So that was that. Lanny drove back to the city and hammered out on his little portable typewriter a report to the owner of the paintings. He was leaving for Madrid, he told her, and she might address him at the Palace Hotel. He posted the letter, and in the cool of the evening strolled with his friend to the Kursaal Internacional to enjoy Andalusian music and dancing, and learn that some Spaniards cherished the dream of happiness, even though their reality was so dreary and bitter.
X
Early next morning the voyagers retraced their way up the river valley to Cordoba, where they divided their attention between the cathedral and the schools, and next day set out through the country known as La Mancha toward Madrid. All the way as they motored over these hot wheat-fields and lonely hills there rode ahead of them upon a bony nag a cadaverous figure wearing heavy armor and carrying a long lance. The elderly gentleman had left his comfortable home and ridden forth into an unlovely world in the effort to adjust some of its manifold wrongs. Lanny felt himself a blood-brother to this woeful knight; hardly less futile, and considered by many to be equally touched in the head. Like the ill-fortuned Don Quixote de la Mancha, he found upon this camino real no lovely damsels to rescue, and as for the ogres and oppressors of this new time, they were not to be overthrown in single-handed combat by the most valorous of knights-errant.
Lanny’s companion was no Sancho Panza to restrain him, but another dreamer, born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. Raoul was tormented in his conscience because he was sleeping in royal beds and eating the fat of the land while that land was hanging on the edge of doom; he wondered if it was not his duty to part from Lanny and endeavor to arouse the people to their danger—or perhaps take a plane to Paris and warn the outside world. Lanny appeased him by promising that as soon as they reached Madrid he would hammer out on his typewriter what he had learned and airmail it to Jean Longuet, editor of Le Populaire. The message would not have to be signed, for Lanny could put in a key sentence which would identify him to this acquaintance of old standing.
All right; the younger Don Quixote accepted that program. They drove as fast as the roads permitted, and took only part of the day to see Toledo, an ancient city that is like a fortress on a granite rock, with the River Tagus flowing through a gorge around three sides of it. The houses were built like fortresses, many with blank walls and heavy iron-studded doors. The streets were so narrow and winding that it seemed as if you were in one building all the time. In many of the streets, if a car stopped, all others had to stop too; but as a rule there were no others. Toledo is famed for the manufacture of sharp steel to be plunged into human bodies, and to the visitors the whole place spoke of cruelty and fear.
On a high hill stands an Alcazar, built upon the foundations of an Arab fortress, a huge square structure then used as a military academy. Lanny gazed at its massive granite walls and called it another product of fear. Having no psychic gifts, he thought about old-time battles and sieges. All the five hundred kilometers between Seville and here he had thought and talked about the Cid and his foes, about the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, about the cruel and bigoted monarchs of Castile; but he had heard no tread of modern boots upon that dry and dusty highway, no clatter of heavy guns, no rumble of camions and tanks. The walls of Toledo’s Alcazar echoed only to the footsteps of tourists; no towers trembled, no granite blocks crashed. The veil of the future was more impenetrable than all the fortifications constructed by Moors or Spaniards, and through it no single shell-burst was heard, no groan or scream of dying Falangisto.
XI
Comfortably ensconced in a suite in the Palace Hotel, Lanny set up his portable typewriter and hammered out the letter to the Socialist editor in Paris. The opening sentence read: “This is the friend who brought you the sketches of a young German woman artist.” Reading the letter aloud to Raoul, Lanny omitted this, explaining: “I have referred to a personal matter which Longuet will recognize.” He put an airmail stamp on the letter, and took it outside and dropped it into the mailbox on a tramcar which stopped at the corner. That was one of Madrid’s contributions to civilization, a mailbox on every one of its ancient tramcars, and he wondered why American cities had not adopted the idea.
Madrid in the month of July was like the other great capitals of Europe: “everybody” was out of town. That meant pretty nearly all who were rich enough to be counted. If their children enjoyed playing on the beach, the family had a villa at San Sebastian or Biarritz, or perhaps on the coast of Normandy; if the adults liked to climb mountains, they had a camp in the Guadarramas or perhaps a chalet in Switzerland. Lanny had sent his letters of introduction by mail, and permission to view private collections came to him by the same means.
But there were many in this great capital who did not own villas or camps or chalets, and who had to make out in spite of the heat. The stores closed from noon to three o’clock, so that all might have the siesta. When the sun went down and the heat had been dissipated from pavements and walls of houses, people would come out and sit on their doorsteps and chat, or stroll on the boulevards and greet their friends. They talked loudly, discussed with large gestures, and listened to blaring loud-speakers. The dinner hour was at nine or ten in the evening, and theaters and entertainments began at half-past ten or eleven.
Two travelers left their hotel and walked on the brightly lighted streets, interested in the sights which were new to them both. Raoul had been born and raised within a hundred kilometers of this city, but the poor do not travel in Spain, and he had left his native village only when his father had been killed in the days of the Primo de Rivera dictatorship. A penniless youth, he had climbed alone through the snowy passes of the Pyrenees. On the Riviera he had earned his bread as a shoe-clerk, and had taught himself French and English by writing the words on slips of paper and memorizing them while waiting for customers.
