I.

Behind the pine grove the setting sun had left a zone of fire

against which the trunks of the pine trees stood out like bronze

columns. The path was rugged and uneven, giving evidence of the

ravages wrought by the winter rains; at intervals loose stones,

looking like teeth detached from the gum, rendered it still more

impracticable. The melancholy shades of twilight were beginning to

envelop the landscape; little by little the sunset glow faded away

and the moon, round and silvery, mounted in the heavens, where the

evening star was already shining. The dismal croaking of the frogs

fell sharply on the ear; a fresh breeze stirred the dry plants and

the dusty brambles that grew by the roadside; and the trunks of the

pine trees grew momentarily blacker, standing out like inky bars

against the pale green of the horizon.

A man was descending the path slowly, bent, apparently, on

enjoying the poetry and the peace of the scene and the hour. He

carried a stout walking-stick, and as far as one could judge in the

fading light, he was young and not ill-looking.

He paused frequently, casting glances to the right and to the

left as if in search of some familiar landmark. Finally he stood

still and looked around him. At his back was a hill crowned with

chestnut trees; on his left was the pine grove; on his right a small

church with a mean belfry; before him the outlying houses of the

town. He turned, walked back some ten steps, stopped, fronting the

portico of the church, examined its walls, and, satisfied at last

that he had found the right place, raised his hands to his mouth and

forming with them a sort of speaking trumpet, cried, in a clear

youthful voice:

"Echo, let us talk together!"

From the angle formed by the walls, there came back instantly

another voice, deeper and less distinct, strangely grave and

sonorous, which repeated with emphasis, linking the answer to the

question and dwelling upon the final syllable:

"Let us talk togethe-e-e-e-r!"

"Are you happy?"

"Happy-y-y-y!" responded the echo.

"Who am I?"

"I-I-I-I!"

To these interrogations, framed so that the answer should make

sense with them, succeeded phrases uttered without any other object

than that of hearing them reverberated with strange intensity by the

wall. "It is a lovely night."--"The moon is shining."--"The sun has

set."--"Do you hear me, echo?"--"Have you dreams, echo, of glory,

ambition, love?" The traveler, enchanted with his occupation,

continued the conversation, varying the words, combining them into

sentences, and, in the short intervals of silence, he listened to the

faint murmur of the pines stirred by the evening breeze, and to the

melancholy concert of the frogs. The crimson and rose-colored clouds

had become ashen and had begun to invade the broad region of the

firmament over which the unclouded moon shed her silvery light. The

honeysuckles and elder-flowers on the outskirts of the pine grove

embalmed the air with subtle and intoxicating fragrance. And the

interlocutor of the echo, yielding to the poetic influences of the

scene, ceased his questions and exclamations and began to recite, in

a slow, chanting voice, verses of Becquer, paying no heed now to the

voice from the wall, which, in its haste to repeat his words,

returned them to him broken and confused.

Absorbed in his occupation, pleased with the harmonious sounds of

the verse, he did not notice the approach of three men of odd and

grotesque appearance, wearing enormous broad-brimmed felt hats. One

of the men was leading a mule laden with a leathern sack filled,

doubtless, with the juice of the grape; and as they walked slowly,

and the soft clayey soil deadened the noise of their footsteps, they

passed close by the young man, unperceived by him. They exchanged

some whispered words with one another. "Who is he,

man?"--"Segundo."--"The lawyer's son?"--"The same."--"What is he

doing? Is he talking to himself?"--"No, he is talking to the wall of

Santa Margarita."--"Well, we have as good a right to do that as he

has."--"Begin you ----"--"One--two--here goes----"

And from those profane lips fell a shower of vile words and

coarse and vulgar phrases, interrupting the _Oscuras Golondrinas_

which the young man was reciting with a great deal of expression, and

producing, in the peaceful and harmonious nocturnal silence, the

effect of the clatter of brass pans and kettles in a piece of German

music. The most refined expressions were in the following style:

"D---- (here an oath). Hurrah for the wine of the Border! Hurrah for

the red wine that gives courage to man! D----" (the reader's

imagination may supply what followed, it being premised that the

disturbers of the Becquerian dreamer were three lawless muleteers who

were carrying with them an abundant provision of the blood of the

grape).

The nymph who dwelt in the wall opposed no resistance to the

profanation and repeated the round oaths as faithfully as she had

repeated the poet's verses. Hearing the vociferations and bursts of

laughter which the wall sent back to him mockingly, Segundo, the

lawyer's son, aware that the barbarians were turning his sentimental

amusement into ridicule, became enraged. Mortified and ashamed, he

tightened his grasp on his stick, strongly tempted to break it on the

ribs of some one of them; and, muttering between his teeth, "Kaffirs!

brutes! beasts!" and other offensive epithets, he turned to the left,

plunged into the pine grove and walked toward the town, avoiding the

path in order to escape meeting the profane trio.

