by Ann Bridge
Crossman laughed.
“No, but do get him to lay off it, Crossey dear. We don’t want him shut up in a maison de santé for spy mania.”
Crossman laughed again, and agreed; he succeeded in persuading Mr. Oldhead to let well alone this time. Rosemary heard this with considerable relief. Spy or no spy, she felt that the world was a better place with that young man whom she had seen in Pierre Loti’s orchard in it than out of it.
Chapter Eight
The Far Side—Almadera and Barcelona
On the man or woman who really loves profoundly, over whom love has fully extended its terrible sway, a parting from the beloved always produces certain effects. There is a curious dislocated feeling, as if the will had broken its neck; it is hard for some time to relate present impressions to either thought or action—people, sights, news in newspapers float past like fish in an aquarium, a world close as touch to the lover, but not his own; and with this dislocation goes an appalling moral lassitude. The only reality is the immediate past; into that one slides back, remembering, re-feeling; handling the lovely vanished moments like jewels or cameos, and weighing, assessing, conning over every look and tone and aspect of the heart’s delight.
So did James Milcom occupy himself on his journey back to Spain. Oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes fixed, desperate but unseeing, on whatever happened to be before them, he thought about Raquel, considering her as this last visit had revealed her to him. The strength of her passion was the great miracle, the supremely revealing surprise. But one question posed itself constantly. Why, seeing the effect that even one visit to Pascual had had on him, did she now send him again? She must know that he hated it—and did she not, must she not feel it a risk?—putting their great love in hazard, and for what? To send him some cigarettes and sugar, and to conform to an almost automatic standard of behaviour? He puzzled over this, worriedly; it wasn’t like her, it was almost tactless. He came to the conclusion at last that she had done it because she had never really taken what he had felt and said about Pascual seriously—in the fullness of her own happy love, the ardent expansion of that side of her nature, though she had listened and argued, her heart wasn’t paying attention. He was too modest to realise how reckless the very depth of her own passion might make her; and in spite of his dread of beauty as such, he failed to allow for another thing—the quite unconscious belief of the very beautiful woman in her own power, so that she did not even see the menace for what it was. James however did feel menaced; an undefined foreboding, lurking at the back of his mind, subconsciously disquieted him as he went on his way.
On his return to Spain this time he pushed straight on to Almadera, only pausing in Barcelona long enough to get two authorisations from the Direccion General de Prisiones. He wanted to get his more than ever distasteful mission to the Conde over as quickly as possible; besides, the rumours of an imminent Nationalist offensive were becoming daily more persistent, and once that began he would have to be, if not at the front, at least close behind it. He had also made up his mind that this time he would make a determined effort to see La Paquita and find out, once for all, what had become of Juanito. James felt that Raquel might really worry herself ill, left alone, unless he could do something to set her mind at rest.
He arrived in Almadera on November the twenty-seventh, and at once sought out the Scottish doctor who had attended him before. The young man accepted with gratitude two bottle of whiskey which James had brought; he examined the freshly formed scar on his forehead, tapped his skull here and there, and asked for headaches.
“Ye’ll do,” he finally pronounced. “You’ve done well. But do not press yourself too hard for a month or two yet. I’m glad to have seen ye.” His eye rested on the bottles. “And those will be a godsend.” Then he grinned sourly at James. “Going to see you White friends again?”
“Yes,” said James, grinning back just as sourly. “I want badly to see La Paquita.”
The doctor gave a dismal whistle.
“Man, ye’ll have to hurry,” he said—“they’re executing her on the twenty-ninth.”
“Good God!” James exclaimed, horrified.
“Ah well, she asked for it,” said the doctor grimly. “A pity—they say she was brave and pretty. But actually, as far as seeing her goes, you’ve struck it lucky. This fantastic nation,” he said, with a sort of sardonic admiration, “allows prisoners to see their friends on the day of their execution. It’s usually quite a party, I’m told. If you get your name put down on the Governor’s list, I should say you’ll have no trouble. Have you an authorisation?”
James nodded.
“Not much of a moment for a stranger to go barging in on her, asking questions,” said he gloomily.
“Ah, she won’t care. They get quite exalted then,” the doctor said. “Astonishing, they are.”
James spent the whole of the next day getting his local permits to visit the Conde and to be present at the execution. He disliked the idea extremely, but it was his last hope of finding anything out. And he had seen enough of death in Spain to know that the doctor’s last words were perfectly true. La Paquita would almost certainly not mind seeing him, or being asked questions—whether she would answer them was another matter.
The execution was fixed for 10 a.m., and visitors were allowed in to see the prisoner from 8.30 onwards. Milcom was to visit the Conde when it was over. The whole arrangement was as gruesome a one as could well have been devised, but there was no help for it—he did not wish to stay over an extra day, and he had to see Pascual and deliver Raquel’s presents and messages. He slept wretchedly, fell into a heavy doze about six, was not called according to promise at seven, and only woke, heavy and un-refreshed, soon after eight. He shaved and dressed in a frantic hurry, gulped down some scalding coffee, and arrived hungry, sweating, and perturbed at the prison gates as the great clock overhead was striking nine. There were still further delays while the doorkeeper was fetched from his breakfast to examine his special pass, and his internal state of nervousness, irritation, and embarrassment by the time he was finally ushered into the prisoner’s presence was extreme.
