The deliberate satiric lightness of Stephen’s manner caused General Desmonde to compress his clean-cut lips. To one who prided himself upon maintaining the highest standards of soldierly efficiency, who set honour, discipline, and self-control above all else, whose cool courage and physical hardihood were a byword in his regiment, Stephen’s present attitude was like a red rag to a bull. He decided, in his own phrase, to stop beating about the bush and got straight to the point.
‘You must come home,’ he said, and paused. ‘ If not for your family … for your country.’
Astounded, Stephen gazed back at his uncle in absolute silence.
‘You may not realise it,’ Hubert went on. ‘There is going to be a war. In a matter of weeks, months at the latest, Germany will attack Britain. It will be a desperate business. To achieve victory we shall need every available man we have got.’
Again there was silence. Stephen, understanding at last what was in Hubert’s mind, experienced a deepening of his resentment. How often in the past had the General given false warning of the imminence of war! For years now he had been voicing suspicions of Germany, distrust of Kaiser Wilhelm and his general staff, gloomy prophecies of the unpreparedness of Britain. Doubtless his profession as a soldier induced such a precautionary viewpoint, nevertheless, in the family, this attitude of Uncle Hubert’s was admitted to be an obsession. To imagine that on such a supposition he would cut short his career seemed to Stephen fantastic.
‘I am afraid I must disappoint you. I am not coming home.’
A pause followed.
‘I see.’ Hubert’s voice was cold as ice. ‘You intend to continue slouching around here in indolence and dissipation.’
‘You appear to have some misapprehension of the nature of my activities. Would it surprise you to know that I work twelve hours a day? Indeed, I’ll wager I work harder at my art than ever you did on the parade ground.’
‘Your art!’ Hubert’s lip curled. ‘What conceited rot!’
‘It is absurd, is it not, to be concerned only with what is beautiful, and not, as you are, with the business of killing people. Nevertheless, despite your opinion of us, we are the only ones who matter. I would hazard a guess that the works of the great artists will be remembered and cherished long after all your bloody conquests are forgotten.’
The General, extremely angry, bit his lip. There was a spark, in his glacial eye.
‘I refuse to argue with you. I repeat – whatever you have done, you are still British and a Desmonde. I won’t have our name held up to ridicule and contempt. At a time like this you can’t get away with daubing paint on a strip of canvas. You must come home. I insist.’
‘And I refuse.’ Stephen got up from the table. ‘Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Still preserving that faint, fixed smile which more than anything enraged his uncle, he spun on his heel and left the dining-room. As he passed through the vestibule, on an impulse he stepped into the hotel office and paid the bill for his breakfast. Then, no longer smiling, trembling a little from the hurts inflicted upon him, he went out to the street.
Chapter Two
In the strange yellow light which filtered through the glass roof, the Biarritz express was on the point of departure, most of the passengers had taken their places, and on the quai, where belated travellers were hurrying, porters shouting and pushing their trucks, amidst a final confusion of noise, steam, and sulphurous smoke, Stephen stood at his compartment, already almost full, awaiting Peyrat with increasing anxiety. Jerome, staying at Louveciennes, had promised to be at the station in good time. All the arrangements for their departure were made. And now the carriage doors were being shut. Upset, reflecting how unwise he had been to rely on anyone so impulsive and uncertain, Stephen gave his friend up. Peyrat was evidently not coming. Then, just as the horn sounded, he observed a familiar figure walking calmly up the platform, wearing a shaggy, dilapidated coat, carrying an easel and a carpet-bag of terrifying antiquity.
They got into the moving train in the nick of time, and after some manipulation Peyrat piled his belongings tenderly upon the rack. When, not without a struggle, they had found places near each other he turned quite at his ease to Stephen, with a smile which, springing from his bright blue eyes, irradiated his wrinkled and unshaven face.
‘You must forgive me. I am late. In the Métro I found myself next to a young curé who, learning that I was bound for Madrid, engaged me in conversation on the subject of the discalced rule. Our discussion attained such fervour I got carried past my station … to the Odéon.’
His soft voice and affectionate manner, so polite, gentle and gay, above all that irrestible air of ingenuous audacity which was so much a part of him, made Stephen relent immediately.
‘A fine thing if you had been left behind.’