The town was but a step away. The walls of its nearest houses

shone white in the moonlight, and the stones of some buildings in

course of erection, garden walls, orchards, and vegetable beds,

filled up the space between the town and the pine grove. The path

grew gradually broader, until it reached the highroad, on either side

of which leafy chestnut trees cast broad patches of shade. The town

was already asleep, seemingly, for not a light was to be seen, nor

were any of those noises to be heard which reveal the proximity of

those human beehives called cities. Vilamorta is in reality a very

small beehive, a modest town, the capital of a district. Bathed in

the splendor of the romantic satellite, however, it was not without a

certain air of importance imparted to it by the new buildings, of a

style of architecture peculiar to prison cells, which an

_Americanized_ Galician, recently returned to his native land with a

plentiful supply of cash, was erecting with all possible expedition.

Segundo turned into an out-of-the-way street--if there be any

such in towns like Vilamorta. Only the sidewalks were paved; the

gutter was a gutter in reality; it was full of muddy pools and heaps

of kitchen garbage, thrown there without scruple by the inhabitants.

Segundo avoided two things--stepping into the gutter and walking in

the moonlight. A man passed so close by him as almost to touch him,

enveloped, notwithstanding the heat, in an ample cloak, and holding

open above his head an enormous umbrella, although there was no sign

of rain; doubtless he was some convalescent, some visitor to the

springs, who was breathing the pleasant night air with hygienic

precautions. Segundo, when he saw him, walked closer to the houses,

turning his face aside as if afraid of being recognized. With no less

caution he crossed the Plaza del Consistorio, the pride of Vilamorta,

and then, instead of joining one of the groups who were enjoying the

fresh air, seated on the stone benches round the public fountain, he

slipped into a narrow side street, and crossing a retired little

square shaded by a gigantic poplar turned his steps in the direction

of a small house half hidden in the shadow of the tree. Between the

house and Segundo there stood a lumbering bulk--the body of a

stage-coach, a large box on wheels, its shafts raised in air,

waiting, lance in rest, as it were, to renew the attack. Segundo

skirted the obstacle, and as he turned the corner of the square,

absorbed in his meditations, two immense hogs, monstrously fat,

rushed out of the half-open gate of a neighboring yard, and at a

short trot that made their enormous sides shake like jelly, made

straight for the admirer of Becquer, entangling themselves stupidly

and blindly between his legs. By a special interposition of

Providence the young man did not measure his length upon the ground,

but, his patience now exhausted, he gave each of the swine a couple

of angry kicks, which drew from them sharp and ferocious grunts, as

he ejaculated almost audibly: "What a town is this, good Heavens!

Even the hogs must run against one in the streets. Ah, what a

miserable place! Hell itself could not be worse!"

By the time he had reached the door of the house, he had, to some

extent, regained his composure. The house was small and pretty and

had a cheerful air. There was no railing outside the windows, only

the stone ledges, which were covered with plants in pots and boxes;

through the windows shaded by muslin curtains a light could be seen

burning, and in the silent façade there was something peaceful and

attractive that invited one to enter. Segundo pushed open the door

and almost at the same instant there was heard in the dark hall the

rustling of skirts, a woman's arms were opened and the admirer of

Becquer, throwing himself into them, allowed himself to be led,

dragged, carried bodily, almost, up the stairs, and into the little

parlor where, on a table covered with a white crochet cover, burned a

carefully trimmed lamp. There, on the sofa, the lover and the lady

seated themselves.

Truth before all things. The lady was not far from thirty-six or

thirty-seven, and what is worse, could never have been pretty, or

even passably good-looking. The smallpox had pitted and hardened her

coarse skin, giving it the appearance of the leather bottom of a

sieve. Her small black eyes, hard and bright like two fleas, matched

well her nose, which was thick and ill-shaped, like the noses of the

figures of lay monks stamped on chocolate. True, the mouth was

fresh-colored, the teeth white and sound like those of a dog; but

everything else pertaining to her--dress, manner, accent, the want of

grace of the whole--was calculated rather to put tender thoughts to

flight than to awaken them. With the lamp shining as brightly as it

does, it is preferable to contemplate the lover. The latter is of

medium height, has a graceful, well-proportioned figure, and in the

turn of his head and in his youthful features there is something that

irresistibly attracts and holds the gaze. His forehead, which is high

and straight, is shaded and set off by luxuriant hair, worn somewhat

longer than is allowed by our present severe fashion. His face, thin

and delicately outlined, casts a shadow on the walls which is made up

of acute angles. A mustache, curling with the grace which is peculiar

to a first mustache, and to the wavy locks of a young girl, shades

but does not cover his upper lip. The beard has not yet attained its

full growth; the muscles of the throat have not yet become prominent;

the Adam's apple does not yet force itself on the attention. The

complexion is dark, pale, and of a slightly bilious hue.