It was, as the doctor had foretold, quite a party. Some twenty men and women, mostly dressed in black, made a funereal group in the large dirty room, coldly lit by high northern windows; by the door were several warders and hangers-on. The priest had been with her, and still knelt, praying, a little apart—his face and attitude reminded, Milcom of a Zurbarán apostle. Embarrassed, Milcom stood for a moment or two, taking stock of the situation. There was no mistaking Francisca de Verdura. She was a girl of perhaps twenty-three, small, and slighter than is usual with Spanish women, dressed in some sort of uniform; her black hair was cropped short, which gave her a boyish air; her face had the chiselled finished look of so many Spanish faces, but with an appearance of extreme delicacy and fragility. Someone had brought her a great bouquet of red carnations, and she was holding these while she talked, in a low voice but with great animation, to two or three of her friends; the others stood round in a still patience, a sort of frozen emotional quiet like that of the crowd in an El Greco martyrdom—it was extraordinary, James thought in passing, how true to type the Spaniards run, century after century. She herself showed no sign of nervousness or fear at all.
James stood for some time watching them—but he had a job to do, and he presently nerved himself to do it. He moved over and touched the arm of an elderly man standing on the fringe of the group. “Por favor,” he said—“I have need to speak with the Condesa. Is it possible? My name is Milcom.”
“Inglés?” the other asked.
“Inglés.”
The elderly man, without further question, in his turn went forward and spoke to the girl; she turned at once, and came to Milcom, with a quick light step.
“You wished to see me?”
“With many apologies, yes,” said James. “I come from Raquel de Verdura.”
Her face lit up.
“Raquel? Oh, how
I love her! How is she? Is is true that she is in France? Are you her friend?”
In spite of himself and of the occasion, James found that he was smiling; her pleasure, her eagerness, were so infectious.
“Yes, we are friends,” he said. “She is at St.Jean-de-Luz, with the Duquesa; and when I left her there, just a week ago, she was very well.”
“And you come to see Pascual? You are the English who came before?”
James assented. “But this time I wished also to see you. There is a question I wish to ask—otherwise I should not have disturbed you. And I beg you to pardon my intrusion.”
She waved that idea away with another of her brilliant smiles, and a light gesture with the bunch of carnations.
“Ask,” she said.
He bent nearer to her, and lowered his voice.
“Raquel is well, as I said,” he murmured, “but she is almost in despair because she has had no news of Juanito for many months. She does not know if he is alive or dead. She is fretting herself to death on his account. And I wondered—” he paused—“I wondered if you could perhaps put me in the way of getting news of him.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Will you tell me why you thought that?”
“A chance word, the last time I was here, from a fellow prisoner of your cousin. I ask it only for her sake,” he said earnestly.
She still studied his face.
“You are our friend?” she asked at length.
“No,” said James bluntly. “I am not, in politics. But I am her friend.”
She laughed at that.
“Oh, I like you! For that, I trust you. Do you ever go to Barcelona?”
“Yes—I go back there to-morrow,” he said, a little puzzled.
“Then go to a barber’s shop in the Calle de las Floras, with over it the name ‘Pablo’; go in and demand that Pablo himself shaves you, and while he does, and his face is close to your mouth, ask him for news of Manuel Jereda. I have no recent news, but Pablo will know.”
“Will he tell me?”
“Say that I sent you. And if he still will not, say that you will ask him the same question seventeen times. I think then that he will answer.”
“Thank you,” James said, gravely. “I am beyond measure grateful to you.”
“No hay de que,” she said, smiling.
“Indeed yes”—and once more he begged her pardon for troubling her then.
“For a friend of Raquel’s I have time, even now,” she said, still smiling. “Give her my love, and tell her that I was happy,” she went on; “but whatever Pablo tells you, tell no one but her.” Quite casually, then, she glanced at her wrist watch. James bowed—really he could not speak—and moved away, while she returned to her friends.
