V
“Is anyone coming here this afternoon?” Rosa asked. “No one, so far as I can tell,” her mother answered. “I am not asking people, because I want you to see Carlotta while you can. Besides, it is Lent; one should be quiet in Lent.”
“They are putting placards in the road,” Rosa said. “We could not read them; but they seemed to be about quiet at Easter.”
“I am glad,” Donna Emilia said. “The last exhibition of disorder disgraced our country.”
The old butler entered. “Señora,” he said, “Don Inocencio desires to speak with you, if it be your pleasure.”
“Let him come in,” she answered. “Don Inocencio, Highworth, is one of the Senators of the White party, to which we belong. He was an old friend of my husband’s.”
“Shall I not go?” Hi asked.
“No, stay, it’s very good for you,” Rosa said.
Don Inocencio was a little pale man with a habit of inflating his cheeks; when he did this, he looked more important than at other times. He held a roll of paper in his left hand; he had very nice manners and spoke in English on finding Hi there. He was in a state of some agitation.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I have come all this way, in a great hurry, because of the importance of the occasion. The man has been permitted and permitted till he has presumed and presumed; but now he has outstepped all bounds; he has, if I may say so, without inelegance, burst, like the frog in the fable.”
“Who has burst without inelegance?” Rosa asked. “Do tell us. Could he do it again, publicly?”
“He has done it publicly,” Don Inocencio said, “It cannot be done twice in a civilised country.”
“Who is this?” Donna Emilia asked. “I do not quite understand? Has there been some accident?”
“I thought that at first,” Don Inocencio answered. “I thought at first, this is not genuine; this is a ruse or trick, designed by an enemy. It would be a skilled thrust, though that of a devil, to lead people to suppose that this came from our enemy. Then I thought, no, this thing is too mad to be anything but genuine; no counterfeit would be so crazy.”
“But what is it, Don Inocencio?”
“Have you not read the proclamation?”
“A proclamation; which; what proclamation?”
“There is at present only one, which will be historical. This is it, this scroll. They started to put this upon the walls at the time of the siesta; it is now everywhere; can it be that you have not seen it?”
“No; no, indeed.”
“Then I am a bringer of news. When I read it, I thought, this, if genuine, will be a landmark in our story. I must have copies of this; so must Donna Emilia; therefore I procured copies from the bill-stickers.
“You know that I am a collector of documents, which will go to my nephew; all things, especially documents, if old enough, have romance; this will have much more than romance, being the cause, if I am not much mistaken, of great events in the near future. We live in stirring times, Miss Rosa. You, Mr. Ridden, will see great events, really great events, as the Blanco party reasserts its ideals. Wait, now; for this big document; I will display my wares upon this chair.”
He pulled a chair towards him so that he could spread the paper upon the back: it was a yellow paper, printed in blunt, black type with a tall red heading:
“PROCLAMATION OF THE GOVERNMENT.”
He glanced at the faces of his audience for some expression, which he did not find.
“What,” he said, “no comment?”
“None,” Rosa said. “Mother and I cannot read well without our glasses.”
“And I,” Hi said, “cannot read Spanish very fluently yet. In fact, I can only get as far as ‘Government.’ ”
“Perhaps, Inocencio,” Donna Emilia said, “you will be so kind as to read it for us.”
“Certainly,” he said, “I will read it aloud: only I must warn you, that its contents are not such as are usual, I will not say in a proclamation, but in print of any kind. To begin with, it is, I must warn you, from first to last a print of the last blasphemy of madness.”
The listeners did not answer this, but looked and felt uncomfortable.
“Will you not read, then?” Donna Emilia said at last. Don Inocencio began to read aloud. He bent a little over the paper, so that he might read; he beat time with his left hand, in a pumping stroke, to mark his cadence. He began as follows:—
“This,” he said, “is his preludium or exordium.
PROCLAMATION OF THE GOVERNMENT.
Forasmuch as I, Don Lopez de Meruel, King, Emperor and Dictator of Santa Barbara, am convinced of my divinity and of my oneness with God. Know all men, that henceforth, throughout this my heaven of Santa Barbara, I assume the style and name of God, with the titles of Thrice Holy, Thrice Blessed, Thrice Glorious.
