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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
riders fell off and began to fight furiously with both fists and guns.”
“You seem to know all about it,” said Rafaela to the old woman. “Have
you ever been in Los Pedroches?”
“Yes; with a sweetheart of mine who carried me behind him on his
horse.”
“My! What a rascal!... What a rascal!” exclaimed Rafaela.
“When we reached Malmuerta,” the old servant continued, “they
frightened our horse, so my sweetheart, who had a short fowling-piece on
his saddle, made as if to shoot it, and the people couldn’t get away fast
enough....”

Quentin decided to go to the picnic.

“I’m going to Los Pedroches, mother,” he said to Fuensanta.
“That’s good, my son,” she replied, “go out and have a good time.”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t any money.”
“I’ll give you what you need; and I’ll find you some riding clothes, too.”
Quentin hired a big horse with a cowboy saddle; then, following his
mother’s instructions, he put on a short jacket covered with ribbons and
braid, fringed leggings, a tasseled shawl across the saddle bow, and a broad-
brimmed hat.
He mounted at the door of his house. He was a good horseman, and as he
jumped into the saddle, he made his horse rear. He brought him down at
once, waved to his mother who was on the balcony, and rode off at a smart
pace.
He went out through the Puerta de Osario to the Campo de la Merced,
under the Arco de la Malmuerta and turned his horse’s head toward the
Carrera de la Fuensantilla. There he noticed the unusual exodus of people
making their way in groups toward Los Pedroches.
It was a splendid February afternoon. The sun poured down like a golden
rain upon the green countryside, and smiled in the fields of new wheat
which were dotted with red flowers and yellow buds. Here and there a dark
hut or a stack of straw surmounted by a cross arose in the broad expanse of
cultivated lands.
 Quentin rode swiftly along the highway, which was bordered at intervals
by large, grey century-plants, from among whose pulpous branches rose
flocks of chirping birds.
He reached the picnic-grounds: a meadow near the Los Pedroches
ravine. The people were scattered over the meadow in groups. The bright
and showy dresses of the girls shone in the sun afar off against the green
background of the field. As Quentin drew near the fiesta-grounds, some
groups were eating supper, and others were playing the guitar and dancing.
In some places, where the dancers were doubtless experts, curious
onlookers crowded about them. An old man with side-whiskers was playing
the guitar with great skill, and a dancer in a narrow-waisted suit was
pursuing his graceful partner with his arms held high in the air; and one
could hear the clacking of castanets, and the encouraging applause of the
onlookers.
It was a peaceful happiness, dignified and serene. Girls in showy
dresses, Manilla shawls, and with flowers in their hair, were strolling about,
accompanied by sour-visaged dueñas and proud youths.
A little apart from the centre of the picnic, the more wealthy families
were lunching peacefully; while little boys and girls were screeching as
they swung in the swings hung from the trees.
There were vendors of oranges and apples and walnuts and chestnuts;
and taffy women with their little booths of sweets and brandy.
Quentin went around the grounds looking all about him, searching for
his cousins; and at last, in a little unpopulated grove, he caught sight of
them among a group of several boys and girls.
Remedios recognized Quentin when he was still some distance away,
and waving her hand at him, she rose to meet him. Quentin rode up to her.
“Where are you going?” the girl inquired.
“For a little ride.”
“Do you want a cake?”
“If you will give....”
“Come on.”
Quentin dismounted, walked up to the group, gave his hand to Rafaela,
and greeted the others with a bow. Undoubtedly Rafaela had informed her
friends who the horseman was, for Quentin noticed that several of the girls
looked at him curiously.
He took the cake that Remedios gave him, and a glass of wine.
“Won’t you sit down?” Rafaela asked him.
“Thank you, no. I’m going for a ride along the mountain.”
As he drew near Rafaela, Quentin noticed the look of hatred that one of
the young men present cast at him.
“He’s a rival,” he thought.
From that instant, the two boys were consumed with hatred for each
other. The young man was tall, blond, with a certain rusticity about him in
spite of his elegant clothes. Quentin heard them call him Juan de Dios. The
youth spoke in a rather uncultured manner, converting his s’s into z’s, his r’s
into l’s, and vice versa. He gazed fixedly at Rafaela, and from time to time
said to her:
“Why don’t you drink a little something?”
Rafaela thanked him with a smile. Among the girls were Rafaela’s two
cousins; the elder, María de los Angeles, had a nose like a parrot, green pop-
eyes, and a salient under lip; Transito, the younger, was better looking, but
her expression, which was half haughty and half indifferent, did not
captivate one’s sympathies. Like her sister, she had green eyes, and thin lips
with a strange curve to them that gave her a cruel expression.
Transito questioned Quentin in a bantering and sarcastic tone; he replied
to her pleasantly, with feigned modesty, and in purposely broken Spanish.
Presently he announced his intention of going.
“What, are you going?” asked Rafaela.
“Yes.”
“Are you afraid of us?” said Transito.
“Afraid of being enchanted,” replied Quentin gallantly, as he bowed and
went in search of his horse.
“Wait! Take me on the croup,” Remedios shouted.
“No, no; you’ll fall,” said Rafaela.
“No, I won’t,” replied the child.
“The horse is gentle,” Quentin put in.
“Very well then; you may take her for a while.”