His job was done, and he could have left then, but some obscure impulse of loyalty to this gallant creature made him decide to stay. If she could go through with it, he could, he thought stubbornly. Also it occurred to him that Raquel would wish it, would be glad to hear how Francisca died. So he remained, leaning against the wall at the side of the room, till a group of officials came and led her away to the prison courtyard, followed by the priest and the little group of friends, James among them. The courtyard was a big yellow rectangle; the sun streamed onto the upper wall at one side, so that the square was warmly lit with a golden reflected glow, a curiously theatrical light. The other inmates of the prison stood in close ranks along two sides of the square, guarded by warders—James noticed the Conde’s tall figure among them; on the third side stood the firing squad, some sixteen men and an officer; the fourth wall was empty. La Paquita, still carrying her bouquet, walked quietly towards it with the priest, the Governor, and a couple of warders; the rest of the little party ranged themselves at one side. One of the warders came up to her with a scarf in his hands—she waved it aside with the flowers, with the same gesture of negation that she had used to James. She turned, kissed the woman who stood nearest her, kissed the crucifix which the priest held out. Then, stepping up to the Governor, she broke one of the red carnations off her bouquet, and put it in his buttonhole. He bowed gravely. Still quite quietly, but quickly, she walked across to the firing squad, and breaking off the carnations one by one, she put a flower in each man’s buttonhole. One of the warders made a movement as if to stop her, but the Governor raised his hand, and the man stood back. When she came to the last, she said in a ringing voice—“It is for Spain,” and walked back to the fourth wall and waited, standing there alone, the broken stalks of her bouquet, with two or three flowers remaining, still in her hand—very small, very slight, very fragile. “I am quite ready,” she said in a small voice to the Governor—and then, very clearly, “Arriba España!” As she spoke the volley rang out, and she crumpled up and fell sideways. The priest dropped to his knees, holding out the crucifix towards the small body; the warders closed ranks round it, quickly. The group of friends also knelt, while the firing squad, obeying a word of command, turned about and tramped out; the prisoners followed; last of all the little group of friends, James again with them.
He left the prison with the rest, and waited in the sun outside till the prisoners should have got back to their cells—all over the building there was a tramp of feet, and the clang of doors being slammed and locked. He felt a strong desire to have a whiskey and soda, or to go into a church and pray—or even both; as he could do neither he sat on the parapet, glad of the sun—he was one of the people whom emotion makes physically cold—and watched the little party of La Paquita’s friends trailing away down the hill. Even outside, walking, in their rather shabby black clothes, they somehow kept their look of people out of a religious mural painting; so might the disciples have looked, he thought, trailing away downhill from Gologotha. Francisca’s death had hit James rather a full blow. Her courage and gallantry, combined with her grace and air of fragility, had made her death in his sight a thing of beauty and terror. He remembered how in the corrida the Spaniards call the second when the matador stands poised at the final stroke “the moment of truth”—which really means almost the moment of understanding. In his brief exchange of sentences with that graceful creature he felt that he had somehow partaken of that moment with her. And it left him at once exalted and shattered. Yes, damn it, it was a religious war, this; that brave pretty creature inside had died for her faith in Fascism, and the courteous marble-faced Governor had had her shot, firm in his faith in Communism or something like it—anyhow an opposed political faith. And unless this terrifying infection could be checked, presently all Europe, all the world, would be fighting with religious zeal for or against some creed or other. Why the hell couldn’t all the extremists let the thing alone, and allow sensible people, who didn’t want to be either Fascists or Communists, to get on with the job?—the job being to live the good life, attend to education, improve living conditions and so on. But that, he realised, was the Englishman in him speaking, or rather the normanised Anglo-Saxon—outside the British Empire and the United States, where normanised Anglo-Saxon humanity ruled, and compromise was in the blood, everyone was to some extent infected with these new faiths, new dogmas. They were believed to be a short cut to the Good Life, as religion was once thought to be—only a few nations, indeed only a few individuals, relatively speaking, realised that there is no short cut to the Good Life; only long years, long centuries of painful complicated ding-dong struggle and effort.
The little procession was out of sight now. He got up, yawning with hunger, and went back into the prison to see the Conde.
Pascual greeted him with a warmth which rather touched James.
“Ah, my friend, I have waited for you!” He held Milcom’s hands in both his, and if Milcom had thought that Francisca’s friends, ten minutes before, looked like the disciples, he himself at that moment felt like Judas.
“I saw you there,” the Conde went on. “That was good of you—to go with her. Raquel loved her much. Did you speak with her?”
James said he h
ad.
“She was firm? As outside?”
“Perfectly. She sent Raquel her love.”
He reddened as he spoke. In the simplicity of his emotion he had used her Christian name to the Conde, a thing he had not done before. But Pascual took it with an equal simplicity. He asked in great detail for his wife, as before, and read the note she had sent, and heard her messages; and smiled with the direct matter-of-fact pleasure of a nice child over her presents, the sugar, the cigarettes, the handkerchiefs—his fellow prisoners, Pepe among them, as before crowding round and getting their share. Then they went over and sat in a corner, the Conde on his own soapbox, Milcom on one which Pepe brought him, and the Conde spoke again of Francisca.
“She was brave, very brave,” he said. “It moved me, the flowers. That is how one should die! Ah, friend, we have much to learn from women, concerning courage and concerning love. With their slight bodies and their delicate spirits, they have yet immense courage, and they turn all to beauty, as she did. I have thought much lately about women,” said the Conde, still with that simplicity which seemed to be his keynote that morning. He stooped, and once again pulled the worn first edition of Jude the Obscure out of his soapbox, along with the dictionary which James had sent from Barcelona.
“So glad I was, to have that,” he said, tapping it. “I have learned so many words. And with it, I have understood this much better.” Now he tapped the Hardy. “I have learned much from it,” he said. “Never have I read a book like this before. It is wonderful. He knew a great deal about women, no?”
“He knew much about all humanity,” James said. “He was one of the great understanders.”
The Conde sighed.