En tranvía 🚋✨

En este fascinante cuento, la escritora española Emilia Pardo Bazán nos transporta a un día común en un tranvía, donde se despliegan las emociones y las tensiones humanas en medio de la rutina diaria. 🚋💭 A través de sus personajes, exploramos el contraste entre la vida urbana y las emociones personales, ofreciendo una reflexión sobre la sociedad de su época. Un relato cautivador que invita a la reflexión sobre las relaciones humanas y la vida moderna. 🌆🛤

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🔑 Detalles del cuento:
– Título: En tranvía
– Autor: Emilia Pardo Bazán
– Género: Cuento corto, Realismo

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In this story, “On the Tram,” by Emilia Pardo Bazán, the Countess immerses us in a tale of emotions and unexpected encounters. Through her characters, the author explores the complexities of destiny and human connections, all within the framework of urban modernity that is beginning to manifest itself in everyday life. A tram ride becomes the ideal setting for reflecting on the interactions between individuals and the surprises life holds for us. Chapter 1. ON THE TRAM. The last chills of winter give way to the spring season, and a hint of germinating fluid floats in the atmosphere and rises to the pure blue of the firmament. People, returning from mass or their morning jog through the streets, board the tram in the Salamanca neighborhood at Puerta del Sol . The ladies wear simple morning dresses; the lace of their mantillas envelops the brightness of their black pupils in its shadow; a rosary is wrapped around their wrists; In her gloved hand, concealing the fist of her _encas_, a bundle of lilacs or a cone of candy, hanging by a ribbon from her little finger. Some are accompanied by their children; and what elegant, pretty, well-treated children they are! It makes you want to kiss them all over; an invincible impulse to play comes over you, entangling your fingers in the flowing, heavy blond hair that hangs down their backs. In the foreground, almost in front of me, stands a baby a few months old. All that is visible on him, apart from his chubby little face and rosy hands, is lace, strips embroidered with eyelets, ribbon bows, all white, and two balls wrapped in white wool, also impatient, dancing balls, which are his little feet. She stands on top of them, jumps up and down with joy, and when a forty-something gentleman walking beside her—probably her father—makes a face at her or lights a match, the sucker laughs with his whole old man’s mouth, slobbering and toothless, radiating heavenly light in his pure eyes. Further away, a little girl of about nine years old lounges in a disdainful and indolent position, crossing her legs, showing off her slender shin covered with a stretched black silk stocking, and dangling her foot shod in a patent English shoe. The future beautiful woman already has her share of coquetry; she knows that she is being looked at and admired, and she lets herself be looked at and admired with hidden and intimate complacency, making a pout equivalent to, “I know you like me; I know you’re looking at me.” Her hair, barely wavy, clean, even, lush, magnificent, envelops and surrounds her in a golden halo, floating beneath her wide felt hat, clouded by a large gray feather. Clutched to her chest is a tissue paper bundle , probably some fine toy for her younger brother, some surprise for her mother, some ribbon or bow that prompted her to acquire her early presumption. Beyond this closed cocoon lies another , already half-opening: her sister, perhaps, a pretty creature of about twenty, a refined type of Madrid brunette, simply dressed, wearing an almost invisible bonnet that enhances her delicate and serious profile. Not far from her, an arrogant matron, freshly powdered with rice, lowers her eyes and concentrates as if to dream or remember. With such a crew, the plebeian tram gleams proudly in the sun, no more and no less than if it were a landau lined with rasolís, pulled by a genuine English log. Its windows appear transparent; its metal buttons dazzle; its mules trot briskly and gallantly; the driver drives with a spirited voice, and the conductor attentively and solicitously asks for tickets, courteously offering a small piece of white or pink paper. Instead of the familiar smell that the workers’ cargo usually exudes on the Pacific and Hippodrome lines, the atmosphere of the tramway is filled with the scent of flowers, the breath of clean bodies, and the breezes of the iris of white linen. If a coin falls to the floor when making the payment, upon searching for it, one glimpses tiny feet, Louis XV heels, lace petticoats, and tiny ankles. As the car advances up Alcalá Street, the sun shines brighter and infuses the Sunday bustle, the crowds teeming on the sidewalks, and the rapid movement of the The crossing of cars, the clarity of the day, and the mildness of the air. Ah, how cheerful a Sunday in Madrid, how aristocratic the tram at that hour when the clanking of plates, heralding lunch, can be heard from every house in the neighborhood , and the glass fruit bowls in the dining room await only the chosen fruit or the delicious dessert that the owner herself chose at Martinho’s or Prast’s house! I noticed only one blemish on the tram’s composition. It was certainly very dark and very ugly, although perhaps it seemed more so due to the contrast. A woman from the village huddled in a corner, cradling a child in her arms. It was impossible to determine the woman’s age; she could have been in her thirties or in her fifties. Thin as a thorn, her brownish shawl, worn as it was, emphasized the smallness of her limbs: one might have thought it was hanging on a hanger. The shawl worn by the common woman of Madrid has a physiognomy, is eloquent, and revealing; if there is no garment that better enhances the graceful forms, that better accentuates the provocative sway of the hips of the impassioned flirt, there is none that more reveals the sordid misery, the weary discouragement of a life of hardship and anguish, the shrinking of hunger, the supreme indifference of pain, the absolute lack of pretensions of the woman withered by adversity, and who has completely renounced not only the hope of pleasing, but also the prestige of sex. I suspected that the woman with the ashen shawl, undoubtedly impoverished , suffered even crueler hardships than misery. The
Spanish people accept misery alone with happy resignation, and they hardly ignore socialist demands. Poverty is the fate of the poor, and protesting serves no purpose. What I saw written on that face, more than pale, livid; on that mouth sunken into the corners, where laughter seemed never to have played; in those eyes with their red, bloody lids, already scorched and without cooling tears, was something more terrible, more exceptional than misery: it was despair. The child was sleeping. Compared to the woman’s coat, the creature’s was fresh and decent. His woolen stockings had no tears; his rough but sturdy shoes were in good condition ; his thick jacket undoubtedly protected him well from the cold, and what could be seen of his face, a small cheek suffocated by sleep, seemed clean and polished. A red beret covered his bald head. He slept peacefully; his breath was barely noticeable. The woman, from time to time, and as if by instinct, pressed the child against her, gently touching him with her emaciated, blackened, and trembling hand. The collector approached, booklet in hand, rummaging through her purse for loose change. The woman shuddered as if waking from a dream, and , after a long search, she produced a copper coin. “Where to? ” “Finally.” “It’s fifteen cents from Puerta del Sol, madam,” the collector remarked, half-scolding and half-pitying, “and here you give me ten. ” “Ten!” the woman repeated vaguely, as if she were thinking of something else. “Ten… ” “Ten, yes; a big dog… Can’t you see it? ” “Well, I don’t have any more,” the woman replied with sweetness and indifference. “Well, you have to pay fifteen,” the collector warned somewhat sternly, without daring to growl too much, because pity forbade him. Meanwhile, the people on the streetcar were beginning to hear about the incident, and a woman was already reaching for her purse to cover this insignificant deficit. “I have nothing left,” the woman repeated stubbornly, without irritation or distress. Even before the woman had handed over the small dog, the conductor turned his back and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “You do see these kinds of cases.” Suddenly, when no one expected it, the woman, still holding her son, and with blazing eyes, sat up and, in a furious tone, exclaimed to those around her: “My husband has run off with someone else! ” The latter frowned, the former suppressed his laughter; at first we thought she was The poor woman had gone mad, to scream so wildly and utter such an incongruous thing; but she didn’t even notice the audience’s expression of surprise. “He’s gone off with someone else,” she repeated amidst the silence and general curiosity . “A filthy, scheming thief like a paré. He’s gone with her. And he gives her everything he earns, and he beat me up. He hit me on the head. It’s broken. The worst part is that he’s gone. I don’t know where he is. It’s been two months since I’ve known!” Having said this, she collapsed in her corner, mechanically adjusting the cotton handkerchief she had tied under her chin. She trembled as if shaken by an internal hurricane, and from her bloody eyes two burning, tiny tears fell down her haggard cheeks. Her tongue articulated in a low, confused voice the rest of her complaint, the cruel details of the domestic drama. I heard the forty-something gentleman, who was lighting matches to entertain the baby, murmur in the ear of the lady sitting next to him. “That unfortunate woman… I understand the husband. She’s like a rag. With that face and those bird eyes of hers!” The lady gently tugged at the conductor’s sleeve and handed him something. The conductor approached the woman and placed the gift in her hands. “Here… That lady is giving you a peseta.” The contagion took effect instantly. The entire tram crew was seized by the urge to give. Purses, wallets, and small bags came out. The collection was as sudden as it was relatively abundant. Whether because the woman’s desperate tone had softened and shaken every heart, or because it is harder to open one’s will to part with the first peseta than to throw away the last duro, everyone wanted to give in, and even the disdainful little girl with the long blond hair, perhaps understanding, in her innocence, that there was a great sorrow to be consoled, made a lovely gesture, full of seriousness and elegance, and said to her older sister: “María, something for the poor woman.” The strange thing was that the woman showed neither joy nor gratitude for the manna that had fallen upon her. Her sorrow was undoubtedly among those not relieved by the silver shower. She did, however, keep the money the collector placed in her hands, and with a nod indicated that she had received the alms: nothing more. It wasn’t disdain, it wasn’t arrogance, it wasn’t a moral incapacity to recognize the benefit: it was absorption in a greater pain, in a fixed idea that the woman followed through space, with a visionary gaze and her body in epileptic trepidation. Even so, her attitude immediately calmed the compassionate emotion. The one who gives alms is almost always a selfish man of the brand who perishes from the blow of the rod that transforms tears into joy. Absolute despair disorients him, and even mortifies his self-esteem, as a kind of declaration of independence that the unfortunate man allows himself. It seemed as if those people on the streetcar were a little ashamed of their pious impulse when they noticed that after a shower of pesetas and double pesetas, among which a brand-new duro gleamed, from the baby, the woman didn’t revive much, nor did she pay the slightest attention to them. Of course, this thought isn’t one of those that is communicated aloud, and therefore , no one said it to anyone; they all kept it to themselves and feigned indifference, pretending a good-natured distraction and talking about things that had no relation to what had happened. “Don’t come too close, you’ll ruin my lilacs.” “What a beautiful day it is!” “Oh! It’s already one o’clock: how Uncle Julio must be in such a hurry for lunch…” Chatting like this, they concealed their embarrassment, not of the good deed, but of the error or sentimental disappointment that had suggested it to them. Little by little, the tram began to unload. At the intersection of Goya Street, it had already released a large crowd. They left quickly, like someone releasing a peso and ending an embarrassing situation, and avoiding looking at the woman, motionless in her corner, always trembling, who let her temporary benefactors go without even saying, “God bless you.” Did she notice that The carriage was becoming deserted. I couldn’t help but call out to her: “Where are you going? Look, we’re approaching the end of our journey. Don’t get distracted and go past your house. ” She didn’t answer me either; but with a weary nod, she said clearly: “No way! If I go much farther… God knows, from the carriage, how far I’ll have to walk.” The devil, who sometimes interferes in these compassionate affairs, tempted me to see if words would be any better than coins in soothing the ulceration of that raw soul. “Take heart, woman,” I said forcefully. “If your husband is a bad man, don’t be discouraged. You are carrying a child in your arms… you must work and live for it. For that little creature you must attempt what you would not attempt for yourself. Tomorrow the child will learn a trade and will serve as your protection.” Mothers have no right to give in to despair while their children are alive. This time the woman came out of her stupor; she turned and fixed me with her irritated, dry eyes, with their horribly bloody, drooping eyelids. Her fixed gaze was soul-stirring. The child, meanwhile, had awakened and stretched out its little arms, yawning lazily. And the woman, seizing the infant, lifted it up and presented it to me. The sunlight shone brightly on its face and its wide-open pupils. Open, but white, clotted, motionless. The abandoned woman’s son was blind. Chapter 2. ADRIANA. I dropped the newspaper, exclaiming in painful surprise: “But that poor Adriana! To die like that, of a heart attack, almost suddenly… No one knew she suffered from such an illness!” “I did know,” declared the Viscount of Tresmes, “and I knew even more: I knew when and how she acquired the disease, and it’s a curious thing. ” “Tell us,” we all begged. And the viscount, who was always eager to find out, told us the following story: Adriana Carvajal, married to Pedro Gomara, lived a most fortunate life. The couple had everything required to enjoy the happiness possible in the world: youth and love, health and money, which are the sauce or seasoning of the first two courses, without which they are insipid, sometimes bitter . They were lacking, however, an heir, a child to look up to; but fate was not to be stingy in this regard, and finally sent them the handsomest boy that could be dreamed up by the imagination of a mother, passionate and mad even before motherhood, as Adriana was. When the boy, whom they named Ventura, was born as a sign of the promise his birth had made, Adriana was in grave danger, and the doctor declared that she would have no further children. The frenzy with which husband and wife loved their little Venturina was the reason they were pleased to hear the doctor’s prediction. Only one child, and all for him! Adriana, now forever free from risks and trouble! So much the better… and off she went to live and care for the offspring. He grew up as handsome and blooming as a rose. I, who am not at all fond of boys,” the Viscount of Tresmes noted with a smile, ” confess that I found the latter exceedingly amusing.” Aside from his cuteness—he looked like one of Murillo’s little angels, dark-haired and swarthy—he had something charming about him, a mixture of innocence and mischief, such a fresh laugh, such unexpected and original actions, a precocity—but not that cloying precocity of a wise and serious child, which really drives me crazy, but the precocity of a little devil with a heavenly wit—that, well, there was no choice but to bring him toys and sweets, just for the pleasure of sitting him on one ‘s knees for a while. It would be useless to talk about his parents’ craziness, because you can already guess. They were doting; they knew no other God than that doll. Adriana had not left her crib for a single instant, watching over the nurse, snatching the baby from her as soon as he had finished suckling, dressing him, undressing him, bathing him and keeping him asleep… And as soon as he began to take an interest in the outside world, to reach out his little hands and to ask for _torches_, they wasted no time in giving him everything he wanted and A thousand other objects, which she couldn’t and never could have imagined. The beautiful old house with a garden where the Gomaras lived was filled with junk. And bugs! Noah’s Ark. Cardboard horses mingled with live birds; on a mechanical railway you would see a neat little greyhound made of flesh and blood; the carriage pulled by rams was abandoned by a large box of automated soldiers, who did the exercise… Believe me, they wasted money on such trinkets, and I once said to Adriana, because I trusted her: “Daughter, you’re spoiling this little one… ” “Let him have fun now,” she replied; “he’ll be too angry someday… I hope I can always offer him what makes him happy.” The repertoire of toys and surprises quickly runs out, and Adriana didn’t know what new thrill to give Ventura when the cook of the house, who had been at sea for ten years and had friends in all regions of the planet, one day gave the boy a monkey. I’m not very intelligent in natural history, and don’t ask me to classify the beast; I’ll only tell you that it wasn’t one of those indecorous and ferocious monkeys that no one dares to keep in their homes, like the orangutan, nor one of those shriveled , chilly marmosets that spend their lives shivering among raw cotton. It was larger than small; its fur was greenish-gray, and its snout was a dull red, like that of rusty iron. It was clearly in its youth and brimming with strength, and although greedy and mischievous like all people of its caste, it wasn’t malignant. Intelligent and highly imitative, nothing could be done in front of him that he didn’t parody, and his agility and quickness amused us immensely. It was a laugh to see him pretend to wash dishes or grate bread in the kitchen, and jump on horsebacks to help the footman with his cleaning duties. Despite the monkey’s relatively benign nature, his restlessness and liveliness made it necessary to keep him in a cage on a strong chain, because twice he had already escaped to scamper up trees and chimneys. When he was released, he had to be watched, and Venturita, who had just turned three and whom he idolized in the monkey, had to be kept under guard as well to prevent him from untying the chain, for he did so with singular skill. One afternoon when I had lunch at Gomara’s house and we were drinking coffee in a gazebo in the garden—I remember it as if it were right now, because there are things that impress even if you don’t want them to—we saw the monkey cross like a flash; so like a flash, that we guessed it rather than saw it. “Goodbye, that damned cook has escaped,” said Pedro Gomara, getting up; and Adriana, with instinctive start, the first thing she exclaimed was: “Where’s Ventura?” “He’s bound to let him go, ” replied Pedro, frowning slightly. At the same instant, a woman’s shrill scream resounded: a scream that revealed such terror that it froze our blood; and men’s voices, the voices of the servants who were waiting on us, running toward the gazebo, crying in anguish, “Young master, young master,” forced us to rush outside. Adriana followed us without a word: a group of servants and the desperate nanny surrounded us, pointing toward the roof of the house; and there, at the edge of the last row of tiles, sitting on the zinc pipe that collected the rainwater, was the monkey with the child in his arms. The father, with the gestures of a madman, was about to rush into the hall to climb up to the attic and go out onto the roof; I was already asking for a ladder to attempt the foolish attempt of climbing it to the formidable height of three floors, when Adriana, very pale—how pale she was, God!—and with her eyes bulging out of their sockets, stopped us, murmuring in a hollow , hollow voice, a voice that sounded as if it were passing through wet rags: “For the Virgin… stay… everyone stay… nobody move… And silence… don’t scream… don’t scream… do as I do… Stay… if we frighten him, he’ll throw him…” We instantly felt that the mother was right, and we were like statues. It was the utmost absurdity to try to fight a monkey on a rooftop with agility and vigor. Before we got close, it would be at the other end of the roof, and the child would be smashed to the ground. We had to play that horrible game: wait for the monkey, of its own free will, to come down with the child. I looked at Adriana; her pallor, momentarily, turned blue, but she didn’t blink. The monkey made strange gestures and grimaces at us, squeezing and shaking its prey, and suddenly the baby’s cry was distinctly heard, a bitter cry of terror; no doubt it had just sensed that it was in danger, although it couldn’t clearly understand it. The mother trembled all over, and the father, bending over me, sobbed these words: “Tresmes, you’re a good shot… A bullet in the head… I’ll go for the carbine.” A senseless, delirious idea, because even though I was a William Tell, by killing the monkey we would have brought down the child ; but I didn’t have time to refuse; Adriana intervened with such a forceful “no” that her husband bit his fists… And the mother, terribly calm, immediately added: “If we look at him, he’ll never come down… We must retreat… We must hide; so he can’t see us.” We retreated to the arbor, tore through the wall of vines, and from there, as best we could, we spied on the enemy. Does the situation shock you ? Shock you even more!” It lasted twenty minutes. Yes; I counted them by my watch. In those twenty minutes, the monkey deposited the child on the roof, caressed him as he had seen the nanny do, forced him to walk holding his hand, lifted him up the chimney, and gave him a piggyback ride—a farce that would have made us burst into laughter on another occasion. During those twenty minutes, Pedro yearned; Adriana could not even be heard breathing. Finally, the monkey looked down, made several faces, and, picking up Ventura, quickly lowered himself and his burden, like a tightrope walker without a rope, into the garden… Then we all burst out—all except the mother, who had fallen flat on her face—and the frightened animal released the boy unharmed and took refuge in its kennel… That afternoon, Adriana suffered two bloodlettings, which brought out nothing but black drops—and from then on, she suffered from a heart condition. It seemed that she had recovered a lot in recent years, but, well! the wound was mortal, and she was aware of it… “And what happened to the monkey?” we asked like children. “I had to shoot him… If you could see how sorry I felt for him!” replied the Viscount. Chapter 3. VITORIO. Yes, my lords,” said the old Marquis, sipping a fine pinch of _cucarachero_, tapping the little shell box with his fingertips , as if he were caressing it. “I was not only a friend, but also a defender and concealer of a gang captain. Don’t you believe it? Historic, historic! My thief was hanged in Lugo, and it is recorded in the records.” What the judges always ignored on this point, and failed to shed even the slightest light on, was the true name the thief bore in his youth, before dedicating himself to such an infamous profession, when he was educated with me at the College of Nobles in Monforte. From the moment he became a captain of outlaws, he was known as Vitorio: that’s what we shall call him: may God forbid that I should bring shame upon an ancient and illustrious family, and undo what the poor fellow accomplished with the courage you will see, if you pay attention! I assure you that at the College of Nobles I had no classmate whom I found more sympathetic. With a lively and enthusiastic character, a clear mind and a happy memory, he studied with the utmost ease; the teachers were delighted with him. At the same time, any mischief committed at the college was known: who planned it? Vitorio. I don’t know what trick he had, but he was always the leader of a mutiny, and we all placed ourselves at his command, recognizing his initiative and his authority. He was extremely tenacious and violent in his resolutions, but honorable to the point of being unconquerable. It’s unnecessary, and if anyone tells me then that Vitorio would end up as a thief, I think I’d beat the hell out of him. Since I was always weak and sickly, Vitorio had taken me under his wing, and more than once he punished the schoolboys who played tricks on me. This, and the influence he wielded through his personality, made me increasingly devote myself to Vitorio. One day Vitorio received letters from home, and with them the bitter news that his father, who was a widower, was preparing to remarry . The paroxysm of rage of the boy, who adored the memory of his mother, was tremendous; he foamed with rage, writhed, and wanted to smash his head against the bedroom wall. I consoled him as best I could, and just when I thought he’d been appeased, he got up in the middle of the night and suggested that we lower ourselves out the window, tying the sheets together, and walking ten leagues, we’d arrive in time to prevent his father’s wedding. Vitorio’s fascination was such that I immediately agreed to the absurd project, and if insurmountable financial difficulties didn’t hinder us, I believe we could have realized it. I soon left college, and for several years I heard nothing from Vitorio. I studied law in Compostela, married, was widowed, and, having to settle matters of interest, I settled in my house in the village of Adrales, located between Monforte and Lugo, in mountainous country. Much was said, in the evenings by the fire, about the gang that roamed those surroundings and the unusual conduct of its leader. It was said that he was forbidden to kill or torment unless resisted; that he never completely robbed a house, but always took care to leave some money for those robbed, so that they wouldn’t lack everything in the first instance; that sometimes his robberies served the purpose of satisfying fate’s whims, for he gave the poor man what belonged to the rich, the second son what belonged to the heir, the seminarian what belonged to the rationer, and the tenant what belonged to the lord. They added that he was gallant with the ladies, and that they, although robbed, didn’t wish him ill, far from it. In short, the classic figure of the “generous bandit”; and if there were no more to say about Vitorio, the story could be spared or replaced with very similar ones, for example, that of José María. Even though I, out of necessity, kept money at home, it wasn’t as easy to secure it then as it is today, and although I don’t boast of being brave, the news about the sheaf alarmed me little , and I continued to eat my supper with the windows open—it was a very hot season—and to occupy myself reading until I fell asleep, without thinking of closing them. One night, when I was quite careless, look, a man fell at my feet like a bullet , pale, gaunt, his clothes in tatters, and before I had time to do anything, he cried out, grabbing me by the shoulder, in a plaintive tone: “Save me, Jerome! I am so-and-so… your companion, your old friend. They are pursuing me. My life is in your hands.” I signaled him not to be afraid; I ran to bar the window with a double bar; I also closed the doors and stretched out my arms to Vitorio, for I had already recognized him. Although disfigured and greatly altered by age, I reconstructed that beautiful, dark head, with such delicate features and such a virile expression. Not without great surprise, Vitorio refused to embrace me and murmured wearily: “Give me something…; I haven’t tasted food for three days.” I served him some of the supper that was still there unpicked, and as soon as he recovered his strength, he said to me: “Don’t embrace me, Jerome. I am the gang captain you must have heard so much about, and by some miracle I am not in the power of those who want to hang me. If you still have any affection for me , hide me and let me sleep; if not, throw me out, but don’t tell anyone how or where you met me…” There was a beautiful old hiding place in Adrales, a kind of attic made under another attic, hidden by a second partition, and with an exit to a small staircase hidden in the hollow of the wall, and which ended at the foot of the forest. I put Vitorio there, and although the force that He pursued him and surrounded my house, and although I let them search it without objection , they did not find the fugitive, nor was it possible, unless they were in on the secret, which only the butler and I knew. Once the danger was over, I did not want Vitorio to leave until he had rested well, washed, shaved, dressed in my clothes, and had two fine English pistols in his belt and some gold in his purse. I did not ask him a word, I made no observations or gave him advice, and it was this delicacy, no doubt, that moved him to say to me shortly before leaving: “Jeronimo, do you remember my father’s wedding and that foolish thing we wanted to do at school? For if I did not do it, my downfall came.” When I arrived home, I found a stepmother in charge who forced my sister to serve her, and who even beat her in front of me—in front of me! You know me… You’ll remember my character… Be amazed! I immediately knew how to restrain myself, and I spoke to my father as a man speaks to another man. I told him I wanted to take my sister with me, and that I only asked for some help in the form of money so she wouldn’t die of hunger. He answered me with contempt, with anger, and ordered me to respect my stepmother. Then, out of my mind, I told him that my stepmother didn’t deserve respect, and that I would show her so within a year. And so it was, Jerome; a few months later, my stepmother and I… Do you understand? I set my mind to it and I succeeded… I succeeded! For that, and not for what happened now, I deserve to be caught and hanged… Anyway, the truth is that my father couldn’t doubt his affront, and he threw me out of the house, cursing me, beating me, and forbidding me to ever use his name again. You know the rest… Goodbye; I’m going to join my people, who will be scattered throughout the mountains.” He disappeared, and I learned that the gang had withdrawn from those surroundings, going deeper into the mountains, through almost inaccessible places. Two years after the unexpected incident, there was much talk about a robbery committed by Vitorio at the house of a canon of Lugo. The originality lay in the fact that Vitorio had carried out the robbery alone, in a city, and at noon. The good canon and a certain clergyman were sitting together, playing tute, so to speak, when they saw a handsome gentleman enter, who greeted them very courteously. “I am Vitoro,” he said, “but don’t be alarmed, for I have no intention of harming you. Let us understand each other as polite people understand each other; I have come for the five thousand duros in gold ounces that the canon keeps there, under that little chest; if you lift a numbered brick, the hiding place will appear.” “Five thousand duros!” cried the canon, more dead than alive. “But, Señor de Vitorio, I have never possessed that sum!” And the clergyman officiously exclaimed: “Come on, Señor de Vitorio, there’s no more; give Señor de Vitorio those centavos, at least for the grace and kindness with which he asks for them.” “Give them to him if you have them, and don’t dispose of other people’s money,” the canon replied, distressed. And Vitorio, always affable, added: “The canon says it right; this priest, while advising you to part with such a large sum, is hiding a silver snuffbox in his waistband, as if Vitorio were some thief who stole such rubbish. But, Canon, I know the five thousand duros are there; I find myself in such serious straits that otherwise I wouldn’t bother a person as respectable as yourself. Good cheer; if I can, I must return them to you.” And with a gallant gesture, he half-opened his coat, revealing the butt of a pistol—perhaps mine. The trembling canon and the embarrassed cleric lifted the brick and handed the bags to Vitorio. The outlaw bowed, made a thousand courtesies, and the two men, who could have lost him with a shout, remained speechless for more than ten minutes, while he calmly descended the stairs. However, the cleric, who was angry and spiteful, had his back, as they say. One day at the fair, leaving the cathedral, he thought he recognized Vitorio in a villager who was taking a pair of oxen to sell, and he followed him cautiously. He noticed that the villager had his hands white and fine, and ran to betray him. He surrounded the tavern where he had observed him entering, and thus they caught the famous captain in a trap, whom they now had no hope of catching and pursued through mountains and scrub. Vitorio’s case took a long time to be decided. It was whispered that, because he was from a very distinguished and distinguished family, the judges did not dare to order his execution, and that if he revealed his true name, he would be allowed to escape or the queen would pardon him. I was far from my country at the time, and news in those days did not travel as quickly as it does now. By chance, I arrived in Lugo the very day Vitorio was put in jail. I ran to see him, deeply affected. I had been assured that the night before, a very covered lady, having entered the prison, had spoken at length with Vitorio, and suspecting love affairs, engagements, and ties that remained in the world, I asked my old companion if he had anything to ask me for a woman. “No,” he replied, smiling calmly, ” I have no one to mourn for me; the lady who came to see me, hiding her face, is my sister, to whom I have solemnly promised to let me be hanged, without my family name being taken from me. And this is the only favor I ask of you, Jerome; let no one, no one ever know!… I shall not dishonor my father twice.” Indeed, Vitorio died in silence; the clergyman with the silver snuff-box came to witness his hanging on the gallows; but the canon, who could not forget the refined manners with which his five thousand duros had been extracted, said many masses for the soul of the unfortunate man. Chapter 4. THE NAKED. One gray afternoon in the countryside, as the first leaves torn away by the autumn gale fell softly at our feet, I remember that, predisposed to melancholy and meditation by this spectacle, we spoke of fate, and there were those who defended the irresistible influence of circumstances and external forces on the human soul, and compared us, the repositories of a glimmer of Divinity, to the stone that, impelled by mechanical laws, heads straight for the abyss. But Lucius Sagris, the constant advocate of spirituality and free will, protested, and after shining with a brilliant dissertation, announced that, to demonstrate the absurdity of fatalistic theories, he was going to tell us a very dark story, by which we would see that, under the influence of the same terrible event, each spirit retains its spontaneity and chooses, on its own initiative, the path—good or bad, for in this precisely lies freedom. My story,” he added, “belongs to a bloody period of our civil strife, after the revolution of 1868; and evokes the sinister figure of one of those men in whom the inevitable cruelty and ferocity of the guerrilla is exasperated by the feeling of the hostility and enmity of a country where everyone hates him all around him. I am speaking of the counter-guerrilla, a type worthy of study, one who moves both to pity and horror. While the guerrilla, well received in towns and villages, found rations for his departure and confidences with which to flee from the troops or catch them off guard, the counter-guerrilla, received like a dog, only managed to prevail through terror; betrayal and denunciation always lurked in his wake; he always heard the whisper of hatred in the shadows. In such wars, the country is on the side of the guerrillas; Or, to put it better, the guerrillas are the country up in arms, and the counter-guerrilla is the Judas against whom everything seems legitimate, and even praiseworthy. Now, then, the counter-guerrilla of my story—let’s suppose his name was _One-Armed Man of Alzaur_—had managed to realize the sad ideal of this class of heroes; upon hearing his name, the women crossed themselves and the children burst into tears. When the Government was questioned in full Parliament about some of the atrocities of that tiger, it protested that they were false, and that, if they were true, they would receive a fitting punishment; but, really, the secret instructions given to the general in charge of pacifying the territory in which the counter-guerrilla of the _One-handed_, contained the clause that allowed him to terrorize as he pleased, and the more, the better. However, the general, who was repulsed and shocked by certain acts of barbarism, and who also had daughters and was a very tender father, used to strongly instruct the counter-guerrilla to, at the very least, not violently oppress women; and _One -handed_ pledged to this end, swearing that if any of his party committed such a crime, he would immediately cut off both of their ears. The counter-guerrillas, who knew their leader’s bad temper, were careful not to go against his orders. If on any occasion _One-handed_ regretted having given his formidable word to the general, it was the day when, after Radica and Ollo’s forces had evacuated the town of Urdazpi, the counter-guerrillas penetrated this hotbed of Carlism. It is known that the parish priest of Urdazpi had been for a year and a half leading a small band, as small in number as it was determined and heroic, and more than ten times he had placed ashes on the forehead of the _One-Handed_, chasing him, beating him, taking him prisoners and scattering his people, to the great agitation and rage of the counter-guerrilla. Hatred for the priest of Urdazpi was now like a frenzy in the _One-Handed_, and in Urdazpi lived five pretty and honest girls, devout Carlist nieces of the factional parish priest, daughters of his only sister, shot by the liberals in the previous war. When the five unfortunate women were brought before the _One-Handed_, yellow as death and so overwhelmed that they could hardly cry, a tumult arose in the ferocious soul of the counter-guerrilla; The promise to the general combated the savage impulses of a heart thirsting for revenge, the unjust revenge of attacking the family of his enemy and returning it vilified and stained, as one returns a rag that has cleaned the floor of the chamber where an impure orgy is being held. He meditated for a moment, furrowing his shaggy eyebrows, beneath which two glowing eyes glowed; suddenly, a ferocious smile spread across his mouth; he had found the means of not breaking his word, and at the same time of defiling the priest in the person of his nieces. He gave a firm order in Basque, and shortly afterward the five maidens, completely stripped of their clothes, were paraded and pushed through the streets of the town, amidst the jeers, insults, blows, and crude equivocations of the inhumane people who surrounded them, drunk on wine and blood. The One-Armed Man had announced that any of his counter-guerrillas who did not limit themselves to mocking the nakedness of those unfortunate virgins would be subject to the death penalty. The virgins, stupid with shame, tried to hide their faces with their hair, lying on the ground so that the mud of the streets would serve as clothing, and with broken and heart-rending cries, begged for their clothes back and their immediate execution. And seeing them like statues of pained and insulted marble, the One-Armed Man himself, either satisfied or softened, spat on the naked and morbid shoulders of the youngest, and said with a bestial laugh: “Now these ghastly virgins can return to their burrows.” To consider the state of mind of the priest’s nieces after their shameful torture is as if we were peering into an abyss of despair. Note that they were women of impeccable conduct, of grave modesty, of profound, rather exalted, religiosity; that they were respected in the town for being honorable and celebrated for being beautiful; that despite their faith they had no monastic vocation, and among the young men who joined the priest’s party, more than one hung around their windows and thought of weddings at the end of the war. But after the horrible outrage of the _Manco_, for the nieces of the parish priest of Urdazpi the horizon had closed , the prospects of life and the world had ended. People, when speaking of them, only called them _the naked ones_, and this infamous nickname was like an immense stain spread over their skin, burned by so many impure eyes. Overwhelmed under the burden of misfortune, they remained confined to the house, without even looking out of the window, without even going out to church: the church, which is the refuge of all the pain! As if they were infected with leprosy, like the lazarados whom the Middle Ages isolated, a friend, moved by compassion, would bring them what was necessary for their sustenance, and leave it in the doorway, in a basket, daily, since they would not even allow themselves to be seen or spoken to. They lived like this for a year… “Well, for now,” we said to Lucio Sagris, interrupting him, “your story shows that, subjected to the same circumstances, the five nieces of the priest of Urdazpi adopted an absolutely identical way of life . ” “Wait, wait!” exclaimed Lucio. “The episode is not over. A year later, the aforementioned friend gave notice of the burial of one of the nieces, the youngest: the one on whose candid bare shoulders the One-Armed Man had spat.” Sick with sadness since the day of her misfortune, she had concealed her illness so as not to see the doctor, or rather so that the doctor would not see her; and the first departure of the naked woman was with her feet first, on the way to the cemetery. A few days later, another naked woman, the eldest, left the house. She made her journey at night, her face wrapped in a thick veil, and appeared in Vitoria, at the mother house of the nuns of an order whose mission is to assist the sick and protect abandoned children. Only three of the priest’s nieces remained in Urdazpi; but after six months, two of them escaped together and joined the band, which was then marching triumphantly through the surrounding countryside. One of the girls had the opportunity to fight like a man, with furious courage, against the Liberal troops, until a bullet pierced her femur and she died of bleeding. As for the other one… “Did she die too?” we asked. “Worse than if