“What do you make of that?” he said, “for a beginning?”
“The man is mad,” Rosa said.
“It is blasphemy unspeakable,” Donna Emilia said. “I tremble lest fire descend on us.”
“This is nothing to what follows,” Don Inocencio said. “I will read on. The rest is incredibly much worse. But the rest, I, for one, rejoice at. It continues thus:
I therefore, thy God, decree, that henceforth my mortals worship and sacrifice to me in all churches, chapels and places of worship whatsoever; that all prayer, praise, worship and adoration, with all hymns, psalms and spiritual ejaculations of whatever kind, be henceforth addressed to me, whether in public or in private, I, thy God Lopez, decree it.
Likewise thy God decrees (and in reading this, Donna Emilia, I ask pardon of my Maker) thy God decrees, that all other Gods, saints and suchlike, hitherto worshipped in this my Heaven, such as (here he writes in a way that cannot be quoted) shall be cast aside, their images defaced, their altars denied and their rituals omitted, upon pain of death.
Furthermore, thy God decrees that my image be placed in all churches and in all chapels of churches, wheresoever there be an altar; and that instead of the services hitherto used at such places, a service to me only shall be used, with the title the Red Mass to God Lopez, the Thrice Holy.
And thy God decrees, that at the mention of thy God, at His passing, at His coming, upon His feast days, as at the passing of His priests and in the presence of His decrees, all My people, without exception, shall cry, Blessed be God Lopez, and shall sign the mark of thy God, a circle and a dot, upon breast and head.
Lopez, Thrice Glorious, Thrice Blessed, Thrice Holy.
All who infringe This My Decree, in Thought or Word or Deed, shall suffer Death.
From My Heaven in Plaza Verde,
⊙ LOPEZ GOD LOPEZ. ⊙
“That,” Don Inocencio said, “is our ruler’s proclamation in this year of grace. What do you think of it?”
Rosa went to the paper to read some printing at the foot.
“It is genuine,” she said. “It is printed at the palace press.”
“I believe it to be genuine,” Don Inocencio said.
Donna Emilia crossed herself for the third time: she spoke with some difficulty.
“Did you say, Inocencio, that you rejoice at this proclamation?”
“I do,” he said, “sincerely, Emilia, I do. We have been for far too long apathetic: now this outrage will rouse us from sleep: it may be our salvation as a nation. We ourselves are in some measure responsible for this madness. We have connived at madness in the palace too long: he takes advantage of our supineness to seize us by the throats. Now there can be but one answer.”
“Surely,” Donna Emilia said, “a vengeance of Heaven will fall upon a man like that.”
“Our Caligula will not long survive his decree,” Don Inocencio said. “Our old days of the Blancos will begin again.”
“What will people do?” Hi asked.
“They will do much,” Don Inocencio said. “For a beginning, the priests are already leading their young men to tear down these placards. In the New Town, a priest known to me was gathering the fraternity of his parish as I passed by on my way here. The week will see Don Lopez out of his palace.”
“I wonder,” Rosa said.
“Wonder what, dear?” her mother asked.
“Whether this follows on what Chacon told me half an hour ago. The Hinestrosa creature escaped in some way. The Reds must know by this time that the Whites are planning something. This is their counter-stroke.”
“Let us at least be thankful that General Chavez must be in the city by this time.”
“I think he must be,” Don Inocencio said. “Perhaps it is too early for General Chavez to be here, or indeed to be already on his way, but preparing to be on his way, that, yes, we might declare with confidence. Undoubtedly, he is preparing to be on his way, to, how shall we put it? to draw the sword of outraged religion.”
“Thank God that we may think that,” Donna Emilia said. “We know, that however indolent Luis may be, he is great enough to overcome his indolence when his country calls.”
“I don’t think so, mother,” Rosa said. “I don’t think he is. His country has called ever since the last election. What has he done? He has been at home distilling liqueurs and trying to grow Pommard grapes.”
“And why not?” Don Inocencio said. “Thus the great Roman patriots were employed when their country cried to them. They were on their farms, pruning their vines, or ‘binding faggots,’ as I think Horace puts it, ‘at the bidding of a Sabine grandmother.’ But when their country called, they arose; exchanging, as someone says, the service of the rustic god, whose name I forget, for that of Mars. Besides, Luis Chavez is a soldier. He needs the opportunities of the soldier, attack or defence, rather than those of the debater and intriguer.”