 Quentin mounted rapidly, and Remedios climbed upon the step of the
carriage that stood near. Quentin rode up to her and stuck out his left foot
for her to use as a support. The little girl stepped upon it, and seizing
Quentin about the waist, leaped to the horse’s croup and threw her arms
about the rider.
“See how well I do it,” said she to her sister, who was fearfully watching
these manœuvres.
“I see well enough.”
“Where shall we go?” Quentin asked the girl.
“Right through the picnic-grounds.”
They rode among the groups; the arrogance of the rider and the grace of
Remedios with her red flower in her hair, attracted the attention of the
crowd.
“There’s a pair for you!” said some as they watched them ride by; and
she smiled with her shining eyes.
Following Remedios’ orders, Quentin rode back and forth among the
places which she pointed out to him.
“Now let’s go to the mountain.”
Quentin rode up hill for half an hour.
The afternoon was drawing to a close; the shadows of the trees were
lengthening on the grass; white clouds, solid as blocks of marble, with their
under sides ablaze, floated slowly over the mountain; the air smelt of
rosemary and thyme. Cordova appeared upon the plain enveloped in a cloud
of golden dust; beyond her undulated low hills of vivid green, stretching in
echelon one behind the other, until they were lost in the distance in a golden
haze of vibrating light. Over the roofs of the city rose church towers, slate-
covered cupolas, black, sharp-pointed cypresses. From between the walls of
a garden, with a very tall and twisted trunk, a gigantic palm tree raised its
head—like a spider stuck to the sky....
Quentin turned back with the idea of leaving Remedios with her sister.
“Well, well!” Rafaela exclaimed. “You certainly can’t complain. We’ve
been waiting for you to go home with us. Come, get down.”
“No; he’s going to take me home—aren’t you, Quentin?”
“Whatever you wish.”
 “Well, let’s be going.”
“We’re off!”
“Look out for jokers,” warned Rafaela’s cousin Transito.
They took the road cityward, riding among the groups who were
returning from the fiesta.
They could see Cordova in the twilight with the last rays of the sun
quivering upon its towers. In some houses the windows were commencing
to light up; in the dark blue sky, the stars were beginning to appear.
Neither Quentin nor the girl spoke; they rode along in silence, swaying
with the motion of the horse. They reached the Carrera de la Fuensantilla,
and from there followed Las Ollerías. At the first gate they came to, El
Colodro, Quentin thought he saw a group that might have stationed itself
there with the intention of frightening the horses of the passers-by; so he
went on through the Arco de la Malmuerta to the Campo de la Merced.
Here there was a group of little boys and young men, one of whom had a
whip.
“Be careful, child; hold on to me tightly,” said Quentin.
She squeezed the rider’s waist with her arms.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
The group of young people came toward Quentin, one of them
brandishing the whip. Before they had time to frighten his horse, Quentin
drove in his spurs and slackened his reins. The animal gave a jump,
knocked down several of the jokers, and broke into a gallop, spreading
consternation among the youngsters. When they had passed the Campo de
la Merced, Quentin reined in his horse and began to walk again.
“How did you like that, little girl?” asked Quentin.
“Fine! Fine!” exclaimed Remedios, brimming over with delight. “They
wanted to shoot us.”
“And they fell down.”
The girl laughed delightedly. Quentin guided his horse to the Puerta del
Osario, and once through it, threaded his way along lonely alleyways. The
horse went at a walk, his iron shoes resounding loudly on the pavement.
“Would you like me to treat you?” asked Quentin.
 “Yes.”
They were passing a tavern called El Postiguillo; so Quentin stopped his
horse, clapped his hands loudly twice, and the innkeeper appeared in the
doorway.
“What does the little girl want?” said the man.
“Whatever you have,” answered Remedios.
“A few cakes, and two small glasses of Montilla?”
“Would you like that?” asked Quentin.
“Very much.”
They ate the cakes, drank the wine and went on their way. Just as they
reached the Calle del Sol, a carriage stopped at the door, from which
Rafaela, her cousins, and the blond young man descended. The latter, who
helped the girls down, called to Remedios: “I’ll be with you in a moment!”
But the girl pretended not to hear him, and called Juan. Quentin took the
child by the waist and lifted her into the arms of the gardener; then he
bowed, and turned his horse up the street.
When he reached his house, he found that his family had not yet returned
from the picnic. He saw Palomares in the street and joined him; gave his
horse to a boy to take to the livery stable, and, in the company of the clerk,
entered a café. He told him how he had passed the afternoon, and then
began to speak casually of his grandfather’s family.
“It looks as if they were about ruined, eh?”
“Yes; completely.”
“Still they must have some cash haven’t they?”
“Oof! The old man was very rich; more through his wife than himself.
He is a fine man but very extravagant. When the rebel leader Gomez took
possession of Cordova the old Marquis, who was then a Carlist, took him in
and gave him thousands of dollars. He has always spent his money
lavishly.”
“What about the son?”
“The son is nothing like his father. He is a disagreeable profligate.”
“And the son’s wife?”
“La Aceitunera? She’s a sinner of the first water.”
“Pretty, eh?”
 “Rather! A fine lass with unbounded wit. When she left her husband, she
went to live with Periquito Gálvez; but now they say she is trotting about
with a lieutenant. Just pull Juan the gardener’s tongue a bit, and he’ll tell
you some curious things.”