Peyrat immediately became grave.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘ do not reproach me for pursuing so fascinating a subject. I intend to look into the matter by visiting the convents of that order in the province of Andalusia. I have often thought of instituting a barefoot brotherhood, dedicated to art and meditation. This may be my opportunity.’ He added, after a moment of thought, ‘Poverty will save the world.’
Stephen raised his eyebrows.
‘Poverty will not save us. I have got your money from the Ventes Soulat and, as you were roundly cheated, it is little enough. We have no more than nineteen hundred francs between us.’
‘Divide it equally. I offer no objections,’ said Peyrat calmly. ‘Or if you wish, let me have it all. I will be our treasurer.’ Then, pointing to the moth-eaten carpet-bag, ‘ I’ve got a Bayonne ham there, weighing not a milligramme less than fifteen kilos, given me by Madame Huffnaegel. We shall not starve.’
Whilst the train gathered speed through the outer suburbs, the other passengers having their own preoccupations, Stephen, never any good with money, remembering, too, how excellently Peyrat had managed the housekeeping in the Rue Castel, handed over the packet of banknotes. Accepting this with placidity, Jerome stuffed it in the bulging wallet, held together with string, wherein he hoarded all his precious documents – frayed cuttings from provincial newspapers, dirty and dog-eared cards for past soirées musicales, and those complimentary letters which, on the slightest provocation, he would produce and read to chance acquaintances in cafés, public conveyances, and even in the street. Then, having assured himself that nothing was lost, he took out a sealed envelope, already somewhat soiled, and fingering it with an air of mystery not unmixed with pride, glanced several times at Stephen as though hopeful of provoking his curiosity. When this did not succeed he observed:
‘You will not guess what this is. A letter of introduction to the Marquesa de Morella. She is old, but of the highest aristocracy, and Mother Superior of the convent in Avila. She will undoubtedly receive me. An ancester was painted by Goya. He hangs in the Prado.’
‘Then I shall call upon the ancestor. And all the other Goyas.’
‘Ah, yes, that undoubtedly will be something for you,’ Peyrat agreed. ‘Still… a marquesa.…’
He replaced the letter and retied the string. A silence followed during which he studied his companion.
‘You seem depressed, my friend. Has anything upset you?’
‘No,’ said Stephen; then, on an impulse, for indeed the quarrel with General Desmonde still weighed upon his mind, ‘Someone wanted to make a soldier of me.’
Peyrat, master of the non sequitur, betrayed not the least surprise. For a few minutes he sucked meditatively at the cold stem of his pipe.
‘Enforced military service is a monstrous institution – the greatest evil of our time. Why should men be forced into uniform in order that they may kill each other? In the days of chivalry the knights engaged in battle of their own free will. It was a sport to them – and they were good for nothing else. No one ever dreamed of bolting up a poet or a philosopher in armour and sending him to the battlefield. Even the peasants were exempt. But
now we must all be made expert in the methods of slaughtering our fellow creatures.’
Stephen, who had listened with a smile, now laughed outright. This Peyrat accepted as a compliment, but suppressing his satisfaction, he pulled a long sigh.
‘Ah, poor humanity, what do you not suffer from your masters!’
‘At least,’ said Stephen, quite cheered up, ‘we are not suffering at present. Moreover, since it is now past noon, we are going to have lunch.’
Jerome admitted that he was hungry. He wished to produce Madame Huffnaegel’s ham from his carpet-bag, but Stephen, in his uplifted mood, cast economy to the winds. They elbowed their way along the crowded corridors to the restaurant car and, while bushy hedgerows, willows drooping yellow across grey streams, and trees canopied with green flew past them, lunched on sardines, breast of veal, and a rich Brie cheese. Afterwards they lingered over a glass of Benedictine while Peyrat tranquilly smoked his pipe.
Late afternoon brought them to the flat monotony of the Landes, wastes of sand and interminable pines, through which occasionally they caught a twilight gleam of brightness that was the sea. Quickly, evening emerged to night, casting a veil upon the rolling hills and fertile vineyards of the Garonne. When the moon rose, gazing at the shadowed plains beyond which mountains lifted up their crests, Stephen was conscious of a troubling sadness springing from the past. But he shut his mind against it, thinking only of the future and of the splendid adventure that lay ahead.