“I do not think that he is a soldier any more than he is a statesman,” Rosa said. “He is a self-indulgent, indolent country gentleman, who loves his garden and his book.”
“I have known Luis Chavez for a great many years, Rosa,” her mother said. “You are not just to him. He is a good man. If he be not hasty, it is because he is wise. He weighs situations before he decides. He asks God’s direction before he acts. I think that we ought all now to pray that he may be directed to act wisely now.”
“Before we do that, mother,” Rosa said, “we really ought to send into the town for Carlotta. She has not yet returned. There is a good deal of noise in the town; listen to that. There may be rioting or shooting.”
“Let me go,” Hi said.
“I thought I heard the horses,” Donna Emilia said.
“There are no horses.”
“There is a noise though,” Hi said. “There is shouting. Someone is shouting and coming along the road.”
Rosa was sitting beside Hi. She clutched his arm as though she wished to crush it. He felt her tremble or thrill like a taut guy suddenly stricken.
“Hi,” she whispered, “is it rioters in the road, mobbing her?”
“No, no,” Hi said, “it sounds like a man crying news.”
“Listen,” Don Inocencio said.
“It is only one voice,” Hi said.
“Yes, it is only one voice.”
“Have you town-criers here?” Hi asked.
“It is a newspaper seller crying some special edition,” Don Inocencio said. Pablo, the major domo appeared, with maté for Don Inocencio.
“Pablo, is this shouter in the road a newspaper seller?” Donna Emilia asked.
“Yes, Señora. He announces some murder.”
“Cause Felipe to procure a copy of the paper for me, will you, Pablo?” Don Inocencio asked.
“I will, Señor.”
When Pablo had gone, Don Inocencio rose, with a look of great importance.
“It is quite clear to me,” he said. “Judgment has overtaken the blasphemer already. Some deliverer has stricken Lopez in the moment of his blasphemy. I knew that our nation did but sleep.”
“I trust that no such thing as that has happened,” Donna Emilia said. “Of all the terrible things, to be flung suddenly into death is the most terrible; and for one to die in the very utterance of blasphemy is what no enemy could wish.”
“One cannot think of him as a blasphemer, mother,” Rosa said, “but as a poor madman. And if some other poor madman has mak’d him siccar, I don’t think one should examine the ways of Providence too critically.”
“It would be like the slaying of the Philistine,” Don Inocencio said. “Another David has arisen.”
“Carlotta has not returned, mother,” Rosa said. “I think Felipe ought to go to enquire what is happening.”
“May I go?” Hi asked.
“She has Manuel with her,” Donna Emilia said. “It may well be that the trains are stopped. In these crises they often put embargo on the trains. Manuel will have taken her to her brother’s at Medinas.”
“Well, won’t you let me go, to make sure for you?” Hi asked.
Pablo entered with the newspaper, which he gave to Don Inocencio. Hi noticed that Pablo looked much shaken and that he said something in a very low voice as he gave the paper. Plainly something terrible had happened. Don Inocencio opened the paper, with a trembling pair of hands; he looked suddenly deflated. Pablo left the room softly closing the door. Don Inocencio turned very white, sat down hurriedly and dropped the paper.
“What is it, Inocencio?” Emilia said.
“Not Carlotta?”
“No, no, no, no,” Inocencio said. “Chavez. General Chavez has been murdered.”
“My God. Luis? But how?”
“It tells little. ‘We grieve to announce the terrible news, that General Luis Chavez was assassinated by a ruffian, at the station of Aguas Dulces, at half-past two this afternoon, while waiting for the train to Santa Barbara, where he was expected to speak in Congress to-night. The murderer has been arrested.’ ”
“My God.”
“And where is Carlotta?” Rosa cried. “She is in the city all this while. Is she, too, in the hands of the Red murderers?”
“God in Heaven forbid, child.”
“There are her horses,” Hi said. “That is the jingle of their silver; they are almost at the door.”
“Let us come down, then, to meet her.”