Now these two looked at Madrid and found it much like Europe and not so much like Spain. Here was no stuffy medieval “old town,” like Seville and Toledo; here were suburbs spreading over a vast plain. Here were wide boulevards, a subway, and other modern features, whether you chose to call them improvements or what. Anyhow, you could drive a car with pleasure, and guess that some of the people you met possessed bathtubs. Men of the machine age enjoy the novelty of looking at relics and ruins, dungeons and torture instruments, swords and lances and armor and the like; but a little goes a long way, and they come back to the world they know and which holds out some hope to their children.
XII
In one way or another a Franco-American tourist managed to come in contact with members of the prosperous classes. There were some of the old-fashioned kind who stayed locked up in their stone mansions. There was one decayed aristocrat who motored to town to meet what he imagined was a fabulously wealthy American camouflaged as an art expert. There were younger sons who had posts in the government or the Army. All could be led to talk politics, and few had any good word, to say about the existing government, which had now been in office for five months. The most charitable called it incompetent, and considered this fortunate, because what it wished to do was altogether evil. All agreed that it must somehow be replaced, and quickly, because the country was drifting into bankruptcy and chaos. But they were less free than people in the south in saying what that something might be. Either they hadn’t been taken into the confidence of the conspirators or they were more aware of the need of caution.
Lanny and Raoul chose not to eat in the fashionable restaurants, for there you were escorted to a table a deux, and it would have been the height of impropriety to speak to a stranger. But if you ate in some cheap cafe you had neighbors who would address you as a matter of course, and the magic word americano would start them to pouring out their hearts. Here, too, many would scold at the government, but for the opposite reason, that it couldn’t keep its mind made up; it was composed of polite old gentlemen who couldn’t bear to disturb things or to displease their subordinates, the bureaucrats, no matter w
hat election results came in. The officeholders of modern Spain resembled the clergy in good King Charles’s golden days, who sang.
That whatsoever king shall reign
I’ll still be vicar of Bray, sir!
The travelers were pleased to find how well informed the average Madrileno was concerning the affairs of his native land. They had imagined they were bringing dark secrets, but found that the workers of all sorts, even the clerks and teachers, knew who their enemies were, their names and titles or ranks in the Army. How could anyone fail to know, when these people met openly in certain swank cafes and made speeches and drank toasts to the counter-revolution? How could anybody fail to know that they meant violence, when night after night their young gangsters would waylay some friend of the Republic and shoot him on the steps of his home?
Life in Madrid was turning into a nightmare; the people were bewildered and helpless—for civilized men and women are in the habit, of leaving the preservation of law and order to the government. Could workingmen and clerks and schoolteachers go out and fight? Just how would they set about such a thing? Where would they get guns, and who would show them how to shoot?
XIII
Strolling on the Calle Santa Catalina, Raoul noticed a sign: “Arte Popular Espanol.” He said: “That must be the shop of Constancia de la Mora.” He explained that this was a member of the ruling classes—granddaughter of Maura, Conservative leader and Premier under King Alfonso—who had rebelled against her family’s control and become a Socialist.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Lanny. “I remember. The one who divorced her husband. The Spaniards on the Riviera were in a dither over it—the first time such a thing had ever happened in Spain, they said.”
“Now she is married to an Army officer who commands the Air Corps, and who ought to be useful to us if it really comes to a showdown with the Fascists. She earns her living by selling the products of peasant handicraft.”
“Let’s go in and meet her,” said Lanny.
Raoul was surprised. He was familiar with customs among the workers, but had never approached the granddaughter of a premier, so far as he knew. “Will you tell her who you are?” he asked.
“Why should I? If she has things to sell, and we wish to examine them, that will be enough.”
A tall dark woman of thirty or so came forward, saying, graciously: “Buenos dias, Senores.” When Lanny asked if she spoke English she answered in the affirmative. She did not mention that she had got a good part of her education in England.
“I am seeing your country for the first time,” he explained. “I should like to have something characteristic to take home to my mother.”
The shop displayed many sorts of peasant products: embroideries, linens, pottery, furniture, all with Spanish touches. The granddaughter of a premier manifested no zeal as a saleswoman, but left the customer to look and choose. When he said: “I think that linens always make an acceptable gift, because they are so durable,” she answered: “These will last a lifetime.”
Lanny picked out half a dozen fine tablecloths and a couple of dozen napkins. He could imagine Beauty saying to her guests: “My son brought these from Madrid.” They would talk about them, and perhaps Beauty would add: “They came from the shop of Constancia de la Mora; you remember, the one who got the divorce and married the aviation officer.”
It was common enough for French and English ladies of title to set themselves up in some sort of leisure-class trade. Their friends would think it was spunky and would patronize them on principle; tourists would come, in order to see what a countess or a duchess looked like, and to be able to tell their friends what she had said. But to set up a shop in Madrid, and then heap a divorce on top of it—to Spanish conservatives it had seemed like the death of an era.
Lanny’s contribution to the feminist movement amounted to nearly a thousand pesetas, enough to constitute a red-letter day in the life of any premier’s granddaughter. Senora Constancia manifested no elation, but made the change and inquired where the package should be delivered. Lanny replied: “I will come for it in my car.”