“Didn’t the family ever have any relative clever enough to save it from
ruin?”
“Yes; the Marquis has a brother called El Pollo Real; but he is a selfish
sort who doesn’t want to mix in anything for fear they will ask him for
money. Have you never seen him?”
“No.”
“Well, El Pollo Real has been a Tenorio. Now he is a half paralytic. They
say that he is devoting himself to writing the history of his love affairs, and
has hired a painter to paint pictures of all his mistresses. He’s been at it for
years. The first artist he had was a friend of mine from Seville, and he used
to tell me that El Pollo Real would give him a miniature or a photograph for
him to enlarge, and then he would explain what the subjects looked like:
whether blondes or brunettes, tall or short, marchionesses or gipsies.”
“Do you know Rafaela?”
“Do I know her! Rather! Poor little girl!”
“Why ‘poor little girl’?” exclaimed Quentin, feeling cold from head to
foot.
“The girl has had hard luck.”
“Why, what happened to her?”
“Oh, affairs of a wealthy family, which are always miserable. After she
was thirteen or fourteen years old, Rafaela was engaged to the son of a
Cordovese count. It seemed as if the two children loved each other, and they
made a fine couple. They were always seen together; going for walks, and
in the theatre; when it began to be rumoured that the Marquis’ family was
on its way to ruin. Then her sweetheart went away to Madrid. Month after
month went by, and the lad did not return; finally some one brought the
news that he had married a young millionairess in Madrid. Rafaela was ill
for several months, and since that time she has never been as well or as gay
as she used to be.”
Quentin listened to this story profoundly mortified. He no longer cared
to ask questions; he arose, left the café, and took leave of Palomares.
 He was unable to sleep that night.
“Why this anger and mortification?” he asked himself. “What difference
does it make whether Rafaela has had a sweetheart or not? Aren’t you going
to work out your problem, Quentin? Aren’t you going to follow out your
plan in life? Aren’t you a good Bœotian? Aren’t you a swine in the herd of
Epicurus?”
In spite of Quentin’s efforts to convince himself that he ought not to be
irritated, it was impossible to do so. Merely to think that a man, probably a
young whipper-snapper, had scorned Rafaela, offended him in the most
mortifying manner.
 CHAPTER XIV

SPRING

N
O; he was no Bœotian; he was no Epicurean; he could not say that in
his heart, he followed the admirable advice of the great poet: “Pluck
today’s flower, and give no thought to the morrow’s.”
He was passing through all of the most common and most vulgar
phases of falling in love; he had moments of sadness, of anger, of wounded
and maltreated self-esteem.
He tried to analyze his spiritual condition coldly, and he considered it
best and most expedient to make an effort not to appear at Rafaela’s house
for a long time.
“I must be active,” he said to himself. At other times his reason appealed
to him: “Why not go to see her as I used to? What is it that I want? Do I
want her to cease having a sweetheart she has already had? That would be
stupid. We must accept things that have already been.”
At this, his wounded pride responded with fits of anger, obscuring his
intelligence; and the pride generally came out victorious.
Quentin did not appear at Rafaela’s house for some time. Alone, with
nothing to occupy him, friendless; he was desperately bored. How the
Andalusian spring oppressed him! He wandered about from place to place,
without plans, without an object, without a destination.
The sun inundated the silent, deserted streets; the sky, a pure, opaque
blue, seemed something tangible—a huge turquoise, or sapphire in which
roofs and towers and terraces were embedded.
Everything gave the impression of profound lethargy.... The houses:
blue, yellow, pale rose, cream-coloured, all hermetically sealed, seemed
deserted; the irrigated vestibules flowed with water; one smelt vaguely the
odour of flowers, and a penetrating perfume of orange blossoms arose from
the patios and gardens.
The plazas, like white whirlpools of sunlight, were blinding with the
reverberation of light against the walls. In the alleys, tenebrous, narrow,
shadowy, one felt a damp, cave-like cold.... Everywhere silence and solitude
reigned; in some lonely spot, a donkey, tied to a grating, remained
motionless; a hungry dog scratched in a heap of refuse; or a frightened cat
ran with tail erect until it disappeared in its hiding-place.
In the distance, the crowing of a cock rang out like a bugle call in the
silent air; one heard the melancholy cry of the vendors of medicinal herbs;
and through the deserted plazoletas, through the narrow and tortuous alleys,
there rose the song of love and death that a grancero was singing as he rode
along on his donkey.
In La Ribera, some vagabonds and gipsies were sunning themselves,
while others played quoits; little children with brown skins ran about bare-
legged, covered only by a scanty shirt; sunburned old women came to the
windows and gratings; and along the white, the very white highway, which
resembled a great chalk furrow, there passed gallant horsemen, raising
clouds of dust.
The river wound peacefully along—blue at times, at times golden;
wagons and herds passed slowly over the bridges—so slowly that from a
distance they seemed motionless.
An oppressive calm, a tiresome somnolence weighed down upon the
city; and in the midst of this calm, of this death-like silence, there sounded a
bell here, another there—all extremely languid and sad....
At nightfall, the magic of the twilight touched the city and the distant
landscape with gold—-‘d lights; splendid colours of extraordinary
magnificence. The clouds became rosy, scarlet.... The country was tinged
with gold, and the last rays of the sun set fire to the rocks and peaks of the
mountain-tops.
