It was something different from poetry that formed the theme of
conversation of the head of the house of Las Vides, the Gendays, and
the arch-priest, installed on the balcony under the pretext of
enjoying the moonlight, but in reality to discuss the important
question of the vintage.
A fine crop! Yes, indeed, a fine crop! The grape had not a trace
of oïdium; it was clean, full, and so ripe that it was as sticky to
the touch as if it had been dipped in honey. There was not a doubt
but that the new wine of this year was better than the old wine of
last year. Last year's vintage was an absolute failure! Hail to-day,
rain to-morrow! The grape with so much rain had burst before it was
time to gather it, and had not an atom of pulp; the result was a wine
that scarcely left a stain on the shirt-sleeves of the muleteers.
At the recollection of so great a calamity, Mendez pressed his
thin lips together, and the arch-priest breathed hard. And the
conversation continued, sustained by Primo Genday, who, with much
verbosity, spitting and laughter, recounted details of harvests of
twenty years before, declaring:
"This year's crop is exactly like the crop of '61."
"Exactly," assented Mendez. "As for the Rebeco, it will not give
a load less this year, and the Grilloa--I don't know but that it will
give us six or seven more. It is a great vine, the Grilloa!"
After these cheerful prognostications of a rich harvest, Mendez
described with satisfaction to his attentive audience some
improvements which he had introduced into the cultivation of the
vine. He had most of his casks secured with iron hoops; they were
more expensive than wooden ones, but they lasted longer and they
saved the troublesome labor of making new hoops for each harvest; he
was thinking too, by way of experiment, of setting up a wine-press,
doing away with the repulsive spectacle of the trampling of the
grapes by human feet, and in order that the pressed skins and the
pulp of the grapes might not go to waste, he would distill from them
a refined alcohol which Agonde would buy from him at its weight in
gold.
Lulled by the grave voices discussing important agricultural
questions on the balcony, Don Victoriano, somewhat fatigued by his
expedition to the vineyards, sat smoking in the rocking-chair, buried
in painful meditations. Since his return from the springs he had been
growing weaker day by day; the temporary improvement had vanished;
the debility, the unnatural appetite, the thirst, and the desiccation
of the body had increased. He remembered that Sanchez del Abrojo had
told him that a slight perspiration would be of the greatest benefit
to him, and when he observed, after he had been drinking the waters
for a few days, the re-establishment of this function, his joy knew
no bounds. But what was his terror when he found that his shirt,
stiff and hard, adhered to his skin as if it had been soaked in
syrup. He touched a fold of the sleeve with his lips and perceived a
sweetish taste. It was plain! He perspired sugar! The glucose
secretion was, then, uncontrollable, and by a tremendous irony of
fate all the bitterness of his existence had come to end in this
strange elaboration of sweet substances.
For some days past he had noticed another alarming symptom. His
sight was becoming affected. As the aqueous humor of the eye dried up
the crystalline lens became clouded, producing the cataract of
diabetes. Don Victoriano had chills. He regretted now having put
himself into the homicidal hands of Tropiezo and drunk the waters.
There was not a doubt but that he was being wrongly treated. From
this day forth a strict regimen, a diet of fruits, fecula, and milk.
To live, to live, but for a year, and to be able to hide his malady!
If the electors saw their candidate blind and dying, they would
desert to Romero. The humiliation of losing the coming election
seemed to him intolerable.
Bursts of silvery laughter, and youthful exclamations proceeding
from the garden, changed the current of his thoughts. Why was it that
Nieves did not perceive the serious condition of her husband's
health? He wished to dissemble before the whole world, but before his
wife----Ah, if his wife belonged to him she ought to be beside him
now, consoling and soothing him by her caresses instead of diverting
herself and frolicking among the camellias, like a child. If she was
beautiful and fresh and her husband sickly, so much the worse for
her. Let her put up with it, as was her duty. Bah! What nonsense!
Nieves did not love him, had never loved him!
The noise and laughter below increased. Victorina and Teresa, the
verses being exhausted, had proposed a game of hide-and-seek.
Victorina was crying at every moment, "Teresa's it!" "Segundo's it!"