she had died,” the narrator replied melancholically. “I don’t know what will become of her; she’ll probably be lying around Bilbao. That one didn’t understand that no matter how much they strip the body, modesty and decorum are only lost when the soul is bared. ” “And the fifth niece of the priest of Urdazpi? ” “Ah! She lives today with her uncle, who was pardoned at the end of the Civil War. Humble and resigned, now mature, attending to her domestic duties and her devotions, she doesn’t seem to remember that at one time she wanted to live apart from her peers… And they respect her in the town , oh yes they do! Despite the fact that the horrific deed of the One-Armed Man cannot be forgotten, no one would dare to call her “naked” out loud. Chapter 5. HEROIC SEED. If the sanctity of the cause is what makes a martyr, the same can be said of a hero,” declared Méndez Relosa, the young doctor who, from a corner of the province, was beginning to gain enviable fame. “Only he who sacrifices himself to something great and noble is a hero. That is why that poor rascal, whom I assisted and who so moved me, does not deserve the name of hero. At most, he was a seed that, planted in good soil, would germinate and produce heroism… ” “However,” I objected, “if the teachings of the Church clarify the martyr , there is room for debate about the hero. The concept of heroism varies from time to time and from people to people. Actions were heroic for the ancients that today we would call stupid and barbaric.” Until the English banned it, it was believed in India—and is probably still believed—that it is a sublime, edifying trait, most pleasing to heaven, for a woman to roast alive over the corpse of her husband. “I do not deny,” declared Méndez, “that people call heroism that which realizes their ideal, and that the ideal of some may even be abominable to others. The embryo of the hero whose simple story I will tell was in tune with certain sentiments rooted in our race. What caused him that effervescence that makes one despise death was something that always intoxicates the Spanish people. The only thing that reveals that the ideal to which I refer is an inferior ideal, so to speak, is that for their heroes, acclaimed and adored in life, there is no posterity; No monuments are erected to them, their memory is not exalted… –Bullrings–he continued after a brief pause–have spread so much in the period of reaction that followed the revolution of September, that even our good city of H allowed itself the luxury of building its own—maliciously, out of wood, but showy. When it was announced that the celebrated _Moñitos_, with his crew, would open the Plaza during the festivities of our patron saint, the Virgen del Mar, more than enthusiasm was awakened in H, but delirium. Nothing else was talked about for a month beforehand; and when the bullfighting crowd arrived, we—I am no exception—took it upon ourselves to cheer them on, regale them, treat them, and carry them around in our palms from morning until night. We opened a coffee account for them, plied them with cigars, and showered them with sherry and manzanilla. We were captivated by their frank and gravely affable, though coarse, manner; we were amused by their childlike ingenuity, their Moorish calm, that fatalism that allowed them to face danger undaunted, and, in short, by that plebeian, yet traditional, style with a pleasing national flavor. Within a few days, we grew fond of such selfless and charitable men, brave to the point of recklessness and never boastful, believing we discovered in them qualities that attracted and justified the sympathy with which they are received everywhere. I became especially fond of a young man of about fifteen, pale, wasted, and nervous, who went by the alias of Cominiyo. The creature came with the bullfighters as a wise monkey and was the pearl of his trade: a lively and agile chulapillo like a marmoset, who seemed to fly. From the first of four bullfights that season in H, Cominiyo attracted attention and earned a kind of popularity for his courage, his tiger-like agility, his comic gestures, and his promptness in arriving where needed. The part that Cominiyo played in the drama unfolding in the ring was quite insignificant; But he managed to enhance such a secondary role, and when words of praise for the boy came from the stands, his gaunt cheeks lit up with a fleeting flush of pride, and his black eyes, richly adorned with silky lashes, radiated a triumphant glow. Cominiyo had confided his secret ambitions to me. Like a poet in a garret dreams of being crowned in the Capitol; like a recruit dreams of three braids; like an obscure scribe in his armchair, Cominiyo dreamed of being a picador. Instead of riding at the back of the horse, he wanted to ride in front, displaying the sumptuous jacket with gilt shoulder pads, the wide felt hat, the suede breeches, the rigid attire of those tanned and tough men, made of chamois leather, where no blows can make a dent. But when would Cominiyo manage to rise so high? Probably in this way, he would have undoubtedly demonstrated his great heart; thus, he would have made “a man of courage.” And he was ready to do it at any time, and more than ready, eager, for courage demands opportunity and time. In the fourth bullfight, the long-awaited opportunity presented itself, and certainly with tragic display. The third bull, a beautiful beast of great power, displayed such feat from the moment he entered the ring that he caused a certain panic, like that one few others. After disemboweling two horses in the air, he attacked the one ridden by the picador Bayeta, and in a flash left the rider crushed beneath the mount, on which he charged furiously and ferociously. The picador’s situation was critical: the weight of the horse was suffocating him, and if he were to stir, the bull would attack him . In vain, the team tried to deceive and distract the beast with their cape blows, and Bayeta, choking, poked his head out from behind the spine of the dying nag. The bull was already launching itself toward its new prey, and the picador was already caught and flung high into the clouds, when a tiny figure appeared firmly planted on the prone horse’s belly and, challenging the bull with reckless gallantry, repeatedly struck it with his hand on its swollen snout and even dared to play with its sharp horns… while they saved the picador. Cominiyo, having accomplished this feat, was trying to escape, leaped back, slipped in the viscous blood, a red pool that the horse had released from its lungs, and the bull caught him right there, against the boards, hooked him, lifted him high, and let him fall inert. I ran to the infirmary and examined the boy’s wound, discovering a horrible sight that, despite my professional impassiveness, filled me with horror. The bull had caught Cominiyo in the back, in the lumbar region; the beast had undoubtedly splintered his horn, and in the splinter it had extracted a shred of liver, a bloody scrap. Cominiyo was beyond saving, and his struggle with death, sustained by his youth and the nature of the injury itself, was long and cruel. For eight days he was consumed by the inflammatory fever, and since he was unaware of the seriousness of the wound, he was agitated by a frenzy of joyful hopes and ambitious aspirations. The applause for his feat had him drunk with joy, and he would say to me enthusiastically, while I tried to soothe his pain, which was excruciating, especially at first: “I’ve behaved like a man. You said, will I be a picador?” The day we accompanied him to the cemetery, I, seeing them throw the damp earth over him, thought a lot about heroism. It would be a mockery to plant laurels on the grave of a boy… and yet, it seemed to me that the souls of some who could claim the shade of the sacred tree for their tomb were made of the same wood as Cominiyo’s soul. As we returned, discussing the fate of the daring wise monkey, I remembered a popular verse: Even firewood in the forest has its own way: some is good for saints, some for making charcoal. Chapter 6. JUSTICIARIO. On our way back from our journey, Verdello had just finished finishing his supper, washed down with copious gulps of the best Avia, when there was a knock at the kitchen door and the old woman got up to open it, and upon seeing her grandson, she let out a shriek of joy. On the other hand, Verdello, the father, was taken aback, and, frowning severely, waited for the boy to explain. How could he appear like that, at such an hour of the night, without warning, just like that? How could he abandon his duty at Auriabella, the draper and woollen shop where he was a clerk, and not on the eve of a holiday, to show up in Avia with a glum face that boded no good? What face was that, my God? And Verdello, puffing out his bull’s neck with anger, was about to rudely challenge the boy, if the grandmother hadn’t intervened , kissing the newcomer and offering him a plate of fragrant, still-hot codfish stew with potatoes. The boy sat down at the table opposite his father. He ate mechanically : it was clear he was hungry, the physical exhaustion of walking on a cold January day; as he began to swallow, he pressed tooth against tooth, the clattering becoming louder against the glass where the wine tinged red. The father, picking a thistle with his mourning claw, let the boy regain his strength. Let him eat… let him eat… The time for questions would come. He had no other son; a daughter, already grown, had married far away in Meirelle! This boy, Leandro, was born weak and raised weak. After all, the fruit of a consumptive mother. To provide for the well-being of mother and child, the Verdello traveled day and night along wide roads and impassable paths, ardently carrying out his muleteering trade, buying from the wine cellars of the lords of the winegrowers and reselling the rich juice of the Aviense vines in taverns and taverns. Any wine that the Verdello tasted and acquired was, by a vow to lightning, wine acceptable in color and flavor. The muleteer didn’t need to drink it to appreciate the quality of the liquid: he would disdain to do such a thing. It was enough, while fasting, to place two or three drops on the tip of his tongue, this for the taste; and for the color, the same number on the sleeve of his shirt, rolled up over his sturdy arm. Such a stain, such a quality. And there remained the violet-colored stains, like the talking weapons of the muleteers. The Verdello could tell, just by looking at the stains, which wineries in the Avia produced the most honest Moorish wine . A good job for a muleteer! A good job for a man who spends his hair! in his heart, which is not afraid of anything and carries in his belt his four dozen ounces, or, now that there are no ounces, his wad of hundred-dollar bills, and as insurance for the ounces and the bills, in one pocket of his coat his loaded revolver, and in the other his knife, not to mention the prod with a handle, and sometimes the shotgun for shooting at partridges during vacation time! Because there are places along the highway that can be slept through; but there are others where reciting the Creed is not enough, and it is best to be ready to cross the jokers with bullets. They had already tried to amuse themselves with Verdello, and he had a cut from a sickle and two dents from a blow with a club; but the joker took a long time to tell. Or rather , he only told it a week. And only a Verdello is capable of always traversing the roads, without stopping and enduring frost, rain, and heat. So he didn’t want Leandro to follow the dog trade. The boy would be better off in the shade, under the tiles, sheltered and eating on time. And as soon as he turned thirteen, he placed him in a shop in Auriabella, a very decent house. Saying goodbye to the boy with a brusque and barbaric outpouring of affection, half-smacking him, the father read him the riot act: “Here it is done… Here a man behaves, and if not, watch out for me… Honesty… Work… If you neglect the slightest thing, you can get ready, lightning!” There was no need for rigor. Leandro’s father wrote contentedly. The boy was clever; he knew how to dispatch and please, and he gradually rose from sweeping the shop with a broom and lifting the thistle heads from the cloths to keeping the ledger. In time, he would become the soul of the establishment. The Verdello’s wife, consumed by consumption, died peacefully regarding her son’s future, already seeing him in her imagination as a well-to-do shopkeeper, fat, quiet, wearing a frock coat on Sundays and with his good gold watch in his waistcoat pocket . A widower, with no companion but his old woman, the Verdello, although robust and athletic, had no intention of remarrying. Let the boy marry, for he was already nineteen. The principal’s allusions and reluctance had led his father to suspect that Leandro was taking a somewhat loose course. The things of age! Let them not distract him from his duties… and the rest doesn’t matter. Why the boss’s frown, when he recognized that the boy never left his place, and neither the counter nor the till were left unguarded for a minute? Perhaps he, Verdello himself, even though he wandered through inns and city slums, didn’t have his moments of relief, without any further consequences? Bah! A man’s a man… and even more so, a boy. However, seeing him arrive like that, at unexpected hours, head down, haggard, the father felt something sharp and cold inside, like the blow of a dagger. What was going on? What kind of scumbag was that, devil? And the gaze of his fierce pupils was fixed on Leandro, wanting to find other pupils that were scanning the plate, while his white teeth continued chattering, either from fear or from cold… Dinner was over and Grandma went out to prepare the bed, to find a mattress and a blanket, projecting the addition of her red petticoats, it was so freezing that night! And now it was just the father with the son, the question was launched: “What did you do? Damn! What did you do?” Without lying… When the boy remained silent, showing greater signs of dejection, the Verdello stamped his feet and, in a fit of rage, let loose: “You stole! You stole! ” With immense anguish, with a childlike movement, Leandro wanted to throw himself into his father’s arms; but he instinctively and violently rejected him, throwing him against the wall. The boy burst into tears, while the muleteer, amidst oaths and blasphemies, repeated: “You’ve stolen… filthy pig! You stole the till, you stole your chief… For picturesque vices! And now you’re crying… Thunderbolt of Judas! Me…!” He was foaming at the mouth, waving his arms, clenching his fists… Suddenly he became quiet. To anyone who knew him, that stillness was a very bad sign. Silent, standing in the middle of the kitchen, lit by the Reeking of kerosene lamps and the flames of the hearth, he looked like a crude statue of painted clay, with tragic features on his face where his dark thoughts shone through. To have a thief in the house! He, the Verdello, had been a man of integrity all his life : his word was worth gold, his dealings didn’t need a stamped note, not even a token. Word spoken, word kept. In the cellars and taverns, they already knew the Verdello. Trafficking and earning; but with shame, without the indecency of taking a penny from anyone… Who would trust the father of a thief anymore? Damn! And with icy disdain, as if he were spitting out a cigarette butt, he threw the following phrase in the boy’s face: “Stealing isn’t in your blood.” There was no response but sobs, and the father added just as coldly: “How much did you take? Because I’m leaving early tomorrow morning to return it.” The guilty party cheered up a bit, and trying to steady his voice, he murmured weakly and between hiccups: “One hundred ninety-seven pesos and two reales…” The muleteer didn’t blink. He could pay. He was left without savings, but… God bless him! That, compared to other things… While he was doing his accounts, with his right hand he was searching his belt and purses, no doubt requisitioning the capital he kept there, the fruit of the sales made in Cebre and Parmonde… Once he had finished searching, he turned to the boy and pointed to the back door of the kitchen: “Go out there. Ready! Out? For what?” There was no point in replying. Leandro obeyed. What a blast of ice upon entering the corral! The night was one of those hellish trials: the stars competed to shine in the sky, the frost on the ground, and the washbasin was caramelized on the surface. The guard mastiff barked when he spotted the two men; But his faithful, affectionate memory instantly illuminated him, and, mad with joy, he threw himself at Leandro, resting his paws on his chest. And when father and son passed through the corral gate, the dog followed, still wagging his tail, leaping with joy. They walked through fields and cornfields for about fifteen minutes, until the Verdello stopped at the foot of an orchard wall, which had been torn down and he had abandoned. Pushing the boy, he brought him close to the wall and positioned himself in front of him, his revolver already drawn. Leandro swerved with a swift, animal-like leap. He understood, and his youth, the lifeblood of his twenty years, protested, rising up. “No, not to die!” He wanted to run, to flee across the fields. And that earlier trembling , the trembling of his teeth, the trembling of his hands, descended to his skinny legs, a youth addicted to whores, and overcame him, and made him fall prostrate, half on his knees, stammering: “Forgiveness! Forgiveness!” The priest approached; he saw in the semi-brightness of the stars two eyes dilated with terror, imploring… and he fired, right there, between the two eyes, whose last look of supplication remained with him , indelible. The body fell face down, and the dull, dull thud against the frost-hardened earth sounded strange; the dog let out a long howl, and the muleteer bent down; that evil seed was no longer breathing. Chapter 7. ELECTION. The empty cart was slowly climbing the hill on its way back, and its wheels produced that shrill, prolonged squeal that is not without a melancholy charm when heard from afar. For the farmer, the cart’s bitter complaint is a cause for pride—but this time, in Telme’s heart, it resonated with profound sadness. With each harsh moan, a fiber bled. Calm in their vigor, the oxen pushed forward, conquering the slope; their desire told them that this way they were heading straight for the freshly harvested armful of grass. Their slobbery snouts, overheated from the walk, shuddered as they inhaled the evening breeze, in which floated the delicious scent of the meadow. At the door of the shack, Telme’s wife, Aunt Pilara, waited , withered, blackish, disfigured more by motherhood and age than by the hard work of the fields. Pilara helped her husband unyoke the cart, and while he lit a cigarette, he arranged the oxen in the stable, separated by a partition from the conjugal bed. They didn’t exchange a word. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other; on the contrary, those two beings loved each other well, in their own way; but the peasant is inherently laconic , and the absolute commonality of interests makes it possible to understand each other without wasting a breath. Telme’s attitude and her gesture told Pilara everything she needed to know. The son had proved useful, according to the recognition… and therefore he was now the king’s; he was a soldier. With a lump in her throat, with stinging eyelids, Pilara prepared dinner, placing the two bowls of steaming broth on the trough. They finished them, and, saving the light, went to bed immediately. The rumination of the oxen could be heard, grinding the juicy grass, and the husband and wife couldn’t be heard ruminating over the grief stuck in their throats. They turned around. Pilara sighed; Telme grunted. “Go away, noramala, I’m dreaming of this night!” Suddenly—they weren’t even thinking about the roosters crowing—he jumped out of the little cell that serves as the Mariñán peasant’s bed, and, lighting a _misto_ and the kerosene lamp, he went to the stable and prepared to take out the team. Pilara, surprised, half-drowsy, followed him. What was this? Was he going to the fair, after all? Let him wait at least until she brought another load of _herb_ for the animals… And the farmer, brusque and somber, responded half-spoken: “There’s no need… They don’t go with the cart… They have no more work to do than put one leg in front of the other…” The woman was stunned. She didn’t insist. Why? Explanations were unnecessary. She had understood. The limited life of a farmer is made up of events of undoubted significance. Whoever takes a team to the fair without a cart is going to sell it. That’s what Telme was going for: to get rid of her beautiful oxen to free the young man. After the first moment, like a barrel of must with the cork removed , Pilara’s anguish erupted in torrents. The departure of the oxen, never to return, was so hard that the villager felt a physical pain in her gut: they were tearing her away from the best of her house, the best of the parish, the best of the world. Within four leagues around, there was no team like that one, oxen so even, so red, a shining red like clean copper, so fat, so large, so capable of working, and so gentle and loving that a seven-year-old boy could beat them! It’s true that no other young man like Andresiño was known, more handsome, healthier, more manly… And they wanted to take him away too! Our Lady help us, Saint Anthony help us! Pilara sobbed aloud, scratching her tanned face. Telme, meanwhile, in the corral, was passing the _adival_ between the oxen’s horns, and grumbled, pushing away his disconsolate wife. “Well, either the oxen or the boy!” One of two things. The villager threw her arms around the ox on her left, Marelo—the handsomest and strongest, the one with a little white star on his forehead—and in her own way, clumsily and snout-wise, she kissed the beast’s wide, warm, and bat-lashed eyes. The caress was equivalent to a farewell: the mother, like the father, _chose_ theirs, the son: they didn’t want to send him there, to the devil’s islands , where fever and plague suck men dry and the machete tears them to pieces. My God! But it’s one thing to choose whoever is due, and another to have no law for the team; to not have it, you’d have to be made of wood! Because, besides the fact that that team put ashes on the foreheads of all those in the Navy, it’s worth considering that Pilara and Telme had been taking the crust out of each other’s mouths for years to give it to the oxen. Corn bark, the stewed potatoes, squash, and cabbage, are foods shared by the farmer and the ox; what makes stew for the animal makes broth for the owner. If the ox gets fat, it’s because the farmer is depriving himself, diminishing his ration. Vanity, that most tenacious human sentiment, which never loses its rights, also thrives in the farmers. The whole parish envied the team, to such an extent that Pilara had hung them from the horns, so that they fell into the central whirlpool of the head, a Gospel and two cloves of garlic sealed in a bag, a remedy for _envy_, which for the villager is a mysterious force, capable of bewitching. But, although harmful, envy is flattering. Telme was walking along the royal road with his oxen, like the Pope in his chair. And now… no show, no profit, no pride, no farming; everything down the drain. The cart, perpetually motionless and in the corral; the fields, unplowed; the lucrative _carts_ of stone and sand, for others… There was no remedy. The choice was made! So Telme moved away and the rhythmic tread of the team ceased to be heard. Pilara dried the last tears with the back of her rough hand and, resignedly, began to prepare what was needed for baking. Crying doesn’t heat the oven, nor does it knead the flour. The villager toiled tirelessly. As he split and arranged the firewood and kneaded the dough with his dark hands, his anguish began to subside. Goodbye to the oxen… but the young man would come. If the team was good, Andresillo was even better. No one could beat a strongman or a volunteer. He could do more work in one day than others could in a week. And he wasn’t a wine-drinker, a brawler, or a fan of the “tuna” (a kind of “tuna”). He wanted to rent a place and get married; but now that his parents were staying for him, without the light of the holy eyes… he would help them save enough for another couple. With what they had saved in the mouth of the chest and Andrés’s wages, in two or three years … It wasn’t even noon when Telme returned, head down, alone now, his hands empty, the _adival_ wrapped around his body. This time, Pilara asked anxiously: How much? How much? Telme was slow to answer. Finally , sullenly, as he sat down to eat the stew with rancid lard and the moldy breadcrumbs—the fresh bolla hadn’t even come out of the oven yet, nor would it until the afternoon—he let out his tongue, amidst swearing, because Telme already knew that anything under five thousand and something meant giving away the team; and at that damned fair, it seems the buyers had sworn not to offer more than four thousand. And it was a sneaky and bad idea, because as soon as he left them with an unknown dealer, with an Andalusian accent, for four thousand and something, another one from Breanda got a head start on the dealer and took them. But they had to go to the chest…! And soon, soon. He would borrow the donkey from Gorio de Quintás, and by three, God willing, he would be in Marineda, depositing the money in exchange for the son… They opened the chest, as if they had opened their veins. Pilara folded her hands, moaned softly, raised her eyes to the sky, and clutched her head as she turned the thick wool sock inside out in the trough: the savings of so long ago. They were in hard currency, in cash: the farmer doesn’t like to save paper. There were shiny coins from the baby, others rusted, a lot of peseta, rusty change. Although they knew the exact amount, they counted: there was a penny left over. Telme tied the necessary sums in a blue cotton handkerchief, so as not to mix them with the sales receipts , which were almost all in hundred-dollar bills, hidden beneath the meat. This done, she went out to look for the donkey. Pilara waited, waited until late. She didn’t know if her man was sleeping that night in Marineda, so she could return early with the servant. She finally went to bed. Around one o’clock, she heard someone calling and recognized Telme’s voice. Her blood turned. He jumped up in his nightshirt, lit the candle, and opened it: Telme, with a face the color of a dead man, stood before it. “My goodness! What was going on! And Andresiño? ” “Shut up!” Telme exclaimed. “Don’t talk to me, I’ll set fire to the house, and I’ll break your back and I’ll break the backs of divine God himself… Now we’re alone, woman, without oxen and without a son. The fair-boy… slipped me four counterfeit bills!” And the father, instead of carrying out his threats to break everyone’s backs, let himself fall to the ground and tore out handfuls of hair, weeping like a woman. Chapter 8. THE Bitch. The first thing that José San Juan—known as the _Carpenter_—did upon leaving the Alcalá penitentiary was to present himself at the office of the Director. José was a young man with a fierce head, his face dull gray, the color of six years of confinement, during which he had only seen the sunlight gilding the eaves of the roof. The new blouse didn’t fit his body, which he was used to in the prison jacket; he walked awkwardly, and the brand-new cap, which he tortured with his hands, seemed strange to him, accustomed as he was to the unpleasant mortarboard. “I came to say goodbye to the Director,” he said humbly upon entering. “Fine, man; the attention is appreciated,” replied the official. ” Now be good, be honest, get to work. You’re one of the least bad; you found yourself here for a fit of anger, for a crime of blood, and if you only remember these six years, you’ll try not to return… May it go well for you. Do you want something from me?” “If you would be so kind, Mr. Warden… if you would!” Encouraged by the chief’s benevolent smile, he dropped his claim. “I wish to see an inmate. ” “She’s your _chucha_, isn’t she?… Fine: you’ll see her.” And he wrote an order for Pepe the _Carpenter_ to be allowed into the visiting room of the women’s prison. The warden knew well what those relationships between convicts meant, those galateos at a distance and without seeing each other, of _chuchos_ and _chuchas_; love, king of the world, which filters in everywhere like the sun, and reaches where it has never reached before, piercing walls, passing through bars. Almost all the convicts in the women’s penitentiary had a _galeriana_ who lovingly mended and washed their clothes; a companion in misfortune whom they had never seen and whose attentions they repaid with letters, overflowing with ridiculous sentimentality… but sincere. It was sacred love, entering that hell to mock the severity of human laws; life and its affections flourishing there, where social punishment seeks to transform the reprobate into corpses with the appearance of life. The prison, an ancient convent, and the women’s penitentiary, superb and brand-new, contemplated each other from nearby, mute, immutable—but a breath of contained and ardent passion, of amorous spring, germinating among the filth of the dead house, traveled from one building to the other like the fertilizing caress sent through the air by palm trees of different sexes. Such great emotion filled Pepe as he headed toward the women’s parlor that his trembling legs shortened their pace… What would his bitch be like? At last, he was going to see her! And thinking of the forms his imagination had clothed her in during sleepless nights or on solitary walks up and down the patio, the entire past suddenly revived in his memory. To begin with, his imprisonment, the result of having bad wine and a ready hand; the first months of dull excitement, of sullen isolation, watching the days slip by like the heavy ripples of a sad, gray river. Later, when he made friends, they were surprised that a young man like him, handsome and tender, who only worked because he was too much of a man, didn’t have his own little girl, his little girl like the others. They took care of the arrangements: they would write to their friends, and there would be no shortage of someone in the house across the street to look after such a handsome young man. One day they told him that his little girl was named Lucía, better known by the nickname *Pelusa*, and Pepe wrote to him, finding sweet satisfaction in knowing that beyond those walls there was someone who thought of him and was interested in his life. Soon this spiritual joy was joined by the satisfactions of selfishness; They praised the cleanliness of his linen and felt envious at the sight of certain delicacies, all the work of Pelusa, the amorous chucha, who, invisible as a goblin, took maternal care of him. “But, comrade, how lucky you are,” his platoon mates would say to him with ill-disguised envy. “That Pelusa is made of gold,” added a veteran of the prison, an oracle of young people. “Keep her, kid, few women like that get off the hook. ” “But what is she like?” Pepe asked with growing curiosity. “Is she young? Why is she in prison? ” “She must be a little older than you, because I don’t think this is the first time Every time she visits the house… But what does it matter to you whether she’s young or old? Let yourself be loved, that’s the obligation of good young men, and when you’re released, find another woman who will take care of you the same. Pepe protested. He felt his gratitude toward that woman double ; the relationships, which at first seemed like a joke—good only to distract himself from the tedium of confinement—were now reaching deep within him , and his gratitude turned into attraction, seeing that not a day went by without the flea market delivering packets of tobacco, articles of clothing , or something to eat that kept him strong, robust, and healthy, freeing him from the insipid food of the prison, the worst possible trick for hunger. They didn’t write to each other for a few days. The first letters breathed that amorous emphasis he’d learned from popular epistolary writing; but they grew more sincere as the two lovers, through that repeated soul-to-body contact, got to know each other. They spoke of their situation, of the misfortune they found themselves in, in vague terms—as if embarrassed to say why and how—and counted date after date the time they had left to serve. He would be released a year before she was… How sadly the poor _chucha_ repeated it! And José protested with the fortitude of an energetic young man, chivalrous in his own way, incapable of breaking his word. He would wait for her to be released; they would marry and be happy; he said it from the heart, feeling bound for life by the recognition of the sacrifices that had sweetened his bitter hours. He didn’t know if that was love; he had never truly felt dominated by any woman; he remembered nothing but easy encounters, the chance encounters of his working-class days; but he loved his _chucha_… without even knowing her and swore to never abandon her. Just because he was in prison didn’t make him a scoundrel capable of forgetting that woman who thought of him every moment and worked so he lacked nothing. His only concern was learning something about the history or appearance of his _chucha_. Unfortunately, the errand boys didn’t know her; in the Galera, run by nuns, no one entered except the director; and with scrupulous delicacy, neither he nor she dared to speak of the past or of each other in their letters, as if fearing that the entry of light would rupture the atmosphere of the mystery of love and dissipate the spell. In those last days, what intense turmoil! Pepe spoke enthusiastically about his upcoming release, and she answered laconically; her words breathed sadness; she almost lamented that the man she loved would regain his freedom, dreading awakening from her six- year dream. And the same impatience of his last days of writing dominated Pepe when he entered the parlor for the convicts. After delivering the director’s order, he was left alone until finally, through the thick grille, he heard soft female footsteps. Two nuns stood motionless at the back of the gallery, where they couldn’t hear the words, but could follow with their eyes every movement of the woman occupying the parlor; and a gallery worker approached with a clumsy step, as if frightened by the thought of reaching the grille. Pepe made no movement. The nuns hadn’t understood him! That woman wasn’t the one he was looking for; and he looked strangely at the recluse, a sort of clown of misery disguised in gray skirts; a tiny, emaciated, shrunken creature, her bulging eyes streaked with blood, her gray, wild, sparse hair disheveled over her forehead, and protruding between her livid lips were enormous, yellowish teeth, like those of an old horse. The woman also appeared poorly dressed and dirty, as if, consumed by the fury of work, she had forgotten herself. They looked at each other for a few moments in surprise, and ended up smiling, convinced they had made a mistake. “No, it’s not you,” said Pepe. “I’m looking for Pelusa. I’ve just been released, and I’ve come to meet her. ” The gallery worker stepped back with the swift movement of a woman whose nervous system is perpetually tense because of the way she lives. “Is that you… you!… Pepe!” And she threw herself against the bars, as if seeking to get a better look at him, to devour him with her eyes. They remained silent for a few moments. Once the initial shock had passed, she showed profound dismay; her eyes filled with tears, a tribute paid to the horrible disappointment. He absorbed with his gaze the degradation of that ruin, which seemed to have absorbed in itself the old age and filth of the entire prison… God, how ugly she was! Swallowing her tears, stifling her sadness, Pelusa was the first to break the silence, as if she wished to end that painful and difficult scene as quickly as possible . “Have you come to say goodbye?… Well done; it is esteemed. Look: as long as I live, I will never forget you.” And she lowered her head so as not to look at him: it was as if his presence was causing her pain, stirring the embers of her inner affection… doomed to die out. “No, Lucía; I just came to see you.” I’m neither saying goodbye nor leaving… I’ve come to tell you… that I’m the same… and to keep my word. Pepe uttered this forcefully, aggressively, offending him with the suspicion that this interview might be the last. Then the _chucha_ dared to look at him, but with an expression of tender pity, like a mother who appreciates her son’s sweet lies. “You don’t want to give me a bad time… All right, man… God bless you; but you see what I am: old, a scare, and also in poor health… If you only knew what trouble I give the poor sisters with this heart that’s always aching!…” He stopped when he got here, as if ashamed. His face, a whitish pallor, the tone of wax kneaded with clay, colored, and he cheered up. He made an effort and continued: “I’m here because I’m a thief; I’ve done nothing else in my life but steal… And you, just look at you! You have a good face; You must have come here because of some misfortune… come on, because of a fight or something like that. Don’t fool me , why?… You’re not going to come out and say you love me, son… Look at me closely… Yes, I can be your mother! Struck by the prisoner’s words, Pepe wanted to argue with them, and he welcomed them with furious nods of his head; but Lucía continued without giving him time to protest: “I’m sicker than I look; after this drink, I know I’m not getting out of here alive, oh how my heart aches!… It’s that they deceived me; I thought you were just one of many, a real cur, one of the prison guards… And that’s why I loved you. Nothing, things that put it in your head; smoke that gets in there!… And I was more stunned! Come on, man, go away and don’t remember the saint of my name.” “God grant you the luck you deserve, and may you find a woman you need… Because you’re worth an empire… You’re a very young man, damn it! ” He murmured this with all his heart, pressing his poor caricature head against the bars, pressing his emaciated hands against them, eager to touch the man he had desired in his dreams, who appeared in reality, young, arrogant, and with that air of kindness and friendliness… “No, Pelusa,” the young man replied with fortitude. “I’m a man, and men only have one word. I promised to marry you, and I’ll wait for you to come out. I didn’t come for goodbyes, but for you to get to know me… and to say so long.” “Do you think they’ll forget six years of sacrifice, of clothing me and starving me, while God knows what you’d eat and how you’d live?… Well, it’s not as if I were one of those young gentlemen who make a living squeezing women… ” Pelusa continued clinging to the irons, and she wavered as if those words had fallen with tremendous weight on her weak body. “Are you serious?” she murmured in a hoarse voice. “Will you be able to love me just as I am?… Are you going to wait for me a whole year? ” “Look, Pelusa,” the boy continued. “I don’t know if I love you like other women. What I’m telling you is that I don’t intend to leave and I won’t leave… Aren’t you pretty, pretty? Let’s be content. But is it that in the world only the pretty ones have someone who loves them?” I don’t care what you were or why you came here: by my side you’ll be something else. I’ll wait for work; The director, who is good, will employ me in the housework; if necessary, I’ll be in need, I’ll beg… What I can assure you is that I’m not leaving, and that now it’s me—me!—who will bring his _bitch_ clothes and food. Lucía closed her eyes. She seemed to be dazzled by the man’s fiery words, and she threw back her face, contorted in a grotesque grimace that expressed astonishment and happiness. “I have my gratitude riveted here,” Pepe continued, “and I feel like crying when I think of what you’ve done for me. Are you saying you could be my mother? You will be if you want; I’ve never met mine. Go out and we’ll live together; I’ll work for you without thinking about drinks or friends; by my side you’ll grow fat, you’ll get well, and you’ll never remember this place! You found a good man here, and I found the first woman in my life.” “My God!… Holy Virgin! Virgin!” It was Pelusa, slowly collapsing, her hands covered in scratches as they freed themselves and slid down the hard, stinging bars. She fell like a bundle of rags, shuddering, babbling between convulsions, in a childish voice: “Pepe, my Pepe!” The two nuns, silent witnesses of the interview, saw Pelusa fall and ran to pick up that pile of unhappiness from the floor. Other nuns, attracted by the cries, began by expelling Pepe from the visiting room; despite his pleas and exclamations, the sisters didn’t notice what had happened. If she liked, she could return another day, with the director’s permission… But she didn’t ask for it, nor did she have to look for work… Why? The next day Pelusa was erased from the prison registry. The breath of good fortune and life that the _chucho_ had brought with him to the parlor broke the heart of the miserable woman and set her free. Chapter 9. THE WINE OF THE SEA. As they gathered at the wharf to stow the sloop _Mascota_, the five crew members left the tavern disguised as a café, called _América_ and crouched under the arcades of the marina bordering the Espolón; a hovel where the rabble of the dock, sailors, boatmen, loaders, and _lulos_, usually gather at dusk. Of a hundred words uttered in the dark, malodorous room, with a floor strewn with phlegm and cigarette butts and a ceiling smoked in circles by stinking lamps, fifty are blasphemies and oaths, another fifty are suppositions and conjectures about the weather and the prevailing winds. However, conversation in America isn’t as commensurate as drinking; the rabble in pointed clogs, tarred snails, and Catalan caps is laconic, and if you were to judge their hearts and beliefs by the obscene and filthy words they spit out, you would be mistaken, just as if you formed an idea of the depths of the ocean from the foam it spurts against the rock. The school clock had just struck eight when those brave men began the work of loading, amidst grunts of discord. And no wonder. Wasn’t the stubborn skipper determined that the load of casks of wine, if it was to be carried as usual in the hold, should be on deck? That was hard for a serious sailor like Uncle Reimundo, alias Finisterre, who had seen so much of God’s sea. Therein lies the difference between those who sailed in real seas, where there are sharks and hurricanes, and those who spent their whole lives splashing around in a punch bowl. Rotten lightning squints ! Did the skipper want the ship to be their hat? They had to be crazy, codgers! What’s more, on a night like that, with how false that Penalongueira coast is, and with the south having begun to blow, a treacherous wind that leads the change to the _nordés_! Uncle Reimundo didn’t notice the calm of the bay, over whose smooth and placid expanse the thousand lights of the city extended brilliant golden rails; the old man’s nose was struck by the air _from there_, from the open sea, the throbbing of the waves excited by the bite of the breeze. All this, in his own way, gruffly, half -spoken, was said by _Finisterre_. _Zopo_, another expert, quick-witted but crooked-footed, was of the same opinion. But Adrián and _Xurel_—young men who had just been merried a little with three glasses of real cane, and felt their spirits doubled—were already rolling the casks onto _Mascota_. Aware that those barrels contained wine, they handled them with a fever of greedy joy, calculating the sum of pleasures contained in their colossal bellies. What did _Finisterre_’s grumbling matter to them? Where there’s a captain, there’s no sailor. Amidst furious shouts to bid better, the _ahiaaá!