In the streets, which were bathed with light, a narrow strip of shadow
appeared upon the walks, which grew and widened until it covered the
whole pavement. Then it slowly climbed the walls, reached the grated
windows and the balconies, scaled the twisted eaves.... The sunlight
completely disappeared from the street, and there only remained the last
vestiges of its brilliancy upon the towers, the high look-outs, and the
flaming windows....
The air grew diaphanous, acquired more transparency; the horizon more
depth; and the sides of the white walls of garrets and corners, as they
reflected the scarlet or rosy sky, resembled blocks of snow animated by the
pale rays of a boreal sun....
Presently the lamps were lighted; their little red flames flickering in the
shadows; and squares of lighted windows punctured the façades of the
houses.
At this hour on work days, women visited the stores; wealthy families
returned in their coaches from their orchards; youths rode back and forth on
horseback; and the nocturnal life of Cordova poured through the central
streets, which were lighted by street lamps and shop windows.
Quentin wandered from place to place, ruminating on his sadness;
walked indifferently along streets and plazas; watched the young ladies
coming and going with their mammas, and followed by their beaux. When
his irritation disappeared, he felt discouraged. The melancholy calmness of
the city, the dreamy atmosphere, produced within him a feeling of great
lassitude and laziness.
At times he firmly believed that Rafaela would trouble him no more; that
his feeling of love had been a superficial fantasy.

In the morning Quentin often went to the Patio de los Naranjos where El
Pende’s father used to spend his time with a coterie of old men, beggars,
and tramps, which all Cordova ironically called La Potrá, or the herd of
young mares.
El Pende senior, or Matapalos, passed his time there chatting with his
friends. He was an original and knowing fellow who spoke in apothegms
and maxims. He dominated the meetings as few others could. No one could,
like him, so slyly introduce a number of subjects in a conversational hiatus,
or in the act of rolling a cigarette. Of course, for him, this last was by no
means a simple affair; but rather an operation that demanded time and
science. First, Matapalos took out a little knife and began to scrape a plug
of tobacco; after the scraping came the rubbing of it between his hands;
then he tore a leaf of cigarette paper from its little book, held it for a
moment sticking to his under lip, and then began to roll the cigarette first on
one end, and then on the other, until the manœuvre was happily
consummated. This operation over, Matapalos removed his calañés, placed
it between his legs, and from somewhere within the hat drew forth a little
leather purse, from which he extracted flint and steel and tinder.
 After this, he slowly covered himself and from time to time, in the midst
of the conversation, struck the steel with the flint until he happened to light
the tinder, and with the tinder, his cigarette.
The old man lived in a hut in the Matadero district; he knew everything
that had occurred in Cordova for many years, and boasted of it. For
Matapalos, there were no toreadors like those of his own time.
“I’m not taking any merit away from Lagartijo or Manuel Fuentes,” he
said, “but you don’t see any more toreadors like El Panchón, or Rafael
Bejarano, or Pepete, or El Camará. You ought to have seen Bejarano! He
was such a great rival of no less a person than Costillares, that in my time
they used to sing:
 “Arrogante Costillares,
anda, vete al Almadén
para ver bien matar toros
al famoso Cordobés.”

(Proud Costillares, come, and go to the Almadén to see the famous

Cordovese kill bulls right.)

In this subject Matapalos had a formidable adversary; another old man

whom they called Doctor Prosopopeya, who, as a native of Seville, never
admitted that a Cordovese toreador could come up to one from Seville.
Quentin found Matapalos very funny and very amusing, and he often
went to listen to him.
While the old man related ancient history in his quiet, peaceful voice,
Quentin contemplated the Patio de los Naranjos, sometimes listening to
what was said, sometimes not.
The orange trees were in full blossom, and their penetrating perfume
produced a certain giddiness; from time to time one could hear distant bells
which the cathedral bell seemed to answer, clanging loudly.... Then silence
again reigned; the birds chirped in the trees; the water murmured in the
fountain; the butterflies bathed in the pure air; and the lizards and
salamanders glided along the walls.
Among the shadows of the orange trees shone vivid splashes of sunlight;
doves tumbled from the cathedral roof and flew softly through the blue and
luminous air, making a slight sound of ripping gauze; sometimes they made
a metallic whirr as they rapidly beat their wings.
The majority of the Potrá was made up of beggars and tramps. These
beggars were neither emaciated, squalid, nor ill; but strong, vigorous men,
hirsute, with long, matted locks, sunburned, covered with rags.... Some
wore threadbare calañés hats; others, broad-brimmed sombreros worn over
grass handkerchiefs; some, a very few, wore loose, yellowish coats with
long sleeves; a good many wrapped themselves up in grey cloaks of heavy
cloth and many folds. Nearly all of them had private homes where they
were given leavings and cigarette butts; those who did not, went to the
barracks, or to a convent; no one lacked the hodge-podge necessary for
wandering on, though poorly, through the bitter adversities of life.
 From time to time the Potrá came into a little money; and then ten or
twelve of them got up a pool to play the lottery.
In that troop there was a beggar with a black beard, younger than the
rest, bent almost double at the waist, who went about leaning on a short
crutch. They called this man El Engurruñao. He had one shrunken leg
wrapped in rags, although really he had no illness at all. He howled in a
doleful voice after every decently-dressed passer-by, and he took in plenty
of money.