Except for a faint blue glow the lights were dimmed. In various attitudes of contortion the occupants of the compartment composed themselves to sleep until they should change for Hendaye. Peyrat, seated erect, his head enveloped in his coat, was already breathing deeply. Gazing at that fantastically shrouded form, Stephen was conscious of a warmth in his heart. How good it was to be travelling with a friend so original, gay and gentle, so prodigal of his affection, always naively happy, and while sometimes absurd, yet on occasion so profoundly wise. He closed his eyes and, rocked by the motion of the train, shivering a little in the night cold, was soon asleep.
Chapter Three
They reached Madrid late the following afternoon and without much difficulty found two modest rooms in the Calle Olivia, near the Puerta de Toledo, a poor neighbourhood adjoining the fruit market some distance from the centre of the city, but convenient to the yellow trams. Peyrat, in bad yet comprehensible Spanish, arranged the terms in a business-like manner and paid for a week’s lodging in advance.
On the morning after their arrival Stephen rose, much refreshed, and roused Jerome.
‘Seven o’clock. Time you were up. We ought to get to the Prado early.’
Peyrat, supported by an elbow, considered his companion with indulgence.
‘Nothing is early in this country. The Prado does not open until nine-thirty.’ He added in a reflective manner: ‘In any case I am not going.’
‘What!’ Stephen paused, incredulous. ‘Then why have we come to Madrid?’
‘To enable you to view the Prado. Go, my friend, and profit by the experience. But there is little point in my going. What others have done does not influence me.’
‘Not even the great masters?’
‘I am perhaps a master myself,’ Peyrat said simply. ‘Besides, I am going to Avila.’
‘Oh confound Avila.’
‘My friend, do not speak of that chosen city, birthplace of Thérèse, in a tone so lacking in respect.’
There was a silence. Stephen, remembering the letter of introduction to the Marquesa, knew that it was useless to debate the matter. He felt annoyed, nevertheless, by this unexpected desertion.
‘How shall you get there?’
‘By train, eleven-twenty A.M. from the Estación Delicias.’ Peyrat rolled the words upon his tongue.
A knock on the door eased the situation. The landlady, a little bent woman who never once raised her eyes, brought in breakfast on a tray of painted wood.
The coffee, thick as treacle and diluted with goat’s milk, had a queer flavour; the rolls, oval in shape, with a dusting of sugar, were sweet and heavy.
‘Olive oil,’ Peyrat commented. ‘An essential of Spanish cuisine. We shall get used to it, after a preliminary period of intestinal flux. The olive,’ he meditated, ‘a remarkable tree … of great antiquity. First introduced into Spain in the time of Pliny, it sometimes attains an age of seven hundred years. Homer, in the Iliad, speaks of its oil as a great luxury, prized for its value in the hero’s toilet. The Roman gourmet was addicted to the unripe fruit, steeped in brine. The Phoenicians used its hard, durable wood…’
But Stephen, still rather put out, was paying no attention. He drained his cup and got up.
‘I’m off now.’
‘By the way,’ Peyrat said mildly as Stephen went to the door, ‘I shall be absent for some days. How are you situated for money?’
‘I have enough … about thirty pesetas,’ Stephen answered shortly. ‘I don’t expect to be dining at the Ritz.’
‘Then that should suffice till I return.’ Peyrat nodded gravely. ‘Adiós, amigo.’
Outside, the morning was still, the sky cloudless. The sun, still low, gave promise of a hot day. At a doorway a woman was mashing tomatoes in a bowl with a wooden spoon. Stale smells of frying oil and rank tobacco, of sour, polluted dust and decomposing fruit filled the air as Stephen walked to the corner of the street. But there was life and colour in the market that atoned for the squalor of the district: women bartering in quick voices amongst green piles of melons under canvas sacking, the brilliant reds of pimentos, heaped yellows of squash and maize. At the Calle Salazar he boarded a tramcar bound for the Alcalá, and standing on the crowded rear platform, was bounced slowly and with many jolting stops through traffic made tortuous by small, decrepit donkeys weighted with panniers, and high-wheeled, clattering carts, holding the middle of the street, drawn by emaciated mules, carrying oil and wine, charcoal and cork bark. However, at half-past nine he reached the Avenida Calio, his pulse hastening its beat, as though matching his steps when he jumped off the tram. The doors had barely opened as he entered the Prado.