_ and the _eieiea!_ of effort, the stowage was finished in barely an hour. Over the previously clear sky, dark, round, ugly-looking clouds were gathering. A cold breeze rippled the smooth surface of the water. Finisterre swore under his breath, and the master of the fearful soothsayers swore. It was better if the wind rose; then they would sail so comfortably! The sloop was no feather, and it needed help, a carandia! And he took his place, taking hold of the tiller. “Here, ala, onward course!” They sailed as if through a lake of oil until they left the bay. As the shell fringed with splendor diminished and receded, and the red lantern of the Espur became an imperceptible point, and the green light of the port became another, the little breeze from the land persisted, lively, like a playful child. They had hoisted the gaff, and the Mascot cut through the waves more quickly, not without pitching. The rowers rested, joking. Only Finisterre grew gloomy. With each roll of the boat, he thought he saw the load shift. They were already crossing the bar, and the luminous high sea, agitated by the surf, stretched out around them. For the ponchera, according to Uncle Reimundo’s contemptuous saying, the ponchera “compelled respect.” The skipper, whose cane smoke was dissipating, furrowed his brows, feeling a hint of unease. Perhaps that scruffy Finisterre was right; the sea, without knowing why, didn’t seem like a sea of pleasure to him… It had a foxy face, a face ready to give a damn, the damned thing… The breeze seemed to fall asleep, and a kind of leaden calm, sinister, overwhelming, fell upon it. It was necessary to tighten the oars, because the sail was barely stiff. The sloop groaned and creaked in the painful start of its slow progress. Sudden gusts of wind, inflating the gaff for a moment, propelled the boat, then slumped, more weary, like a spirit fainting at the loss of a living hope. And when they already saw to starboard the dangerous coast of Penalongueira, which they had to skirt to reach the small port of Dumia and unload the cargo, Finisterre suddenly reared up, unleashing a ferocious tern. He had just perceived, far away, that dull, thunderous sound of the sudden storm, the rush of air that suddenly lashes the liquid mass and unleashes its fury. The skipper, aware of this, was already shouting the order to lower the sail. This was neither seen nor heard. Enormous waves, pushing and chasing each other like hostile lionesses, were now playing with the sloop, either carrying it to the abyss or lifting it to the terrifying crest. The boat plummeted headlong, ascending obliquely to the spot. The skipper, sensing his immense responsibility, worked miracles, encouraging, directing. The storm! Bah! He had passed others and come out safe, thanks to God and to Our Lady of Guidance, whom he remembered a lot then, with offerings of masses and votive offerings for little boats, portraits of the _Mascota_ to hang from the ceiling of the sanctuary… True; it wasn’t the first storm they had experienced; but… they didn’t have the cargo stowed on deck, but at the back of the hold, well packed, as God commands and is required among people of the trade. And those who had committed that sheer barbarity, now, despite the skipper’s furious commands, lost the courage to row, as if they felt the wet kiss of death on their tanned cheeks… Only one resolution could save them. _Finisterre_ suggested it, mixing the interjections with rude prayers. The skipper resisted, but his love for life was strong, and it was unanimously resolved to throw the cursed barrels into the water. Out with them, before they ran to one side and what was coming happened! Without further ceremony, they pushed one of the barrels to throw it over the side… Those who attempted the task only had time to jump back . The barrel moved; the barrel was coming at them, all by itself. And the others, like a herd of pot-bellied monsters, followed. They ran, rolled, mad with vertigo, crowding onto the port side, and the sloop, nose-first, bow straight into the abyss, gave a terrifying leap, the damned ram predicted by Finisterre, and, shedding all its cargo, barrels and men, into the waves, floated keel up, like a nutshell. The first news of the shipwreck reached the small port of Ángeles, facing the bay, because two boats left there at dawn and were stranded on the beach when the tide went out. Rumors of the capture spread, and more than a hundred people crowded onto the shore—fishermen, villagers, carters, policemen, sardine sellers, women, and children. No one was unaware of the significance of the appearance of full boats on a beach along the coast. The roar of the storm still resounded in their ears. But now the sun was beautiful, a magnificent, _breeding_ day. It was Sunday; in the afternoon they would dance in the chestnut grove; and with the catch, there would be no lack of wine to soak their throats. No one made sad comments except the fishermen—who, however , consoled themselves with thoughts of the rich belly of the barrels… ! Only an old woman, who had lost her servant, her twenty- year-old son, in a sea incident, escaped from the beach screaming, and, stationed near the cart in which the barrels were taken to the pilgrimage grounds, she shrieked: “Don’t drink, don’t drink! That wine tastes of the blood of men and the bitterness of the sea. ” They paid the same attention to her as the crew of the sloop to _Finisterre_. Chapter 10. FIRE ON BOARD. When we left the port of Marineda—it was, at most, ten in the morning—there was no storm, just a choppy sea, a green… well, a suspicious green. At eleven we served lunch, and many passengers were retreating to their cabins, because the waves, as soon as we put out to sea, began to get rough, and the ship was really pitching. Some of the crew gathered in the dining room, and while the time came to prepare the meal, we amused ourselves by playing the accordion and making the kitchen boy, a very ugly little black boy, dance. And we laughed like crazy, because the black man, with the boat’s pitching and his own jumping, was banging his head a thousand times against the bulkhead. At this point, one of the young waiters, who are called Stuarts, came up to me. “Cook, two clean pillowcases, I need them. ” “Then go to the closet and get them, man.” “Here I go.” And without further ado, he goes in and lights a candle stub to select the pillowcases. That candle stub! No one will ever get it out of my head that the damned… God forgive me, the unfortunate steward left it lit, next to the piles of linen. Since a large ship requires so much whiteness, in addition to the shelves full and stacked with tablecloths, sheets, and napkins, there were on the San Gregorio piles of dishcloths , so high they reached a man’s waist. The stub inevitably stuck to one of them, or fell off the table, lit, onto the linen. Anyway, it was our fate, it was so prepared. I don’t know what was wrong with me when we left Marineda. Every time I embark, I’m as cheerful as a clam eight days beforehand, and it even seems like I’m in the mood for a bit of joking around with friends and family. Well, this time… as certain as the fact that we’re going to die… I had the whole journey stuck in my throat, and I didn’t laugh or even speak. The day before embarking, I said to my wife: “Woman, early tomorrow morning you will iron a shirt for me, for I want to go clean on board.” In the morning she came in with the shirt, and I said to her: “Woman, bring me the little one who is nursing.” The child came and I gave him a kiss, and I ordered that he be taken away quickly , because my insides were aching and my heart was leaping into my throat. Also the day before, I went to the house of the second officer, Señorito de Armero, and the family was at table; and the mother, who is such a frank lady, not taking offense at what was present, said to me: “Take this yolk, Salgado. ” “Thank you a thousand times, madam, I don’t want to. ” “Then take these to the children… And what’s the matter with you, you’re I don’t know how? ” “Nothing. ” “And what do you think of the voyage, Salgado? ” “Madam, the sea is beautiful, and there’s no complaining about the weather. ” “No, well, you’re not entirely sure of it.” I notice something in his face. For that trip, I had bought all the trade gadgets; in fact, I spent the last bit of money I had left: seventy duretes. The gadgets were precious: the best knives, superior molds, very fine tools for chopping and decorating; because on the ship, as we know, they give you good kitchen utensils, large pots and pans, coal as much as you ask for, and provisions galore; but certain little pastries and treats, if you don’t have the means to make them… And since I have this pride of wanting to excel in my art and not have anyone show me a dish… Certainly, this vanity was my downfall when I kept the restaurant open. I was ashamed that the window display was so disreputable, without a good chicken in a galantine, or stuffed sirloin, or ham in a sweet sauce, or well -breaded chops with their little paper papillote on the bone… And the customers didn’t come; and the dishes were dying of old age there; and when they began to smell, we ate them as a resource: my children were kept alive on truffles and ham, and our pockets were bleeding… If I don’t get the restaurant back on its feet, I don’t know what would become of me; so finding a job on the ship and accepting it was all at once. I thought to myself : “Cheer up, Salgado: out of the twenty-eight duros they’re offering you a month, it’ll be bad if you can’t send twelve or fifteen to the family.” This isn’t your first time on board a ship: let’s go to Manila. Who knows if there you ‘ll settle down in some inn and get a thousand or fifteen hundred reales a month and become a gentleman? As I said: fate, which arranges our journeys in its own way… It was God’s will that I would lose my gossip, and go through what I went through, and return to Marineda naked. What were we up to? Yes, I remember now. It was about an hour and a half before dinner when we thought smoke was coming out of the closet door. Whoever noticed it first didn’t dare say so: we looked at each other, and no one started to shout. Finally, almost at the same time, we shouted: “Fire! Fire on board!” Look, there’s no doubt about it; the worst thing, at those moments when horrible things happen , is to become stunned and lose one’s composure. If, when the warning spread, we could have controlled our panic and maintained order, If half a dozen calm men had taken control and isolated the fire in the bowels of the ship, I’m sure the disaster would have been avoided. I, who witnessed it all, who missed no detail, can swear I don’t understand how in a minute the news spread and all we saw was people running here and there, mad with fear. To make matters worse, it was beginning to get dark, and the increasingly rough seas and the increasingly violent storm increased the fear. It became a Babel, where no one understood each other or obeyed the commands . The captain, may he rest in peace, was a Mallorcan through and through, a brave man, and he doesn’t have to answer to God for anything, because the poor fellow did everything in his power; but they paid little attention to him. Perhaps he should have blown someone’s brains out so the others could learn; well, he didn’t. He was the first to pay it, how could it be! He and I went through the stern corridor, in order to see what The fire was so serious that no sooner had we opened the iron door than such a column of smoke and such a pall of flames burst forth that we scarcely had time to retreat, close it, and lean, scorched and half-suffocated, against the wall. I shouted to the captain: “Don Raimundo, see that the iron doors on the bow must also be closed.” He would have given the order to one of those who were stumbling about there; perhaps to the third in command; I don’t know; the truth is that it wasn’t carried out, and half the misfortune was in its failure. We hurriedly set about cooling the iron doors with jets of water so that the dreadful furnace within wouldn’t melt them and burst them open, letting the flames in. What good did it do us? What didn’t happen there happened elsewhere. We spent I don’t know how long soaking the plate, enveloped in smoke and steam; But when we heard the flames already rising from the bow , our arms grew weary, and fleeing from that inferno, we went on deck. Truly, from that moment on, the battle with the fire and all hope of stopping it ceased, and all we thought about was safety; saving our skin, if possible—that was for those who were still capable of thinking. Many threw themselves on the floor, or went to the corners to tear their hair out, or remained like statues, like the third mate, who, as soon as the fire broke out, sat down on a coil of ropes and didn’t say a word, nor did he move, nor dream of helping us. Two hours after the fire was noticed, the engine stopped. If it didn’t stop, our safety was almost certain; even on fire, we would reach the port. What we feared was that the compressed, unventilated steam would cause the boiler to burst. We all questioned the engineer, a very stiff, very quiet Englishman with a heart bigger than the engine. He didn’t move from his place, nor did he change much or little; he opened all the valves and said calmly: “Respond with my head, very good engine, I’m sure there won’t be an explosion. ” Seeing that the poor engine stopped, we were, if possible, even more terrified; we didn’t believe the fire would reach where it apparently already had: we understood that the fire wasn’t localized and contained, but rather that it had taken over the entire interior of the ship, and there was no choice but to sit back and let it do as it pleases. “Ship lost, Don Raimundo!” I said to the captain. “Ship lost, Salgado. ” “And us?” “Lost too. ” “Hope in God, Don Raimundo.” And he put his hands to his head and said in a way I’ll never forget: “God!” I don’t know what we three hundred Christians on that ship had done to God ; but we must have had some very grave sin, for Him to heap such punishments and calamities upon us. Of all the stormy nights I can remember—and look, we ‘ve sailed quite a bit—none was more atrocious, more furious than that night. A frantic swell; the ship couldn’t hold: a wave here, a wave there: mountains of water and foam covering us: it was no longer rocking; it was toppling over, falling into a precipice: it seemed as if the storm delighted in tossing and fanning us to fan the fire. A furious wind blew; it rained incessantly; and the night was so black, so black, that we couldn’t see each other’s faces on deck. Some wept in a way that broke our hearts; others blasphemed; Many said: “Oh, my poor children!” I do not understand how the helmsman was able to remain so still in his post of honor, keeping the ship on course so that it did not roll like a ball in that crazy sea. Soon the flames began to light us, coming out of the bow not only at intervals, but continuously, as if they were blown from within with forge bellows. The tremendous swell made it impossible to think of skiffs; to get into them was to hasten death. At this point they shouted that a boat was seen to leeward. A ship! Since the fire broke out, we had not stopped We fired rockets and flares so that the ships, passing close by, would understand that the burning vessel contained people in need of help. And you see how God, despite what I said before, never piles up all the misfortunes at once. We still have to thank Him that the site of the disaster is a crossing point, where the vessels bound for the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meet. A few miles ahead, it would no longer be easy to find anyone to help us. Upon seeing the vessel, the people became agitated, and the most determined lowered the skiffs in a minute. There was no captain, no officers, no authority of any kind: the boatswains took the best skiff, and although it held thirty people, it ended up occupying only five. You know what the fear of dying does: no attention is paid to the danger, no compassion, no neighbor. Without considering the fury of the waves and the impossibility of swimming there, countless people jumped into the sea to get into the skiffs. I still seem to hear the voices saying to the boatswain: “Wait, our master Nicholas, wait for the sake of your mother who gave birth to you; the hand, our master!” And he, in his cursed Catalan slang, replied: “I’ll be fine; I’ll be fine.” And when the unfortunates tried to pull themselves into the skiff and grabbed the side, those inside, drawing their knives, threatened to stab them. This time there were enough victims: the skiffs sailed away, and our hope with them. After picking up those first shipwrecked sailors, the ship continued on its course, because the storm wouldn’t allow it to stay aloft. In all this, if you could see how the deck was shaping up! We heard the roar of the fire, which sounded like the snorting of a ferocious beast, and every moment we expected to see the flames bursting forth from the center of the ship and the deck collapsing. We moved as close to the stern as we could, for the heat of the floor was becoming unbearable, and from the iron floor covered with wooden planks , short flames shot out through the holes in the bolts, as if several dozen matches had been lit all at once. Neither the cold nor the darkness were anything to be feared now: what nonsense! God grant us good darkness: the stern was sometimes as bright as a ballroom: completely illuminated. It was a pleasure to see the horizon closed by immense waves, green and blackish, crashing down on us, over which floated a small shore of foam whiter than snow. We also spotted another vessel, a steamer, which was stopping, no doubt, to assist us. It was so far away! Still, people cheered up. The second, Mr. Armero, came up to me and touched me on the shoulder. “Salgado, can you come down to the cabin? I need a lantern. ” “My second, I’m almost blind… With the heat and the smoke, my sight is failing. ” “Even if I have to grope… I want a lantern.” “Well, I don’t know how I crawled down the stairs; the cabin was like a furnace, the lantern was still lit; I took it down and handed it to the second, convinced that I was giving him a passport to eternity, since the skiff he and several others decided to get into was the smallest and very dilapidated. They lowered it, and miraculously managed to sit in it without it capsizing. Then people began to jump into the sea to save themselves in the skiff, and I could see that, as soon as they hit the water, they all died. Some broke their heads against the sides of the ship; But the greater part, without stumbling upon anything, expired instantly. Was the water boiling with the heat of the fire and cooking them? Was it that their strength was failing them? The truth is that they took two very gentle strokes to swim, suddenly raised their knees to the level of their mouths, and were already floating like corpses. Those in the skiff rowed desperately towards the rescue vessel. I learned later that, halfway across, they noticed that the skiff, broken at the bottom, was taking on water and sinking; that they placed their hands in the opening jackets, their boots, whatever they could find; and even then, not having enough, Señorito de Armero, who is very resolute, grabbed a sailor, sat him down, or rather, wedged him into the hole, and said to him pardoningly : “Don’t move around and cover yourself with the…” Thanks to which they reached the ship, and we were able to see them ascending onto the deck. I don’t know whether we regretted having remained there without trying to escape. The dead were now at peace, and the saved… how happy! That ship wasn’t stopping either; it was necessary to wait for God to send us another, and resist as best we could for as long as it took. It is true that our San Gregorio could still last. After all, it was a large liner, with its cargo, and it was a terrible sight for the flames. The best thing was to take refuge in some corner, so as not to be burned to death. The captain had the idea of climbing to the top of the great iron tree, the mainmast. While the ship was burning, he believed he could remain there, safe and free from the flames, like a canary in its cage. I saw him approaching the mast and immediately took his arm. “Don’t you go up, Captain; don’t you see that the mast must bend as soon as it gets red-hot?” The poor man, enamored with the project, circled the mast, studying its strength. “I believe the sooner I announce the catastrophe, the sooner it will happen.” The tree… boom! It bent suddenly, like a person’s finger, and, dragged by its weight, its top touched the ground. As clever as the captain was, since he was close at hand, a red-hot wire from the platform caught his foot near the ankle and severed it without drawing a drop of blood, performing both the amputation and the cautery at the same time. I can vouch for the fact that no surgeon ever cut it more neatly. We lifted him as best we could, and placing a sofa at the end of the stern, we made him comfortable so that he could rest. He moaned very softly, between his teeth, as if chewing the pain, and I half heard him say: “My poor wife! My dear little children, what will become of them?” But suddenly , without further ado, he began to scream like a maniac, calling for help and medicine. Yes, medicine! We needed medicine! The fire had already reached the cabin, and despite the noise of the storm, we could hear the medicine chest bottles, glassware, and crockery bursting. Then the unfortunate man began to beg, in very sad words, to be thrown overboard, and, exercising for the last time his authority on board, he ordered that a weight be tied to his body. We excused ourselves by saying that there was nothing to tie him with, and he, who was calm at the same time, remembered that there was a very thick bar of lead in the binnacle, because no iron or other metal could enter there to deflect the magnetized needle. Although we resisted, it was necessary to tear it off and hang it around his neck, and as the weight was heavy and forced his head down , he had to hold it with both hands, leaning back on the back of the sofa. Since he had his revolver in his pocket, he armed it and begged to be allowed to shoot himself and then be thrown into the sea. Naturally, we refused! We urged him to let daybreak; With daylight, the storm would calm, and one of the many ships crossing would save us all. We insisted and reflected that the greatest courage was to suffer. Finally, he dismounted and put away his revolver, declaring that he was doing it for his children alone. He complained softly and insisted that we should find and show him the missing foot. Do you believe we chased the foot all over the deck and couldn’t fulfill his wish? After the captain’s incident, the third officer’s occurred, and I imagine that of all the horrors of the night, it was the one that affected me the most. What we are, what we are! Nothing: a pittance. The third officer was a young man who had a fiancée, and was to marry her upon his return from the voyage. He loved her very much, oh yes, he did! Just as on the previous voyage, he had brought her precious handkerchiefs and fans from Manila. Sandalwood, in little boxes, in a thousand little things. Nevertheless… or for that very reason… well, what do I know! Misfortunes and weaknesses of mortals… the poor fellow had been sad, worried, for some time. No one will convince me that what he did wasn’t done intentionally, because he had already thought about it beforehand and because the opportunity seemed good enough to carry it out. If not, what trouble would it have cost him to try to save Mr. Armero? Already determined to die, it didn’t matter one way or the other, and at least it might happen that he managed to save his skin in the skiff. Well, let’s not think about it. He gave no sign of intending to fight the fire, and while we steered the horse and let loose hoses of water against the doors, enveloped in flames and smoke, he remained quiet and as if stunned. When Mr. de Armero left, he called him into the cabin to give him his watch—a beautiful watch with a diamond case—and two very fine rings as well, charging him to take them to his fiancée as a memento and a farewell. What I’m saying is, the man was determined to die. Then he went aft, and I saw him sitting, very glum, with his head in his hands. I stood a few steps away. He turned and said to me: “Cook, do you have a cigar? ” “My officer, I only have some cigarettes in my coat pocket… But this one has some tobacco, for sure…” I added, pointing to a steward who was standing nearby. “Do you believe that the brute of a steward was reluctant to put his hand in his pocket and let go of the cigar? You beast,” I shouted at him , “don’t be stingy now; What good will tobacco do you if we’re all going to perish? At my cries, the man put down his cigar. The third lit it and took three deep drags; with each one I could see his face in the light of the cigar: a frightening expression. On the third drag, he brought the revolver to his temple, and we heard the shot. He fell flat, without a word. No one was frightened, no one cried out; I can almost say no one moved: we were now in such a state that everything was indifferent to us. Only the captain asked from the sofa, “What’s that? What’s the matter?” The third one , who had just blown his brains out, “He did well!” After a short while he muttered, “Throw him into the sea.” We obeyed, and no one thought of saying the Lord’s Prayer. One becomes so stupid on such occasions! Imagine that in the first few moments, the captain collected six thousand duros and something in gold and banknotes from the cash register; six thousand duros and something that rolled around on the deck, without anyone paying attention or even looking at them. However, the pilot had taken it into his head to look for the logbook, and everything was miserable because he couldn’t find it, just as if it were essential to note down at what altitude and latitude we’d left our skin. Another oddity. In all that disaster, who do you think inspired me the most pity? The captain’s dog, a beautiful Newfoundland, who a few days before had broken his leg and had it in a splint. The little animal, lying next to the wheel, mimicked his master: both of them alike, crippled and awaiting death. I’m such a fool! I felt more sorry for the dog. The flames were already rising to leeward, and morning was approaching. What a dawn, Holy Virgin! We were all faint, dying of thirst, cold, heat, hunger, exhaustion, and everything else one must endure in life. Some were dozing. As day broke, a huge bonfire erupted from the center of the ship: flames had burst through the gap in the mainmast , and the deck was undoubtedly about to collapse, revealing the volcano. We had been expecting this, and despite our anticipation, it came as a terrible surprise to us. We began to cry out to heaven, and many of us raised their clenched fists, asking God: “What did we do to you?” The captain, who was shivering with fever, groaned to me: “Water! For pity’s sake, a sip of water! Water! Perhaps there was some in the cistern.” So I thought about it and went towards it and several thirsty people joined me, putting their mouths to some ends that the cistern has and are like baby bottles from which the water comes out. What They swore at each other! The water, boiling, scalded their mouths. I took the precaution of receiving it in my helmet and letting it cool. The captain continued with his moans . I had to give it to him still half- lukewarm. He looked at me with those eyes that said, ” Thank you, Salgado. ” “You’re welcome, Captain… We’re doing what we can!” The storm, instead of subsiding, even seemed to have worsened since daylight. To avoid falling into the sea, we clung to the railing. A ship passed by, and no matter how many signals we gave it, it didn’t stop; and it must have seen us, for it crossed a short distance away. My eyes, dried by the fire, hurt cruelly , and the more I uncovered the sun, the less I saw, not being able to distinguish objects except as if through a fog. Besides , I felt faint, for I hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch the day before , and my senses were fading. By chance, the carcasses for the ship’s consumption were found on deck, butchered and hung, and with the heat of the fire, they were already somewhat roasted. Those of us who were dying of need threw ourselves on that gigantic , half-cooked roast beef and cooled our mouths with the blood it released. We revived a little. At noon, what we feared happened: communication between the bow and stern was cut off, half the deck collapsing with a great crash, revealing the brazier that formed the entire center of the ship. The flames leaped out soaring like volcanoes, and we commended our souls to God, for we believed they were going to reach us. This didn’t happen for two reasons: first, because the ship had an iron railing instead of a wooden frame; second, because the iron doors were closed toward the stern, which contained the fire there, forcing it to feed on the bow. In any case, the flames couldn’t have traveled too far from us , since at about three in the afternoon we began to notice that the ground was scorching the soles of our feet. We tied a bucket to a rope and hauled it up full of seawater, pouring it over the ground to cool it a little. We now realized how futile the expedient was, and in our straits, there were those who laughed at the thought of having to lift one foot first, then lower that one and raise the other, so as not to burn. It was about three o’clock. The captain called me softly. “Salgado, how much better it would be to die at once! ” “There’s always time to die, Captain. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin Mary will still get us out of this predicament.” Of course, I was saying this to encourage him: deep down, I was figuring out that it was time to pack my suitcase for the final voyage. God knows I wasn’t thinking about the tools I’d lost, or my own death, but only about the children left on land. How would their stepfather treat them? Who would earn their bread? Would they go out to beg in the streets? My only resolution was not to be roasted to death. I looked out to sea two or three times, pondering how I would throw myself so as not to smash my head against the hull and suffer worse torment than the water when it entered my mouth. To further deprive us of our courage, a ship passed by, ignoring our signals. We shook our fists at it, and someone shouted, “God grant you see yourself as we see ourselves.” Our arms were already exhausted from the task of lowering and raising buckets of water, which was like trying to put out a large fire with saliva. Convinced that we were wasting time and that it was just as easy to perish a quarter of an hour sooner or later, everyone began to think about how they would manage to make the crossing to the other side without too much trouble. I crossed myself, determined to jump into the sea at once. What a coincidence! Lo and behold, a boat appeared, and instead of passing by, it stopped. The ship was already talking to us: an English schooner, a beautiful schooner that defied the storm, keeping abreast. Those who still had good eyes could read on its bow, written in gold letters, “Duncan.” We began to shout in English, like desperate madmen: “Schooner! Schooner! Come near! ” “Throw to the water!” they shouted back, not daring to come near. Throw to the water! There was no other recourse, and this one was so risky! Anyway, what was the solution? The skiffs couldn’t get close because of the storm, and the ship even less so. Our San Gregorio, surrounded on all sides by immense flames, was frightening. We had to choose between two deaths, one certain and one doubtful. We prepared to take a sip of salt water. The first life jacket they threw us at the end of a rope, we offered it to the captain. “Take heart,” we told him. “Put on your jacket and go to sea! It’ll be bad if you don’t paddle out to the schooner. ” “I can’t, I can’t! ” “Well, a little determination.” He put it on and half-muttered, groaning, ” It makes no difference this way or that way.” And he was right. That was just a quick turn of events. It’s clear that either the dampness of the water or the shock of the fall opened the arteries in his severed foot, and he bled to death in a jiffy; or perhaps the cold gave him a cramp; I don’t know. The fact is, we saw him raise his arms, clasp them in the air, and slip through the eye of the life preserver to the bottom of the sea. His vest and cap remained floating; we never saw him again in this world. They continued to throw us ropes and life preservers from the schooner, and the crew, seeing the captain’s situation, were hesitant to use them. I made the decision before anyone else. I wanted, one way or another, to get out of this mess. But before taking the somersault, I reflected a bit and decided to dive sideways, like a diver, so that the current, instead of beating me against the ship, would help me steer clear of it. So I did, and after diving, I went out quite far from the San Gregorio. I heard the shouts with which they were encouraging me from the schooner, and I also heard the last cry of some of my companions, who were swallowed up by the water or the waves were stamping against the ships. My back hit the hull of the Duncan: a terrible blow, which left me stunned. When they pulled me out, I fell on the deck like a dead fish. I woke up surrounded by Englishmen. They said to me: “Go! Cook! Go!” To the cabin! I sat up and tried to go where they sent me, but I couldn’t see anything, and after so many horrors, I began to cry for the first time, exclaiming: “My no look… blind… show me the way…” Two people lifted me up, and I hugged the first man I came across, who was a cabin boy, and he also burst into tears like a fool. I don’t know what those good English people did to me. They made me drink an enormous glass of brandy in one gulp, put me in a flannel suit, rubbed me, put me to bed, threw I don’t know how many blankets over me, and left me alone. What did I feel that night? You see… Very strange things; it wasn’t delirious, but it was very close to it. At first, I was sweating a little and didn’t have the courage to move a finger, I was so happy. Then, hearing the sound of the sea, it seemed to me I was still inside it, and that the waves were beating and pushing me this way and that. Then many faces passed by: my companions, the third by the light of his cigar, the captain, and people I hadn’t seen for a long time, and even a little boy who had died years before… Anyway, to finish soon: we arrived at Newcastle, my eyesight cleared, the consul gave us a guinea for tobacco, and a few days later we embarked on a Spanish ship bound for Marineda. What a difference from the English vessel! Our countrymen made us sleep in the sail locker, on a piece of canvas; we barely got a little food and biscuit for food, as if we were dogs. What do you want me to say about my arrival? They had given my wife a fair shake; the children in the street were singing songs to her announcing it. Imagine how she was, and how she received me. Now I must go to the Sanctuary of the Guard: I have no money for masses; but I will go on foot, barefoot, in the same suit I had when they pulled me onto the deck of the Duncan: a waistcoat torn by the hooks of the Life jacket, singed trousers, and a bald head; they’ll laugh at me in such a state. I don’t care: I want to kiss the Virgin’s mantle and pray a Hail Mary there. I’ll be short on bread, but not enough to buy a photograph of the San Gregorio… Have you seen how it turned out? The hull looks like a human skeleton, and it’s still smoking; the cargo of cotton is still burning: inside you can see a black puddle, melted and twisted pieces of glass and metal… Imposing! Am I afraid to embark again?… Bah! What God does… no matter how much man defends himself…! I’ve already found a job. Do you want something for Manila? Would you like me to bring you some of those toys the Chinese make? We’ll leave on Sunday… Give the cook of the San Gregorio some cigars. The cook of the San Gregorio has a good sense of humor and a knack for narrating with vividness and color. During the story, I saw tears well up in his blue eyes several times, now completely healed. Chapter 11. PEACE. War having been declared between the two enemy factions, each side considered taking up arms. The choice of leaders presented no difficulty: Pepito Lancín was acclaimed by those on the left benches, and Riquito Federico Polastres by those on the right. Both leaders deserved such an honorary title. With his mischief and his inexhaustible wit, Pepito Lancín always managed to amuse his schoolmates, inventing some very juicy piece of mischief every day and driving the professor of history, Don Cleto Mosconazo, whom he had taken as his victim, crazy. Now he would put a live frog in his inkwell; now he would shoot chickpeas and peas at him with a blowgun; now he would smear his seat with pitch so that the tails of his coat would stick to it; He would now place a pin pointed upwards in the arm of the chair, where Mr. Mosconazo had the habit of sticking it with his open hand while stumblingly explaining the exploits of Hannibal or the heroics of Viriathus the shepherd. It’s true that after each prank, Pepito Lancín would “inflict” his corresponding punishment: either a tug on the ear, or confinement on bread and water, or an hour of open arms or kneeling; and when a shot from the blowgun hit the professor’s nose, he would pick up the bullet and slide it under the kneecap of the kneeling criminal. It seems like a small thing to kneel on a chickpea for an hour, eh? Well, try it and you’ll see how good it is! Far from diminishing Pepito Lancín’s prestige, the punishments he endured with cheerful stoicism, mixing grimaces of mockery with contraction of pain, made him more popular with the boys. As for Riquito Polastres, his fame stemmed from another source: Lancín’s moral and intellectual qualities, perseverance, and sharpness were his privilege; Polastres’s, his physical strength, fists like dumbbells, and a chest like the prow of a ship. The diminutive “Federico” seemed like an epigram, looking at that massive bulk and those enormous hands, and witnessing how the boy, with a single blow, smashed a desk to splinters, and with a single swipe destroyed a man’s face: because on this was founded the glory, the honor of Riquito; at twelve years old, he had provoked the snout of his girlfriend’s father’s assistant, who wanted to scare him away from the doorway like a lapdog. Yes; may God grant you a good lapdog! The assistant’s lazy man still had a pitiful eye and a swollen cheek, as a result of the phenomenal punch Riquito gave him… This contrast of aptitudes observed in the two leaders of the faction, provoked the declaration of war, because every day the leftists were scolding the rightists, calling Riquito a “mule” and a “dunce”, and the rightists were accusing the leftists of being “chickens” and “starched young ladies”, which is highly offensive and cannot go unpunished. Nothing, nothing, to start a war; the battlefield would be the open field bordering the hospital and behind the barracks. New; there you’d see who’s who, and whether those on the left were wasting petticoats or trousers. It wasn’t to be a vulgar stone-throwing, as on other occasions, but a proper battle, just like those reported in the newspapers. Both knives and firearms will be used; everyone will gather whatever they find at home, and the two sides will meet at six in the morning, an hour before school starts—because afterward, people pass by and “those in order” are nearby—at the designated place, under the command of their respective leaders. Not a single combatant was missing from the ranks. Enthusiasm, warlike zeal, was reflected in everyone’s countenance. In terms of weapons, to tell the truth, we were average: this one carried an unloaded parlor pistol, that one a table knife; the most abundant items were pocket knives and penknives, toy sabers, and the occasional rapier stolen from Papa. However, Pepito Lancín, half-opening his jacket, showed with a proud smile a leather belt, and through it a magnificent nickel revolver. Riquito writhed with envy. A proper revolver, a real revolver! To completely crush his adversary, Lancín said with utmost fatuity: “Loaded with six shots… And in the pocket, cartridges.” Riquito smiled contemptuously. He didn’t need weapons; his fists were enough. He declared so loudly: weapons for cowards, for the chickens on the left side of the school. The two sides grimaced and exchanged the usual insults; then, at the stern voice of their leaders, they fell back to form a battle line. Suddenly , the valiant Lancín advanced to the center of the open space and, facing Riquito again, exclaimed peremptorily: “Now you will see the valor of the Spaniards.” “Boys! Long live Spain! To the bayonet!” The fact is that Riquito was so narrow-minded that he didn’t immediately understand the meaning of that cry, and he repeated it unconsciously, joining in the chorus with his enemy. Long live Spain? Of course! What was so surprising about that? The murmurs of his troops surprised him. Why were they protesting? Why were they shouting and shaking their fists, not at the leftists, but at him, at His Excellency General Polastres? Why were they repeating: “We don’t want it, Barajas. Not that, against!” To understand what was happening, it was necessary for one of the most astute right-wingers, poking his fingers in his leader’s eyes , to shout: “Barajas, you fool! We don’t want to be the mambises and for them to be the Spaniards! ” He was right; how had it not occurred to him immediately? That rascal Lancín wanted to annoy them! Ah, scoundrel! Bursting with indignation, fuming, Polastres rushed up to the enemy general, unafraid of being surrounded and taken prisoner by the sight of him alone. He felt capable of breaking down walls with his forehead: he was blind, frantic, so bloody was the mockery. Out of an instinct of chivalry, the adversaries waited for him to explain. “Hey, Lancín, who were we? ” “Come on! You were the mambises,” Pepito responded, gripping the butt of his revolver for the delicate pleasure of caressing it. “And you?” “We were the Spaniards, you know. What were we supposed to be? ” “Of course, as if we were going to enter like that! It’s no good. We don’t feel like it, you scumbag! Do you think you’re flirting with me? ” “Then what can it be like, you brute, you animal?” If we weren’t enemies, you’d know there wouldn’t be a war. “Well, let there be one or let there not be one! You’re very clever. Let us be Spanish, and you be the enemies. ” “I can’t,” Lancín objected with supreme dignity. “No? You’ll see if you can, lightning bolt! With the slap I’m going to give you… I’ll leave you black, and you’ll be very proper. ” “But, cobblestone, I already have the flag!” General Pepito replied, laughing triumphantly. He took a yellow and red calico rag from his pocket, probably the remains of some flagpole decoration from the last festivities the city had celebrated, and waved it proudly in the air, repeating the patriotic cry he had launched. moments before and answered before and now by both armies. Hearing