Through the conversations of these tramps and beggars, Quentin came to
know Cordova life, and that of the principal families of the town. Through
them he learned that the majority of the great families were on their way to
poverty.
One example of an economic catastrophe was that of a gentleman who
walked through the arcade of the Mosque every morning. This gentleman
was dressed like a dandy of other days: well-fitting coat, flowing black
cravat, tall silk hat with a flat brim, and, on some cold days, a blue cape.
The poor man was emaciated, had long, grey, bushy hair, and wore yellow
gloves.
He was a ruined aristocrat. It was pitiful to see that living ruin walking
up and down under the porticos, with his hands behind his back, talking to
himself with a gesture of resignation and sadness....
 CHAPTER XV

WHERE HIS BEAUTIFUL EXPECTATIONS WENT!

O
NE morning Quentin met Juan, the gardener.
“You don’t come to the house any more, Señorito.”
“I’ve had lots to do these days.”
“Have you heard the important news?”
“What is it?”
“The Señorita is going to be married.”
“Rafaela?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“To Juan de Dios.”
Quentin felt as if all his nerves had let go at once.
“The Marquis is getting worse every day,” the gardener continued, “so
he thought the Señorita ought to get married as soon as possible.”
“And she.... What does she say?”
“Nothing, at present.”
“But will she oppose it?”
“How do I know?”
“Are the family affairs in such bad shape that the Marquis was forced to
take this course?”
“They are very bad. The grandfather hasn’t much longer to live; the
Señorita’s father is a profligate; and El Pollo Real doesn’t care to do
anything at all. To whom will they leave the girls? Their stepmother, La
Aceitunera, is no good. Have you ever heard of a Señora Patrocinio who
has a house in Los Tejares? Well, she goes there every day. Why, it’s a
shame.”
“And this Juan de Dios ... is he rich?” asked Quentin.
 “Very; but he is very coarse. When he was a little boy he used to say: ‘I
want to be a horse,’ and he used to go out to the stable, pick up some filth in
his hands, and say to the people, ‘Look, look what I did.’ ”
“He is coarse, then—eh?”
“Yes; but he’s got noble blood in him.”
Quentin left Juan and went home perplexed. Indubitably, he was no
Bœotian, but a vulgar sentimentalist, a poor cadet, an unhappy wretch,
without strength enough to set aside, as useless and prejudicial, those
gloomy ideas and sentiments: love, self-denial, and the rest.
And he had thought himself an Epicurean! One of the few men capable
of following the advice of Horace: “Pluck today’s flower, and give no
thought to the morrow’s!” He! In love with a young lady of the aristocracy;
not for her money, nor even for her palace; but for her own sake! He was on
a level with any romantic carpenter of a provincial capital. He was
unworthy of having been in Eton, near Windsor, for eight years; or of
having walked through Piccadilly; or of having read Horace.
In the miserable state in which Quentin found himself, only nonsensical
ideas occurred to him. The first was to go to Rafaela and demand an
explanation; the second was to write her a letter; and he was as pleased with
this idiotic plan as if it had been really brilliant. He made several rough
drafts in succession, and was satisfied with none of them. Sometimes his
words were high-sounding and emphatic; again, he unwittingly gave a
clumsy and vulgar tone to his letter: one could read between the lines a
common and uncouth irony, as often as extraordinary pride, or abject
humility.
At last, seeing that he could not find a form clear enough to express his
thoughts, he decided to write a laconic letter, asking Rafaela to grant him an
interview.
He gave Juan the letter to give to his young mistress. He was waiting at
the door for some one to answer his ring, when Remedios appeared.
“See here,” said the child.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t you know? Rafaela is going to marry Juan de Dios.”
“Does she love him?”
“No; I don’t think she does.”
 “Then why does she marry him?”
“Because Juan de Dios is very rich, and we have no money.”
“But will she want to do it?”
“She hasn’t said anything about it. Juan de Dios spoke to grandfather,
and grandfather spoke to Rafaela. Are you going to see sister?”
“Yes, this very minute.”
“She’s in the sewing-room.”
They went to the door.
“Tell her not to marry Juan de Dios.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“No. I hate him. He’s vulgar.”
Quentin went in, glided along the gallery, and knocked upon the door of
the sewing-room.
“Come in!” said some one.
Rafaela and the old woman servant were sewing. As Quentin appeared a
slight flush spread over the girl’s cheeks.
“What a long time it is since you have been here!” said Rafaela. “Won’t
you sit down?”
Quentin gave her to understand with a gesture that he preferred to
remain standing.
“Have you been so very busy?” asked the girl.
“No; I’ve had nothing to do,” answered Quentin gruffly. “I’ve spent my
time being furious these days.”
“Furious! At what?” said she with a certain smiling coquetry.
“At you.”
“At me?”
“Yes. Will you let me speak to you alone a minute?”
“You may speak here, before my nurse. She will defend me in case you
accuse me of anything.”
“Accuse you? No, not that.”
“Well, then, why were you so furious?”
“I was furious, first because they told me that you once had a sweetheart
whom you loved; and second, because they say that you are going to get
married.”
Rafaela, who perhaps did not expect such a brusque way of putting the
matter, dropped her sewing and rose to her feet.
“You, too, are a child,” she murmured at length. “What can one do with
what is gone by? I had a sweetheart, it is true, for six years—and I was in
love with him.”