They found her chaise and horses at the door: Carlotta was not there.
“Were you in time for the Meruel train?” Donna Emilia asked the driver.
“Yes, Señora, in good time,” the man said. “Afterwards, the train being gone, on hearing of rumours, the Señorita drove to Medinas, whence she sends this letter.”
“Thank you,” Donna Emilia said. “You had better stable your horses, then.” As the man drove to the stables. Donna Emilia opened the letter, and dropped the envelope, which Hi picked up (and kept). “She has gone to Miguel’s,” Donna Emilia said. “Miguel is her brother, Highworth. Miguel thinks she had better stay there for the present.”
“Wisely decided,” Don Inocencio said. “And I will now take my leave, since I must go to the Circle, to see Hermengildo before the House to-night. Let me drive you, Mr. Ridden, since I pass your hotel.”
* * * * * * *
While they waited in the drive for the caleche a party of Pitubas, under a negro who wore a green feather in his hat, rode up to them. He saluted Rosa, and presented a warrant. Rosa read it, called Pablo, and gave him some directions. Pablo led the troops to the stables, from which they removed all the horses, including Carlotta’s team. The Senator’s horse, being old, they left. When they had secured these horses, they rode off with them to another White house further down the bay.
“They’re taking the horses,” Rosa explained. “They always begin by taking our horses. That’s the first danger sign.”
“But good heaven,” Hi said. “Why?”
“ ‘Military reasons,’ they say in their warrant; but they really mean, so that the Whites shall not communicate with each other.”
“Will you get them back?”
“No, probably not. You see, they’ve only gone to the White house down the bay; not to those two Red houses. This may make you understand our local politics a little. It shows you Santa Barbara as she is. It isn’t the Paradise it looks, is it?”
“It’s got angels in it,” he said.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m so anxious about her.”
“She is safe at her brother’s, surely?”
“She ought not to have gone there.”
“Why ever not?”
“I don’t know, but she ought not. I knew it when I saw the chaise had not brought her. She has done the wrong thing.”
“I will take a note to her if you like,” Hi said, “and bring her back here, too, if she wishes.”
“She won’t come back here,” Rosa said. “Nor could she, after dark, with these patrols in the streets; but if you will take a letter for me, I shall be grateful. The de Leyvas live outside the West Gate, off the Anselmo Road, in a part called Medinas.”
“Medinas Close is where my old murderer lives,” Hi said.
“There are fearful rookeries close to the palace,” Rosa said. “They are all owned by the de Leyvas.”
She wrote a letter, which she gave to Hi to take.
“If she wants to send any message,” Hi said, “of course, I will bring it back at once.”
“Hi,” she said, “you really are a dear.” She caught him by the neck and kissed his forehead.
“Somewhat rougey,” Hi thought, as he mopped his brow, while he drove with Don Inocencio. “But an awfully good-hearted sort, Rosa.”
* * * * * * *
The drive to the hotel was interesting; Hi had never before seen a city in a state of excitement. The newsboys were crying special editions; parties of men and boys were marching to drums and fifes under Red banners; certain shops, which did not display Red colours, were having their windows broken. On the water-front a guardia warned Don Inocencio and his driver that the Martial Law was proclaimed, and that all carriages were to be off the streets by eight o’clock. “Bad, bad,” Don Inocencio muttered. “I know not which of us will escape such nets.” He left Hi at his hotel.
Here Hi found two envelopes waiting for him. The first contained a printed card from Roger Weycock, asking him to attend a special meeting of the English in Santa Barbara, at the Club, at seven o’clock that evening; the second contained a similar card, with a few words written in pencil by Allan Winter: “Don’t go to this. Keep clear of politics here.—A. W.” The cards had been hurriedly printed, probably as soon as the proclamation had appeared, the ink on them was still moist.
“Winter was right,” Hi thought. “Weycock is in with the Reds, trying to turn English opinion that way, He’s organising this meeting for that end. But Winter’s right; we ought to keep clear of politics here; I won’t go. But all the same, I am jolly well a White in this business, and I’ll help the Whites all I can. By George, I suppose those devils, the Reds, could arrest me for carrying letters.”