The long galleries were empty except for a few copyists, spreading drop-sheets on the polished floor beneath their easels, preparing to work. An anteroom given over to Flemish primitives led him to a corridor devoted exclusively to Valdés Leal, where the huge agonised figures, the religiosity and contented mediocrity of the compositions, momentarily took him aback, nor was this reaction lessened by a succession of soft Murillos, exquisitely done, yet too sweetly pretty, steeped in sentiment. Then his eye was caught, suddenly, by a small, inconspicuous still life of utter simplicity, three water-pitchers in a row, a Zurbarán, and he felt within him an answering glow which deepened and quickened as he came upon El Greco and Velasquez. But the end gallery drew him. This, he thought, with a tremor of instinctive delight, is my painter, this at last is Goya.
He sat down, steeping his senses in the impressionism of the two Majas, in one of which he saw immediately the inspiration of Manet’s Olympia. Then the Dos de Mayo held him for a long time, and Los Negritos, those great canvases painted in the last years of the artist’s life. Yet it was the drawings, by their superb originality, that most wholly captivated him.
Never before had he seen work of such quality, so passionate, charged with such devastating truth. Here was the human creature stripped naked, exposed in all his petty and ignoble vices. The glutton, the toper, the voluptuary, all were here, satirised and reviled in savage and profane caricatures. Here, too, were the powerful and the wealthy, great personages of court and church, lampooned and castigated, laid bare physically and morally. Here, created by this simple man from Aragon, was an entire world, fantastic yet universal, independent of time or place, filled with intense suffering and misery, with all the terror and frightfulness of human brutality, yet leavened at the same time by tenderness and pity – the compassionate protest of a man appalled by the cruelty and injustice of his day, filled with
hatred of its oppression, superstition and hypocrisy. What courage he must have shown, thought Stephen, what contempt of danger, when old, deaf, and alone in the little house called the Quinta de Sordo, he still risked the anger of the Inquisition and the king in the service of human liberty.
Absorbed, he was not conscious of the passage of time – it was evening when he was ousted from the museum. Although the sun still shone, it was declining, the air felt cooler. Deciding to walk to his lodging, he crossed the Plaza to the broad incline of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and advanced towards the Puerta del Sol. The cafés were crowded, the pavements overflowing, the streets, now almost devoid of traffic, had filled with people slowly promenading up and down. It was the time of the paseo. The murmur of voices, dry and sustained, fell upon the ear like the hum of innumerable bees, interspersed by the shrill cries of the newsboys, the vendors of lottery tickets. All classes, all ages were there: old men and women, children with their nurses, the rich and the poor, all mingled and annealed in this sacred hour of entertainment.
When he reached the Puerta del Sol, Stephen suddenly felt tired, and observing a vacant chair at an outdoor café, he seated himself. Around him men were drinking iced beer, shelling and devouring platefuls of prawns. He hesitated – the uncertainty of the alien – then ordered coffee and a sandwich. Watching the passing throng, he could pick out individual faces that seemed to come straight from Goya’s drawings: a bootblack quick and mischievous of feature, the grotesque foreshortened nose and bossy forehead of a dwarf, another type, tall, dark, grave and proud, then the women, reserved, short and full of figure, with brilliant eyes and skins of pallid gold.
All this life and movement had a strange effect on Stephen. After the emotion and excitement, of the day, he was conscious of a slow reaction settling upon him, one of those moods of sadness and self-distrust succeeding an experience of beauty that cast him down to the depths. In this great concourse he felt himself to be unwanted and unutterably alone, a predestined spectator, powerless to share its gaiety or partake of its pageantry. At an adjoining table three men were discussing a performance of canto flamenco to be held that evening. As they once or twice glanced amiably towards him, he had a sudden impulse to join in the conversation, even to propose that he should accompany them to the entertainment. But he could not bring himself to do so. And in a flash of self-tormenting though he told himself how easily and quickly one less inhibited, someone like Harry Chester, would have struck up an acquaintance with these pleasures of the city.