“Yes; I know it,” said Quentin furiously.
“If he acted badly,” Rafaela continued, as if talking to herself, “so much
the worse for him. There is no recollection of my childhood that is not
connected with him. In his company I went to the theatre for the first time,
and to my first dance. What little happiness I have had in my life, came to
me during the time I knew him. My mother was living then; my family was
considered wealthy.... Yet, if that man were free, and wished to marry me
now, I would not marry him; not from spite, no—but because to me he is a
different man.... I say this to you because I feel I know you, and because
you are like my sister Remedios: you demand an exclusive affection.”
“And don’t you?” demanded Quentin brusquely.
“I do too; perhaps not as much as you; but neither do I believe that I
could share my affection with another. I must not deceive you in this. You
would be capable of being jealous of the past.”
“Probably,” said Quentin.
“I know it. I don’t believe that I have flirted with you; have I?”
Rafaela spoke at some length. She had that graciousness of those persons
whose emotions are not easily stirred. Her heart needed time to feel
affection; an impulse of the moment could not make her believe herself in
love.
She was a woman destined for the hearth; to be seen going to and fro,
arranging everything, directing everything; to be heard playing the piano in
the afternoons. In a burst of frankness, Rafaela said:
“Had I listened to your hints, I should have made you unhappy without
wishing to, and you would have made me miserable.”
“Then how is it that you are going to marry Juan de Dios?” asked
Quentin brutally.
Rafaela was confused.
 “That’s different,” she stammered; “in the first place, I have not decided
yet; and besides, I have made my conditions. Then again, there is this great
difference: Juan de Dios is not jealous of my past love affair ... he wants my
title. [In this moment, Rafaela is sure that she is calumniating her betrothed
in order to get out of her difficulty.] Moreover, my whole family is
interested in my marrying him. If I do so, my grandfather, poor dear, will be
easy in his mind; Remedios will be sure of being able to live according to
her station,—and so shall I.”
“You are very discreet; too discreet—and calculating,” said Quentin
bitterly.
“No; not too much so. What would happen to us girls otherwise?”
“What about me?”
“You?”
“Yes, me; I would work for you if you loved me.”
“That could never be.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons. First of all, because I am older than you....”
“Bah!”
“Let me speak. First, because I am older than you; second, because you
would be jealous of me and would continually mortify me; and lastly, most
important of all, because you and I are both poor.”
“I shall make money,” said Quentin.
“How? With what? Why aren’t you making it now?”
“Now?” questioned Quentin after a pause. “Now I have no ideal; it’s all
the same to me whether I’m rich or poor. But if you believed in me, you’d
find that I could snatch money from the very bowels of the earth.”
“Possibly, yes,” said Rafaela calmly; “because you are clever. But those
are my reasons. Some day, when you recall our conversation, you will say:
‘she was right.’ ”
“You are very discreet,” said Quentin as he turned toward the door; “too
discreet; and you have discreetly torn asunder all my illusions, and have left
my soul in shreds.”
“Do you hate me now?” she said sadly.
 “Hate you, no!” exclaimed Quentin with emotion, effusively pressing the
hand Rafaela held out to him. “You are an admirable woman in every
respect!”
And trembling violently, he left the room.
As he went down the stairs Remedios rushed up to him.
“What did she say to you?” she asked.
“It’s no use; she’s going to marry him.”
“Did she tell you that herself?”
“Yes.”
“And you. What are you going to do?”
“What can I do?”
“I’d kill Juan de Dios,” murmured the girl resolutely.
“If she wished it, I would, too,” replied Quentin, and he stepped into the
street.
He walked along in a daze; he repeated Rafaela’s words to himself, and
discovered better arguments that he might have put forward in the
interview, but which did not occur to him at the moment. Sometimes he
thought, more rationally: “At least I came out of it well;” but this
consolation was too metaphysical to satisfy him.
He spent a sleepless night at his window watching the stars and thinking.
He analyzed and studied his moral problem, proposing solutions, only to
reject them.
At dawn he went to bed. He believed that he had hit upon a definite
solution—the norm of his existence. Condensed into a single phrase, it was
this:
“I must become a man of action.”
 CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN OF ACTION BEGINS TO MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN

Q
UENTIN got up late, ate his breakfast and wrote several letters to his
friends in England. In the evening he looked through the amusement
section of the paper and saw that there was to be an entertainment in
the Café del Recreo.
He asked Palomares where this café was, and was told that it was on the
Calle del Arco Real, a street that ran into Las Tendillas.
The constant irritation in Quentin’s mind troubled him so, that he calmly
decided to get drunk.
“Tell me,” he said to the waiter after seating himself at a table in the
café, “what refreshments have you?”
“We have currants, lemons, blackberries, and French ice-cream.”
“Fine! Bring me a bottle of cognac.”
The waiter brought his order, filled his glass, and was about to remove
the bottle.
“No, no; leave it here.”
“Aren’t you going to see the show?” asked the waiter with obsequious
familiarity. “They are giving La Isla de San Balandrán: it’s very amusing.”
“I’ll see.”
After Quentin had emptied several glasses, he began to feel heartened,
and ready for any folly. At a near-by table several men were talking about
an actress who took the principal part in a musical comedy that had just
been put on. One with a very loud voice was dragging the actress’ name
through the mire.