XIV
Outside, the two adventurers discussed this episode. Lanny remarked: “That’s a fine, straightforward woman; one that you could trust. You say her husband commands the Air Force?”
“So I have been told.”
“Well, he would be a key man. We ought to make sure that he knows what is going on.” When Raoul agreed, Lanny added: “I believe I’ll take a chance on her. You wait in the car, and I’ll ask to talk with her alone.”
He got his car and drove to the shop. Entering, he said to the lady: “Senora, I am a stranger who has been traveling in your country for the past three weeks, and I have information which ought to be of interest to you. Might I speak to you in private?”
His manner was respectful, and she showed no surprise; she was living in a world of conspiracies. There was another woman in the shop, apparently a clerk, and without a word the Senora led the customer into a small rear office and closed the door.
Lanny came at once to the point. “I am acting on a sudden impulse, because I sympathize with your ideas and feel moved to trust you. I am not at liberty to reveal my views to others—to do so would close all my sources of information. For that reason I hope you will not ask my name, nor mention me to anyone; make what you please of what I tell you, but forget my connection with it.”
“Certainly, Senor; as you wish.”
“Most of what I know I learned before I came to Spain, from those who are plotting against your government. Traveling through the south, I have gathered so much confirmation that I feel certain of the details. There is to be an uprising against your government, financed by Juan March, the Duque de Alba, and others of that sort. General Francisco Franco is their chosen leader and he is to fly from the Canaries to Morocco and from there to Cadiz to head the movement. The time is short now.”
The woman showed little emotion. “We have had this dreadful news for a long time,” she told him. “We have worried ourselves sick about it, and have done what little we can, but it is not much.”
“But, Senora, you have the government, have you not?”
“Alas, we have no government. We have been generous, and have left the government to older and wiser heads—or so they are esteemed and so we were led to believe. We of the Left have not one single representative in the Cabinet. You have no doubt heard the government denounced as anarchist or Communist—”
“I hear that everywhere.”
“There is not one anarchist, not one Communist, not even one Socialist in the Cabinet. We of the Left wished to be polite, and moderate, to move gradually and not give provocation; so our government is composed of lawyers and scholars, liberals and old-time democrats—men who have devoted their long lives to the cause of Spanish enlightenment, of a Spanish republic—but now they are tired and must not be too greatly disturbed. They are kindly and trusting, they do not wish to believe too much evil of mankind. We go to them and warn them, we plead, we all but fall down on our knees before them—but we cannot shake their faith in orderly processes, their belief that the decision rendered at the ballot box is sacred, that the will of the Spanish people is and must be inviolate.”
“But the people, Senora! Can they not be aroused and organized?”
“That is our only hope, that the workers will defend the government in spite of itself. But they cannot do it until they are attacked, otherwise they would be called insurrectionists and criminals.”
“And your husband?”
“My husband has gone again and again to his superiors; he has risked his influence and authority. What little power he has he has used; he has put the known Fascists out of the Air Force, and believes that those now in the service are loyal. That will gain us a little time, we hope.”
“But your enemies will have planes from Italy and Germany, and they will overwhelm you.”
“You really believe that, Senor?”
“I have it on
authority which cannot be doubted. They will send transport planes and bring troops from Morocco, and your workers will be overwhelmed before they can start to rise. You have seen how they did it in their own countries, and they mean to do it in one after another, so long as there is a democratic government to oppose them or a labor movement to denounce them.”
Lanny was prepared to see upon this Spanish lady’s face that look of helpless grief and despair which he had learned to know so well upon the faces of those who had escaped from Italy, and then from Germany. But instead he saw anger; for she was of a race which did not give up easily. “Our people will fight!” she declared. “With whatever weapons we can find! We will never let our government be taken from us!”
“Then you must act now, Senora.”
Constancia said: “I will talk to my husband. I will go once more to the few friends I have left.”
“If the government wishes to survive, it must arrest the conspirators. It must arrest them by the hundreds: Franco, Sanjurjo, Goded, Mola—all of them! It must act at once.”
“They will not act, Senor. They are incapable of any such initiative. They are too good—or you may say too stupid, too befuddled, too weak! It would be called a coup d’etat, and they dread the scandal, the excitement, the abuse.”
As he rose to leave, she said: “Thank you, Senor. Give me more information if you get it, and be sure I will make what use of it I can.”
“Very well,” he replied. “I will give you a code name so that I can write to you. Let it be Popular.” He pronounced it as a Spanish word, with the accent on the last syllable. It means, of the people, or having to do with the people. It didn’t fit Lanny Budd, but it fitted his dream, and hers. Arte Popular Espanol meant more than that the peasant women of Spain were to weave linens and sell them to rich ladies; it meant that the Spanish workers were to own great cooperatives with the best machinery and make abundance for themselves. “They shall build houses, and inhabit them; and they shall plant vineyards, and eat the fruit of them. They shall not build, and another inhabit; they shall not plant, and another eat; for as the days of a tree are the days of my people, and mine elect shall long enjoy the work of their hands.”