it for the second time, seeing the flag waving, Riquito’s host rushed forward and surrounded Lancín, shouting the same things he was shouting in high-pitched, hoarse voices, but with a cordiality and joy that revealed peaceful dispositions; and the leader, confused, finding no solution to the problem—it seemed easier to attack everyone, the enemy and those who treacherously crossed his path —exclaimed in shame, weeping like a calf: “You’ve broken me… This is no good… There can’t be a battle… If we were all Spanish, we couldn’t fight each other… I also assure you that when I catch you and no one is in front of you and you have no flag… ” “What a joke you’ll make!” “You have the strength of an ox,” Lancín haughtily replied, firing his revolver in the air, while the two armies fraternized, and Riquito was already regretting his ungenerous threat. The warriors’ mothers never found out what they had escaped. Chapter 12. DISGRACEFUL LUCK. Do you want to know why Don Donato, he of the russet cheeks and the smiling, plump mouth, became dejected, turned the color of dirt, and ended up dying of jaundice? It was because—listen carefully—he fell into the Christmas jackpot, millions of pesetas… Before this event, Don Donato was a man who could be called happy, if such an adjective did not seem like a challenge to fate, which is always baring its teeth at mortals. Shut up in his drugstore and herbalist’s shop on Jacometrezo Street, doing the same dull and routine things every day at the same time, Don Donato was a placid optimist. His excesses and luxuries consisted of some escape from the cheerful little theaters, because Don Donato abhorred sad literature—one goes to the theater to laugh—and his extravaganzas in bringing home the best fruits and vegetables from the Carmen market, for, despite being obese, he adored weak foods. An inveterate lottery player, he never missed a draw, and not only did he take risks himself, but he also participated with friends, even entrusting them with the purchase of tickets in deals he deemed lucky for whatever reason, within the laborious combinations he made to pursue and corner fate, which one day or another he was certain to catch by the wings. On what was such certainty based? He couldn’t say it, but he was encouraged by a robust faith, an instinct, or a feeling—call it what skeptics will. A superstitious and childishly calculating man, he would sometimes stop dead in his tracks at the number of a house or a cab, then run to the lottery office to ask for the same number. What most confirmed his mania was a circumstance that will truly seem strange to anyone who knows the lottery even a little: in Don Donato’s long life as a gambler, playing in every drawing, sometimes double and triple, he hadn’t won, let alone a regular prize, not even a close call, not a refund on Christmas Eve, nothing, nothing, nothing… This singular reserve of fortune seemed to Don Donato an infallible sign that it was only hiding to come one day suddenly, lightning-fast, terrible, with open arms and outstretched hands, full of gold. Two years ago, Don Donato was studying the progress of the “gordo” (big ticket), the dazzling Christmas prize, and noticed that it hadn’t fallen on M… since time immemorial; and , his imagination stirred by this circumstance, he asked a friend and correspondent there to get him a ticket , no less. By return mail, he received the reply and the number of the ticket he had purchased, in which the buyer reserved a tenth. Don Donato wired the money; he kept the number and the receipt as if it were gold , and awaited the drawing with the fatalism of a Muslim. Without emotion, he bought the list when he heard it called out, and as he fixed his eyes on the glorious number, a surge of blood rushed to his head… It was the number purchased in M…; his own number… his own, the one he had been waiting for, the one in the millions… there it was, clear as day. The prize, the prize… Fortune, open arms, showering gold with her broad, prodigal hands! Don Donato quickly recovered. So what? Hadn’t he counted on this for so many years? It was only logical that it would finally come! An intense, serene joy peacefully filled him as he ran to make sure… although he was sure it would turn out to be true. And it turned out to be true. All that remained was to collect, collect, and enjoy what he had earned. Not wanting to make his fortune public, to avoid the hassles and the rip-offs; thinking that no one does things better than the person concerned, he took the train that same night and didn’t stop until he found his body in M… He arrived late the following night, exhausted and tired, like a sedentary person who travels without enthusiasm and out of necessity, and had to retire to an inn to wait for daylight to present himself to his correspondent and claim his ticket. When he went to bed, he planned to get up early, but he was so overcome with sleep that he woke up very late. He dressed and, with an indescribable fright, ran to the house of the friend in whose hands the treasure lay. At the corner of the street, he saw a crowd: altar boys, women uttering cries of compassion; he heard the notes of the piporro, the psalmody of the priests; he broke through the dense crowd, made his way to the doorway, and as he tried to head upstairs , he stumbled upon a coffin being lowered on shoulders… You can guess, reader: it contained the corpse of the holder of the winning ticket… After a few moments of cruel anguish, Don Donato resolved to penetrate, without commending himself to God or the devil, to the study where the widow was weeping. Brutally—millions remove scruples—he put the question and demanded the ticket. He was afraid of a fainting spell, but none occurred; The widow, dignified and calm, showed Don Donato the cabinet where the deceased kept his most important papers. At the first opportunity, they found in the middle drawer a note in the dead man’s handwriting, which read as follows: “Day so many… I have purchased for Señor Don Donato Galíndez, a druggist in Madrid, a whole lottery ticket, number so many, which I keep in my possession…” And beneath: “Day so many, received handwriting, ticket amount, less one tenth, which I reserve for myself…” The widow opened her eyes wide with the news of the tenth, and from that very moment, she and Don Donato, rivaling in zeal, devoted themselves to searching the house from top to bottom; but although they spent three days in thorough searches, they could find nothing. The ticket had disappeared. On the fourth day, Don Donato, who was already feverish and half mad, was about to retire, threatening to take justice into his own hands, when the widow, calling him to a corner and hesitating, said softly: “Do you know… that… that I think something? It’s stuck here,” and she placed her index finger between his eyebrows. “What, my lady? ” “That… that perhaps… that… that bill… is… Yes, it almost certainly is… ” “Where, a thousand pairs of votes?” “He’s… buried… with my husband!” “Buried!” exclaimed Don Donato, just as they were about to bury him too. “Do you believe it? If you don’t believe it, you’re wrong. Don Donato’s terror of the dead was so profound that if the widow doesn’t encourage and embolden him , he might then give up pursuing his bill.” “Don’t doubt he’s there,” she insisted, more and more resolutely, “because he was wearing his good frock coat, the fine cloth one, and it’s the same one he wore three or four days before he died… I’d swear the bill is in his pocket. As my husband died almost suddenly…” Urged on by the valiant lady, Don Donato learned of the formalities required for the judicial exhumation of a corpse, and, finding it an undertaking fraught with difficulties and even dangers, he resolved to take the plunge and bribe the person in charge of the cemetery to open the niche and the coffin. The cemetery of M… is located on the seashore, and the night on which the gloomy deed was performed was horribly stormy; the wind whistled through the black cypresses, and the dull, imposing murmur The ocean’s sounds carried tones of complaint, of curses, and of weeping; inhuman cries so threatening and mournful, resembling a chorus of the voices of the dead. Don Donato’s sweat trickled in cold drops from his skull to the nape of his neck; his teeth chattered, and his legs felt as if they were made of cotton. They uncovered the niche; to remove the box, the druggist had to help, for it was quite heavy; and when the zinc lid was lifted, the first whiff of putrefaction, the cadaverous stench, struck Don Donato more than his nostrils, his soul. The
widow, always spirited, whispered in his ear: “Go on… search; don’t think, if I search, that I’m deceiving you. ” The gravedigger brought the lantern closer; Don Donato, with superhuman effort, bent over the box; He saw a hideous face, already green, with open, glazed, and terrifying eyes, a dull beard, livid lips… and only when the widow repeated forcefully: “But search him!” Only then, I repeat, did he realize the most horrible thing… What was there to search? The corpse was naked! The druggist collapsed , while the widow, with an accent of despair, exclaimed: “Fool that I am! Why wouldn’t I cut the clothes to pieces! When they see it all, they make off with it, the thieves!” The police were duly notified: pawnshops and loan sharks throughout Spain were searched, but the sinister note was never found, and the Treasury pocketed the prize, rubbing its hands together, so to speak. Probably, the thief of the frock coat threw the papers he found in the pockets into the sea without examining them, for fear that they might compromise him… The truth is that Don Donato, in turn, fell ill and died, consumed by hypochondria, shaking his fists at an imaginary figure, who must have been the shameless, the insolent one of fate. Chapter 13. THE LOBSTER. Although rare cases can be cited of enamored husbands who would not exchange their wife for any other of the infinite number that exist in the world, some are found, as one finds the perfect mandrake in Asia and the lyrebird or menurius in Oceania. Happy is he who surprises one of these notable wonders of nature and has at least the satisfaction of contemplating it! Among those invaluable husbands was Sergio Cañizares, married to Matilde Arenas. Her excitement in those early days didn’t resemble the ephemeral vegetation of spring, withered and dried by the early heat, but rather the constant greenery of a damp meadow, never lacking in flowers or scarce in perfume. Sergio cultivated his affection based on the unshakeable conviction that no one was worth Matilda, and all the woman’s charms and attractions were concentrated in her, forming an incomparable whole. For Sergio, Matilda was the most beautiful, the most distinguished, graceful, and elegant, the most discreet and sympathetic, and also, to top it all, the most honest, steadfast, and loyal. With this persuasion, he would live perfectly happy, were there no longer in the heaven of his happiness—it is an inexorable law—a little cloud the size of an almond, which grew and grew and grew blacker, threatening to completely cover and astonish that blue expanse, so radiant, so clear at all hours, whether it reflected the gentle brightness of dawn or the red and fiery lights of sunset. The tiny cloud that darkened Sergio’s sky was a gold pendant, a minuscule locket that Matilda wore constantly around her neck on a light chain… She never let it go for a second; she never took it off, not even to bathe—with such exaggeration that, as one day the chain had broken and the pendant had fallen to the ground, Matilda, thinking she had lost it, became frantic with fright and pain; until, finding it, she expressed exalted joy. From the first moment of conjugal intimacy, which allowed Sergio to see the golden dot of the locket shining on the white satin of Matilda’s skin, that dot pierced his soul, attracting his eyes as if hypnotizing him. Matilda wore no other trinket near her heart, no scapular, no cross, no medal, and Sergio, wishing to dispel his vague fears, fairly surmised that the locket enclosed some religious emblem. Lifting it casually, he asked: “Do you have a virgin here? ” “No,” Matilda responded laconically. “A saint of your devotion? ” “Nor. ” “Ah!” murmured her husband, and he bit his lip. There is in true love an instinct of delicacy and pride that compels discretion: the more the desire to know grows, the greater the demand that the loved one be frank and sincere, and that he be so spontaneously; one desires to owe tranquility to an outpouring of affection and tenderness. Sergio felt that his amorous dignity did not allow him to insist on the question, and he pretended to forget it; but the thorn remained stuck deep inside him. He pretended to be cheerful when he was really dejected and melancholy, and could think of little else but his wife ‘s locket . What was inside? He would have given his life to clear up his doubts… but to hear it from her own mouth, from her sweet lips, in one of those loyal and divine outbursts in which spirits kiss, intertwine , and merge. But since Matilda, although always flattering and ingratiating, continued to keep silent about the locket, Sergius realized that his reason was mistaken, that he was suffering greatly, and that, when he had his wife before him, beautiful, adorned, ready for amorous expansions, instead of seeing her coveted beauty, he saw only the sinister golden point, the fatal locket. Matilda finally noticed her husband’s concern, and with coquettishness and caresses tried to extract a confession of his reasons. One day, she pressed so hard that Sergius, overcome—he who loves easily surrenders— laying his head on his wife’s bosom, declared that he was tormented by not knowing what was inside that precious locket. “And was that it?” Matilda replied, smiling. “Good heavens! Why didn’t you say so sooner? In this locket… there is a lock of my father’s hair. ” The explanation seemed very satisfactory, and yet Sergius, hearing it, felt a deep shudder deep in his conscience. Matilda’s voice had not sounded right to him; he could not find in it that clear timbre which is like the echo of truth. For the first time since his marriage, he had a violent outburst, and pointing to the chain, he ordered: “Open that locket.” A slight pallor spread over Matilda’s cheeks, but she obeyed; Sergio pressed the spring, and through the window, he saw a lock of fine, ash-blond hair… Instead of throwing his arms around his wife’s neck, as she kept saying, “See?” Sergio felt another blow, another cold stab… He slowly withdrew, and that day the couple didn’t speak to each other. Matilda, complaining of a migraine, went to bed at noon, and Sergio went out into the countryside for a walk. He pondered, he reasoned. Had his father-in-law, now deceased, whom he had known bald, with a bang of gray hair, been so blond in his youth? The matter was rather difficult to ascertain. Probably no one remembered that detail, because it was of no importance to anyone except Sergio, at that point in his life. Who would tell him the truth? Over the following days, concealing his anxiety, he asked around, frequented the company of his father-in-law’s contemporaries, reviewed old portraits, photographs, a miniature… He was able to glean nothing but contradictory news. Finally, he remembered that a few months earlier Matilda had asked him for a recommendation for a fifth child, the grandson of a certain good woman who had been his father’s nanny and who still lived in a nearby village. Sergio, eager, saddled his horse and didn’t stop until he was dismounting in front of the old woman’s cabin. The old woman, who was approaching eighty-three, was handicapped, half-blind, and almost deaf. Sergio had a hard time making the old woman understand his strange question. What color had his father-in-law’s hair been when he was a child? Finally , the old woman, shaking her withered head, replied in a cascading voice, Raising her index finger, she said, “His hair? It was pitch black, pitch black as sloe. Oh! He was very handsome. ” Sergio, who had at first turned to stone, then ran off like a madman. Matilda had lied. That irrefutable testimony condemned her! The blond lock of hair could not have been a filial memory. It took Sergio a week to return home. He wandered, distraught, and during that week, one might say, he went through the cycle of the life of feeling and drained the cup of doubt and despair, suffering the profound moral misery that accompanies jealousy. The first two days, he was certain that Matilda was a great culprit and decided to kill her. The next two, he assumed that the lock of hair was nothing more than a reminder of some innocent love affair from his adolescence. And as he ran the last three, a hypothesis began to smile at him, one that seemed more sane and reasonable with each step: the old woman, now doddering, had been mistaken, as two other trembling centenarians, history and tradition, are mistaken even in the most obvious ways . On the seventh day, love managed to reconstruct his ideal world in Sergio’s soul: the damned old woman was lying, she was a deceitful, malicious scoundrel; Matilde’s father had blond hair, very blond, and in the last resort, if that lock of hair were a memory… what would it matter? There is no woman who doesn’t keep a locket and wear it, if not around her neck, over her heart, which is worse, infinitely worse! And Sergio, pained, but resigned and fervent, returned to Matilde’s side, now accustomed to the sinister glow of the golden dot. Chapter 14. THE CLOSED WINDOW. “If I have ever suffered from any feverish curiosity in my life,” declared Pepe Olivar, the original writer who made the prosaic pseudonym Aceituno famous, “if I have practically convinced myself that curiosity can lead to passion, it was due to the enigma of a window that is always closed, and behind which I supposed there lived—or rather, died—a woman whom I had never managed to see… Never! ” “That seems like a legend of yesteryear, a mysterious tale from the Romantic era,” exclaimed one of us. “And you imagine, fool,” replied Aceituno sarcastically, “that Romanticism has invented something? Do you suppose there were no Romantics until around the years 1830 and 1840? Do you ignore natural Romanticism, which cannot be learned? Do you think imagination can surpass reality? The infinite combinations of events produce what not even literary inspiration glimpses.” I’ve had many examples of this in my life; but the story of the window… ah! That one belongs not to the lurid genre, but to another, certainly not very flattering to me… Nevertheless, it was not lacking in poetry: poetry it was, and poetry of great vibrancy, the violent emotions it managed to produce in me. Suppose I was very young: I was about to turn nineteen, and from C…
I had just moved to Madrid to complete my studies at the Faculty of Medicine and “wake up,” as my father would say, who considered me a shrunken and clumsy boy. It’s common for boys, due to excess of sensitivity, to seem dull; that was what happened to me; I walked through the world as if asleep, while inside me novels, dramas, and tragedies were being played out, always with the same protagonist; The poor medical student, who from the balcony of one of the cheapest boarding houses, watched the whirlwind of the court go by, the descent of elegant trains toward the promenade and the bullfights, the incessant, vertiginous movement of one of Madrid’s great arteries. My fourth-floor balcony overlooked not only the wide street you know, but also the courtyards, outbuildings, and gardens of a certain magnificent palace. When the bustle of the streets bored me; when, exhausted from studying to prepare for exams, or from devouring books and storing knowledge, or from gorging myself on poetry, I dreamed of siestas in the countryside and excursions through the smiling Galician countryside, I rested, staring at what I familiarly called “my garden.” Given the paucity of vegetation in the interior of Madrid, the garden seemed to me a comforting oasis for the narrowness of my room, for the pot of consumptive basil my landlady grew, for the lack of money to go out into the countryside on Sundays. The trees that shaded the palace’s façade were leafy and tall; but in autumn, the deciduous trees, shedding their rosy green robes, revealed to me, on the second floor, in the corner of the building, very far from the portico through which the carriages exited, the window… At first, I wasn’t surprised that that tall, slanted window was the only one that was never opened, the only one that, always protected by the warmth of its thick silk curtain, remained veiled like a sanctuary and closed like a prison bar. Then I realized: the only thing that attracted me to the splendid palace was that blessed window. My gaze, which had previously eagerly scanned the gilded halls, the well -decorated rooms, the cabinets filled with delicate knick-knacks, the severe luxury of the dining room, with its embossed silver trays and its Flemish tapestries—things that suggested a higher life, unknown to me—now disdained such a spectacle, and “drawn by a more powerful magnet,” as Hamlett says, never left the corner of the building, the never-open window. With suggestive questions to my landlady, and engaging my fellow guests and cafe guests, who boasted of being thoroughly familiar with the Madrid chronicles, I wanted to find out the biography of the palace’s inhabitants. Although everyone claimed to know it for certain and in detail, upon searching further, I only obtained truncated and even contradictory information, which left me even more confused. The owner of the palace was an opulent magnate who had spent long periods abroad, holding high diplomatic posts. Due to his distance from his homeland and his reserved and haughty nature, he had few friends and few acquaintances in Madrid, and was the type of man who neither showed himself nor liked anyone. Since this was the family of the nobleman, the conflicting versions and novelistic news began. According to some, the magnate was widowed by a certain beautiful Englishwoman, and had with him a daughter no less beautiful, the only fruit of his marriage; according to others, the Englishwoman had not died and was residing in the palace, sequestered by her husband’s barbaric jealousy. ..
People with a volcanic imagination asserted that the walled-up lady of the palace was nothing but an odalisque stolen from Constantinople, and many turned her into a Circassian princess from those countries where the human type is purest in the white race, and where woman, content with having her lord and master at her side, does not even aspire to place her tiny pearl-embroidered slipper on the flagstones of the street… These suppositions poured vitriol and fire into my veins. I remember that I was nearly twenty years old, and that I had not yet loved! Whole nights I spent fantasizing about the closed window, which held, it seemed to me, the key to my destiny. With a pounding heart I spied on the appearance of the woman who one day, fatally, would part the curtain and pay for my glances with a single glance, the epitome of happiness… I had no doubt; The first glimpse of the captive would be a spark of lightning, reward for my senseless and romantic devotion… I procured a pair of marine binoculars to better scrutinize the mystery of the window. I counted the meshes of the lace on the translucent window, the acorns of the trimmings on the double curtain, the arabesques of the brocade… When the lamps were lit inside, I saw a graceful, slender shadow pass and repass, sometimes trailing a flowing gown, sometimes girded by a severe dark suit; a divine shadow, the body of my mad reverie… Will they believe it or will they say I’m exaggerating? The invisible lady and the closed window drove me so mad that all women were indifferent to my fiery youth, and reading became abhorrent to me, unless I found in books some situation similar to my own… The plans I forged! The deliriums that occurred to me! Why They kidnapped that heavenly woman? What tyrant, what executioner was the magnate? What name did he give to his rights? Father? Husband? Kidnapper and jealous lover? Was I to tolerate the crime? Couldn’t the obscure student, the social zero, free the prisoner? Was it so difficult to scale the wall, overcome the door, take advantage of the servants’ carelessness, slip upstairs, suddenly appear in the beautiful woman’s room, fall at her feet, and say in a heartbroken voice: “Here I am; heaven has a redeemer in store for you.” Only from thought to deed… Despite my amorous and heroic fever, the stately appearance of the palace, the gravity of the doorman in full livery, the solidity of the ironwork, the hoarse barking of a colossal Ulm mastiff, the healthy memory of the Code, and also the certainty of my empty purse—nothing can inhibit me like that—made my resolutions vanish like smoke. And as mischievous chance would have it, one morning when I woke up very determined, upon looking at the garden and the palace, I thought I’d had an accident… The window, the window! was wide open. I let out a cry, clicked my binoculars… The room, an elegant and soft feminine boudoir, was empty, deserted, solitary… I scanned the other windows of the palace, all open, and in the drawing rooms, not a living soul… The doorman, now out of livery, was smoking in the garden; two servants were removing plants and vases from the stove. I went down the four flights, crossed the street, went to the gate, rang the bell, and asked… The gentlemen had left for Berlin the day before. “And did you manage to find out, oh illustrious Aceituno, who the kidnapped lady was?” Pepe Olivar smiled with irony and humor, not without a mixture of sadness and nostalgia—his own smile, the trademark of his style. “Laugh too, it’s very funny! She was the magnate’s wife, an Englishwoman… and kidnapped, I believe… but of her own free will, the only way for a woman not to break her chains. She suffered from a skin disease; one of those stubborn and repugnant conditions that disfigure the face. From an Albion flower she had turned into a ripe eggplant… and since the prescription was to avoid the slightest draft, she didn’t leave her dressing table… On the other hand, she didn’t want anyone to see her with her face spoiled. ” A German doctor restored the roses and snow to that face, which I adored without having seen it. Chapter 15. INFIDELITY. With great surprise, Isabel heard from her friend Claudia—a woman of character above all others, in whom beauty serves to enhance virtue, as a rich gold frame enhances blue enamel—the following confession: “Here where you see me, I have committed a most cruel infidelity, and if today I am so firm and persevering in my affections, it is precisely because I have been taught the sad consequences of that whim. ” “Whimsy!” repeated Isabel, astonished. “I, my child… Perfect, only God. And thank goodness when errors teach us and purify our souls.” With the leaven of malice, Isabel thought to her lace gown: “I see you, little bird… Trust dead flies! You must have done good things without a word… If you tell this story, it is so that we may believe in your conversion.” And, awakening a sinful curiosity and a diabolical complacency, the friend became all ears… Claudia’s first words were alarming. “When it happened, I was still single… Innocence does not always shield us from sentimental errors. A sixteen- year-old girl ignores the extent of her actions; she plays with fire over barrels filled with gunpowder, and is incapable of compassion, for the same reason that she has not suffered… ” Claudia’s face expressed such sadness as she spoke, that Isabel saw written on her beautiful face the history of the continuous and shameless betrayals that the public voice, with sufficient justification, attributed to her friend’s husband . And without taking pity, Isabel murmured inwardly: “Prepare, yes, prepare the reduction…” We are already familiar with these semi-confessions. with mental reservations and candied excuses… The little husband is taking advantage, but it seems you got up early… Well, for me, absolution without penitence, daughter… And how she knows how to clothe herself with contrition! In elect; Claudia, head bowed, half-closed her bright eyes, veiled by a dark, deeply melancholic smoke. “Sixteen years old; that was my age… and there was a being whom I loved then perhaps more than any other. Every moment I could spare, I dedicated to caressing him, to showing him displays of tenderness, which he repaid with others, a thousand times more passionate and joyful… ” “Claudita!” exclaimed Isabel with a prudish pout. “Isabel…” she replied, “calm down, and don’t let the revelation seem comical to you… If you could see how far from me it is to take this episode as a joke ! I wish I could!” The loved one was a dog… “Ah!” cried Isabel, who was not foolish. “I should have known… Only a dog justifies the lyricism with which you expressed yourself… Only the heart of a dog contains loyalty, sincerity, and nobility enough to satisfy a dreamer like you… ” “And therein lies the reason for my remorse,” Claudia stated seriously. “If I had sold a being capable of selling myself… my conscience would be almost clear. I would have risked something, I would have exposed myself to reprisals… whereas this way… ” “I understand, I understand,” Isabel stammered, moved despite herself. “Despite the passage of time, the memories of my wickedness still haunt me… The years make us softer of heart; youth sees so many hopes before it that it does not want to look at the pain, nor pity the damage it so bewilderingly causes… My error had no excuse, not even that of good taste.” Ivanhoe, my first favorite, was a magnificent dog, a Newfoundland with curly, jet-black hair like a thick, high-quality astrakhan carpet. His head was noble and intelligent, and the look in his large, aventurine eyes sparkled with ideal goodness; they spoke volumes! When he came to rest his big head on my lap and fixed his magnetic pupils on mine, I read in them his determination to die for me, if necessary. The shadow of danger, the entrance of an unknown person, would contract Ivanhoe’s muzzle with sudden ferocity, and he would bare his white teeth, threatening them with a low growl. By day, he followed me step by step; by night, he slept across the threshold of my door. My purity needed no other guardian, and my parents used to say that with Ivanhoe I was more protected than with three servants. It happened then that my aunt from Bellver came from Paris and brought me a very expensive gift. Griffons were just beginning to become fashionable, and inside the muff he presented me with one, tiny to the point of ridiculousness and ugly to the point of sublime: “a delight,” the unanimous voice of all who admired him at the gathering. A thicket of dirty-gray hair crossed and blended into the little animal’s face, hiding its disproportionate eyes, resembling enormous jet beads, and revealing only its nose, a moist, shining, and charming little nose to the point of caricature. “Clown”—that was the little critter’s name—”was our toy, fragile, original, and envied, because no other was known in Madrid; and the misery of my vanity prompted me to devote all my flattery to Clown alone, to never let him go outside my reach, to adopt him as my favorite, completely forgetting Ivanhoe. What’s more, I even went so far as to expel Ivanhoe from my presence and from my room, because he frightened the griffon, who, very trembling, like all small dogs, became mercurial at the sight of the colossal Newfoundland. I gave myself over without hesitation to this new affection, and if I did not order for Clown a most luxurious trousseau of silk, lace, and feathers—you know that this is done nowadays, as there are special dressmakers and even figurines for dogs—at least I devoted myself to washing him, combing his hair, perfuming him, and grooming him, and I made him a beautiful collar of little pearls, sacrificing my best bracelet for diamond clasps. My friends were furious that they had no other Clown; I took him out in the carriage, in my muff, or in the corner of my coat, between my arm and my bosom; And looking so graceful—I said, alive—flaunting it like a little girl flaunts a doll more expensive than all the others, I strutted and swelled with pride, without a moment’s thought of the forgotten one… The forgotten one had acted with the greatest dignity, with the most absolute delicacy. It would have been enough for him to move a paw to crush the intruding rival, but he disdained even to bark at it: such a petty enemy did not deserve the honors of attack and protest. If it had been a big dog… Ivanhoe would have been vying for my affection with his teeth. Faced with that tiny creature, Ivanhoe understood that he had no business descending to any jealous extremes; he slumped, tucked his tail, lowered his head, and resignedly went down to the stable, where the coachmen took charge of looking after him. “That dog was a gentleman,” Isabel interrupted. “And I… a scoundrel!” Claudia declared bitterly. “Ivanhoe, alone, sick, abandoned among rude and stupid people… I only found out when there was no remedy.” “He has a mild rabies,” they told me, “and although he neither hurts nor bites, he will have to be shot.” I felt a sudden blow to my heart; I escaped, slipped furtively into the stable, and approached the heap of malodorous straw where Ivanhoe lay stretched out. At my voice, his eyes half-opened and his tail wagged weakly, as if to say: “Thank you, I am your friend, I am that same one, in spite of everything…” They had noticed my escape and dragged me from there, dissolved in tears, stifled by sobs, convulsed; They locked me in my room, and half an hour later I heard two gunshots in the courtyard … Claudia fell silent and squeezed Isabel’s hand firmly. After a pause, she said, smiling: “Ivanhoe forgave me, because he could do no otherwise; who has not forgiven me has been fate… the great avenger! Infidelity has not brought me luck… He who kills with the sword… Chapter 16. OF OLD BREED. With every jump of the cart over the potholes of the muddy and dirty streets , those sentenced to death shuddered and exchanged long glances of infinite terror. Yes, it must be confessed: the unfortunate women did not want their throats cut. Although a kind of stoic gymnastics was practiced at the time , and people learned to smile and even to display their wit by uttering witticisms before the guillotine, in this, as in everything else, the provinces were lagging behind in fashion, and those who presented their heads to the executioner in that Poitou city did not usually do so with the elegant disdain of those of the Parisian “batch .” Besides, the victims crammed into the cart were not counted among the virile amazons of Lescure’s army, nor had they galloped with blunderbusses on their shoulders with the bands of Gars and Cathelineau. Peaceful ladies surprised in their hereditary castles by the revolution and the war, straws swept away by the torrent, did not fully understand why it was necessary to drink such a bitter cup. What had they done? To be born into a certain social class—to be aristocrats, as they were called back then. Nothing more. The four quarters of their shield pushed them to the scaffold. They didn’t find it fair. They didn’t understand. They were _suspect_, as the court said; _bad patriots_. Why? They wished their country all kinds of good; they had never conspired. They understood nothing about politics. And in a quarter of an hour…! Five women were in the cart: two spinster sisters, very old, the ones who showed the greatest resignation in the ordeal; a lady of about thirty, wife of a guerrilla, separated from him since her wedding day, who had never seen him again because she couldn’t bear him, and was now paying for the crime of bearing that name; a widow, the Countess of L’Hermine, and her daughter Ivona, a child of eighteen years of age, of springlike freshness and perfect beauty. Under the cap or bonnet of white ruffles, the girl’s loose blond hair escaped forming a halo around her face covered with deadly pallor, and in which the violet-colored pupils and the purple lips seemed like touches of A sepulchral shadow. Her hands, tied behind her back, trembled; her teeth chattered; her body doubled over, fainting. However, from the middle of the road—which was long, since the prison was on the outskirts of the city and the square was in the center—Ivona de L’Hermine, straightening up, showed a nervous restlessness, indicative of a hope. Twice the officer commanding the escort of mounted men in blue had approached the wagon and murmured a few words in Ivona’s ear, a whisper. Carmine tinged the maiden’s pale cheeks: it was not the blush of modesty, nor the sweet flush of passion; it was not the feelings that expressions of amorous surrender awaken in a young soul. Young and gallant though the officer was, Ivona took no notice of his handsome figure. Something else lit his face; Life, the magical life, the life she hadn’t tasted and was about to lose. Blood returned to her almost paralyzed heart, and her violet eyes regained their light. Not to die! Instinctively, from the moment Ivona heard the officer’s first stammered phrase, she tried to avert her face, avoiding her mother’s. Her mother, on the other hand, fixed her eyes on Ivona, fixed, burning, questioning. Already upon leaving the prison, she could see the impression Ivona’s beauty had made on the officer. The Countess had no political ideas; she didn’t care about Louis XVII being martyred at the Temple; she found herself caught up in events against her will ; owing her life to a republican didn’t seem humiliating to her. She would gladly owe it to her, she would accept her daughter’s, but… what about her honor? For many years, secluded in her estate, far from the world, the Countess had only attended to educating Ivona with maxims of honesty and modesty, cultivating her amidst the whiteness of lilies, fortifying her by the example of the most chaste widowhood. The corruption of the court frightened the Countess, and there were even moments when, remembering Louis XV, she justified the revolution and considered it a divine punishment, deserved and necessary. The faith and superstitious cult of that woman were not in the monarchy or the ancien régime, but in purity, the religion of the ermine that she bore in her noble title and in the enterprise of her blazon. And as she observed how the officer devoured Ivona with his eyes, as she saw him whisper words into her ear that instantly revived her, she thought to herself: “He wants to save her. Her alone? At what price?” It seems incredible that an idea can triumph over the horror that dominates us, seeing the black mouth of nonexistence, the jaws of eternity, open wide. The Countess, in such decisive moments, forgetting her fear, thought only of Ivona, outraged, defiled, taken by the officer to her pavilion like a whore, after having snatched her from the gallows. And there was no doubt: the girl accepted the deal. Perhaps her innocence ignored the conditions; but she accepted it: it was life, it was avoiding the bitter ordeal. While indignation boiled in the mother’s soul, the daughter turned her head to search with her eyes, once dull, now resplendent, pleading, grateful, for the leader of the escort, who gave her a reassuring, intelligent smile… And now they were arriving; everything was about to be consummated; The cart was beginning to make its way with difficulty through the waves of the crowd that filled the square, in whose center, a sinister and rigid silhouette, rose the guillotine, catching a ray of sunlight on its steel blade… When the cart stopped, the soldiers, attentive to an order from the officer, made the Countess and Ivona get out. The other condemned women remained inside, awaiting their turn: the old women praying, the guerrilla’s wife cursing her fate and begging for mercy. The Countess realized that they were taking her first and that her daughter was left behind at the foot of the stairs, already half lost in the crowd. The ice of terror, the shudder that the sight of the gallows had poured into her veins, causing an instant cold sweat, turned into a kind of silent fury, of despair. Shame. She could already see the officer’s fingers ruffling Ivona’s blond curls , and the image she felt, the representation of the affront, was crueler and more bitter than the torture itself. “She won’t succeed,” she decided with terrible resolve. She remembered that, through carelessness or compromise, her hands had been left untied. As if she wanted to comfort her heart, she slipped her hand through the opening of her bodice. She produced something hidden in the hollow of her hand. And when the executioner approached to support her as she climbed the steps of the ladder, in a quick confidence he told her who knows what, slipping a handful of gold into her right hand. What he said will remain unknown… but, judging by the results, it is possible to guess. Something happened that those who witnessed the extremely sad scene could not explain at first, and at that time they were almost indifferent due to its habitual nature. And so it was that the executioner, stepping back, brutally seized Mademoiselle de L’Hermine by the waist, wherever he could, and in a second he had pushed her onto the ladder and, with might and main, heaved her up onto the platform. The Countess assisted him, stepped back, propelled her daughter as well, and flung her into the arms of the enforcer of the law. The maneuver was carried out so rapidly, and such was the swell of the people, roaring and insulting, the confusion in which the escort had been crowded, that when the astonished officer rushed forward and tried to intervene, Ivona fell into the scales, and the half-moon slid down, biting her twisted throat, constricted by the spasm of supreme terror, which would not even allow her to scream… The executioner seized the child’s livid head, which was dripping with blood, by the long, blond locks and presented it to the spectators. And the Countess de L’Hermine, as she approached without resistance to receive the same death, thought with heroic satisfaction: “Thank goodness I was able to hide the coins in my chest!” Chapter 17. BENITO DE PALERMO. His friends asked the Marquis of Bahama–a very rich Creole known for his ostentation, his extravagance, and his aristocratic mania for defending slavery–why he took by his side in the carriage and seated at his table a certain horrible black man, with a woolly head and bestial snout, and on top of that, always drunk, always exhaling wafts of brandy that failed to cover up the characteristic odor of Cam’s race. “There are,” they told him, “graceful black men, well-built, with pretty teeth, ebony skin, and sculptural forms; but this one is disgusting; more than black, he is violet green.” “It’s a nightmare.” And the Marquis, smiling, defended his big black man with a few phrases of indolent commiseration: “Poor thing! What the devil!