* * * * * * *
The sun was setting when he drove off in a caleche for the de Leyva house at Medinas. On his way, he saw scenes between parties of Reds and Whites which made him wonder at the strength of the feelings between them. “Killing Chavez and claiming to be God did not rouse this,” he thought. “This hate has been simmering for years; this is only the boiling over.”
At the West Gate, a Red patrol was stopping the traffic for examination before permitting it to pass; its officer turned back a carriage which had been trundling in front of Hi for some minutes. He then came forward to question Hi, found that he was English and allowed him to proceed. He did this, as Hi thought, grudgingly, in a way which made him wonder, whether the English were as much loved as his father had always said.
Beyond the gate, the Anselmo road was a narrow street from which narrow courts opened. Street and courts swarmed with people, all talking at the tops of their voices, but above all the talking the harsh bellow of public orators in praise of violence sounded. The place stank of mice, sweat, fried fish and damp washing. Hi called to the driver: “Is this Medinas?”
“Medinas, si,” the driver said.
Little boys clambered on to the caleche, asking for “Frencha penny. Ingles penny.” A fat, pale-faced young man hopped on to the step and poised there while he made his proposals.
“You want to see the sights?” he said. “I be your guide. I show you very funny sights. I show you not the usual sort of thing. You like a nice cock-fight, no? You like a quail-fight, no? See now, I take you to a special thing, not many knows about, a good dog-fight. There now, only three dollar. Well, I take you to a special thing to-night; something you never see, perhaps ever again. No? Well, you go to dam prayer-meeting, see? dam prayer-meeting.”
He swung off to seek for a client elsewhere. The caleche passed from the narrows into a broader space, went under an old archway of withering red and yellow plaster and came out into an avenue of palms lit by electric light. Turning from this through an ilex grove it stopped at the de Leyva palace.
Hi was admitted into a great cool hall built of white Otorin marble. All round it and against its columns were the stands of the de Leyva armour, some of which had marched in the Conquest. Carlotta joined him almost at once; he gave her the letter.
“I thought that perhaps you would bring a letter,” she said. “I suppose Rosa wants me to go back to her? My brother is against that.”
“I hope,” Hi said, “I do hope that Don Manuel will not be attacked by these Reds.”
“He is far away by this time.”
Hi felt that he had said a tactless thing, even to suggest that Don Manuel might be attacked, so he added:
“I should pity the man who attacked Don Manuel.”
“It is nice of you to say that, Hi,” she said.
“Did he see the proclamation, or hear of the murder, before he started?” Hi asked.
“No. Rosa tells me that his captive, the Hinestrosa, has been rescued.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of my country?”
“It’s produced you and Don Manuel and Donna Emilia,” he said. “I think it’s a marvellous country.”
“It may be marvellous, if it turn now.”
“It will turn,” he said. “No nation will stand that proclamation.”
“If a nation be only mad enough, it will stand anything,” she said.
“I hope,” Hi said, “that Don Manuel will find his mother better, when he gets there.”
“I fear that there is little hope of that,” she said. “A telegram came here . . . he can hardly see his mother alive again.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Others are not so sorry,” she said, in a strange voice. He looked at her with a rush of understanding that she was standing alone, through her love of Don Manuel.
“Oh, but they must be,” he said.
“Sorry?” she said. “Alas, they are thanking God that my lover is out of the way at this time. You do not know the Whites: how broken we are into cliques. My brother, a great man in so many ways, dreads and hates my lover: he thinks him too dangerous: he wants Bazan to lead the party. If Manuel were here now, Bazan would not stand for five minutes. Then, I suppose, my brother would challenge Manuel to a duel. So, if I bring Manuel back, I break with all I have loved in the past.”
“But you will bring him back,” Hi said.
She looked at him in a way which he never forgot; but she did not answer.
“Let me go and bring him back for you,” Hi pleaded. “Of course, I’m only a boy, but I’ll go like a shot. I’ll take any message you like. Do let me. I’ll never be anything again all my life, probably, except just a planter. But just this once let me ride for you. I only saw you for the first time this morning; but you don’t know what you are to me . . . in my life, I mean . . . you I mean, just there being such a person. Of course, you’re sick of men saying this to you. Miss de Leyva, will you let me go?”
