamentals the result would have been the same in such a gathering. Although the delegates were mostly foreigners they all understood English and had come with a broad idea of the issues at stake. The faces about her were set in grim determination or glowed with fanatic eagerness. She joined with automatic enthusiasm in the ovation accorded to the Professor.
When it had subsided the chairman vouched for the contents of certain sworn documents which were read out by a Spaniard who translated them into English. Lucretia-José noted with satisfaction that they disclosed nothing of vital importance, but she listened with keen attention so that she might inform the right people about possible sources from which they came and enable an attempt to be made to stop further leakages.
Dutch, Czech, French and Polish delegates, German-Jewish exiles and Italian ex-patriates, all testified in turn to the willingness of their organisations to devote a portion of their funds to financing the Spanish people’s coming fight for freedom. It was no more than Lucretia-José had expected, but her interest quickened when the Russian delegate introduced Comrade Cheilakoff as a special envoy sent by the Soviet Government.
Cheilakoff spoke in short guttural sentences. He told them that he was a member of the Comintern and that his organisation were not only prepared to assist the Spanish people with arms but the Kremlin Government would, if the Spanish Regular Army revolted, send airmen, tank operators, and other military specialists to co-operate with the Army of the People, against it.
He had hardly sat down before Lucretia-José was on her feet. She was only one of the half a dozen Spaniards present who had been sent to represent different sections of the Spanish Frente Popular but she meant to get in first.
She thanked Comrade Cheilakoff’s Government through him for their generous offer but, she asked, was it not dangerous to accept? If aid was openly received from a foreign power, who knew what would follow? Mussolini and Hitler were nearer neighbours than Comrade Stalin. It would be even easier for them to give similar assistance to the Spanish Fascists. That, at all costs, must be avoided. She spoke for the F.A.I., the inner organisation of the Spanish Anarchists which controlled the great C.N.T. They would be grateful for money and supplies of arms but they were opposed to foreign intervention. For seven minutes she succeeded in holding up the meeting by a glowing dissertation on Anarchist ideals.
When the blue-eyed Chairman checked her, another member of the F.A.I, got up to support her views but a Madrid Trade Union boss from Largo Caballero’s U.G.T. followed and pointed out that if only they could induce the Government to arrest the Army leaders civil war might yet be prevented. On the other hand, if the Government continued to shilly-shally and they had to fight, it would still be the legally elected Government and, as such, had a clear right to import foreign military specialists if it wished; whereas the Army leaders would be rebels and it would be a very different matter for a foreign power openly to give them aid.
The representative of the small but well-organised Party Comunista, an off-shoot of the Comintern, was naturally in favour of accepting the assistance offered by his Russian friends, but a woman Trotskyist from the P.O.U.M. opposed him venomously, on principle, owing to her organisation’s hatred of all things connected with Stalin’s regime.
For a moment the decision hung in the balance. Then a new speaker took the floor. He was a youngish man and short in stature but his quick gestures betrayed a restless energy and his wiry figure abundant strength. His black eyes flashed in a lean, tanned face, and although his English was far from perfect his words carried a passionate conviction.
Lucretia-José had never seen him before and leaned over to ask her neighbour who he was.
“Cristoval Ventura,” came the whispered answer. “He is a U.G.T. man from the Asturias.”
Ventura supported his colleague from Madrid but urged an additional reason why the Soviet offer should be accepted. He was, he said, a native of Oviedo. He had participated in the blow for liberty struck there two years before. For seven days they had held the city. Hundreds of gallant men, and women, too, had laid down their lives for their beliefs. Untrained, ill-fed, but with unflinching bravery they had flung themselves in masses on the machine-guns of the enemy until by sheer weight of corpses the guns had been silenced. Even when artillery was brought against them and they had seen their little children blasted to death in the searing flame of the bursting shells, there had been no thought of surrender. They had fought on to the very limit of human courage and endurance, but they had been defeated in the end because the Army chiefs had sent aeroplanes and tanks to subdue the heroic workers. If, as now seemed inevitable, they were to be called on to renew the struggle, those who had survived the siege and the brutal butchery of prisoners that had succeeded it, were ready to lay down their lives as gallantly as their comrades who had fallen; but they could have no hope of victory unless they were supported by the most modern weapons of war manned by friends who had been trained in handling them.
Even before a vote was taken Lucretia-José knew that Cristoval Ventura had defeated her. No one thought it strange that she should oppose the Russian offer as they all knew that the Anarchists were idealists who disapproved equally of Stalinism and Fascism, but she had hoped, under that cloak, to prevent Russian officers and technicians being sent to the help of the Reds. Only five of the delegates voted with her and the rest recommended that help of any kind should be accepted by their Spanish associates.
The only other business of the meeting consisted in the election of Trustees for a Special Fund, an account for which was to be opened in London. Mr. Simon Aron did not put himself forward for election and neither did anyone else suggest his name, as the comparatively few delegates who knew him personally were aware of his wish that he should not be asked to assume any official position in the movement.
Throughout the debate he had sat silent and self-effacing at the back of the room; knowing perfectly well that it did not matter in the least whom they appointed. Any fool could sign papers, as would be necessary from time to time, but none of them knew anything about money. It had already been arranged that his firm should handle the foreign exchange for the Fund. With gentle, smi
ling persistence he would courteously annihilate any silly notions the Trustees might have and before the end of their first session they would be only too happy to rely on his guidance. Perhaps, even, they would depart thinking they had proposed matters just that way themselves.
When the arrangements were concluded he pressed a bell and sherry was brought in. It was of two kinds, a dark golden, medium-sweet wine and an almost straw-coloured, bone-dry Manzanilla. He knew that the majority of the people there would go for the first, a drinkable but very inexpensive type. Simon was one of the most generous men in London but he was far too sensible to waste fine liquor on people who did not understand it. The Manzanilla cost nearly three times as much per bottle, but that was for the Spaniards who, of course, knew about such things and would quite certainly take the drier wine—they did.
Lucretia-José did not see Cristoval Ventura cross the room but looked up to find him standing right in front of her.
“We haven’t met before,” he said in Spanish, “but I’ve often heard of you. The Golden Spaniard is almost a legendary figure now among the Comrades. Are you fixed up tonight or will you dine with me?”
The invitation came with so little warning that she was quite unprepared for it; but she liked his dark, smiling eyes and his black hair which would have been unruly if he had not plastered it well down.
“I should like to,” she replied, speaking in Spanish too, as she wondered where he would take her. She was quite inured to eating in the little places which catered for the poor of Madrid when she accepted invitations from the Comrades but the richer among them often mingled with the class they sought to destroy in the fashionable restaurants. This young man was well-dressed and obviously an educated type. If he had money it was more likely that he would take her to the Savoy Grill than to a tea-shop but she hoped that it would not be one of the de luxe places. In Madrid nobody knew her as anything but José Levida, whereas in London she might encounter an old school friend or one of half a dozen other people who were aware of her real identity.
The Golden Spaniard Page 4