… That’s how I am.” At last, at a cheerful dinner where heads were heated, thanks to the fact that more champagne and manzanilla and more liqueurs than usual were drunk, and ordinary was no small feat; seeing the Marquis animated, talkative—in a word, a bit of a spark—I took the opportunity to repeat the question. Why did Benito de Palermo—that was the big black man’s name—enjoy such extraordinary privileges? And the Marquis, whose beautiful, wide-pupiled black eyes shone, answered smiling and pointing at Benito, who was lying under the table, completely drunk: “Because he’s drunk, completely drunk.” I couldn’t get him to explain further at that time. The reason for Benito’s infidelity seemed as strange to me as the infidelity itself. Two days later, as we were walking together, I reminded the Marquis of his strange reply, and he, throwing away the magnificent clipping he had been absentmindedly sucking, murmured in a lazy tone: “Well, since I’ve got that out of the way, I’ll tell you what’s left… Now it will be known that, if it wasn’t Benito’s drunkenness, I’ve been dead for years, and from the most horrible and cruel death. You’re not unaware that I was educated in the United States, and that I became fond of traveling from childhood, because there, traveling is considered a complement to any selective education. Before I was twenty-five, I had visited the principal cities of France, England, and Germany; I knew how people live in each nation. cultured; in Paris, above all, I had spent entire winters. However , the monotony of civilization was beginning to bore me, and I was tempted by the whim of seeing countries less cultured than modern ones. I dedicated a few months to exploring beautiful Italy, stopping often in Rome and devoting short periods to Florence, Naples, Sicily, Malta, and Corsica; and, now enchanted—Italy will always be a paradise—I resolved to make another delightful trip the following year, that of the East: Greece, Turkey, and Palestine. To get to the point of this tale, let’s now arrive in Athens, where, thanks to recommendations I had, I found an excellent reception among the diplomatic corps and at court, which, and something else I will add, contributed to my staying in the capital of Greece lasting much longer than I had expected. It so happened that in a magnificent inn in Florence, I had seen, for a few hours, a very beautiful Englishwoman, who left an impression on my mind that neither time nor distance could erase . She was one of those women you never forget, because to her incomparable visual beauty, she combined a grace, a liveliness, and an eccentric and piquant originality, which made you want to pursue and adore her. The common people believe that all Englishwomen are dull; but I assure you that the one who turns out to be graceful is worth ten. Eve— suppose that was her name—was a widow, traveling with a lady-in -waiting, aimlessly, wherever her artistic and fiery imagination took her. In the few moments I managed to speak to her, she drove me crazy. I didn’t dare flirt with her openly, and only with my eyes did I reveal the effect she had on me. I must admit that I wasn’t exactly on the wrong track, that she teased me, and on one return trip I found her gone, unable to find her, no matter how desperately I searched for her throughout all of Italy. Imagine my surprise and emotion when, at the first party I attended at the English embassy in Athens, I found Eva radiant with beauty, divinely captivated, and ready to waltz. Needless to say, I immediately began courting her, and by dint of my attentions I managed to elicit some slight signs of complacency, small indications that she wasn’t disagreeable to me. However, at subsequent parties, and in all the places where I tried to meet Eva and be with her, I noticed how difficult it was to gain ground in that capricious and rebellious heart . Eva drove me to despair with her coquettishness and her fits of temper; I was never sure that I would ever win her over; if she saw me happy, she wanted me sad; If I said black, she would answer white. I think this system was upsetting me even more, and I was already on the point of giving myself up to devilry, when… “But,” I interrupted, “what doesn’t come up is Benito de Palermo; and I confess that Benito matters more to me than the beautiful Eva. ” “Seriously, we’ll get to Benito,” the marquis responded, smiling. ” I was going to say that it was around that time that part of the English colony that was in Athens arranged to organize an excursion on horseback and in a carriage, with the purpose of visiting the famous plain of Marathon. ” “Ah!” I exclaimed, shuddering involuntarily. “I know, I know! So that chinaman fell to you! What a horrible thing! ” “I see you remember the episode. It’s not something to be forgotten, no! The entire European press covered it in detail, publishing engravings, portraits, and details, day after day.” Well, you should know that the expedition was combined in the embassy, between a rigodon and a Strauss waltz. The colony received the idea with delight and enthusiasm; the women, especially , were in a great uproar. But I, who had conversed at length with palikaros, interpreters, and Jewish merchants, remembered the news I had been given about a gang of bandits infesting the vicinity of Athens, and whose number, daring, and bloodthirsty habits were sufficient cause for alarm and reflection. I issued a prudent opinion, indicating that it would be advisable either to take a numerous and well-armed escort, or to abandon the project. And then I acquired the persuasion that all Englishmen have a vein of persuasion. Lord and the others who took part in the fatal expedition smiled disdainfully when I spoke to them of danger; and to that smile, which already set my blood alight, Eva responded with a few phrases so dry and mocking that they cracked like whiplashes on my cheeks. She said that anyone who didn’t feel up to facing the risk would do much better to stay, since English women only want the company of resolute people, capable of resisting bandits, should there be any, which remained to be seen. Anyone who remembers how twenty-six I was, and how much in love I was with Eva, will understand that I intended to take part in the expedition, even though I supposed that all the robbers in the world were lying in wait for us. To go on the journey with Eva! To gallop by her side! What happiness! And she, knowing my purpose, spun around like a weather vane, smiled at me, and was with me, insinuating, flirtatious, even affectionate. The excursion was set for the following morning: at dawn we would meet at a given point outside the walls of Athens, each of us bringing either a carriage or a horse, provisions, and weapons. Lord was in charge of the guides. Here appears Benito de Palermo: don’t get impatient, the big shot is already emerging. Born in my parents’ house, I carried him around like a poodle, because the truth is he was no good to me for anything, having always been clumsy and lazy. By hiding his drink, I still managed to make a run for it; but as soon as I got a taste of it, a trap, a stone. In Athens, by dint of prohibiting the hotel from giving him any wine or alcoholic beverages to taste, we were getting by. Upon returning from the embassy, the day before the excursion, I called good old Benito, gave him orders and the keys, and repeatedly instructed him to have my horse saddled and my weapons ready by dawn , and to wake me up, even if only by stumbling. Having done this , I doze off thinking of Eva. When I open my eyes, the sun is pouring into my room. Terrified, I jump out of bed and look at the clock; it read eleven. I shout like a madman for Benito: Benito isn’t answering. I go out to the bathroom, from there to the corridor… and I stumble over a black shape, a snoring beast… It’s Benito! Benito, drunk as a horse! I understood instantly… The owner of my keys had broken into a closet where I kept a liqueur cellar among my belongings, and at that time the cavalcade would be near Marathon, and I would be, to Eve, the most despicable and ridiculous being. Since I was on the old continent, I had not used the vine. I blinded him, and attacking the black man, I beat him so hard that he came back crying and moaning that he was being killed. When I had had enough of beating him, I thought of saddling my horse and joining the procession… But it was necessary to find a guide, because otherwise, how could I find my way on the plain? And before the guide had appeared, the dreadful news was spreading throughout Athens: the bandits had surrounded the expedition, taking the expeditionaries prisoner after a heroic resistance and seriously wounding some; The women had suffered a worse fate, mocked in full view of their husbands and brothers, who, tied hand and foot, could not defend them… You can imagine what would remain; I have never suffered a more atrocious impression. “I remember the case… They took the English, demanding an enormous ransom and threatening to torment them until the ransom was received… If I’m not mistaken, Lord was chopped up and cut into little pieces: there’s no idea of such torment… ” “Well, I was spared that because Benito was completely drunk,” the marquis affirmed, requiring the hip flask. “From then on, I’ve let him drink whatever he wants… and he’s the master here. ” “According to that, you must have understood that a Black man is not a dog? ” “Of course not. Dogs never get drunk. ” “And Eva? Did she suffer the same fate as the others? It would have served him well.” –Well, now I realize the best is yet to come! exclaimed the Marquis. –Eva, on a whim, because she didn’t like her Amazon costume, had also stayed behind in Athens… and if Benito wakes me up and I happen to go with the expedition, I’ll lose not only my life, but also the delightful moments I owed to Eva later… when her intrepid heart had softened! Chapter 18. NATURAL LAW. I am going to write a story about love. In spite of science, political economy, politics versus economics, military problems, strikes and demonstrations, love still retains its childish charm, its pathetic or smiling grace. Love is still an angelic rioter, salty and sweet, and the breeze from her curly little wings, during the scorching summer siestas, cools the temples of many a young person. “Love lacks actuality, but it has plenty of eternity.” My tale will prove for the millionth time that love’s dominion extends to all creatures and that, as poets and playwrights tirelessly repeat, there are no social inequalities in love. My heroine was called Muff, which in German means “muff,” and she was so named because the fine fur that covered her gave her tiny body a certain resemblance to a muff of rich gray fur. One lady made a mistake and seized Muff; but the owner of the beautiful griffon intervened, exclaiming: “Be careful… I’m the loser. There are no muffs at that price.” An indisputable truth, one that can be proven by figures. A muff can cost up to two thousand francs, if it’s made of first-class chinchilla, and three thousand were paid cash for Muff. Today, furs have gone up; I’m referring to the prices they were then. It’s still necessary to add to Muff’s cost the amount of her jewelry: two chien necklaces, one of pearls, the other of pink coral with diamond clasps, and a pair of gold bells encrusted with roses and sapphires—I said usefully, since their jingling revealed Muff’s presence and saved her from being crushed to death by a trampling. Let’s not omit from Muff’s estimate either—nothing should be omitted when it comes to estimates—the value of the elegant trousseau sent from Paris, where there are dressmakers and workshops specially dedicated to this branch. Muff owned and often displayed, according to the season, his quilted blankets of velvet, satin, and Gros Pompadour, with a little pocket for his microscopic handkerchief scented with white lilac, his rubber or kid boots, his curly feather collars, and I think it’s unnecessary to add that he slept on a bed of quilted fabric with many embroidered and emblazoned cushions. Ah! If riches, ostentation, luxury, and vanity were enough for sensitive hearts, who could be happier than Muff! His existence was the realization of a fairy tale. She lived in a palace filled with artistic treasures. She had at her service a diligent, careful, and pampering maid, Paquita, who, after bathing Muff in warm water, rubbing her with exquisite soap, rinsing her with soft linen, and combing her hair until its silvery silks fluffed, served her select delicacies in porcelain bowls. Once the meal was over, she would scrub her mistress’s little teeth with a brush soaked in elixir, so that her breath would feel balmy and her mouth fresh. If Muff went out, she would go in a carriage, of course, hitched up especially for her; they would take her to the Retiro, and the footman, getting her out at the most solitary spot with the purest air, would let her jump and run, do hygienic exercise, and revel in her freedom. Muff also never lacked self-respecting satisfactions. All who saw her were enraptured by the cuteness of her lively muff and praised her silver hair, her immense black eyes half-veiled by tangled silk, her tiny snout like a truffle, her enchanting face. Yet, amidst all this pampering and splendor, the griffon stalked about withering, and at times her vast pupils expressed a nostalgic longing… When God created creatures there in the thick foliage of Eden, He drove them deep, deep within, into the inmost depths of His will, A sting, a stimulus, a kind of pin that incessantly pricks and stabs, allowing not a moment’s rest. Reclining on her soft silk cushions, or cuddled in the footman’s arms, caressed by Paquita, or scampering along the sandy paths of the Retiro, Muff felt the sharp point sink deeper. “You are not happy, poor Muff; you lack the salt of life, the essence of liquor,” the pin suggested through its persistent, repeated pricks; and Muff, in a languid posture, with her snout tilted and one little paw dangling, sighed, and as her chest yearned, the gold bell on her collar made a mysterious tinkling sound. A shrewd observer would immediately understand how much pain Muff felt; But its owners didn’t know how to understand it—or didn’t want to, if one believes versions that seem authorized. In a family council, Muff was sentenced to eternally ignore the joys of love and the sublime but arduous tasks of motherhood. An object of luxury, a precious bibelot, it shouldn’t be spoiled. And noticing her melancholy, Paquita said, presenting a tempting plate of golden biscuits: “Come on, you darling, silly girl, don’t think about that! ” One evening, as Muff got out of her carriage in the shadows of the Retiro Park, she saw a very ugly little dog approaching her, very bouncy and lively. It was a vile street urchin, one of those that take turns begging and biting, that avidly rummage for scraps among the garbage, and perish strangled at the hands of municipal hacks. Upon seeing the mutt, with his dirty yellowish sheepskin, Muff’s first movement was a disdainful flinch. The footman saw this and gave the sovereign gozque a kick, which made it utter a mournful shriek. Pity replaced disdain, and Muff ran to the injured man, eager to comfort him. Now he was back, without fear or resentment, to snort around Muff. The game began with friendly barking, playful nipping, nuzzling, and other expressive and indiscreet displays of canine cordiality. They separated them, and Muff was taken home; but the next day, as soon as she got out of the carriage, she found the little gozqueque again , cheerful, insinuating, and stubborn as ever. As a malicious coincidence would have it , Muff’s guarding footman also had an encounter with his fellow countrywoman, the nanny Lucía, a fair-haired girl with a good figure. While the two countrymen chatted, the aristocratic griffon and the commoner hound happily understood each other. Perhaps the sentimental little dog confessed her romantic aspirations and the emptiness of her gilded slavery; perhaps the poor man, passionate about that high -cothurn beauty, recounted his struggles for existence, his days of starvation, his vagrancy, the beatings he’d received, the poem of a misery endured with stoic contempt. The truth is that, unconsciously, taking advantage of her guard’s distraction, Muff left the carriage and, guided by the dog, disappeared among the poplar groves and thickets of trees, heading for the exit from the Retiro park, toward Atocha. The seducer was ahead, showing the way; Muff followed him, fearless, without turning her muzzle back; and with the rapid trot of her tiny paws, she gently jingled, in musical rhythm, with a kind of emotion, the golden bell, into which her fortunate heart sent currents of electricity! All the newspapers announce Muff’s loss. The reward offered is substantial. Muff, however, is nowhere to be seen. What has become of the living muff, of the tangle of silver silks, among which the enormous black pupils shine? What have the nomadic life, the abandonment, the need done to Muff? Did an amateur steal her, and refuse to return her? Does she lie in the gutter, stiff, frozen, stripped of her necklace and her bell of gold and stones? Or, accepting her humble lot, has she voluntarily left the trappings of wealth, and, shivering, accompanies her husband, prowls with him at dawn, and rootles in the dung-heaps to deceive hunger—hunger, the enemy of love, the stern judge who inflexibly punishes it, the executioner who kills it? Chapter 19. THE MIDWIFE. It was the most dreadful night of the entire winter. The whistling wind cracked the dry branches, the rain broke, and hail pounded the windowpanes. So the midwife, sinking contentedly into the soft bed, said confidentially to his wife: “They’ll leave me alone today. I’ll sleep peacefully until nine. What crazy woman would think of giving birth in such terrible weather?” Contrary to the doctor’s predictions, around five o’clock the wind died down, the eternal thud of the rain stopped, and a serene and sweet breeze seemed to enter through the windowpanes with the first bluish light of dawn. At the same time, hurried knocks resounded at the door, the dogs barked frantically, and the midwife, grumbling, sat up in that warm, swollen bed. Come on, it would have been a miracle that one day they would allow him to live in peace! And surely the incident had taken place in the countryside, far away; he would have to tread on mud and chew through fog… Let’s see, warm stockings, sturdy boots… Damned human species, what a mania for never ending, what tenacity in reproducing! The maid, who was eagerly coming upstairs, gave the customer’s address; a respectable gentleman, tightly wrapped in a dark cloak, dripping with water and hurrying. Without a doubt the father of the woman in labor! The midwife’s wife, a compassionate soul, murmured words of pity and hurried her husband. He finished the coffee, cold as ice, rolled up his muzzle, slipped on his raincoat, grabbed the instrument case, and got off grunting and shivering. The customer was already waiting, mounted on a white mare. The midwife mounted his ponytail, and they began their walk. As soon as the sun shone brightly, the midwife looked at the stranger and was captivated by his majestic appearance. A broad forehead, burning and imperious eyes, a gray beard that flowed over his chest, and an indefinable air of dignity and sadness made the man imposing. With involuntary humility, the midwife decided to ask the usual question: whether the house they were going to was nearby and whether the patient was a first-time mother. In a few, measured words, the stranger replied that the castle was very far away; that the woman was a first-time mother, and the situation was so hard and difficult that he didn’t believe it was possible to escape. “We only care about the baby,” he added forcefully, like someone giving an order to be obeyed without question. But the midwife, a compassionate and pious person, resolved to save the mother and urged the nag, eager to arrive sooner. They walked and walked, paddling their mounts in the sticky mud, crossing leafless forests, fording a river, over a small hill, and not stopping until they reached a valley where the grayish turrets of the castle stood out with a vigorous yet stark outline. The midwife, possessed of inexplicable respect, dismounted in the wide courtyard of honor and, guided by the stranger, entered through a small side door directly into a lower chamber of the eastern tower, where, on a rich and ancient bed, lay a beautiful woman, faded and motionless. As he drew closer, the physician observed that the unfortunate woman was dead; and, not recognizing her, he was saddened. She was so beautiful! The strands of her hair, lying flat and waving, seemed like a gilded frame around an ivory effigy; her violet lips, like withered flowers. and the eyes, half-open and blue, two precious stones set in the gold ring of thick eyelashes. The voice of the stranger resounded, firm and categorical: “Pay no attention to that corpse. It is necessary to save the child.” Reluctantly, the midwife resolved to fulfill the duties of her office. It seemed to her a crime, even if it were for a good purpose, to lacerate that divine body. She obeyed, nevertheless, because the stranger repeated with a persuasive and terrible accent, addressing the doctor informally: “Do not respect her because she is beautiful. She is dead, and nothing dead is beautiful except in appearance and for brief moments. The reality there is decomposition and the grave. Never venerate what is dead! Bow down before life! ” And suddenly, at the very moment when the doctor was preparing to To wield the steel, the strange client took him by the hand and whispered in his ear: “Careful! You must know what you are doing. That womb you are about to open contains not a human being, not a creature, but a truth. Mark well. I warn you. Do you know what a truth is? A wild beast unleashed that could destroy us, and perhaps the world. Do you dare, oh heroic midwife, to bring a truth to light? ” The midwife hesitated; the cold of the instrument she wielded penetrated her veins and bones. Her teeth chattered; she trembled with cowardice and selfishness. A truth! No torch can set fire like that, no lightning can split like that, no torrent can ravage like that, no plague so contagious. And who could be grateful to her for cooperating in the happy birth of a truth? What greater crime could there be for his wife, his friends, his people, his nation perhaps? What crime is so dearly paid for? He wanted to throw down the scalpel… Finally, his professional conscience triumphed. Duty, duty! The creature could not be allowed to die. And after an agonizing task, performed with a sure hand and a sure pulse, he presented the stranger with a strange and repugnant creature: a sort of toad, ridiculous in appearance, blackish, thin, shapeless. “This puppet cannot be a truth,” the doctor exclaimed, breathing deeply. “Because it is a truth, it seems ugly to you at birth,” declared the stranger, who gazed at the creature with transport. “When truths are born, they horrify those who behold them. Until we shelter them in our breast; until we give them the warmth of our life and the juice of our blood; until we affirm their beauty as if it existed; Until they cost us much, they are not beautiful. This one—you see—has done for its mother… A truth is not carried with impunity in one’s womb! And now the truth is left an orphan; it is abandoned. I am not to protect it. Narrow obligations call me elsewhere. I am the one who announces, not the one who protects and saves. Do you want to take charge of the newborn ? Do you have courage? Are you worthy of protecting the truth? When thus addressed, there is no man who does not like to boast a little. Manly arrogance is awakened in the soul, and it responds to the call, like a warhorse to the piercing call of the trumpet. Vanity acts as the resolution, and for an instant the desire for the glorious battle and the yearning for sacrifice are sincere. The midwife stretched out her arms, received the puny creature in them, and gallantly declared: “She now has a father.” The stranger cast a special, serious, searching, profound glance at her—a gaze like a yawning abyss. Rebuke or praise? Doubt or faith? It was never known. What was certain was that the midwife wrapped the newborn in white cloths; that she ate bread and drank wine to comfort herself; that she saddled her nag again, and with the baby in her arms, covered and pampered, set off on her return. Evening was fading; the sun’s slanting rays were like the gaze of severe eyes, clouded with disappointment and reddened by secret indignation. The birds fell silent, the few birds one sees in the last months of winter; but the owl would soon utter its hoarse complaint, for the evil counselor—night—was already approaching. And the midwife, without ceasing to hurry her mount, thought about its arrival. To present herself like that, carrying a baby in her arms! If only she were a little angel, a cutie, a dimpled piece of butter, a little blond bob already silky, ready to curl into little rings! But that monster! She shifted the cloths, looked at the creature… It was no longer bruised. It was breathing well. It seemed stronger and bigger. Between its lips shone—how amazing!—four white teeth. How robust the damned thing was born! And as if she wanted to demonstrate the vigor and vitality with which she came into the world, the newborn sought the midwife’s finger and bit it. Then she burst into tears, vehement, avid, and deafening cries. The midwife felt impatient and angry. How could she silence the cry of truth, that cry so annoying, capable of attracting the wrongdoers? Cover her mouth… First he laid the palm of his hand on it; then, furious because the commotion continued, he wrapped the baby’s head in the cuff of his raincoat; and finally, he squeezed and squeezed until the moans slowly died away… Night fell; it was time to ford the river; and since the baby, now silent, was in the way in his arms, the midwife unwrapped the coat, picked up the body, swung it, and threw it into the current. Chapter 20. ROSIÑA’S VOTE. If there are close and fierce electoral battles, none like the one he witnessed in the memorable year of 18… the district of Palizás cannot be found on any map. I say he witnessed it, and I say it badly, because in fact he represented it vividly, and even, with greater accuracy, he suffered from it, bled from it through every vein. When the ministerial candidate won , the district was in tatters. Countless abuses, outrages, misdeeds, iniquities, and deceits were involved in “getting out” young Sixto Dávila, protected tooth and nail by the minister, but fought tooth and nail by Mr. Francisco Javier Magnabreva, a prominent figure in the previous situation. Sixto Dávila, a pleasant and ambitious young man, had accepted that battle district… among other weighty reasons, because they wouldn’t give him another; and counting on his activity and determination, driven by the favorable breezes that always blow in youth—as we know, Lady Fortune is no friend of old people—he resolved to work for the election, to be involved in everything, and to keep up the good work. On horseback from five in the morning until late at night; fasting at the transfer or eating whatever came his way; Taking a nap whenever he could, confronting his opponent’s rheumatism and lazy sluggishness with his intact capital of health and vigor , Sixto incubated his candidacy until it emerged from its shell, alive and in a fairly clean state. It wasn’t just physical energy that the young candidate squandered. He also made opportune displays of kind, persuasive, and discreet remarks. With an instinct and skill that predicted a brilliant future, Sixto Dávila knew how to tell each person what they would most like, and he made friends by spending that currency minted in the air: words. Although the people of Palizás are suspicious and cunning and don’t let themselves be easily fooled, Sixto’s gift of the gab bore fruit, especially when addressing a half of the human race that doesn’t understand politics and obeys the impressions of the heart. The ministerial candidate knew how to present the voters with golden prospects and the bright horizons of favor and influence, but he overstepped his bounds when he spoke to the women, flattering their pride. Some believe that Sixto, in displaying such resources, was merely practicing a subject he had thoroughly studied, and perhaps this was indeed the case—which in no way diminishes the young man’s merit. As is often the case with great actors, who are on the stage even unwittingly , Sixto, during his electoral tour, would waste gunpowder on salvos, giving away honey just for the sake of it, without any interested or selfish aims. Thus, for example, with Rosiña the weaver. Rosiña was a poor orphan; Unable to cultivate the land due to a lack of men at home, and reduced to taking a cow out to graze on the borders, she earned her living with a primitive and crude loom, weaving the flax that she herself snatched and even spun patiently by the light of the oil lamp in winter. What did Rosiña need to survive? A crust of corn, a pot of cabbage, a green apple, a salted sardine, a cup of pre-cooked milk… God, who clothes the lilies of the field, lazier than Rosiña, since we know they neither spin nor weave, had adorned the humble _tecelana_ with a spring in her cheeks and a tight sheaf of sunbeams in the double braid that hung to her hips, and when Sixto passed in front of the hut and heard the _run, run_… of the active loom, and saw the industrious girl–although he knew perfectly well who had no father, brother, or boyfriend who could vote for him–stopped, got off his horse, asked for water “de la ferrada” or milk “de la vaquiña”, drank, praised, thanked, and held a conversation with Rosa that only the branches of the cherry tree that shades the nearby stream could tell… This small episode occurred two days before a certain formidable chieftain, in the service and devotion of the lord of Magnabreva, decided, already desperate, to risk it all in order to save the extremely compromised election, two fingers from being irretrievably lost. The urgency of the case suggested a supreme recourse, which the heartless man hesitated to employ, because there are heroic remedies that can be disastrous, especially when they are not administered from the heights of power… More than Sixto’s imminent triumph, the chieftain was tempted by the blind confidence of the young candidate. “I don’t want to be an unsympathetic cradle, an imposed deputy, but a popular and beloved one,” Sixto said, taking pleasure in appearing where he was least expected, in surprising his supporters with his own initiatives… This was the enemy’s decisive factor. The coup was plotted in a small tavern owned by one of Sixto’s opponents; the tavern stood on the side of the road, not far from Rosiña’s shack. The most merciful had gathered there, those capable of doing a heroic deed by allowing themselves to be prosecuted later, certain that a provident hand, and one that reached far and wide, would soften their mattress so that the blow wouldn’t hurt. One of the conspirators, known for various sinister misdeeds, was radical: he wanted to “cut dry” Sixto Dávila; another proposed kidnapping; but the chieftain, prudent and cautious, expressed a different opinion: no stabbings, no firearms, which make noise and alarm; No shotguns, not even clubs. ” What matters here is that it’s useless… for the election, in other words… for these days; that it can’t move, because… if it keeps moving and pressing, it’ll blow us apart! You, Rooster,” he ordered the first one, “are going to bring me a cartload of fine sand from the sea today… just like that, you need it to feed the wheat field! You…” he ordered the tavern owner, “tell the woman to get some well -made, long, and strong canvas sacks ready… He has to pass by here tomorrow at dusk , to go to Doas, to the priest’s house… And watch out! Lots of blows on the back… but in a good way, in a good way, as if it doesn’t hurt…” The morning following the meeting, Rosiña was summoned by the innkeeper to supply the linen and to cut, sew, and fill the sacks… No one suspected the girl, whom the innkeeper furthermore instructed to be as secretive as possible. “I’m going to pet a little fellow, woman…” Through allusions and indiscretions, Rosiña guessed who would be petted; and, trembling like the green stick, she began her task. Her hand couldn’t manage the needle, her eyes were clouding over. She knew only too well the affections that are made with sandbags. The recipient doesn’t last long, no… At first, all he notices is great prostration, a profound decline; he becomes exhausted, exhausted, desiring only to stretch out in bed, but without any pain, without illness. and days go by, and he doesn’t regain his appetite, and he grows pale, and he spits blood, until finally… And Rosiña saw the handsome, plain-spoken young man who had asked her for water from the _ferrada_, lying between four candles, less yellow than his face… At dusk, as Sixto, galloping his horse, approached the tavern, the nag gave a start, and the rider suddenly saw a woman emerge who grabbed the bridle tightly. He recognized Rosiña the weaver…, and his first remarks were cheerful gallantries. But the girl, stammering with terror, demanded attention and told a story… Sixto, after hesitating for a moment, dismounted and, with the rider’s horse, keeping pace with Rosiña, guided by her, both of them silent, headed across the country in search of a path hidden by the trees. It was too late to go back, but to go forward was foolhardy. foolish. Her life was in danger, and with horrible danger… “Don’t be afraid, young master, they won’t look for you in my house,” warned the girl, as she prepared to accommodate the candidate’s mount in her cow’s stable… In fact, no one looked for him there; in the morning, the Civil Guard, alerted by Rosiña, picked him up and escorted him to safety. And Sixto Dávila won all the way; but no one in the Interior Ministry or in the halls of Congress suspects that the triumph was due to the vote of Rosiña the weaver. Chapter 21. A LIVING PORTRAIT. The noblest sentiments can err on the side of excess; the trouble is that the heart hardly learns this truth… and reason is of little use in conflicts of a sentimental nature. Listen to a case… not as unusual as it seems. Gonzalo de Acosta was a model of good, loving, fanatical sons. Fatherless from a very young age, he had been raised in his mother’s lap; she cared for him, educated him, brought him out into the world, formed him, so to speak, in her image and likeness. Gonzalo entered life dominated by a deeply rooted conviction: that all women can be weak and false, except for the one who carried us in her womb. What helped to confirm Gonzalo in his filial idolatry was the approval and sympathy of the people. Because he respected his mother, the world respected him, and marriageable girls gave him sweet looks, and mothers smiled at him more benevolently. When he walked down the street, holding his mother on his arm, an atmosphere of approval and flattering consideration gently caressed him. At the age when one assimilates the elements of culture and forms one ‘s own opinion, Gonzalo, despite his doubts about certain difficult subjects, maintained his footing, confessing that he did so primarily so as not to upset and scandalize his saintly mother. He often attended Mass with her; for her sake, he wore a scapular of the Virgin Mary around his neck; and even when she was not present, Gonzalo would, without considering them, do a thousand amusing and sweet little things for her. Gonzalo was already approaching twenty-eight, and his mother began to suggest that he consider marriage. Chance then led him to meet a beautiful, discreet, well-educated, and wealthy young lady; a phoenix not to be picked. It was Gonzalo’s own mother who forced him to observe Casilda’s perfections and suggested that he court her. Casilda accepted Gonzalo’s gifts with open joy and openness, and six months after the announcement of their future, the Church blessed their marriage. In one of those long and momentous conversations that occur during the first quarter of a honeymoon, and which reveal so much about character and thoughts, Gonzalo spoke at length about his mother and the place she held in his affections and in his life. Casilda listened, at first smiling, then thoughtful and grave. Moved by the fullness of his heart, Gonzalo confessed that he had courted Casilda following his mother’s instructions, and that for this very reason he believed his happiness was assured, since there was no room for error in his mother’s favor. Upon hearing this, Casilda’s beautiful eyes sparkled; and, removing her arm from around her husband’s neck, she firmly spoke these or similar words: “You have done wrong in all this, Gonzalo; very wrong.” I won’t limit the affection your mother inspires in you, but I believe it’s not lawful for you to love her more than me, and that in something as personal and intimate as the bond between spouses, the initiative cannot be external, but your own. We don’t choose our parents, but the one we are to love all our lives, the master of our free will, is an elective king, and we are responsible for the choice. From what I see, you didn’t choose me. Based on your way of understanding marriage, you should have at least sought an apathetic girl, who would be content with a love that is a reflection of another love; I am a woman who knows how to love and demands payment; who wants to be honorable and aspires to find in her husband all the happiness to which she is entitled. The absurdity of your way of feeling engenders in me another, similar absurdity; and that is that from today I will feel jealousy of your mother the more, jealousy of the soul… and we will never live in peace again; I know it, because I know myself. Gonzalo, although surprised, did not attach much importance to his wife’s advances . With flattery and tenderness, he tried to calm her, and he believed himself victorious, as he regained Casilda’s arm, the one that had strayed from his neck. But an arm is not a soul. From that fateful moment, the honeymoon was veiled with clouds. Gonzalo soon saw that Casilda was seeking distractions, society , and bustle, as if she wanted to be stunned or explore new horizons. Little by little, Gonzalo, in his pessimism, began to doubt, first her affection, and then her fidelity. Wounded, ulcerated, overflowing with humiliation, he went to take refuge in the only place where he believed he could vent his sorrows: his mother’s bosom. And as he embraced her, bathing her face in hot tears, the son exclaimed: “There is no better woman than you, Mama. I should not have given away my love; I should have kept it for you alone. Forgive me, and let us live as if nothing had happened.” Indeed , that very day the couple separated. Casilda went to live in Paris. A year or so later, Gonzalo suffered two terrible blows. He lost his mother… and learned that Casilda had a daughter, born six months after their separation. Once the initial shock had passed, a sudden clarity illuminated his spirit, making him see everything differently than before. His mother’s death taught him how filial love, so pure and sacred as it is, cannot, by its very nature, accompany us to the grave, so that the only true companion is the wife; And the birth of that little girl told him clearly that love is a torch passed down through generations, and the love our mothers gave us, we later return to our children. The terrible thing about Gonzalo’s situation was that, despite the agitation and profound emotion the girl’s birth caused him, his mortal distrust and last-minute appearances prevented him from believing she was truly his blood. He was driven mad by the idea of paternity represented by that little girl; but he lacked faith, the father’s first virtue, the basis of his immense happiness. Casilda’s silence, the time that passed without news from Paris, helped Gonzalo’s bitter and shameful conviction. Alone, grieving, misanthropic, he let his manhood pass amid insipid diversions and stale adventures. He had been dragging out such an intolerable life for fifteen years when one night at the Comedy Theatre, glancing by chance at a mezzanine box, he thought he was the victim of a delusion of sense. His blood raced when he saw the charming girl who had just placed her binoculars on the parapet and was leaning forward , smiling, to look toward the stalls. The girl was a living, animated portrait of Gonzalo’s mother, just as she had been depicted on a precious canvas by Madrazo, with the freshness of early youth. If the figure had stepped down from the painting, the resemblance could not have been more striking, aided by the similarity between current fashions and those of 1830. Trembling, frightened, and at the same time frantic with joy, Gonzalo glimpsed, in the seat of honor in the box, another head of a woman he had come to know, despite the ravages of time: his wife, Casilda. And the awareness that that young girl was the daughter of his heart flooded him like a wave sweeping away everything: doubts, sorrows, the entire past. It would take many pages to recount the steps Gonzalo took, the amount of activity he deployed to obtain permission to live near the daughter revealed and adored in a moment, the divine minute of seeing her. A useless effort, a sterile struggle in which he consumed his last energies! A decisive letter, written by Casilda a few hours before returning to France, said, more or less, the following: “Our daughter loves me as you loved your mother. If you separate her from me, she will not resist. It is too late for everything: resign yourself, as you did. ” I resigned myself at a more difficult age. The only thing you left me is the girl: I won’t give her up.” And Gonzalo, biting the handkerchief he used to wipe his eyes in pain, murmured: “It’s only fair. ” Chapter 22. THE TENTH. The story of my wedding? Listen to it for yourselves: it’s still strange. A skinny little girl with shaggy hair and a threadbare shawl was the one who sold me the tenth of a lottery ticket outside a café, late at night. I gave her a huge sum as a bonus, one duro. With what a humble and gracious smile she rewarded my generosity! “You’re the lucky winner, young master,” she stated with the insinuating and clear pronunciation of the girls of the town of Madrid. “Are you sure?” I asked her jokingly, as I slipped the ticket into the pocket of my overcoat and pulled up the silk scarf that served as a mouthguard, in order to protect myself from the pneumonia that the barber’s December fuss augured. “Grandma, I’m sure! As if you’re taking that ticket because I don’t have any money, young master. The number… you’ll look it up when you leave… it’s 1,420: my age is fourteen, and the number of days in the month I have over my years is twenty exactly. You’ll see if I’d buy the whole ticket.