“Carlotta will not let you go,” she said, “I’m sure Miss de Leyva won’t. But I cannot bring Manuel here, against my brother’s prayers, even if I would, from his mother’s death-bed. But there is one thing which I wish you would do for me: take a note from me to Rosa.”
“Of course, I’ll gladly take a note,” he said, “and bring back an answer.”
“There will be no answer. You will just have time to leave the note and get back to your hotel before the streets are cleared.”
While she wrote the note, Hi thought of a suggestion.
“I say,” he said. “Quite apart from calling Don Manuel here, there is some point in letting him know the news and telling him not to come. Couldn’t you let me do that for you?”
“You’re very determined, Hi,” she said. “But you must stay in Santa Barbara and keep out of our politics.”
“But why? You will have to send someone.”
“I will not send you, Hi.”
“Why not? Have you anybody better?”
“There could not be anybody better, nor as good; but this is not a thing I could let you attempt. Do you know, that if the Reds were to find you doing this you might be expelled the country, or even shot.”
“For taking a message?”
“That counts as spying in time of war.”
“Who would know that I was taking a message? I should just be an English tourist. That settles it. I’ll go off and get a horse and start at once and find him and tell him.”
“No, no,” she said. “It is impossible.”
“Because I’m a boy and don’t know Spanish?”
“No, no, indeed,” she said, “but because we want you to settle here. Become a citizen later, if you wish, but, until then, you must avoid our troubles. Now here is my note to Rosa, if you will deliver it.”
It was very dim in the hall away from the tapers on the writing table. There were amphoræ full of sweet-smelling shrubs. He could see her face and hands against the darkness of the leaves: her head seemed crowned by white flowers. She switched on some lights so that the hall seemed suddenly full of armed men.
“Will you give me a sprig of those flowers?” he asked.
“Willingly.” She broke a spray for him.
“What is the flower?”
“Hermosita.”
“May I ever see you again?”
“Of course. Come to-morrow to lunch: you must meet my brother.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll bring back an answer from Rosa, if she sends one. Anything that I can ever do for you will always be absolute happiness; you know that, don’t you?”
“Thank you, Hi.”
She gave him her hand, in the foreign fashion, to kiss: he was grateful for this. A clock chimed for half-past seven. “You must go,” she said, “you haven’t much time.”
* * * * * * *
His caleche jolted him back through Medinas, which was now lit for the night from its many windows. He saw it as a darting of children and a slinking of men, amid a noise of babies squalling, men singing and women screaming. A gas-lamp at a corner of a lane lit the words on a wooden direction post, To Medinas Close; he could just see a lit space surrounded by decaying old black houses, seven or nine storeys high. “So that is where ’Zeke lives,” he thought. “I’ll go to see the old man as I come back to-morrow.”
There was delay in getting through the gates, in spite of his pleading that he was English. He delivered his letter to Rosa, learned that there was to be no answer, and then drove off (his driver in a hurry) to reach the hotel before eight o’clock. On coming to the gate on his way back, he had some trouble with the guard. Unfortunately it was not the guard which had passed him through ten minutes before. The sergeant of this guard was a mulatto (with an Irish accent), who was very rude and smelt of aniseed.
“You damned English,” he said. “What’s stopping ye staying in your homes? I suppose ye’re ate up by your lice, and think ye can scrape them off on us. Well, get through and be damned to ye and obey the proclamation another time.”
The hotel people opened their doors grudgingly to him. They gave him a tasteless supper in the ill-lit, frowsy dining-room, from which all the life had gone; everybody seemed to have gone to bed. He hurried through the meal and then went up to his bedroom.
Here, in bed, he went over the events of the day with a great deal of relish.
“I have had a day,” he thought. “I have never enjoyed a day so much. She is beautiful, she is marvellous, and to-morrow I shall see her again. Oh, my God, she is beautiful.”
He kept repeating this as he thought of her image with praise and blessing: he could not sleep at first because of her. At a little before midnight some rifles were fired in the streets.
“By George, rifles,” he thought. “I say, this is the heart of life.” The firing, whatever it was, stopped after a couple of minutes. In the quiet which followed, perhaps not long after twelve, he fell asleep.