This man was extremely fat; a kind of a sperm whale, with the bulging
features of a dropsical patient, a shiny skin, and the voice of a eunuch. He
had a microscopic nose that was lost between his two chubby cheeks, which
were a pale yellow; his hatchet-shaped whiskers were so black that they
seemed painted with ink; his stiff, bluish hair grew low on his forehead,
with a peak above the eyebrows. He wore diamonds upon his bosom, rings
upon his pudgy fingers, and, to cap his offensiveness, he was smoking a
kilometric cigar with a huge band.
The bearing, the voice, the diamonds, the cigar, the waddling, and the
laughter of that man set Quentin’s blood afire to such an extent, that rising
and striking the table where the whale was talking to his friends, he
shouted:
“Everything you say is a lie!”
“Are you the woman’s brother or husband?” inquired the obese
gentleman, staring into space and stroking his black sideburns with his
much bediamonded hand.
“I am nothing of hers,” replied Quentin; “I don’t know her, and I don’t
want to know her; but I do know that everything you say is a lie.”
“Pay no attention to him,” said one of the fat man’s companions; “he’s
drunk.”
“Well, he’d better look out, or I’ll strike him with my stick.”
“You’ll strike me with your stick!” exclaimed Quentin. “Ha ... ha ...
ha!... But have you ever looked into a mirror?... You really are most
repulsive, my friend!”
The fat man, before such an insult to his appearance, rose and
endeavoured to reach Quentin, but his friends restrained him. Quentin
quickly removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready to box.
“Evohé! Evohé!” he thundered. “Come who will! One by one, two by
two, every one against me!”
A thin, blond man with blue eyes and a golden beard, stepped up to him;
not as though to fight, but with a smile.
“What do you want?” Quentin asked him rudely.
“Oh! Don’t you remember Paul Springer, the son of the Swiss watch-
maker?”
“Is that you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
 “Because I should have liked it had it been the fat man or one of his
friends, so I could have cut him open with my fist.”
“I see that you are just as crazy as ever.”
“I, crazy? I’m one of the few people on this planet in their right senses!
Moreover, I have decided to become a man of action. Believe me!”
“I can’t believe anything of you now, my lad. What you ought to do is to
put on your coat and go to bed. Come, I’ll go with you.”
Quentin assented, and went home with his friend.
“We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” said the Swiss.
“Yes.”
“Then, until another day.”
They took leave of each other. Quentin remained in his doorway.
“I’m not going in,” he said to himself. “Am I not a man of action? Well,
adelante! Where can I go? I’ll go and see Señora Patrocinio. I’ll take a few
turns about here until my head is a little clearer....”
He knocked at the house in Los Tejares, and the door was immediately
opened to him.
“Ah! Is it you?” said the old woman, as she lifted the candle to see who
it was.
“Yes, it is I.”
“Come in.”
The old woman lit the lamp in the same room on the lower floor that
Don Gil Sabadía and Quentin had occupied.
“What’s the matter?” asked Señora Patrocinio. “Do you need money?”
“No. Do you, too, wish to offend me?”
“No; I just wanted to give you some.”
“Thanks very much! You are the only person who takes any interest in
me—why, I don’t know.... I have come to see you tonight because I am
unhappy.”
“I know.... Rafaela is going to get married.”
“And how do you know that that is the reason for my unhappiness?”
“Nothing is secret from me. You liked her, but you will get over it soon.
She was fond of you, too.”
 “Do you think ...?”
“Yes; but the poor girl had a bad beginning in life, and does well not to
get mixed up in adventures; for the majority of men aren’t even worth the
trouble of looking in the face. Still, what her sweetheart did was
disgraceful. Rafaela was brought up weakly,—too carefully guarded; then
she began to grow quite happy, what with taking care of her mother and her
betrothal. Then her mother died; her father remarried immediately; in a few
months it began to be rumoured that her family was on the verge of ruin,
and her sweetheart skipped out. Think of it! The poor abandoned girl began
to turn yellow, and thought she was going to die. I believe that she owes her
cure to the trouble her younger sister gave her.”
“Yes; I understand that she has no faith in men. Probably I ought not to
have paid any attention to the fact,” Quentin added ingenuously. “But won’t
this Juan de Dios make her suffer?”
“No. He’s coarse, but good at heart. What are you going to do?”
“I! I don’t know. We live in such a contemptible epoch. If I had been
born in Napoleon’s time! God! I’d either be dead by now or else on the road
to a generalship.”
“Would you have enlisted with Napoleon?”
“Rather!”
“And would you have fought against your own country?”
“Against the whole world.”
“But not against Spain.”
“Especially against Spain. It would be pretty nice to enter these towns
defended by their walls and their conventionalities against everything that is
noble and human, and raze them to the ground. To shoot all these flat-
nosed, pious fakers and poor quality hidalgos; to set fire to all of the
churches, and to violate all the nuns....”
“You’ve been drinking, Quentin.”
“I? I’m as calm as a bean plant, which is the calmest vegetable there is,
according to the botanists.”
“You must not talk like that of your native land in front of me.”
“Are you a patriot?”
“With all my heart. Aren’t you?”
 “I am a citizen of the world.”
“It seems to me that you’ve been drinking, Quentin.”
“No; believe me.”
“I say this to you,” added the old woman after a long pause, “because for
me, this is a solemn moment. I have told no one the story of my life until
this moment.”