” “Well, my dear,” I replied, acting generous, with the calmness of an inveterate gambler who knows he’s never gotten even a close call or a bad return, “don’t worry: if the ticket wins… half of the ticket is yours. We’ll split the score.” A mad joy spread across the wallet’s gaunt features, and with the utmost faith, grabbing me by the sleeve, he exclaimed: “Young master! On behalf of your father and mother, give me your name and address . I know that in four days, we’ll be paid.” Somewhat remorseful now, I told him my name and where I lived; and ten minutes later, as I was walking briskly up Puerta del Sol to Calle de la Montera, I had no memory of the incident. Four days later, as I was in bed, I heard someone shouting “the big list.” I sent my servant to buy it, and when he brought it up to me, my eyes immediately fell upon the number of the jackpot: I thought I was dreaming, but I wasn’t dreaming: it really said 1,420… my tenth, the age of the wallet, luck for it and for me! Those blessed figures represented many thousands of duros , and a dazzlement assailed me as I stood up, while my legs weakened and a light sweat cooled my temples. Let the reader be fair: it never occurred to me to renege on my offer… The little girl had brought me luck, she had been my “pet…” It was a partnership in which I figured only as an industrial partner. Nothing could be more just than sharing the profits. I immediately wished I could feel the magic slip of paper against my fingers. I remembered well: I had put it in the outside pocket of my coat, so as not to unbutton it. Where was the coat? Ah! There, hanging on the peg… Let’s see… Feel this way, search that way… No sign of the tenth. I furiously called the servant and asked him if he had shaken the coat out the window… I daresay he had shaken it and shaken it! But he didn’t see anything fall out of the pockets; nothing at all… I look into his face: his face expresses truth and honesty. In the five years he has been in my service, I have never caught him in any small or large mischief… I blush at what occurs to me, the threats, the insults, the atrocities that rise to my lips… Desperate now, I light a candle, I search the corners, I tear apart cupboards, I go through the wastepaper basket, I interrogate the trash can… Nothing and nothing: I am alone with the fever in my hands, the dryness of my bitter mouth and the rage in my heart! In the afternoon, when I had already lain down on the bed to smoke, trying to swallow and digest the horrible disappointment, a loud and sharp bell rings, I hear at the door an argument, a commotion, protests from someone who insists on entering, and immediately I see before me the wallet that throws itself into my arms, crying with many tears: “Young sir, young sir! Do you see? We’ve hit the jackpot. Unhappy me!” I thought I was past the worst of the trouble, and all that was left was this cruel and disgraceful ordeal: having to say, stammering like a criminal, that the bill had gone astray, that I couldn’t find it anywhere, and that consequently the poor girl had nothing to expect from me. In whose dark, sullen eyes I feared I saw flashing doubt and the most scurrilous distrust… But the billfold, raising her still-damp eyes, looked at me serenely and shrugged her shoulders: “Good heavens! Young sir… neither you nor I were born to be millionaires. ” How could I repay the confidence of that disinterested creature? How could I compensate her for what I owed her—yes, for what I owed her? My remorse and the conviction of my grave responsibility weighed so heavily on me that I brought her home, protected her, educated her, and finally married her. The most remarkable thing about this story is that I have been happy. Chapter 23. THE STABBING. There was much talk in the neighborhood about the seamstress and the carpenter. Every Sunday they could be seen going out together, taking the streetcar, going for a walk, and returning late, arm in arm, very close, with that harmonious, controlled gait that only lovers possess. They formed a vivid contrast. She was a small woman, with big black eyes, a slim waist, and a perky chest; he was a healthy, strong young fellow, with tumbling curls and Herculean fists—a hardworking and passionate brute. From his good wages, he earned just enough for the most necessary attentions; the rest he invested in niceties for his Claudia. Although coarse and foul-mouthed, he knew how to come up with gallant ideas, pretty gifts. Today a safety pin, tomorrow a bouquet, the next a ribbon or a handkerchief. Claudia, a woman to the tips of her hair, flirtatious, vain, was dying for gifts. In her teacher’s workshop, she showed them off, setting her classmates on edge, who were mad for “a boyfriend” like Onofre. “Boyfriend”… precisely, he couldn’t be called boyfriend. It was difficult, not only the blessings, but even gathering in a house, a table, and a bed, because what about mothers? Onofre’s was old, disabled; and besides, a younger brother, an apprentice, who hadn’t yet earned a living. Even so, Onofre would have taken Claudia home in triumph, had it not been for the dressmaker’s mother, a housemaid by trade, as sharp as a candle. When, in moments of tender exuberance, Onofre hinted to Claudia about marriage… or something equivalent to it, Claudia, flinching, would reply in a tone of anger and fear: “Are you drunk? Son, what about my mother? Should I let her go down the drain like a dog? With the meager peseta she earns one day and not the next, will she eat bread if I fail her? Stop it, come on… Get it out of your head! ” He couldn’t get it out. Spending moments of violent happiness with Claudia was good; but how much better it would be to have her always with him, at all hours, without any secrets… without his mother being able to cut off their communications, as she had already done in moments of anger. Besides, having Claudia at his side, publicly his, perhaps his jealousy would be cured. He suffered from it in fits of fury that he tried to hide. Claudia was a great girl, with her ladylike air, her figure that a shop assistant had called palm-shaped… and he, he, so coarse, so calloused, he didn’t even know how to sign his name! True, he had strength in his arms and warmth in his soul… and the courage to kill anyone, that ‘s for sure… Was it enough? It should have been enough, according to God’s law; otherwise, such things are seen! Onofre had already observed a strange occurrence twice. As he prowled around Claudia’s house— that damned house had a magnet—he saw her mother, Senora Dolores, in the doorway, whispering with a very well-behaved gentleman in a fur coat. Was it Onofre’s imagination? When he spotted him, the old woman showed signs of anxiety, and the gentleman hurriedly said goodbye. No matter, he didn’t look the same; among a thousand of his caste, I’d know him. A bit stout, a parrot’s nose, gray sideburns, lively eyes… What were they up to? Was it Claudia? “I’m a real fool,” thought Onofre, “but Christ! They’re not going to put their finger in my mouth.” This happened around Easter Sunday. After a harsh and dreary winter, spring was loosening our bodies: the trees were shedding leaves and blossoms in abundance, the sun was shining and shining. Last year, Onofre wouldn’t forget! Claudia, at the beginning of the good weather, had wanted to go for a walk every afternoon, without fail. They left early, he from the workshop and she from the bakery, and wandered about until ten o’clock. He invited her to tea, stuffed her with fried birds and strawberries. What a waste! And this year he could barely convince her to wander about two days a week. The girl was reluctant. “Listen, Onofre!” “Who gave you that gold pendant?” the carpenter suddenly asked his companion, stopping in the middle of the street. “Gold? If it’s ‘duble…'” she murmured, embarrassed. “You don’t lie to a man, and if you ever call me ‘duble’ again, I’ll take you to my friend the silversmith’s house and shame you. Gold with stones! Damn it! May I know why you lied? ” “You see,” Claudia stammered. “It’s just that… in case you got angry… I had some money saved up… I bought it on the cheap… ” “Get angry? When have you ever seen me interfere in your expenses, daughter? Did you buy it? Where? From whom?” “The broker, Chivita, sold it to me… Don’t you know her? She’s the one with hairs in her beard… ” Onofre fell silent. A flash of horrible lucidity had just blinded him. That was another lie! A string of lies! So, Chivita? He would find her that very night… They were passing through the small plaza of Santa Ana. The trees in the garden invited one to rest in their shade, as populated and green as April had been. The laughter of children, the calls of nannies, mingled with the trills of the “master” canaries and goldfinches hanging in cages at the doors of the bird and dog shops. Claudia stopped in front of one of these shops; she was used to it; she loved critters. She treated a parrot, an Angora cat, a lapdog, and amused herself even more with the pigeons. How delicious! There were tufted ones, ones with blue necks , ones with booted feet… “Oh!” she exclaimed. “That one has blood!… It’s wounded.” It was a pigeon of the breed known as the “stab-wound pigeon.” Above its curved, white crop, a red line perfectly mimicked a fresh wound. “Her pigeon must have cut her,” Onofre said gravely. ” Pigeons too are capable of atrocities if others celebrate their hen.” Claudia looked away and blushed. Onofre’s remark, though nothing unusual about it, sounded strange to her. Who knows if it was her conscience? She wasn’t at all reassured when Onofre insisted, being tiresome, on giving her that pigeon with the cut. He couldn’t take care of it, he couldn’t keep it! He barely had time to sling the cat! He didn’t even need a cage! “I’ll buy the cage too. Don’t worry. Beautiful, I can’t offer you anything Ansorena sells… but come on, what a poor pigeon! Are you going to snub me? Don’t you want anything of mine?” He spoke in an irritated voice. Claudia didn’t dare refuse . Onofre carried the wicker cage and escorted the girl to her door. From there, he went straight ahead in search of the runner. He found her soon; she happened to be at home. And no doubt the carpenter, in his interrogation, had cleared his head, discovered what he had been thinking… because Chivita, accustomed to such inquiries, imperturbably and in the most persuasive tone, answered yes, she had sold the pendant to Claudia. “What day?” Onofre insisted stubbornly. “Oh, son! Aren’t you a little curious? If someone were to remember, with all the money she sells… ” “What did it cost? You don’t know either? ” “Jesus!” Even if the judge asked me for a statement… We’ll see if I remember tomorrow… From the stairs, turning towards the grimy door of Chivita and clenching his fists, the young man roared through his teeth, with immense anger: –“Fucking hell… All of them in cahoots to lie to me!” From Chivita’s house, Onofre went to the nearest tavern . He was sober; he didn’t enjoy getting tipsy. Only there are cases in which a man… He ordered aguardiente: whatever would get you drunk the quickest. He needed to become a stock, not think, until the next day. And he knocked back glass after glass; finally, he fell asleep, his head drooping on the dirty tavern table. The next morning, around eight o’clock, Claudia left to go, as always, to the workshop. It was the last time; she would say goodbye to her teacher, her classmates, her work, the pricking of her fingertips. “That gentleman”—the one with the pendant, the one with the gray sideburns—wanted them in his house, her and her mother, treated like queens. The mother the housekeeper , the daughter the mistress… of everything! Proposals like that aren’t rejected. And Onofre?… In the first place, Onofre didn’t know the gentleman’s address. Until he found them out. Afterwards… after some time… Onofre would resign himself. Even so, Claudia’s heart was heavy. Fear, fear—an invincible fear. Upon entering with the dove cage, Sená Dolores had cried out in alarm: “Away with that, woman; it looks like it really has a stab wound… What a gift, the Virgin!” And in her dreams, tossing and turning in the narrow bed, the bloody stab wound in the white breast haunted Claudia. It seemed to her that the wound was in her own breast, and that the blood, in threads, was oozing out and slowly soaking the sheets and mattress. The nightmare lasted until dawn. Now she was hurrying. She would collect her wages, her pillow, her supplies—and that would be boring, madam. Air! To rest, to eat well, to wear silk, instead of sewing it for other, less beautiful women. Claudia ran, eager to arrive. At the corner, distractedly, she stumbled, slipped, and tried to get up. A rough hand pinned her to the ground; a knife blade flashed over her eyes and sank, as if into soft paste, into her bust, near her heart. And the murderer, stupid, motionless, did not second the blow—nor was it necessary. The blood spread, forming a pool around the livid head, bent toward the edge of the sidewalk; and Onofre, arms crossed, waited to be arrested, watching as red streams spread from the pool, quickly coagulating. Chapter 24. IN THE SANTO. ” What a farce!” Manuela had exclaimed angrily when Lucas ordered Sidoro to put on his new jacket to go down to the San Isidro meadow. Instead, Sidoro felt his six -year-old heart throb with joy, shrunken by the constant harshness of the fierce treatment he received from his stepmother… or whatever she was: Manuela, the big woman with whom Lucas now lived. In childhood, to say novelty and change is to say boundless and beautiful hope. Bring down the saint! Who knows what the saint kept in his blessed hands for motherless children, for beaten and starving children? Mad with joy, Sidoro joined the group, although he was already soured by the initial joy of having to carry a basket crammed with provisions. It was heavy, and Sidoro would have begged for relief, had he not feared one of those twisted and rabid witch-like pinches with which Manuela would mark him a cardinal for half a month. Sighing, she lifted the basket as best she could, and they headed down Toledo Street, through waves of people, with a sun that could fry lean meats, a sun more scorching than spring. Swallowing the dust stirred up by buses, rickshaws, and taxis, they crossed the Toledo Bridge and reached the hill, where the joyful crowd milled more tightly. Lucas spoke of going in to pray to the saint; but Manuela, lifting Sidoro with a single blow, who had fallen, pushed by the whirlpool and overwhelmed by the weight, renounced the idea and preferred to buy toasted bread, hazelnuts, and doughnuts, and look for somewhere to have a snack. Thirst was drying their throats, and Lucas, carrying the full wineskin, noticing its pleasant swell between his arm and ribs, approved the decision. It wasn’t easy to find a suitable spot in the shade and near the River. Pleasant corners were in great demand. Finally, quite late, they discovered a shabby little tree and settled at its foot, deluding themselves that the branches sheltered their heads. Sidoro, exhausted, dropped the basket; Manuela went to get provisions, and there the snorting and kissing began. Lucas remembered to throw his son a piece of tortilla and a loaf of bread, like someone throwing a bone to a puppy; after that… they thought nothing more of the child; and since the wine and the gluttony take away shame, Lucas held Manuela’s face, right there, without a hint of hesitation. With clumsy feet, their hooves so warm, the couple began walking toward the hill, where the commotion was greater, and where the merrymakers and the picnic areas and shacks invited them to revelry. The boy, trying to follow them, found himself stopped by a circle formed around a blind singer and guitarist; and when he tried to join his people, to stand up, he found himself alone in the crowd, carrying the now-empty basket and the loose, hollow boot… He began to cry. Tough and mean as they were, that man and that woman protected him. He felt abandoned, shipwrecked in a very choppy, deep, and stormy sea. The crowd passed by without paying attention to the boy: one pushed him, another pushed him aside with pity, and a quick, unknown hand snatched the beret from his head… No one asked him the reason for his crying; that’s what they were there for! Amid the infernal hubbub of the pilgrimage, anyone would pay attention to the cry of a child. The tapping of mechanical pianos, the strumming of guitars, the singing of drunkards, the shouts of doughnut makers, the thousand noises exhaled by a crowd packed together, satiated, reveling, and lewd, in the midst of open-air revelry, exasperated by the smell of rancid oil from the buñolerías ( fritter shops) and the tavern-like odor of the tavern-bars, drowned out the child’s sobs , as the living wave of the crowd enveloped, absorbed, and mechanically dragged his body… By instinct, Sidoro let himself be carried away. Walking, walking, he might find the couple, or who knows? the saint himself. For if the saint couldn’t be found at the pilgrimage, what did all those people come for? And the saint would be very good, for that’s what he was a saint for, and that’s why they prayed to him and made his portraits in clay figures, and why the angels helped him plow. Where was the saint? Sidoro remembered that Lucas, before looking for a place for a snack, had spoken of going to the hermitage. What could the hermitage be? Surely a place where abandoned children are sheltered and comforted… While he was searching for the glorious farmer, Sidoro, in spite of himself, looked at the stalls, the hundreds of sheds where the marvelous whistles are displayed and sold , adorned with silver rosettes and red paper rosettes, the effigies painted in emerald, cobalt, and vermilion, the medals and scapulars, the coarse china, the figurines of bullfighters and picadors, the effigies with the heads of ministers, the groups of rats, the scatological caricatures, the jars filled with carnations of violent aroma, the rows of red and white jugs, the delicious doughnuts, the hazelnut stalls, with their shining scales and their half-open sacks, overflowing, tempting the hand of the child… And that orgy of bright and gaudy colors, that coming and going The incessant noise of the crowd, those discordant sounds, the feeling of being driven, tossed, swept away like a straw by the human torrent, the suffocating atmosphere he breathed, the very desolation of his abandonment, instead of drawing tears from the child, dried those that ran from his eyes, and produced a kind of feverish intoxication. Without caring about responsibilities, he abandoned the wineskin and the basket, and let himself fall to the ground, at the door of a snack bar where they were drinking and singing spicy songs, unintelligible to Sidoro. A young woman, breathless, sitting on the ground, was breastfeeding a child. Sidoro saw this scene, the group always moving and sacred, and confused reminiscences, not of memory, but of the senses and the Sensitivity, more concrete in childhood, reminded him that he too had been held against her loving bosom by a woman; that he too had been lulled with words of sugar and delirium by the ineffable words of motherhood; and a beloved face, a face that could not be forgotten, emerged from the mists of the past… a past so short and so recent! And then, one of those boundless sorrows that children suffer, fell upon the soul of the orphan. In an instant, with the memory of the affection and tenderness of his mother, whom he had never seen again, Sidoro evoked the cruelties and lack of love of Manuela, and his whole flesh trembled, for there was no place where the merciless nails of the big woman had not left traces of torture… And the child, in his infinite grief, as night fell and the lights of the stalls began to open their pupils of flame, rolled on the arid ground, eager to fall asleep in a long, long, long sleep and wake up next to his mother, or Saint Isidro, or someone who cared for the little ones and the weak. Through dizziness, exhaustion, heat, fear, sadness, he did, in fact, fall asleep… He woke up because they were beating him and pulling handfuls of his hair. It was Manuela, screaming hoarsely and furiously. –We did find this bastard… but what about the new boot, and my little basket, and the napkin, and the glass that came in it? Damned him, you’ll see when we get home! Chapter 25. SANTOS BUENO. It had been a long time–many months–since I had seen him anywhere: not in the street, nor at the Amistad Casino, nor at the Fishbowl, nor even in the new neighborhood that’s being built–because Santos Bueno is one of those who are fond of seeing buildings and likes to stand in front of the scaffolding with their hands behind their backs, saying sententiously: “These are truly decent beams; they won’t buckle.” Missing such a long eclipse, fearing that Santos Bueno was seriously ill, I resolved to look for him at his house, where I found him absorbed in his usual tasks, peaceful and affable as usual. –What’s this? Have you become a Carthusian monk? “Is it a vow of seclusion? ” “No, sir… no, sir!” Santos replied, smiling. “If I go out and walk around. It seems as if I live shut in. ” “Do you go out? Well, I never see you. ” “Because I go out a little late… at the hours when there are no people around. ” “Hiding is what that figure is called.” Santos smiled again with his indescribably enigmatic expression and said calmly: “Well, you’ve guessed right. There are times when… one feels very comfortable hiding.” I guessed that beneath the theory of the advantages of hiding was hidden some painful crisis in Santos Bueno’s life. I thought I knew him, and I also knew his story and his aspirations, as one knows the lives of every man in a small town. Santos Bueno was a modest bourgeois, without great aspirations; Neither poor nor rich, he possessed a small sum of money, the product of the fortunate sale of some property bordering the meadow of an Indian, who, as a result, had paid for it in gold. With this wealth, Santos planned to realize a long-standing dream: to build a small house with a garden on the outskirts of the city and live in it without emotion, but without worries, growing vegetables and roses. It’s worth noting that a small house with a garden is the beautiful dream of the people of Marinha. I don’t know why it occurred to me that Santos’s attitude and withdrawal could be linked to that money, and moved by compassionate curiosity, I questioned him. “And that little house, that chalet, when do we start it? Will you invite me to coffee in the garden for your saint’s day next year?” Santos’s face changed, and I even imagined that in his eyes there was a crystalline reflection that indicates they are getting wet… “I’m not making the little house anymore,” he murmured dejectedly. “You’re not making it? How is that? Have you gambled away your money?” capital? –You know very well that I’m not up to it… –Well, what’s the matter? Have you thought of another investment? Have you started some business? –If you promise not to tell anyone… –Don’t worry, Don Santos. The grave is a parrot compared to me. –Well, the fact is that… I have… lent… that sum. –Lend? At one hundred percent monthly? With guarantee? Ah, usurer! –Stop joking. Guarantee… I have that of the honesty of my debtor. –Oh, poor Don Santos! Who deceived me? –No, I warn you that he is a person who enjoys an excellent reputation… To be frank: my intention was not to lend, neither to him nor to anyone else. It took me by surprise: I couldn’t refuse; He knew I had funds: I saw a father of a family in trouble, in compromise, in shame… he promised to pay me back every month… In short, I don’t have a heart of bronze! –So, little loans to poor, but scoundrel fathers of families? And how about it? Paying it back? Paying it back? –For now… no. –How many months has it been? –Six… that is to say, today marks seven… –And you, after having done this charitable and selfless work, why are you hiding? That’s something I’d like to know. –I’ll tell you… It’s nonsense in my character… Oddities…! “Well, some time ago, I ran into my debtor in the street, and I asked him… very politely… to start paying off… whatever he could… nothing more than what he could… And he answered me in such a way… well, he denied what he had promised, and almost, almost, denied me the debt itself… And since then I haven’t gone out on the street… because if I run into him, I’ll be ashamed, and I’ll have to act as if I didn’t see him! Yes, ashamed… Because his action is ugly, isn’t it? Chapter 26. SUBSTITUTION. There is no one who has not found themselves in the position of having to deliver, with the utmost caution and in the least painful way, bad news. I was first entrusted with this unpleasant task when the widow Lasmarcas, the only sister of Don Ambrosio Corchado, suddenly died. I did not know Don Ambrosio; On the other hand, he was one of the three or four faithful friends of the late Lasmarcas, who regularly visited his widow, always receiving a frank and affectionate welcome. On winter nights, the lady’s parlor served as our refuge, where a well-lit brazier burned, and the double curtains and heavy woodwork kept out either drafts or the sound of rain. Each of us settled into our preferred seat and corner, and we chatted animatedly until it was time for a modest and refined tea, with homemade biscuits and scones, perhaps for reasons of economy. The homemade tea tasted wonderful, and we concluded the evening satisfied and at peace, for Lasmarcas’s widow was an excellent woman, neither shy nor meddlesome, nor extremely malicious, nor foolishly candid, and as a friend, she was as reliable and loyal as, if only! all men could be. Upon learning that she had been found dead in her bed, struck down by a serous hemorrhage, we felt the penetrating chill of the _beyond_, the shudder caused by a blast of icy air that hits our face upon entering a cemetery. Thus we go, thus vanishes in a breath our life, seemingly so active and so full of plans, hopes, and tenacious interests! Just the night before, we had gone to the house of Señora de Lasmarcas for a social gathering; we still thought we saw her offering us a piece of sponge cake, which she praised, claiming to be a recipe given to her by the nuns of the Annunciation… Once her close friends were informed of the misfortune, it was decided that I would be in charge of notifying the deceased’s brother. Don Ambrosio Corchado did not live in the same city as his sister, but two leagues away, in a property he never left, and where the widow resided during the summer. Rich and unsociable, Don Ambrosio was the typical bachelor: he didn’t want to bother the world, and even less did he tolerate it bothering him. In his own way, he had a perfectly good time. making improvements to his estate, overseeing the farming, and fattening chickens and pigs. That was all we knew about Don Ambrosio. To accomplish my task without delay, I ordered a carriage, and within three-quarters of an hour it was at the gate, with the jingling of bells and the clatter of squeaky wheels. I got into the battered vehicle, and we headed toward the estate. It was a beautiful morning, vibrant, cheerful, full of sun and light, a prelude to spring, which was already approaching. Reclining in the back of the barouche, watching the picturesque landscape disappear through the window , despite the good weather and the fresh, crisp air, I was overcome by a painful melancholy, a kind of apprehension and violent timidity. My heart sank as I thought about what I should tell Don Ambrosio and how I could begin to make him savor the experience so that he would feel less of its bitterness. It effectively represented to me the dramatic nature of the moment. Don Ambrosio had no other sister, no other family in the world. The lady of Lasmarcas left no children for her brother to take in and brighten his lonely old age. A sister! The one we’ve been with since the cradle; with whom we’ve played as children; a one who carries our blood; who has shared our first innocent joys, our first tantrums; who has been our confidant, our concealer, who saw our pranks and was moved by our childhood love affairs; the little mother, the natural friend, the selfless accomplice, the defender. He who knows no other affection; he who still has a sister among all his family—how must he feel knowing he’s lost her! Without a doubt, like a tree when an axe is driven into the middle of its trunk, when it is split and split. Besides, her death was so sudden! Perhaps Don Ambrosio had deluded himself a thousand times that his younger sister would close his eyes… These thoughts, stirring my imagination, caused me such indescribable anguish that when the carriage stopped at the gate of the estate my eyes were moist with tears. I conquered my weakness, jumped to the ground, and when I asked for Don Ambrosio from a man who was leveling the sand in the courtyard, he very willingly laid down his hoe and led me past beautiful gardens adorned with fountains and an orchard of fruit trees, to a meadow where several farmhands were busy cutting the grass and piling it into carts, under the supervision of an old man wearing blue goggles and a straw hat. “It was Don Ambrosio himself .” He greeted me with surprise, and when I told him I had come on some important business, he displayed considerable amiability. He explained to me that the little meadow yielded more than thirty cartloads of dry grass every year , which sold like hotcakes; and, giving in to his tendency to talk only about things that touch on practical concerns, he added that he was afraid it was going to rain, and he was hurrying with the work in order to harvest the grass in good condition. Then he pointed to a corner of the meadow, crossed by a clear stream, and asked me if I thought the water was strong enough to power a flour mill he was planning to build there. His wrinkled face and his cracked voice grew serious as he stated these plans. I, meanwhile, was looking for a place to hit him; but two or three insinuations about the widow’s poor health only elicited a distracted “Well, well.” Then I decided to press on and got down to business: I had come precisely because the lady had been a little ill since yesterday… “Yes, winter troubles, a cold,” he replied mechanically. The outburst revolted me, and I blurted out the two words “serious illness”… Through the blue glass, I noticed the old man blinking. “Serious? And the doctor, what does he say?” “There wasn’t time to consult him…” I exclaimed. “You see, things happen suddenly… ” “Well, let’s consult him, let’s consult him,” he repeated, turning to see a heavily loaded cart go by. “Hey,” he shouted to the farmhands, “you brutes, half your grass is falling off! Hold your load tight, for Christ’s sake!” “Shouldn’t I tell you,” I interrupted, also raising my voice, “that there was no reason to consult anything? It was suddenly… the… ” The terrible word choked me, but at last I blurted it out: “The… the death!” Don Ambrosio moved backward. His blue glasses sparkled in the sun. Hesitating, he murmured: “So… that… that… ” “That your sister has died, yes, sir; this morning they found her dead… in bed… A serous hemorrhage.” The old man remained silent, swinging his head. After a pause, he coughed and said calmly: “Good heavens! The poor thing’s time has come… Well, if there’s any difficulty with the burial, then… count me in… For a little more… you know? Let everything be done decently… You shouldn’t pay a hundred duros, give or take it. ” “Aren’t you coming to the funeral?” I asked, devouring the old man with my eyes. “You see… With the meadow half-mown and such opportune weather … impossible. Things would be in a bad way if I weren’t here! The foreman is coming tomorrow to discuss the mill… We have to think over the contract, because otherwise those people will screw you. And what do you think? Will the water be strong? In springtime, there’s no need to worry ; but in autumn?” I left there in such a state of exasperation that I slammed the carriage door as I closed it, helping to break the lying barouche. Once again, I was overcome by an invincible sadness; I felt ridiculous, and the misery of our condition overwhelmed me when I thought of that old man, as insensitive as a rock, who only occupied himself with the meadow and the mill and forgot his approaching death. What a foolishness my precautions and my misgivings in breaking the news to him! Suddenly, a singular idea occurred to me. My attack of sensitivity compensated for Don Ambrosio’s indifference. “The true _brother_ of the poor dead woman was I, I who had felt her fraternal pain, I who had substituted myself, with will and feeling, for my brother according to the flesh. In the moral world as in the physical, nothing is lost, and all who have a right to a sum of affection collect it, if not from the one who owes it, then from another generous payer. Consoled by this thought, I stuck my head out of the window and said to the coachman, as I meant it: “Hurry up, I must arrange my sister’s funeral.” Chapter 27. THE COMPANY. Winter. After a short, rainy, and sad day, the night is clear and moonlit; the frost clings to the water of the ponds and marshes on its glass, slippery and shining like mirrors, and on the steepest mountainside the howling of the hungry wolf can be heard. Inside the humble _rueiro_’s little hut, the flame of the pine branches spills the sweet warmth of its resinous aromas, and the gulp of the pot comforts the stomach, deceiving its need, for the poor cabbage broth only sustains because it warms. Away from the village through the grove of tall chestnut trees, close to the church and the cemetery, the shabby little hut of old Señora Claudia—alias _Comometerra_, because in her youth she chewed handfuls of the clay from Mount Couto—also feels the comfort of the loving fire. All day, soaked to the marrow, her grandson Caridad has worked, and he has procured the armful of branches, the still-damp firewood, and the grass chewed by the little red calf… Don’t ask where. He who has neither forest nor meadow of his own must wander on another’s land. What gentleman rents a place to a fifteen-year-old brat, son of a convict who died in Ceuta? The settler must be free of property, married, and of good stock. What a brave acquisition for that witch who begged at the gates for an ear of corn or a moldy crust, and for that scoundrel who left nothing alive within the parish boundaries! There are also classes in the village… And the sons of two or three of the most well-to-do farmers, with bread and pork, had sworn to Charity. Because they can go through the shearing of the branches and the gorse, and even the gathering of grass on boundaries that have an owner; but Pulling up a ripe potato or burglarizing a pane of the granary… those are big words, and if they catch him… he’ll be punished! Meanwhile, Caridad was bringing home her _page_ well-stocked with wicker. That day, the booty consisted of a great many ripe chestnuts, acorns, and —an extraordinary catch!—three or four beautiful fresh eggs… When she was lucky in her food hunt, Grandma paid her so well! An inexhaustible repertoire of tales, traditions, and lies, _Cometerra_, huddled in the corner of the hearth, while with a trembling hand she peeled the potatoes or shelled the golden ears of corn, talked, narrated, strung together her tales of a thousand lies… And Caridad knew no other pleasure. His grandmother’s stories were at once his only school and his only theater, the fodder for his virgin, fresh, insatiable imagination, that of a child who couldn’t read and who sensed novels and poetry, identifying them, in his ignorance, with life and reality. Perhaps the very isolation to which his petty thefts and his father’s hazardous fate and misdeeds condemned him influenced that precocious, sickly development of his fantasy. The truth is that Caridad believed wholeheartedly… what is belief? He saw. The sad and ominous world of old Galician mythology surrounded him at all times. The fear of the unknown shrank his soul and poured ice of mortal dread into his veins, attracting him, nevertheless, with a mysterious allure, calling him. He feared and longed for the supernatural apparition, and while his hands, mechanically, grasped what was foreign, his uncultivated spirit felt the shudder of the invisible world that surrounds us, and whose plaintive breath is perceived in the murmurings of the forest and in the flowing lament of the water… This winter night, as the vigil of the dead approached, Cometerra explains to his grandson what the Company or Host is. It is a legion of dead who, leaving their graves, each carrying a candle in their emaciated hand, cross the mountain, far away, visible only by the vague whiteness of the shrouds and the pale reflection of the fading candle. Woe to him who sees the Company! Woe to him who treads the ground on which its shadow is projected! If he does not die immediately , his life will dry up forever like the grass cut down by the fog. Broken, without strength, afflicted with a strange illness for which there is no cure, he will slowly make his way to the cave, because the Host recruits those it finds along the way, enlists them in its ranks, reinforces its army of ghosts… Woe to him who sees the Company! In her poor, cold bed of corn husks, Caridad tosses and turns, thinking of the funereal procession. The hearth fire has gone out; the grandmother snores, huddled a few feet away; outside, the howl of the wolf and the almost human lament of the owl can be heard… The temptation is too strong. Surely at this hour, the people of the other world are parading across the mountain in double rows of lights. To see her! Caridad doesn’t remember that to see her is to die. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to her. Attachment to life doesn’t spring early; a sapling without roots doesn’t cling to the earth’s crust. Fear, in Caridad, is like a spasm: her trembling soul fears and yearns at the same time. And slipping from the hard bed, she gropes toward the door, opens the screen, leans out, and looks. The once-splendid moon is veiled by tragically black clouds, objects appear blurred, the patches of wood are lost in the gray turbidity of the distance. Caridad, shivering, begins to walk toward the church. Without realizing why, she supposes the Host is prowling around the cemetery walls. The odd thing is that, as he goes in search of the procession of souls, the boy trembles, his teeth chatter, his pupils dilate, his blood curdles, his heart stops beating at times. And yet, he walks, he walks, fascinated; anxious, stepping on the frost with bare feet, bruised and stiff. There where the cemetery wall rises, a diffuse clarity, some greenish lamps of light call to him with the palpitations of a floating shroud and with the smoke of a candle that is extinguished. There he is. Surely the _Host_… He thinks he sees her now, sees her distinctly, and even hears suppressed sobs, stifled screams that could be confused with the irony of brutal laughter… Without transition, without space to say Jesus, to call her mother as the mortally wounded call her, Caridad collapses. At the same time, a blow from a club split her head and the curved edge of a Celtic _bisarma_ opened her throat , which, while slitting the throat, holds the victim. The blood, hot, coagulates on the frozen surface of the ground. The young men withdraw, leaving the little thief stiff there, and murmuring, now serious—because they had not thought of going so far, nor would they have gone if it were not for the new must and the old _caña_: “You have learned your lesson.” Chapter 28. THE DENTURE. Upon receiving the little letter, Águeda thought she would faint. Her hands grew cold, her ears buzzed slightly, her arteries throbbed, and a cloud veiled her eyes. She had desired so much, dreamed so much of that declaration! Secretly in love with Fausto Arrayán, the handsome young man and brilliant student, she probably didn’t know how to hide it; she betrayed herself with her agitation when he entered the gathering, her fiery blush when he looked at her, her silence filled with thought when she heard him mentioned; and Fausto, who was at the age of gluttony, the age at which one devours love without fear of indigestion, wanted to pick that semi-country flower, the most fragrant in a feminine orchard—a twenty-year-old heart, nourished by illusions, in a provincial town: an exciting environment, if ever there was one, for the imagination and the passions. The love affair between Fausto and Águeda, at first, was a duet in which she sang with all her voice and enthusiasm, and he, _reserving_ himself like the great tenors, at certain moments emitted a captivating note. Águeda felt herself living and dying; her soul, a magical palace always illuminated for a solemn wedding feast, shone and burned, and an immense plenitude of feeling made her forget reality and everything that wasn’t her happiness: her innocent conversations with Fausto, their correspondence, their window shopping, their idyll in short. However, delicate people—and Águeda was very delicate—cannot be completely absorbed in selfishness; they don’t know how to be happy without paying generously for happiness. Águeda sensed in Fausto a hidden indifference; at times she recognized a certain ominous dryness; She was not unaware that with the first breezes of autumn, her beloved would emigrate to Madrid, where his artistic talents promised him fame and triumph; and in the midst of this greatest excitement, she felt a sudden decline in herself, a conviction of the ephemeral nature of her fortune. One day she confronted Fausto with pressing questions: “Do you really, really love me? Do you like me? Am I the woman you like the most? Speak to me clearly, frankly… I promise not to get angry or upset.” Fausto, smiling, flattering, and immediately gallant, ended up spilling some of the truth in a most exacting statement. “Guedita, you’re very pretty… very pretty, without flattery… You have a complexion of milk and roses, rounded features, eyes of black velvet, a waist that could be covered with a bracelet… The only thing that detracts from you… well… a little… is your naughty teeth. If it weren’t for your teeth… girl, a Murillo painting!” Águeda fell silent, contrite and embarrassed, but Fausto had barely said goodbye when she ran to the mirror. Exactly! Águeda’s teeth, although healthy and white, were prominent, wide like paddles, and their defective placement gave her mouth a cloying, pouty expression. How could Águeda have failed to notice such a notable flaw? She thought she could see her ugly teeth for the first time, and an intense, cruel sorrow overwhelmed her… Hot tears flowed down her cheeks, and that night she didn’t sleep a wink, turning over in her head, in the heat of her fever, the sad thought… “Fausto neither loves me nor can love me. With teeth like that!” From the moment Águeda realized that she actually had badly fitted and deformed teeth, her joy ended and they came to The card houses of her dreams were shattered. The golden gauze of love was torn, and she saw her fears regarding Fausto’s coldness confirmed; but since the spirit does not want to abandon its fantasies, and a noble, enamored heart does not agree to believe that its very excess of tenderness can engender indifference, she began to attribute her misfortune to those cursed teeth. “With other teeth, Fausto would perhaps be mine.” And a strange and daring purpose germinated in her mind. Only those who know the narrow and routine life of small towns ; the alarm produced in modest homes by the prospect of any expense that is not strictly useful; the custom of girls resolving or undertaking nothing, leaving everything to the initiative of their elders—will understand how Águeda employed her will, skill, and firmness until she obtained the money and the license to carry out her plans… Fausto had already flown to Madrid; The town dozed in its winter slumber, and Águeda, rising each day with the same fixed idea, begged, pleaded, implored her mother, her godfather, her sisters, taking from the former a small sum, from the latter a handsome penny, from the latter their savings from the piggy bank… until she had amassed a sum with which, when spring came, she set out for the provincial capital… She was determined to have all her teeth pulled out and put on ideal, perfect teeth. Águeda was very womanly, timid and timid: she did not consider herself a heroine, and suffering frightened her; A shiver ran through her veins when, having discussed and agreed upon the price of the gruesome operation with the dentist, she settled into the spring chair and, commending herself to God, leaned her head back… The anesthetics commonly used today for painful extractions were unknown in Spain at that time , and even if they were known about, no one dared to use them, risking the danger and discredit that the slightest slip in such a delicate matter would bring. Águeda, therefore, had to face the pain with open eyes and a vigilant spirit, and master her childlike nerves so that they would not rebel against the atrocious torment. All her teeth were crooked, protruding, and large: they had to be uprooted one by one. Águeda, closing her eyes, fixed her thoughts on Fausto; Trembling, frozen with terror, she opened her mouth and suffered the first torture, the second, the third… At the fourth, seeing that she was covered in blood, she collapsed in a fatal collapse. “Rest at home,” the dentist opined. She returned to work the following day, however, because her funds were limited and she urgently needed to return to the village… She only endured two extractions; but the next day, eager to be done as quickly as possible, she endured four, although suffering anguish at the end. But as her strength declined, her spirits lifted, and in three more sessions her mouth was as clean as a newborn’s, smooth, bloody… As soon as her gums had healed, they fitted her with the new teeth, small, fine, even, divinely positioned: two little rows of pearls. She looked at herself in the inn mirror; she smiled; she was truly transformed by those teeth. Her lips now possessed expression, sweetness, softness, a voluptuous fullness and grace that permeated her entire face… Águeda, in the midst of her rejoicing, felt mortally tired; she hurried back to her village, and two days after arriving, a violent nervous fever threatened her life. She recovered from her trance; she convalesced, and her beauty, blossoming with her health, astonished the neighbors. A wealthy farmer, who saw her at the fair, proposed to her; but Águeda refused to even hear of such a proposal, which her parents strongly supported. Lush and adorned, she awaited the return of Fausto Arrayán, who appeared well into the summer, full of courtly hopes and vivid memories of recent adventures. However, Águeda’s beauty awakened in him still fresh memories , and the conversations, the window visits, the walks and the tenderness were renewed with greater animation by the gallant . Águeda seemed to him doubly pretty and attractive than before, and a little impetuous glow was beginning to communicate itself to his senses. One day, while talking with one of his childhood friends, he expressed the impression that Águeda’s beauty made on him, and the friend replied: “I believe it! She has improved a hundred percent since she got new teeth. ” Fausto was astonished. What? Her teeth? All of them, without missing one? How it upsets female vanity! And he burst into a laugh of humorous disappointment… When, years later, someone asked him why he had broken off so completely with that Águeda, who still remained single and showed signs of remaining that way for the rest of her life, Fausto Arrayán—already famous, glorious, master of the present and the future—replied, after a moment’s recollection: “Águeda…? Ah, yes!” Now I remember… Because it is not possible for a girl to be enthusiastic knowing that she has all her teeth false…! Chapter 29. INSPIRATION. The workshop, at that hour–eleven in the morning–had a cheerful appearance and even a certain domestic peace: still clean, swept, not stained by cigarette butts and matches, the fragments of colored pencil and the mud from boots, with the cheerful sunlight that entered through the large semicircular window, caressed the furniture and brought out reflections in the ironwork of the writing desk, the asterisk nails of the friars, and the upholstery of the mantle of the Gothic Our Lady. The horrible Japanese mask laughed benevolently from ear to ear, and Kruger, the enormous and lustrous Doge of Ulm, stretched out on a mass of chasuble fabrics, delightful for their pearly tones softened by time, dozed peacefully, reserving his outbursts of affection, expressed with nibbles and tail-swipes, for the afternoon. Aurelio Rogel, installed before the easel and the clean canvas, was desperately struggling with one of those crises of discouragement that assail the artist in our age, oversaturated with criticism and burdened with the weight of so many ideals and theories and so many demands of the worn-out senses and the fickle brain. What would he put on that plain, granitic canvas? What expression would the stains of colors respond to, waiting in line, on the edge of the polished palette, like soldiers ready to enter combat? Aurelio felt tired of academies and studies; of the eternal drawing for the sake of drawing, closely pursuing the line and the contour, without knowing why, with the aimlessness of the miser who hoards but does not circulate wealth. That science of drawing, in which Aurelio prided himself on having defeated and surpassed all his compatriots, branded as poor draftsmen; that mastery of form, at that moment, seemed sterile, vain, if it could not serve to embody an idea. And he saw the idea emerge, like luminous vapor, floating before his dreamy eyes, without being able to concretize or define it; so, disheartened, he could not bring himself to pick up the pencil. What was he going to do? In a quarter of an hour, the model would appear, the eternal model; one of the eternal models, rather. Or the liquor-soaked, hairy, and bestial tagarote; Or the vulgar Flemish girl, who left the smell of wildness and cheap soap in the studio; or the effeminate, prim lad, the pale voyou; a series of plebeian and vicious bodies, the sight of which had irritated Aurelio’s nerves to the point of infuriating him. Where was Beauty? “I will create her without any model,” he thought; “I will draw her from my mind, from my aspirations, from my heart, from my artistic sensibility…” But at the same time that he affirmed this program, he realized that he could not realize it: that he was bound by technical ties, the idiotic habit of looking toward an object, scrupulous fidelity, the inability to transfer to canvas what his eyes had not seen and studied in reality. So, when the bell rang announcing the arrival of the model—safe at such an hour—the painter felt a shudder of invincible repugnance. “I’m firing him today,” he decided; and, in a bad mood, He went out to open the door. He made a movement of surprise: the person knocking was unknown, a young woman; almost a child; she looked fifteen years old at most. To Aurelio’s questioning, the girl responded with signs of fear and shyness: “I’ve come… because Uncle Onofre, the drunk, told me… don’t you know? Well, since he’s very sick… and he said you were waiting for his portrait… I have a message that he won’t come. ” “Good, daughter,” Aurelio answered, satisfied and as if freed from a burden. “And what’s the matter with Uncle Onofre? ” “That blow,” the girl declared. ” He’s been in bed for three days, and it seems like every one of his bones has been crushed.” And since, despite the fact that the girl’s mission had apparently been fulfilled, she wouldn’t move from the doorframe, the painter, feeling sorry for her, pulled her away, saying: “Come in, daughter.” Come, I’ll give you some Malaga wine… The girl entered timidly, but without fuss or difficulty, and once in the studio, she looked around with astonished eyes, which expressed respect for what is not understood, and a vague fear. Suddenly her pupils stumbled upon a nude woman: that of the coarse, young Flemish woman, represented in the contortion of a maenad, on the same mess of antique canvases where Kruger was now dozing. And Aurelio, who was examining the girl, now outside the gloom of the anteroom, with that eye of the artist who unwittingly details and dissects, stepped back and stared, full of interest. The girl’s chlorotic pallor, as seen in the “woman’s study,” had transformed into the soft color of the rose that florists call “maiden flesh,” gradually passing , through a distinct gradation, to tones whose beauty recalled that of clouds at sunset. As if invisible suction cups were drawing the little blood from the veins and arteries to the skin, waves rose, first pink and then carmine, to the cheeks, the forehead, the temples, the entire face of the child; and in the amazement of her innocent gaze, and in the expression of inexpressible surprise on her lips, an inner beauty so great was revealed that Aurelio was on the point of falling to his knees. The girl said nothing; nor did the painter. Only when the wave of shame began to gradually subside, did Aurelio, timid in his turn, ask: “Are you Uncle Onofre’s daughter?” “No, sir… I’m his goddaughter. I have no father or mother. ” “Who do you live with? ” “With Uncle Onofre! ” “Do you serve as his maid? Do you work? ” “I work as much as I can,” was the humble reply. “There’s a great need… If it weren’t for the young men who paint Uncle Onofre’s portraits, I don’t know how we’d get out of this mess. And now, with his illness…” Emboldened by the sweetness with which Aurelio had spoken to her, the girl continued: “We’re going to see the blacks. At home, sir, there isn’t a penny. Since Uncle Onofre has that bad habit of drinking… If it isn’t the drinking, you won’t find a better man in all of Madrid. But that damned amylic acid… that’s eating away at his insides… And since Uncle Onofre knows that you and the other young painter who lives in the Passage are so charitable…” Well, he told me, he said: “You’re going there, Selma, and instead of taking my picture, they’ll take yours for a few days… because in the end, what they want is to take anyone’s picture an infinite number of times… and they’ll give you the money in advance… and we’ll see if we can make up for it.” Aurelio contemplated the new model offered to him, with the involuntarily harsh and cruel gaze of a laborer and an intelligent person in the market. Through the poor chintz skirt and the torn jacket, he guessed the lines. They were surely adorable, delicate and firm at the same time, with the purity of a closed bud and the grace of youth, which will soon transform it into a gallant flower, of enticing freshness. The proportion of the body, the roundness of the waist, the elegance of the bust, the grace of the head, everything promised a delightful model, the kind you can’t even find for a price. Aurelio was delighted. Perhaps the inspiration for the masterpiece was there! But when he was about to pronounce the Sacramental: “Undress… ” The memory of the wave of blood flooding his face, rising to his forehead and temples, erasing his features with its crimson hue, stopped him, dulling the sound in his throat. He felt himself blush in turn; it seemed to him that he had committed some shameful act deep inside. And approaching the girl, this is what he said: “I’ll paint your portrait, but on the condition that no one else paints your portrait . Do you understand? Double payment… You’re not going to any other young gentleman’s house. I’ll give you money… Now, my child… so that I can paint your portrait… you will stand like this… like this… facing that figure. Do you want to?” And while the wave of shame rose again to the girl’s cheeks and to her virginal temples before the Maenad’s immodest and vigorous _studio_ , Aurelius, with nervous vehemence at first, and with a sure hand later, stained the canvas, sketching his picture “Modesty,” which won him his first triumph at the Exposition, a second medal. Chapter 30. DARKLY. The little house, at the side of the road, separated from the ditch by a garden no bigger than a handkerchief, was pleasant, plastered, with windows painted a furious ultramarine blue, and a wooden overhang decorated with pavilions of blond ears of corn. In the garden, the hens and the rooster left nothing alive , they scratching with humble solicitude and he with arrogant contempt; But even so, the Lunar rosebushes were covered with fine, languid roses, the hydrangeas raised their sky-blue flakes, and an enormous cherry tree, affectionately placed by chance to the left of the house, provided cool shade. That view could have been the stuff of a fan-country, and even better if it was enlivened by the presence of the cheerful , laughing little girl in whom life dawned with lush shoots and springtime blossoms. Minga was an orphan, but she hadn’t noticed the loneliness or the abandonment, thanks to her brother Martín, who lavished her with the pampering of a mother and the protection of a father. Childhood doesn’t feel nostalgic for the past when the present is sweet. Minga didn’t remember her mother’s lap. Martín was—the other young men in the village used to repeat it, and not always with pious intentions—like a woman. He knew how to mix the broth and keep the pot on the fire; He washed, twisted, and hung out the clothes; he sold butter, vegetables, and eggs at the fair; he dressed and undressed Minga while she was very small, and he held her in his arms and caressed her and untangled the blond silk veil, luminous and vaporous like a halo of sanctity… He also took her by the hand to church, because Martín was something of a sacristan. He helped the priest, and his vague aspiration, if he hadn’t had to dedicate himself to caring for his sister, would have been to sing mass, decorate the altars amply, place flowers on the Virgin’s head, and hang pearl earrings on her. Martín’s character, his effeminate and tidy nature, was evident in the cleanliness of the gleaming, plastered cottage, in his habit of surrounding it with a garden, in the exquisite reed hedge, in Minga’s dress , always neat and even adorned with silk scarves on holidays, and in a certain humble courtesy that Martín showed to everyone, to the people of the village and to the lordship, multiplying obsequious phrases like “go well” and “God go with you.” There was no felt hat that stuck less to his head than Martín’s, nor a boy more hostile to parties and tunas, nor one who so hated cigars and dogs, nor one who would slip away with such haste from the atrium or the oak grove when he sensed that “one of sticks” was about to break out. The reveling and flirtatious girls, who are everywhere, passed by, brushing against him or pushing him, and Martín never took his eyes off the ground. He only smiled at the girls when they grabbed Minga and stuffed her with pebble-hard donuts, or cold zonchos, or sticky candies. The chord of that brotherly affection, almost paternal due to the difference in age, was what vibrated in Martín with deep vibrations, with the beats of an immense heart. What a jeer arose in the village when it was learned how Martín had Fallen soldier! Soldier, that little lady, that timid one, the one who knew how to sew and iron and wash like a woman! The one who didn’t use a knife, a sheath-knife, or a sad goad! There was no one who didn’t laugh: the old men with toothless mouths, the young women with fresh mouths and hard teeth. Nevertheless, a reaction came. The poor have neighbors: the village gossips, those who have sent sons to serve the King, are pious. And seeing Martín so stunned, so dejected, so withdrawn in spirit, the good gossips tried to console him in their own way with words of resignation, of chimerical hope, fantasizing about interventions of saints and miracles without a trace of plausibility. Martín bowed his head, crossed his hands, looked at Minga, and remained silent… He knew he had to go, not only to the barracks, but to something more terrible, something he couldn’t explain, something that held for him much mystery and more horror, something seen in the yearnings of a nightmare… The war…! The war far, far away… beyond the seas! One afternoon we were passing in front of the shack, and the priest, who was accompanying us, pointed toward the closed door, the garden eaten away by nettles and brambles, the balcony without its strings of ears of wheat, all solitary and dead, with that death of objects that indicates the absence of the spirit, of life-giving human activity. Alas! The priest could not console himself for the absence of Martín. Where could I find another one like that to help at mass, light and trim candles, fold and put away the vestments, another little lady just like that, crafty, docile, well -spoken, well-behaved? And to think that they had taken him off to fight with the blacks! What things! What misfortunes! “And the girl, the little sister?” I asked, remembering a haloed head of tousled, whitish-blond curls, a childlike laugh, cherry-colored lips, and light-blue eyes. “The girl!” repeated the priest. “That one… she doesn’t even remember that brother! The innkeeper took her in, you know? The wife of _Xuncras_… and since they don’t have any children, they’re so worried about her as to where to put her. There are children like that, the daughters of fate. Imagine what awaited the little girl.” Or go into service, and what good is an eleven-year-old maid? Or go to the hospice, or dedicate herself to begging… And so on the eve of Martín’s departure, God tempts the poor lad to enter the tabernacle of _Xuncras_ to have a few drinks and take away his melancholy; and they bring him wine, and beer, and flat shot, I don’t know! And after a few gulps–since he never tasted it–it goes to his head and he bursts into tears and screams and says that he believed he would never return and that Minga would die of want… And it turns out that the innkeeper, a heart of butter from Soria, also lets go of the rag, grabs him by the neck, and offers him to carry Minga… The husband was opposed; But the woman convinced him that a young girl was needed there to wash the glasses and sweep… And the one who washes and sweeps is the innkeeper, and Minga is like a queen, hands folded and well-dressed, laughing and singing… She’s happy as a clam. What a good jingle she’s getting ready there! It’s horrifying to see that satisfied face and at the same time those mourning clothes! And when the priest noticed my surprise, he continued: “Didn’t you know? Of course you did! At once… If he were a lazy bum, a vicious person, a dreamer, a loose cannon, he would return here safe and sound… Since he was such a polite little boy and folded his chasubles so well, he was tough! It was one of those sudden things, no joke… An ambush, a trap into which the detachment fell. I learned it from a letter received in Marineda, from a sergeant who escaped with his life. Ten or twelve died, and among them Martín. The newspapers didn’t bring him; if only they had brought the details!… Two black men jumped in Martín’s face. The strange thing is that they say he defended himself like a wild beast. I’m about to believe it. Poor little lady! It’s a miracle if she didn’t fall on her knees to be forgiven. The sergeant seems to be from Seville. Well, doesn’t it say that Martín sent one of the mambises to the other side, that he was a vicious animal? And Doesn’t he realize that he could almost carry the second one, and if it weren’t for the fact that he tripped and slipped and the other fell on his body and with all his weight, he would have finished him off? Bah! Bah! The thing is that Martín… An expressive gesture, a hand quickly turning around the throat, completed the sentence. “And yesterday I even said mass for him,” added the priest as we were already rounding the pine grove. Chapter 31. THE DROWNED MAN. Struck by hypochondria and gnawed by boredom; tired of the world, of men, of women, and even of horses; his nerves exhausted and his soul empty, Tristán decided to die. It would be good to stay, just for the hell of it, in such a clumsy and meaningless world; a world where pleasures are resolved into yawns, and illusions into disenchantment! To get it over with; sleep a sleep that was not counterbalanced by the probable awakening. And Tristan, now resolved on action, began to think of the _way_. The truth must be told: the rogue _way_ was like a bone that choked Tristan. Between the sincere desire to leave life and the act of taking it, there intervenes a single movement; but what a movement, gentlemen! Compared with it, the lifting of a mountain seems easy… The indecisions of Hamlet are cakes and painted bread compared with those of many unhappy children of this century, at once greedy and afraid of non-existence. Tristan had not a trace of cowardice; but courage is not a fixed quantity: there are those who are not afraid of a lion and turn pale at the sight of a cockroach. Nervous, with a cruel imagination, Tristan dreaded the fleeting instant when the revolver bullet would shatter the mass of his brain, or the rope would brutally squeeze his throat. By a strange contradiction, convinced of final annihilation, he even worried about what would happen to his body afterward. He saw the posthumous scene, the group formed around his corpse, and heard the trivial phrases, the inevitable pitiful reflections of friends and servants—all of it ridiculous, semi-grotesque, a parody of something tragic and grand that had not been realized. His good taste rebelled against such an ending. “To die, yes, but to die without making a spectacle; to leave life like someone discreetly retiring from a drawing room .” His purpose mature, Tristan decided that the most opportune place to put it into effect was an old castle he owned by the sea. Having retreated there for a while, society, if it had initially surprised him, would have forgotten him by the time what was bound to happen happened… The key was to leave no trace. “If Perico Gonzalvo and Manolo Lanzafuerte find out where I am, they’ll sneak off under the pretext of hunting or fishing…” And he surrounded his last, solitary journey with the complicated mystery inherent in other, more pleasant escapes. “They’ll think my escape has an accomplice…” the future suicide said to himself with ironic sadness. Seeing himself in the castle, his family’s former home, Tristán understood that there could be no better backdrop for the somber picture he was trying to paint. The rugged mountains, the blackened stones, the walls assaulted by ivy, the coast bristling with reefs, the beach always lashed by the pounding waves, the tower where owls and barn owls nested, breathed desolation and funereal melancholy. The horror of the landscape was increased by the season, which was the autumn equinox, with its furious storms and the frequent shipwrecks of vessels that, led astray by the fog, driven by the tempest, came to run aground and break up on the treacherous shallows of the Corvera, close to the beach that stretched out at the foot of Tristan’s residence. The incessant and hoarse roar of the waves; the horizon closed in mist or furrowed by livid exhalations; the earth soaked in water; the sand strewn with debris, planks and barrels, if not corpses, harmonized so well with Tristan’s mood and plans that he decided to seek rest at the bottom of the waters, pretending that he had been swept away by a wave. And to familiarize himself with the idea, he went down to the beach daily, feeling the vertigo of immensity and the attraction of the deep abyss take hold of his soul. His plan of suicide was quickly taking shape, and it gripped his spirit to such an extent that he was now dreaming of it like the first date with a beautiful and adored woman. One afternoon of a horrible storm, when the hurricane was shaking the weathervanes of the castle and twisting the trees, madly tousling their branches, Tristan believed the moment had come to execute his plan, and he descended, or rather, threw himself down onto the sand, fighting tooth and nail with the wind and illuminated by the sudden flash of lightning . One that lit up the horizon showed him, on the crest of an enormous wave, something that could have been either a prophecy or a faithful image of his destiny: it was the body of a man, a drowned man, floating and coming to be thrown against the rocks. “I’ll put a heavy weight around my throat so I don’t swim,” Tristan calculated as he spotted the approaching dead man ; and two minutes later, the gigantic wave, breaking on the rocks at ground level, deposited the drowned man on the sand. Tristan instinctively rushed toward him, picked up the body, and dragged it to the bottom of the sand, resting it on a rock. In the gloomy light of the western wind, he could see that he was a robust young man. “How hard this man must have fought,” he thought, “to avoid what I am seeking at all costs!” He felt the man’s bare torso, bruised by the stones, and didn’t think he could detect the rigidity of death. He even thought he could detect a trace of vital warmth. He felt an electric shock. “He’s alive! This man is still alive!” Trembling with emotion, remembering the first aid that must be given to the drowning, he held the man’s head high, tilted him to his right side, and shook him repeatedly until a jet of water had flowed from his mouth. He pressed his palm against the left nipple again and thought he felt a faint heartbeat, which made him utter a cry of joy. With superhuman vigor, he hoisted the inert body onto his shoulders and launched himself up the slope that led to the castle. The weight was heavy: halfway up, Tristan realized he was gasping for air. He paused for a moment, and then with renewed vigor continued on, not pausing until he had released the drowning man into the castle kitchen, where a good wood fire was burning. “Quick,” Tristan shouted to his attendants, “bring blankets; heat bricks and fill bottles with boiling water; bring a mattress; is there any brandy?” And while they ran to provide him with what he demanded, Tristan, bending over the body, watched with anxiety the bluish pallor of the face, a sure sign of asphyxiation, and believed that the spark of life, the weak flame, was about to be extinguished. “We must try the great remedy.” And with more enthusiasm than he had ever felt when bringing his lips to those of any woman, he pressed his mouth to the frozen mouth of the drowned man, waiting for the first breath of air, while his strong , elastic hands rhythmically pressed the sternum and abdomen, provoking artificial respiration through vigorous tractions. Palpitating with hope and charity, he rejoiced when mouthfuls of bitter water, mixed with impurities, appeared in the cold mouth. Was the beneficial air finally penetrating the lungs? Suddenly, he perceived a slight shudder beneath his lips: there was no doubt, the man was breathing! Eagerly, he redoubled his exhalation, sending out that warm wave that was the dying man’s existence, resurrection, salvation… And as soon as the dying man’s face colored slightly, as soon as his eyelids half-opened, Tristan, exhausted, without realizing what he was doing, fell to his knees, folded his hands, and two small, sweet, fresh tears fell from his ducts… At this hour, Tristan has not committed suicide, nor is it to be believed that he is thinking of committing suicide. Could it be that he appreciated life when he gave it away wrapped in his breath? Could it be that boredom dissipates with the first good deed, like a ghost at the cock’s crow? Chapter 32. THE MILL. From a distance you wouldn’t see it, because it’s hidden by a dense curtain of chestnut trees, and clumps of willow and willow, whose fine gray greenery harmonizes with the pale emerald of the meadow. But come closer, and you are captivated and captivated by the grace of the rustic mill; in front of it, the dam, festooned with cattails, poas, purple irises, and yellow hemlock; the dam with its dormant water, its slime bottom where fat eels and scything frogs breed; Then, the four white walls of the little house, its red roof, its blackish wheel that churns the water with a muffled breath and roar… And in the doorway, standing with her open palms resting on her massive hips, her dark face illuminated by her gray eyes and cherry lips, her tousled curly hair powdered à la Louis XV, you make out Mariniña, the miller’s wife, who is looking toward the path of the grove, hopeful that Chinto Moure will soon appear along it… There is never a lack of excuses to go to the mill; there is always a ferrado of corn, a sack of wheat to grind for the week’s batch. The people of the village already know: Chinto is ready to carry out the commission, giving thanks on top of it. Equipped with a goad with which he spurs his horse and a long _adival_ to tie the sacks to his back; Barefoot in summer, shod in winter with thick wooden-soled boots, Chinto sets out on his walk from the parish of Sentrove to the mill of Carazás, to see Mariniña for a while and enjoy a delicious conversation with her, amidst the fluttering of the fine clouds of the bluebells and the uniform music of the rodicio that incessantly grinds the grain. Why, if their thoughts were so close and their hearts as close as the white millstone and the blond corn, were Mariniña and Chinto not planning to get married? No one in the parish knew it: Chinto had not yet entered his lot; and his terror of the barracks and the uniform was such that if he were dealt a bad hand, he had resolved to flee to South America on the first ship that left the port of Marineda… And even for that reason, the young men of Carazás and those of the surrounding parishes mocked and made long mockery of Mariniña, announcing that with such a cowardly and timid lover and husband, the woman and the mill would be poorly protected in the future, the maquila poorly paid, and any attempts at dalliance with the fresh and rosy-cheeked miller’s wife poorly repressed. Chinto’s exterior cannot be denied as lending grounds to these suppositions and omens of the future. Of medium height, slender, with a curly head similar to that of the saints on the altarpiece of the Romanesque church where the people of Carazás hear mass, Chinto looked like a pretty maiden disguised in a man’s habit; Her voice was soft, her accent humble, her manners shy and courteous. The work in the fields hadn’t been enough to tan her skin, and when her tow shirt was parted, it revealed a white complexion, smooth and soft, a sweet silk that drove Mariniña crazy… Because it’s worth knowing that the miller’s wife, that determined and energetically hard-working girl, “a she-wolf,” as the gossips of the _rueiro_ would say, was moved, drooled with pleasure, in short, died of love for the delicate and childlike young man—one might even say effeminate—who walked up and down the path to the mill every night. Not that Mariniña lacked other qualities. On the contrary: a more sought-after and coveted woman did not exist within three leagues, from the seashore and the small fishing ports bathed by the silver waves of the estuary, to the hills of Britón, where the rough Celtic cliffs begin to rise among the somber pine groves. It was not so much the plump figure and the flowery cheeks of the miller, but the cursed lure of the mill, the complicity of the rodicio, the familiarity of the maquila. In the village there are no _Casinos_ or _Veloces_, no one knows what a _sarao_ or a _raout_ is; but do not trust it: what happens in the court between walls dressed in silk, happens there in the atrium of the church at the end of the high mass, in the _desfolla_, in the field of the pilgrimage or on the nights at the mill… Above all, on the nights at the mill; in summer, by the clear moonlight; in winter, by the dubious clarity of the kerosene lamp, wills are coordinated and the garland of poppies and chamomile of rustic love is woven.—The rush, the crush of work, oblige one to grind the entire night, and waiting for their sack, boys and girls gather there, exchanging verses of _enchoyada_, a lively gallant dialogue, of finesse and disdain, of satire and mischief, sometimes accompanied by the tambourine in its Argentine ringing. —And in the heated atmosphere of the peasant _salon_, Mariniña reigns and attracts wills: now surly, now smiling; quick to joke; quick to repress the unruly and overly loose-handed obsequious givers; active and strong at work, spirited and with strong fists to lift the full sack or help to unload and empty it… there is not a single young man who goes to the mill who does not think of the miller’s wife, and does not harbor hatred and dislike for Chinto, murmuring about him with contemptuous and ironic phrases: “What a strange pleasure, to go and fancy that blondie, that little lady, who wore skirts before her breeches! Someone capable of collapsing with fear at the idea of serving the king! Someone who didn’t even smoke, or use a knife, or speak words, or taste the liquor on the day of the festival! A papulito who had never touched a stick to anyone, or knew how to break a head with a bisarma!” The rage of the spurned suitors against the fortunate Chinto inspired them with a diabolical idea. Santiago de Andrea, Mingos from Sentrove, Calros Antelo, Raposín… joined the conspiracy. The trio of skulls in caps who used to roam the villages in the sound of revelry and tuna, beating challenging atruxos and leaning against the gate of the marriageable raparigas to sing spicy songs… This happened back in November, when the path leading to the mill was soaked in icy dew, and the fallen leaves of the chestnut trees formed a soft carpet, and the mist, enveloping the landscape in a thick veil, revealed the gaunt silhouettes of the trees, resembling long-armed specters. –When the conspirators knew that Chinto would be passing by the mill around midnight, they wrapped themselves in white sheets, placed pots with a pair of holes in each one on their heads, and inside them the ends of a tallow candle; they twisted bundles of straw, and positioned themselves at the edge of the chestnut grove, at the hour when the moon sets and the owl greets the darkness with its mournful cry. Chinto was taking a long time to arrive; not a sound could be heard on the path, only in the distance the sobbing of the mill, and the cold and impatience produced deep unease in the conspirators. At first they had laughed and joked, celebrating the occurrence, which was, as they said, a beautiful joke! Resembling a procession of ghosts, of souls from the other world, the funereal company; to light the tallow stub and the bundles of straw, and parade like that before the fearful Chinto… to burst with laughter! But the vigil passed; the slow, icy dew soaked the bones; in the distance, the rooster’s crowed… and no sign of Chinto. They were beginning to deliberate whether it would be advisable to retreat, when from far away in the darkness of the forest, a moan arose, a supernatural complaint. Another complaint, even more mournful, if possible, answered the first, and the conspirators’ hair stood on end when they saw two white figures emerging from among the chestnut trees and advancing slowly with sepulchral majesty… Most of them, rolling up their chiffons, began to run; Mingos, from Sentrove, fell injured; Carlos Antelo knelt and began to confess and beg forgiveness for his sins; Santiago de Andrea was the only one who wanted to attack the ghosts; and he would have done so, if a perfectly accurate stone, hitting him in the middle of his forehead, hadn’t knocked him to the ground, truly half dead… Everything is known in the villages, and thanks to a thousand superstitious rumors, inventions and tales of goblins and witches, the truth was discovered, and they amused themselves at the mill at the expense of the mocked scoffers. For it was the clever and mischievous Mariniña, and it was Chinto, forewarned and taught by her, who, disguised as ghosts and with a good fragment of quartz from the road, had dispersed the host and crossed Andrea, the most stubborn of the haunters who were besieging the miller’s wife. Rage, spite, shame, inspired the young man with a terrible desire for revenge, and to take revenge where everyone could see it, in the face of the parish. He resolved, therefore, that on the first night, that a sufficient number of people should be gathered at the mill to serve as witnesses, to challenge Chinto and bring him to heel with slaps and kicks, until he was defeated. At the time when Santiago entered the mill with such furious intentions a few days after Epiphany, Mariniña and her servant were busy placing a sack of flour, laughing tenderly when their fingers bumped or their faces came close in the heat of the task. The miller’s wife immediately realized that the scorned and stoned gentleman was getting quarrelsome, and with a subtle gesture she ordered Chinto to step back. Her anguish and fear that the retaliation might endanger Chinto’s life lent Mariniña, at that moment, even greater quickness of conception and energy of action than usual. Confronting Santiago, laughing and provoking him, she proposed fighting. This custom of fighting, which is now disappearing, still exists in some Galician regions, perhaps a remnant of a warlike social state in which women fought alongside men. The girls still fight among themselves, even challenging the young man, the battle then degenerating into a delightful game. But from the moment Santiago—whose blood was boiling in a tumultuous ebullition—knelt before Mariniña , who was also kneeling, he instinctively understood that this fight would not be like any other; that it was for real. Just by seeing the girl’s movement as she rolled up her sleeves, the sparkle of her proud eyes, the rigidity of her figure, the hard bar between her brows, one could guess the serious _loita_, in which the goal is to overwhelm the opponent, employing all the vigor of one’s muscles and all the resolve of one’s soul. While Chinto, pale and trembling, took refuge in a corner, the adversaries held hands, tensing their forearms and drawing close until their labored breaths mingled. Young men and women, in a circle, jostled each other for a better view, betting and arguing. Santiago displayed his full strength when he noticed that Mariniña, at times, was gaining the upper hand. His face red, his complexion sweaty, the boy struggled, while the Amazon, firm and strong, maintained her push, gaining ground. Having her so close, unnerved Santiago, making him unconscious; and she, indifferent, intent only on winning, took advantage of her adversary’s confusion and imperceptibly gained the upper hand. Finally, she twisted the man’s right wrist in the air; his arm bent; the left one also gave way to the woman’s overwhelming impulse… and Santiago, giving the _pinche_, was thrown face down to the ground, held by the triumphant Mariniña, who mercilessly slammed him with blows, pounded him with handfuls on the back of the neck and loins, rubbed his face in the bran and flour that covered the floor, and did not allow him to get up until he confessed himself defeated, defeated, and ready to accept peace under any conditions that were offered to him. As soon as Santiago rose, bruised, covered in flour, and wearing a mask, Mariniña took him to the mill dam, where, wetting her apron, she herself washed his face. And, affectionate and sweet, as the Galician woman always is, no matter how strong and spirited God created her, she said to her defeated enemy: “By the mother who gave birth to you, you must not scare Chinto away from me, poor boy, for the poor fellow is not fit to do barbaric things like you and me, and he is a saint, with no bad intentions, and with his blood medicines can be made… And if he is timid, I am brave, devil… And I will only marry him, and if he falls as a soldier, the mill will be sold and A man is bought… If you have a law in me, Santiaguiño, don’t mess with Chinto… My word? The lad sighed, and perhaps it wasn’t because the scratches and bumps hurt him; he looked at Mariniña, still red from the fight; he gave her a familiar slap, with affection and resignation, and replied laconically, drying himself with the beak of his apron, which hadn’t gotten wet in the dam: “My word.” Chapter 33. ADVENTURE. Madame Anstalt, wife of a very opulent banker, nervous and capricious, was dying of