Seeing this handsome youth leaning his head on the shoulder of

this woman of mature age and undisguised ugliness, it would have been

natural to take them for mother and son, but anyone coming to this

conclusion, after a single moment's observation, would have shown

scant penetration, for in the manifestations of maternal affection,

however passionate and tender they may be, there is always a

something of dignity and repose which is wanting in those of every

other affection.

Doubtless Segundo felt a longing to see the moon again, for he

rose almost immediately from his seat on the sofa and crossed over to

the window, his companion following him. He threw open the sash, and

they sat down side by side in two low chairs whose seats were on a

level with the flower-pots. A fine carnation regaled the sense with

its intoxicating perfume; the moon lighted up with her silvery rays

the foliage of the poplar that cast broad shadow over the little

square. Segundo opened the conversation this wise:

"Have you made any cigars for me?"

"Here are some," she answered, putting her hand into her pocket

and drawing from it a bundle of cigars. "I was able to make only a

dozen and a half for you. I will complete the two dozen to-night

before I go to bed."

There was a moment's silence, broken by the sharp sound made by

the striking of the match and then, in a voice muffled by the first

puff of smoke, Segundo went on:

"Why, has anything new happened?"

"New? No. The children--putting the house in order--and

then--Minguitos. He made my head ache with his complaining--he

complained the whole blessed evening. He said his bones ached. And

you? Very busy, killing yourself reading, studying, writing, eh? Of

course!"

"No, I have been taking a delightful walk. I went to Peñas-albas

and returned by way of Santa Margarita. I have seldom spent a

pleasanter evening."

"I warrant you were making verses."

"No, my dear. The verses I made I made last night after leaving

you."

"Ah! And you weren't going to repeat them to me. Come, for the

love of the saints, come, recite them for me, you must know them by

heart. Come, darling."

To this vehement entreaty succeeded a passionate kiss, pressed on

the hair and forehead of the poet. The latter raised his eyes, drew

back a little and, holding his cigar between his fingers after

knocking off the ashes with his nail, proceeded to recite.

The offspring of his muse was a poem in imitation of Becquer. His

auditor, who listened to it with religious attention, thought it

superior to anything inspired by the muse of the great Gustave. And

she asked for another and then another, and then a bit of Espronceda

and then a fragment or two of Zorrilla. By this time the cigar had

gone out; the poet threw away the stump and lighted a fresh one. Then

they resumed their conversation.

"Shall we have supper soon?"

"Directly. What do you think I have for you?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Think of what you like best. What you like best, better than

anything else."

"Bah! You know that so far as I am concerned, provided you don't

give me anything smoked or greasy----"

"A French omelet! You couldn't guess, eh? Let me tell you--I

found the receipt in a book. As I had heard that it was something

good I wanted to try it. I had always made omelets as they make them

here, so stiff, that you might throw one against the wall without

breaking it. But this--I think it will be to your taste. As for me, I

don't like it much, I prefer the old style. I showed Flores how to

make it. What was in the one you ate at the inn at Orense? Chopped

parsley, eh?"

"No, ham. But what difference does it make what was in it?"

"I'll run and take it out of the pantry! I thought--the book says

parsley! Wait, wait."

She overturned her chair in her haste. An instant later the

jingling of her keys and the opening and closing of a couple of doors

were heard in the distance. A husky voice muttered some

unintelligible words in the kitchen. In two minutes she was back

again.

"Tell me, and those verses, are you not going to publish them? Am

I not going to see them in print?"

"Yes," responded the poet, slowly turning his head to one side

and sending a puff of smoke through his lips. "I am going to send

them to Vigo, to Roberto Blanquez, to insert them in the _Amanecer_."

"I am delighted! You will become famous, sweetheart! How many

periodicals have spoken of you?"

Segundo laughed ironically and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not many." And with a somewhat preoccupied air he let his gaze

wander over the plants and far away over the top of the poplar whose

leaves rustled gently in the breeze. The poet pressed his companion's

hand mechanically, and the latter returned the pressure with

passionate ardor.

"Of course. How do you expect them to speak of you when you don't

put your name to your verses?" she said. "They don't know whose they

are. They are wondering, likely----"

"What difference does the name make? They could say the same

things of the pseudonym I have adopted as of Segundo García. The few

people who will trouble themselves to read my verses will call me the

Swan of Vilamorta."