“The devil! What is she going to tell me?” mumbled Quentin.
“Are you vengeful?” asked the old woman.
“I?”
Quentin was not sure whether he was vengeful or not, but the old woman
took his exclamation for one of assent.
“Then you shall avenge me, Quentin, and your family. We are of the
same blood. Your grandfather, the Marquis of Tavera, and I are brother and
sister.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He doesn’t know that he has a sister living. He thinks I died a long
time ago.”
Quentin scrutinized the old woman closely and discovered certain
resemblances to the old Marquis.
She pressed Quentin’s hand, and then commenced her story as follows:
“In villages, there are certain families in which hatred is perpetuated
through century after century. In cities, after one or two generations, hatred
and rivalry are gradually wiped out until they disappear altogether. Not so
in the villages: people unconcerned in the quarrel carry the story of it from
father to son, present the chapter of insults to different individuals, and go
on feeding the flame of rancour when it tends to extinguish itself.
“I was born in a large, highland village, of such an illustrious family as
that of Tavera. My mother died young, my older brother went to England,
the other to Madrid to take up a diplomatic career, while I remained in the
village with my father and two maiden aunts.
“My mother, whom I scarcely knew, was very good, but rather simple;
so much so that they say that when the fishes in our pool did not bite, she
called in a professional fisherman and gave him a good day’s wages to
teach them to do so.
 “My family came from an important village in the province of Toledo,
near La Puebla, where long ago there used to stand a tower and a castle and
various strongholds, which are now nothing but ruins.
“According to my father, a harsh man, proud of his titles and lineage, we
came from the oldest nobility, from the conquerors of Cordova, and were
related to the whole Andalusian aristocracy: the Baenas, Arjonas, Cordovas,
Velascos, and Gúzmans.
“In spite of our ancestry, our family did not enjoy any especial respect
from the townspeople on account of the display we made, because our
property had diminished somewhat, and also because the new liberal ideas
were beginning to make themselves felt.
“My father owned nearly the whole village; he received a contribution
from every chimney; he had the only interment chapel in the large church;
and a patronage in several smaller churches and hermitages. In spite of the
prestige of his lineage and his wealth, every one hated him—justly, I
believe, for he was despotic, violent and cruel.
“That was about fifty years ago. My nose did not try to meet my chin
then, nor did I lack any teeth; I was a lass worth looking at; graceful as a
golden pine, and blonder than a candle. Any one seeing me in those days
would have liked to know me! I lived with my father, who used to aim a
blow at me every once in a while, and with my aunts, who were busybodies,
meddlers, and crazy.
“As I have already said, my father had enemies; some openly avowed,
others secret, but who all did the greatest amount of harm they could.
Among them, the most powerful was the Count of Doña Mencia, whose
family, much more recently come to the village than ours, was slowly
acquiring property and power.
“The rivalry between the two houses was increased by a lawsuit which
the Doña Mencias won against us, and it grew into a savage hatred when
my father committed the offensive act of violating one of the rival family’s
little girls.
“The Doña Mencias took the child to Cordova; my father once heard a
bullet whistle by his head as he was on his way to a farm—and this was the
state of affairs, my family hated by our rivals and by nearly all of the
townspeople, when I reached my eighteenth year, with no one to advise me
but my aunts.
 “I was, as I have said before, very pretty, and attracted attention
wherever I went. Even at that age I had already had two or three beaux with
whom I used to talk through my window-grating, when the Count of Doña
Mencia’s eldest son began to call upon me, and finally to ask for my hand.
The whole village was surprised at this; I was disposed to pay no attention
to him; moreover, I received several anonymous letters telling me that if I
listened to the Count’s son, very disagreeable consequences might arise,
because the hatred was still latent between the two families. I was just about
decided to refuse him, when my aunts, crazy novel readers that they were,
insisted that I ought to listen to him, for the boy’s intentions were
honourable, and in this way I could once and for all put an end to the rivalry
and hatred.
“My father prided himself upon the fact that he never interfered with
what was happening in the family; his only occupations were hunting,
drinking, and chasing after farm girls, and if I had consulted him about the
affair, he would have sent me harshly about my business.
“So, following my aunts’ advice, I accepted the enemy of our home as a
sweetheart, and received him for a year. One time in the garden, which was
where we used to see each other, he threw himself upon me and attempted
to overpower me; but people came in answer to my cries. My betrothed said
that I had foolishly taken fright, as he was only trying to kiss me; I wanted
to break the engagement, but instead of breaking off our relations, the affair
only hastened the wedding.
“Grand preparations were made, but so sure were the townspeople that
my sweetheart would never marry me, that servants, friends, every one,
gave me to understand that the wedding would never take place, and that
my betrothed would be capable of changing his mind at the very foot of the
altar. Thus warned, I attempted to lessen the expense of the wedding, but
my aunts tried to convince me not to do such a crazy thing.
“In fine, the day which was as dreaded as it was hoped for, arrived; my
betrothed appeared at the church, and the wedding was celebrated. God
knows how many hopes I had of being happy. The marriage feast was eaten;
the ball was held. The festivities lasted until midnight, when we retired.
“The next morning when I awoke, I looked for my husband at my side,
but did not find him. He never appeared all day long; they looked for him,
but in vain. Days and days passed, and more days, while I waited for him,
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