boredom on Carnival Sunday, after lunch, at two in the afternoon. What hours of tedium she was going to spend! How would she spend them? She had nothing to do, and the idea of having someone harnessed up to take her on a ride around the eternal Recoletos waterwheel, responding to the insipidities or jokes of the three or four elite boys who used to destroy her landau by lying on the hood; the prospect of the painted satin bag filled with candies and fondants; the trite and triviality of the diversion, made her yawn in advance. Would she decide on the country house or Moncloa? What melancholy, what malarial dampness, what subtle February cold, the kind that drives rheumatism to the marrow! No; until April, nature is sour and harsh. “What a pity I’m not very devout!” thought Clara Anstalt, “because I’d take refuge in a church…” A woman who is thoroughly bored, undevout, and occasionally neurotic , is in imminent danger of committing the greatest extravagance. Clara suddenly sat up, rang the bell, and the maid appeared; upon hearing her mistress’s command, she made a face of surprise; but obeyed immediately, without questions or objections of any kind; she left and returned a short time later, carrying a large basket of folded clothes. “Are you sure, Rita, that it’s the new livery, the one I haven’t worn yet? ” “Ma’am! It’s as if Feliciano hasn’t even seen it: the tailor brought it last night, I picked it up from the doorman, and I was planning to give it to him now… ” “Don’t let him know you’ve come. Leave that basket on my dressing table, and go buy me a whole cardboard head, the ugliest and most comfortable one you can find… One that won’t impede my breathing… Has the gentleman left yet?” “A while ago. ” “Well, everything was quiet, little one… eh?” Rita returned quickly, breathless; Clara was getting impatient, running around, and laughing aloud, like children when they promise themselves some crazy, incalculable fun. The mistress and maid shut themselves in the dressing room, and Clara tied up the mistress’s silky hair and put the footman’s bell-bottom boots on her, after dressing her in knitted breeches and a short frock coat and cinching her with a leather belt. Finally, she secured the enormous mask on her shoulders. Thus disfigured, with the garment that adapted exactly to her graceful, slender, and dull form , she looked like a refined young gentleman who, to better conceal himself, had borrowed the groom’s livery.” Clara jumped for joy. The thought assailed her, wondering if they might mistreat her, and she considered carrying a weapon; But remembering a favorite phrase of her husband’s: “There’s no bullet that hits like a thousand-dollar bill,” she took a generous amount of money from her secretaire and put it in the bottom of a brocade sack, covering her mouth with a layer of sweets and frosted violets. “I’ll go out through the gentleman’s rooms and into the garden. Bring the key and see if anyone is around to see me.” And now at the gate, which opened onto a deserted street, Clara once again turned to Rita, placing her finger to her cardboard lips, as if repeating: “Silence!” Upon finding herself in the street, she first walked very quickly; then she shortened her pace, savoring her joy. To see herself free, alone, ignored, lost in the crowd, without shackles or social conventions; free to go wherever she pleased, to entertain herself with a new and original spectacle, that of the poor people, the populace, in whose waves she was beginning to submerge! Indeed; Clara was at the entrance to Genoa Street, where motley groups were descending towards the carriage promenade, An uninterrupted stream of rabble, dragging ragged urchins and figureheads. Wrapped in the threadbare bedspread and brandishing the tattered broom or the bald feather duster; clad in the green, red, or blackish sheen of the tailed devils; flaunting the baby’s blouse or waving with every movement millions of strips of garishly colored paper that covered them from top to bottom, the figureheads passed by cheerfully and boisterously, chatting in falsetto, flirting with the chulas with their elaborate buns, literally hidden under a thick layer of multicolored confetti, which flew around with every movement of their graceful heads. Some of those rakish young women, passing near Clara, taking her, as was natural, for a neat and cute little lackey, provoked her, flirted with her with spicy taunts. Clara laughed: she couldn’t remember having had so much fun for a long time. The excitement of the street carnival went to her head, like the ordinary, but fresh, and lively must of a popular festival. She found the day beautiful, life good, and a spring breeze, through the holes in her mask, caressed her mouth and eyes. “If they find out and skin me,” she thought, “so much the worse for them… I’ll have had a lovely afternoon. Now I’ll go to the promenade and amuse myself by insulting all my friends… Brave wretches! They’ll be there nursing headaches and eating duck.” While she was thus thinking, a high-pitched little voice sounded at her feet, and weak, tenacious hands grasped her boots. “Hey, you… give me a little alms, for the love of God, I’m very hungry. ” Clara lowered her gaze. She had heard the same refrain a hundred times, and a copper coin was enough to free her from the little beggar. “This one sticks to me like a tick,” she thought. “He doesn’t want to let go…” She took a peseta from her coat pocket and presented it to the boy. She expected an expression of jubilation, some jocular and casual phrases, the kind that beggars in the gutter know how to say… With great astonishment, she saw that the boy, upon taking the peseta, quickly took the hand of the supposed footman and humbly kissed it. A kind of shame and sorrow hitherto unknown penetrated the soul of the opulent Madame d’ Anstalt. She had never imagined that a peseta—a sum of no appreciable value to her, like a centimo to others—could elicit such a fervent and spontaneous outpouring of gratitude! He lowered his eyes with difficulty, hindered by the cardboard head, and taking the boy in his arms, he lifted him up. “Little one, whose son are you? Let’s see. ” “No one’s,” replied the rascal. “How is that? No one’s? Don’t you have a father? ” “I don’t know… I don’t know him. ” “And your mother? ” “He died eight days ago of a very bad illness. ” “And you? ” “As for me… they wanted to take me to the asylum, but I escaped, and I walk around the streets like this. At night I hide in the corner of a doorway… During the day I beg . ” Clara reflected for a moment. Then she put the boy down on the ground and stroked his head with her hand. “Do you want to come to a house where they’ll give you food and sleep in a good, warm bed?” The boy didn’t reply at first. A precocious instinct for absolute independence was undoubtedly rising in his spirit, and the material advantages of the offer didn’t tempt him; Without a doubt his weak neck was already showing the discomfort of the yoke, and his emaciated hands, living testimony to the physiological misery of an organism subjected to privation, rebelled against the shackles and manacles they tried to put on him in the name of well-being… While he hesitated and felt inclined to run away, so as not to be taken to any place with a roof and walls, Clara’s hand, stripped of its rough glove, soft and feminine, caressed the tangled hair and lovingly struck the scoundrel’s gaunt cheeks… And he, suddenly magnetized, exclaimed: “Come on, let’s go to that house… if you’re in it!” To the boy’s effusion he responded immediately, like a spark Electric at the touch of the wires, the ardent, irresistible, maternal impulse of the lady, who took the little one in her arms again, and, unable to kiss him, pressed him to her heart. “Yes, my son… I will be… You’ll see how I must love you!” To make Clara’s resolution more meritorious, the world has slandered her, supposing that the child she took in and so lovingly cares for and educates is a stolen child, a domestic contraband… What does it matter to Clara? She no longer yawns with boredom any afternoon of the year. Chapter 34. THE OFFICE OF THE DEAD. “Do you believe,” the professor of medicine asked me, “in some omen? Is there room for superstition in your soul?” When you told me, we were sitting in the fresh air at the door of the cellar. The leafy vine that covers one of the facades of the Pazo was already reddening, aglow with autumn. Part of its scalloped leaves carpeted the ground, coating the dry earth in purple, cracked by the stifling midday heat. The winegrowers, called “carretones,” came and went, dropping their load of grapes at the foot of the winepress, emptying the deep basket from which a cascade of violet bunches of fat, tightly packed berries poured out. A famous harvest! I could already see the wine that would come out of it, the best, the most esteemed in the Borde… And half distracted, I answered: “Omens? No… Unless… Ah! Yes: I would tell you a fact… ” “Something that has “happened” to you? ” “To me?… No. It seems to me—don’t ask me the reason for this imagination—that nothing “can” happen to me.” And indeed, in all my life… –Then allow me to ignore the stories told by impressionable people… or liars. –It’s not a story,– I stated, already forgetting the interesting grape harvest I was witnessing, and my thoughts going back to my youth. –It’s a case I witnessed. As soon as you hear it, you’ll understand how there was no farce or lie. The explanation… I can’t grasp it. In these matters, I’m neither credulous nor fearful, nor a closed-fist skeptic. What do you want! We live wrapped in mystery. Birth is a mystery, living is a mystery, dying is a mystery, and the world is a very great mystery! We walk among shadows, and the guide we have… is a blind guide: faith. Because science is admirable, but limited. And perhaps it will never penetrate to the depths of things. The professor shook his graying head, smiled, and, resting his beard on the handle of his walking stick, prepared to listen to me—and then to pulverize me—because he assumed I was going to tell him some dream. We artists are not to be trusted: we live enslaved by the imagination and fulfilling its whims. “Have you met Ramoniña Novoa?” I began. “Have I met her? I was called in for a consultation last year when she had an operation in Compostela for a sarcoma in her left breast. By all accounts, I disapproved of the operation, which served to hasten her death by a few days. There, all that could be done was to let things unfold to their inevitable outcome. ” “Well, you should know that Ramoniña, in her youth, was the liveliest and most dancing girl in all of Borde. Her father, Don Ramón Novoa de Vindome, was eager to amuse her; he dressed her very nicely; He didn’t deny her any whim. He adored her, because she was a living image of his deceased wife, to whom he had professed a kind of devotion and cult. No performance or fair could be conceived without Ramoniña Novoa appearing to show off her flowered shawl—it was the fashion—her ruffled silk dress , her helmet-shaped mantilla. The young gentlemen of the Borde showered her with gifts , and she flirted with one and then another, without making up her mind or quite choosing, just as Don Ramón desired, who, in the old-fashioned and patriarchal style, was mad for a grandson. The ancients believed that when God wants to punish us, He grants our foolish desires. Suddenly, Ramoniña, abandoning her flirting and joking, fell head over heels in love—and with whom? With a poor student, son of a romance-writing surgeon and nephew of the priest. de Cebre—a witty little fool who composed verses and played the tambourine with his knees and elbows. A brave marriage for the heir of Novoa de Vindome, from the Fajardo manor! The priest, uneasy at first, furious later, opposed her headstrong and spared no means to dislodge such madness from Ramoniña’s mind. He locked her in the house; he took her to Auriabella; he begged; he warned; he threatened; he brought the friars, the confessor, the relatives, the friends, the bishop into play… In vain. Things were already well underway; the freedom of the countryside and the lack of suspicion in the early days had strengthened the bond and rooted passion in the young lady’s soul… and one night she ran away with the student, leaving her father in the greatest affliction and shame. “We have concluded.” Let them get married, decided Señor de Novoa. I will give her mother’s dowry to my daughter… and I will never hear her mentioned again, nor see her before my eyes. You know what usually happens. The honeycomb of stolen honey is sweet at first, but ends in bitterness. The student did not change his condition upon getting married; with his wife’s dowry, he thought he could live a comfortable and happy life, and he did not look at what he spent, believing that, when it was gone, Señor de Novoa would remedy the situation. But the latter was inflexible and closed the door and the purse. The couple had gone to live in Auriabella, and Ramoniña, sad and worried for more than one reason—it was said that her husband played the tambourine on her flesh and beat her firmly—wrote letter after letter to her father, without receiving a reply. A little boy had been born—that long-awaited heir—and when the child was three years old and Ramoniña had suffered three thousand disappointments, she came to see me, begging me to accompany her on the expedition she was planning to undertake to the Pazo de Vindome, with the intention of throwing herself at Don Ramón’s feet, presenting him with the child, and achieving an embrace of reconciliation and peace. “If I don’t see Papa,” she said, “I think I’ll die.” “Don’t go,” I advised Ramoniña. “Don Ramón won’t see you. Look, I spoke to him a little while ago, and he is adamant that he will not exchange a word with you in this world. “Only at the hour of death would I forgive you…” These were her words. And the hour of death is far off. Señor de Novoa looks like a young man: he’s strong, he eats well, he goes out hunting, he’s not in pain at all; he even seems to be thinking of remarrying. They say he ‘s determined to have a son. Sixty years better spent, there aren’t any in all of the Borde. Ramoniña looked at me with an expression of deep anxiety, of infinite anguish, and insisted that she wanted to “try her luck.” Seeing her so distressed, so consumed by sorrow, I couldn’t refuse, and we set off. We left Auriabella at one in the afternoon, on one of the longest days of the year: June 20. We were on horseback, because there is no road between Auriabella and the Pazo de Vindome. Our mounts, local ponies, trotted briskly: in front, a servant carried the child on the saddle; behind, the two of us and a horseman; Ramoniña perched on the saddle, not without fear, because she was already somewhat advanced in her second pregnancy. The road… Do you know the road from Auriabella to Vindome well? Up to the top of Las Taboadas, it’s regular, but upon reaching the church of Martiñós, it’s a sheer cliff face. It makes one’s head spin if one looks down into the valley far below; and one gets dizzy if one contemplates the twists and turns of the very narrow path. It’s beautiful, but imposing. That’s no doubt why, as we reached the point where the bell tower of Martiñós could now be seen, Ramoniña shouted that she wanted to dismount and walk the remaining stretch to the Pazo. I granted her wish, natural given her state and mood, and leaving the mounts to go ahead with the espolique, we stayed a little behind, walking slowly. The sun was setting, and farther down in the valley the fog was beginning to thicken. At that pace we would reach Vindome by nightfall. Ramoniña anxiously asked me, “Do you think my father won’t even let me sleep at home tonight ?” They have been fixed on me, as if I were witnessing them now, details of that event. We were approaching a pine grove called Las Moiras, and since a breeze had sprung up, I put on the coat I had been carrying over my arm. At this point, Ramoniña’s voice rose, exclaiming in a tone of profound terror: “Jesus! Jesus! Can you hear? Can you hear? Jesus, Maria! ” “What am I expected to hear? ” “There… Toward Martiñós… In the church… ” “But what?” I repeated, alarmed, such was the terror my companion’s voice revealed. “The Office for the Dead! They’re singing it! They’re singing it!” I paid attention despite myself. All I could hear was the long, plaintive murmur of the evening breeze in the tops of the pines, and the now distant trot of our mounts. I told Ramoniña this, laughing. But she, embracing me, hiding her face in my breast, trembling, dissolved in sobs, repeated: “It’s the Office for the Dead! It can be heard perfectly well!… There are so many voices… They’re singing it! They’re singing it!… Jesus!” I paused, and the professor interrupted me: “Well, so what? A hallucination of the ear. In a state of pregnancy, it’s the most common… ” “Yes,” I objected; “but you should know that when we arrived at the Pazo de Vindome, we found that Don Ramón had just died suddenly, of apoplexy; that his body was still warm; that neither that day nor the previous ones had the Office for the Dead been sung in the church of Martiñós; and that Ramoniña heard it distinctly from the pine grove of the Moiras; “Do you see? Over there…” Chapter 35. JUAN TRIGO. The hero of my tale was born… it’s impossible to say where; all Clio, the muse of history, says is that one July afternoon he appeared, reclining among the poppies, naked as a worm, at the edge of a wheat field at harvest time. They almost left him in the middle of the path, where he would have been crushed as the immense carts laden with golden grain passed by. The reapers, both men and women, saw the child asleep in its holy innocence, and tenderly picked it up, joking among themselves, naming the baby “John Wheat” and assuring it of a crazy fate, like one beginning life amidst the same abundance. The prediction seemed to be fulfilled without delay. There was no woman in the village—what a strange coincidence!—who was nursing a child; But the wife of the Marquis, owner of the wheat field and many others, and of the most beautiful farm within six leagues, had just given birth to a stillborn daughter, and there was fear for the mother if she did not relieve the milk pent up in her womb. The doctor advised the noble lady to raise the abandoned child, and so it found, from the first moment, sustenance, pampering, and love. They wrapped it in fine swaddling clothes, treated it like a king, and it grew up beautiful and strong, brimming with liveliness and joy. The Marchioness took a tender liking to it, more like a mother than a nurse, and since it was hard to believe that those lords could now inherit a family, everyone assumed that Juan Trigo would be the heir to their fortune and name. At an untimely moment, more than ten years later, nature surprised the Marquis with another daughter and the Marchioness with death, caused by the difficult and untimely affair. Although Juan, as a young man, did not fully understand what he was losing, he felt and guessed at it, and for many months he seemed strangely dejected and sad. Nevertheless, his situation, it seems, had not changed. Whether in memory of his wife or out of true affection, the Marquis continued to treat him as before: he even showed him preference, to such an extent that the rumor began to spread that Juan was the Marquis’s true son, the fruit of secret love affairs, and that he would be entitled “today or tomorrow” to a good part of the inheritance. This supposition was confirmed when Juan was sent to an aristocratic and famous English school, where he pursued studies that were more brilliant than useful, and from which he returned at the age of twenty-three a distinguished gentleman. Society welcomed him with praise and smiles, although behind his back people commented on the ambiguity of his position; and as He was handsome and charming, and even had the prestige of legend and mystery. The ladies received him with great pleasure, clearly demonstrating that Juan’s presence did not inspire horror in them, nor anything worthy of it. On that occasion, if Juan had had a fondness for flowers, he would have easily put together a lovely bouquet of roses, pansies, and forget-me-nots, whose aroma he would continue to inhale with his memory well into his later years. But Juan was in love— quietly and tenaciously in love—with the Marquis’s daughter, Dolores, in whom he recognized the features of the one who had served as his mother: a girl of surprising beauty who, according to the phrase in the Holy Book, had stolen Juan’s heart with just the crunch of her little shoes— fine patent leather shoes, long and lustrous over her transparent silk stocking. A crunch that Juan recognized among the thousand sounds of creation, just as he recognized the cascades of her youthful laughter, the rustle of her short skirt, the faint perfume of her flowing hair, and the _rissch!_ of her little fan as her impatient hand opened it. Juan believed that her mad desire was unknown to him; but little girls are geniuses at this, and Dolores noticed that they loved her, and not only did she notice it, but she showed such an inclination toward Juan that, defeated, he confessed outright. The girl, more inexperienced, more vehement, more ignorant of the terrible consequences of a wrong step, then arranged the escape route, arranging and facilitating things in such a way that, given the scandal, the father would have no choice but to give his consent. The plot was hatched without anyone suspecting a word; but on the eve of the appointed day, Juan, pale and trembling, threw himself at the Marquis’s feet and revealed the plot. Like all who truly love, he preferred his own misfortune to the harm of others; he placed the honor and happiness of Dolores before the selfishness of his passion. Thus the poor foundling repaid his debt to the house that had welcomed and protected him; thus he acknowledged, through the grave, the maternal care he had received from the lady he could not forget. As he consummated the sacrifice, his soul bled. And when the Marquis, praising his honest sincerity highly, took his ticket to London as a first-time precaution, Juan, instead of leaving for the train, fell into bed, where he was struck by a raging fever. The Marquis ordered him to be cared for; in the meantime, he placed Dolores in a convent of nuns, with serious and good guardians; and now that he was fully convalescing, Juan, for greater safety—because every precaution is too few, and whoever once stumbles is liable to fall—requested a position for the young man far, far away… as far away as possible. And they granted him one overseas, and one so handsome that had Juan been of a different standing, his lot would have been made within a few years. One could have reached up to the elbow in that blessed administrative prebend, and one can believe that, when it was granted to him, they expected him to take advantage of it. because Dolores’s father, who, despite the rumors, had no relationship with Juan other than the purely moral one of having protected him, felt a certain remorse at abandoning him, and entrusted the youth’s future to the generosity of our budget , without realizing that, despite lacking clear ancestry, he possessed vigorous honesty. The only thing Juan brought back from overseas, four years later , were some meager savings, which he spent trying to cure a liver ailment; and since the Marquis had died and Dolores was married, Juan found himself, as he began to descend the arid slope of middle age, as alone and poor as when they had taken him in from the wheat field. Then—without explaining why—he felt an inexplicable desire to see again the place and the farm where he had spent such a relatively happy childhood. He arrived there in the afternoon, on foot, leaning on a thick cane; The first thing he did was walk around the wall of the villa, recalling a thousand memories that surged up at the sight of each tree and the shape of each stone. His heart suddenly beat violently: in the ancient gazebo, surrounded by rosebushes, suspended over the road, he had just seen a woman and two children, she working, the children curiously observing the stooped, sad passenger with a sallow face. The woman, warned by the children, raised her head and fixed Juan with the inert gaze bestowed upon a stranger. Juan fled: Dolores’s eyes, looking at him like that, pierced his soul. He didn’t stop until he reached a field of wheat, ripe at that time, dotted with poppies like coral beads on a blond braid. The reapers, singing joyfully, had begun their work, and the sheaves were already being piled up in a corner of the field; but sunset was approaching, and they would soon be retiring to their hovels. Juan approached a woman and asked anxiously: “Is this the field where a child was picked up many years ago?” “There, sir,” the woman replied with that solicitous obedience of villagers, dropping her sickle and rising to precede Juan and show him the way. They had gone about ten minutes when the reaper stopped and struck the side of the path with its foot, saying, “Right here.” He was naked, just as he was born. I guess I remember this correctly, for I was a young girl then, and I was the first to pick the boy up in my arms. And my brother, who saw him like that, amidst the abundance, named him Juan Trigo. We felt so sorry for him, angel of God! Those of us who were out reaping wanted to keep him on cow’s milk, and I wanted to take him to my place; but a very great fate befell him. The Marchioness took him in and raised him, and she had him in great abundance . Now he’ll be a gentleman.” Juan remained silent. Bitterness overflowed in his soul. He thought he could have been the godson of that village girl, lived with her, helped her reap the harvest, knew no other cares or desires. Sinking to the ground, in the same place where they had found him, he pressed his face to the earth, and his tears slowly soaked it. Chapter 36. THE CAMEO. During his early youth, Antón Carranza believed himself born and predestined for art. Art attracted him like steel to a magnet, and fascinated him like a mirror fascinates a lark. Wherever his eyes encountered an elegant line, a beautiful form, a shade of intense and original color, there they remained captive, in an ecstasy of admiration, while his noble soul struggled between the sorrow of not having been the creator of that beauty and the arrogant illusion of producing a greater, more original, and more powerful beauty through study and work. It took years and disappointments to acquire the sad conviction that he lacked inspiration, artistic genius. His attempts were repeated, insistent, and fruitless. His fingers tightened in vain around the brush, the gouge, the toothpick, the burin, the damp clay. If he couldn’t be a painter or a sculptor, at least he wanted to excel as an ornamenter, an engraver, a woodcarver. Finally, feeling hopeless, he attempted to revive the exquisite goldsmithing of Benvenuto Cellini. And while on his own account he achieved nothing worthy of eternal praise, with jewelry, his discouraged artistic vocation turned into a profitable industrial speculation. He partnered with a renowned jeweler, built a workshop at a high level, and devoted himself to business, hiding the incurable wound of his ardent aspiration and his thousand failures. The jeweler who had taken Antón Carranza on as a partner had a daughter, whose marriage to the artist was the basis of the new company name. Luisa, Carranza’s wife, was neither pretty nor even graceful: she was disfigured by her sallow complexion, her angular features, and a very visible limp. Carranza, however, accepted the deal without any reluctance; her future inspired in him, for lack of more vehement feelings, sympathy and affection. As is often the case with men excessively possessed by artistic fever, Carranza was ignorant of other passions; a woman was for him a momentary necessity, and marriage a prudent guarantee of peace and affection. He married, therefore, contented and at peace, and behaved like a good and loyal husband. Wealthy and able to indulge his whims, Carranza searched and acquired precious objects. Since he was unable to model statues, he had them unearthed in Naples and Greece, and was able to place in his studio a beautiful Faun, a curious polychrome Bellona, a delight for archaeologists, and several fragments of merit and interest. Knowing his fondness, the vendors presented him with highly polished medals and engraved stones, and among several examples that did not exceed the limits of the usual and common, the lucid glance of the ill-fated artist discovered a Greek cameo that he immediately recognized and declared to be perhaps unique in the world. Neither the famous one, contemporary to Alexander, representing Psyche and Love; nor the marine Venus by Glycon; nor the celebrated sardonyx in the Farnese Gallery could eclipse that simple cameo, which only displayed the head of a woman, or rather, of a goddess. The relative ignorance of the dealer yielded the divinity for a paltry price, considering the cameo’s importance. Antón Carranza, owner of the priceless treasure, transported it in a box of malachite and precious stones, from which he took it out morning, noon, and night, to contemplate it at his leisure. What sobriety and purity of lines, what mysterious life that head breathed! Four features, barely visible planes, superimposed layers of agate that imperceptibly blend together… and a masterpiece, worthy of preserving a name throughout the centuries, a work that fixes and embodies the idea of a sublime beauty. Why had he, Antón Carranza, never been able to conceive anything that resembled that prodigious cameo? A work like that would be enough to make him happy for the rest of his life, fulfilling his desire and fulfilling his destiny… And never, never would anything resembling a cameo spring from his clumsy fingers and sterile imagination ! His enthusiasm for the stone took on a strange and morbid quality. With a fixation more akin to mental disturbance than sanity, Carranza would spend hours gazing at the marvel and trying to explain what secret force, what luminous ray the unknown man carried within him who so many centuries ago had produced that miracle. Perhaps not even he suspected the value of the imprint of genius left on the hard agate by his patient and firm right hand. Perhaps some young woman from Mytilene or Samos wore the cameo on her ring finger or hung it around her throat, unaware that she possessed an ideal treasure. Not even those who had unearthed and sold it now, in the present century, understood what they had in their hands. The first true possessor of the jewel was Antón Carranza… And in a nervous burst of disordered passion, Carranza pressed his lips to the cameo, pressing it against his chest, wanting to embed it there, to adhere it to his flesh… Finally, Luisa noticed, and everyone in the house, employees and friends, clients and correspondents, alarming symptoms in Antonio; and those who saw him up close were frightened by his fondness for solitude, his now acquired habit of locking himself away at unusual times, his silence at the table, and they considered him a maniac, believing that the commercial interests of the company were endangered by his power. It was doubly sad for Luisa that her husband’s reason had been clouded, now that, her sweetest wishes fulfilled, she felt herself pregnant and dreamed of the ineffable moment of holding the child she was expecting… After consulting the doctor about Carranza’s condition, and having observed him slowly, persistently, and discreetly, his verdict was terrible: it was a case of tenacious monomania, accompanied by serious disorders in the functions of the liver and heart; and to save the patient’s reason and perhaps his life, it was necessary to lock him up without delay in a nursing home, subjecting him to a rigorous method. There was no choice but to agree, and one morning Carranza was taken to the sad asylum where, separated from those who loved him, he was to be abandoned to the world… With strange indifference, the maniac allowed himself to be led away ; he had the cameo with him, and nothing more was needed to be Happy in the realm of his delirium. Luisa went to see him frequently; but her visits were interrupted when the expected crisis arrived. The birth of a daughter endangered her existence, leaving her semi-paralyzed and subject to painful attacks, and a long time passed without her being able to see the poor prisoner. The doctor said that Carranza was improving and would soon be released from his confinement; but months and years passed, and the happy moment never arrived. Luisa, who loved her husband tenderly, had no other consolation than to see her daughter grow and be proud of her surprising beauty. The child, indeed, was a pearl. She resembled neither her mother nor her father; not the slightest feature of her features recalled those who had given her life. The lines of her face, pure and perfect, would drive a sculptor to despair with their incomparable elegance and delicacy. and the curls that clustered around her forehead and fell over her shapely neck were arranged gracefully and noblely, such as only art can achieve. One day, Luisa, feeling somewhat relieved, got into a carriage with her daughter and got out at the door of the asylum. Upon entering the room where her husband was, upon looking at him, she uttered a cry of terror and sorrow. Pale, emaciated, with his gaze fixed, Carranza contemplated an object, and from this contemplation nothing could distract him: it was the cameo… and always the cameo. Luisa understood with horror that the sick man did not recognize her, and, wounded in her soul, guided by her maternal instinct, she presented and held the child high in the air. Carranza cast an indifferent gaze over her… Suddenly, his eyes brightened, shone, and recovered the light of intelligence and love; His arms opened, his fingers released the magical and fatal cameo, his tears sprang forth, and, like one awakening, he ran to his wife and daughter… He had just realized that the child’s face was the very face of the goddess engraved in the hard stone… and he understood that, without knowing it, he had lent being and reality, flesh and bone, to sovereign beauty! Chapter 37. VOICE OF THE BLOOD. If there were happy marriages, few were as happy as that of Sabino and Leonarda. Conforming in tastes, age, and wealth; of cheerful humor and brimming with health, the only thing they lacked–as people say, who are always busily occupied in perfecting the happiness of others while creating their own misfortune–was a child. It is worth noting that the couple did not miss the succession, thinking with good judgment that, when God did not grant it to them, He would know why. Not once had Leonarda had to wipe away those furtive tears of rage and humiliation that certain reproaches from their husbands draw from wives. One day, the tranquility of Leonarda and Sabino was disturbed by the unexpected arrival of Leonarda’s only sister, who lived in a distant city, in the care of a very old aunt, a woman of strict religious principles. The young woman arrived, pale, disfigured, tearful, and sad, and barely rested from the journey before shutting herself in with her siblings, and the interview lasted a good hour. Three or four days later, the young lady and the couple left together to spend a while at Sabino’s country house, a solitary and extremely pleasant possession. No one was surprised by this decision, because at the end of April, the villa is an oasis, and even more understandable seemed the recreational excursion that the couple undertook in September, not returning from France and England until the following year. What was widely discussed was that upon their return they brought with them a beautiful baby girl, whom Leonarda went crazy over, claiming to have given birth to in Paris. Since malicious people are never lacking, someone found the baby excessively developed for the age of four months that her parents had attributed to her: there was gossip, murmurings, counting on fingers, smirks, even indignation, and furious “tole tole.” But time passed, exercising its profession of applying the balm of beneficial oblivion; Leonarda’s sister was buried in a Carmelite convent; the child grew; the couple expressed more and more concern for her every day. paternal love… and the gossip, tired of itself, fell asleep in the arms of indifference. The truth is that anyone would be proud to have a daughter like Aurora—this is the name Leonarda and Sabino gave their daughter. Never were the concerns of the common people better justified regarding children whose birth is surrounded by mysterious circumstances, dramas of love and honor. A singular beauty, perhaps excessively delicate; an intelligence, a sweetness, a discretion that astonished, supreme skill, exquisite taste, and above all this, which is concrete and can be expressed in words, something that cannot be defined: the _angel_, the charm, the gift of attracting and enthralling, of bringing animation with it, creating, as Byron said of Haydea, “an atmosphere of life”; this was what Aurora possessed, and it is no wonder that Sabino and Leonarda were literally besotted with her. They were paid for the child in the finest coin in the world. Her filial love had a passion in it, and Aurora was fond of saying that she never intended to marry, not because she didn’t want to abandon her parents—which would be impossible even to think of—but because she didn’t want to share and divide with anyone the ardent affection she devoted to them. Those who heard these paradoxes and hyperboles of affection from such a rosy and pretty mouth envied Leonarda and Sabino the stolen daughter. Years had passed without Aurora accepting the homage of any suitor, when one morning a gentleman appeared at Sabino’s house whom we might describe as a rooster with spurs, but handsome, elegant, with the air of a wealthy man, a very charming appearance, and that air of dominion peculiar to men who have held high positions or achieved great triumphs of self-respect, always living flattered and happy lives. The gentleman asked to speak alone with Sabino and Leonarda; but since they had already left, he begged to be allowed to see Miss Aurora for a moment. The girl received him in the parlor without flinching and engaged him in conversation for a while, blushing when the stranger praised her, revealing a deep, lively, and secret interest. The interview was short; Aurora’s parents arrived , and the gallant man shut himself in with them. His first words , bowing to the ground, were to say that there was a great culprit there, the seducer of his sister and Aurora’s father—determined to make amends as far as possible for his mistakes and offenses, taking the child in and offering her shelter, fortune, and a name. Sabino meditated for a few moments before answering; then he exchanged a meaningful glance with Leonarda and, turning to the newcomer, calmly pronounced: “We love Aurora much more than if we had conceived her; she is our only enchantment, the joy of our old age, which is now approaching; but I assure you that we will let her go. If she wishes, she will go with you.” If she doesn’t want to, promise us that the child will remain with us for life and you won’t think of claiming her. And so that you’ll see that we’re not influencing her decision, hide behind that curtain and you’ll hear how we question her and what she answers.” The gentleman agreed and hid himself. A few moments later, Aurora entered, and Sabino addressed her with the following questioning: “What did you think of that gentleman who came to speak to us? ” “Am I telling the truth, Papa, as usual? The whole truth?” “You know I am! ” “Well, he seemed very good to me! He seemed to me to be the most… most agreeable person… I’ve ever seen in my life, Papa. ” “As much as that? ” “Yes, indeed. He fascinated me… Didn’t you order me to speak frankly? ” “Would you prefer him to us? Still be frank. ” “My feelings for you are different. I like him… in another way. ” “Would you be happy with him?” “Look, Dad… maybe it is! ” “Think about it carefully, child. ” “You shouldn’t think about it. It’s a feeling, and what you really feel isn’t thought about. I’ve never felt that way. I also have to ask: what, has this man… asked you… for my hand? ” “Your hand! Your hand! It’s not about that!” Leonarda cried in horror. “Well… then? I don’t understand,” murmured Aurora, distressed. “Imagine… it’s a supposition… that this gentleman was… your father! your real father! ” “My father? I certainly cannot imagine that! As a father, I have not even looked at him… nor could I ever look at him! I have already told you that he is different; that I love you differently! ” “Go, my child,” murmured Sabinus, confused and dismayed, thinking he heard a sad moan behind the curtain. And as soon as Aurora withdrew, obedient, head bowed, and mute, the stranger left, revealing a face the color of wax and wild eyes. “I will not bother you any more,” he murmured in a hoarse tone. “I already know what my punishment is. I have tried to study how to inspire certain kinds of feelings… and I inspire them with an ease that has come to fill me with boredom and horror.” Midas turned everything into gold… I turn everything into sin. I see that I will never deserve pure affection, the sacred affection of a father . Erase my memory from Aurora’s imagination, and may she never know my name, nor what I truly am to her!
“Perhaps,” the compassionate Leonarda indicated, “the attraction you exert over that creature, so indifferent to others, is the voice of the blood. ” “If it is the voice of the blood, it is a voice that curses,” Tenorio responded , bowing respectfully and leaving, overwhelmed with grief. At the end of this story, we are left with a profound reflection on the circumstances that surround us and how, sometimes, the most trivial encounters can lead to the most significant moments of our lives. The Countess by Emilia Pardo Bazán, with her masterful narrative style, leaves us with the idea that every small event has a greater impact than we imagine. Thank you for joining us on this literary journey.