The garden was very well adapted for this exercise because of its
almost labyrinthine intricacy, owing to the fact of its being laid
out in sloping terraces supported on walls and separated by rows of
umbrageous trees, communicating with each other by uneven steps, as
is the case with all the estates in this hilly country. Thus it was
that the play was very noisy, as the seeker had great difficulty in
finding those who were hiding.
Nieves endeavored to hide herself securely, through laziness so
as not to have to run after the others. Chance provided her with a
superb hiding-place, a large lemon tree situated at one end of a
terrace, near some steps which afforded an easy means of escape. She
hid herself here in the densest part of the foliage, drawing her
light gown closely around her so that it might not betray her. She
had been only a few moments in her hiding-place when a shadow passed
before her and a voice murmured softly:
"Nieves!"
"Oh!" she cried, startled. "Who has found me out here?"
"No one has found you; there is no one looking for you but me,"
cried Segundo vehemently, penetrating into Nieves' hiding-place with
such impetuosity that the late blossoms which whitened the branches
of the giant tree showered their petals over their heads, and the
branches swayed rhythmically.
"For Heaven's sake, García!" she cried, "for Heaven's sake, don't
be imprudent--go away, or let me go. If the others should come and
find us here what would they say? For Heaven's sake, go!"
"You wish me to go?" said the poet. "But, Señora, even if they
should find me here, there would be nothing strange in that; a little
while ago I was with Teresa Molende behind the camellias there;
either we are playing or we are not playing. But if you desire it--to
please you----But before I go I wish to ask you a question----"
"Somewhere else--in the parlor," stammered Nieves, lending an
anxious ear to the distant noises and cries of the game.
"In the parlor! Surrounded by everybody! No, that cannot be. No,
now, do you hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you," she returned in a voice rendered almost
inaudible by terror.
"Well, then, I adore you, Nieves; I adore you, and you love me."
"Hist! Silence, silence! They are coming. I think I hear steps."
"No, it is the leaves. Tell me that you love me and I will go."
"They are coming! For Heaven's sake! I shall die of terror!
Enough of jesting, García, I entreat you----"
"You know perfectly well that I am not jesting. Have you
forgotten the night of the fireworks? If you did not love me you
would have released yourself from my arm on that night, or you would
have cried out. You look at me sometimes--you return my glances. You
cannot deny it!"
Segundo was close to Nieves, speaking with fiery impetuosity, but
without touching her, although the fragrant, rustling branches of
their shelter closed around them, inviting them to closer proximity.
But Segundo remembered the cold hard whalebones, and Nieves drew
back, trembling. Yes, trembling with fear. She might cry out, indeed,
but if Segundo persisted in remaining how annoying it would be! What
a mortification! What gossip it would give rise to! After all the
poet was right--the night of the fireworks she had been culpably weak
and she was paying for it now. And what would Segundo do if she gave
him the _yes_ he asked for? He repeated his proud and vehement
assertion:
"You love me, Nieves. You love me. Tell me that you love me, only
once, and I will go."
Not far off could be heard the contralto voice of Teresa Molende
calling to her companions:
"Nieves--where is she? Victorina, Carmen, come in, the dew is
falling!"
And another shrill voice, that of Elvira, woke the echoes:
"Segundo! Segundo! We are going in!"
In fact that almost imperceptible mizzle, which refreshes the
sultry nights of Galicia, was falling; the lustrous leaves of the
lemon tree in which Nieves sat, shrinking back from Segundo, were wet
with the night dew. The poet leaned toward her and his hands touched
her hands chilled with cold and terror. He crushed them between both
his own.
"Tell me that you love me, or----"
"But, good Heavens, they are calling me! They are noticing my
absence. I am cold!"
"Tell me the truth then. Otherwise there is no human power that
can tear me from here--come what will. Is it so hard to say a single
word?"
"And what do you want me to say, tell me?"
"Do you love me, yes or no?"
"And you will let me go--go to the house?"
"Anything you wish--but first tell me, do you love me?"
The _yes_ was almost inaudible. It was an aspiration, a prolonged
_s_. Segundo crushed her wrists in his grasp.
"Do you love me as I love you? Answer plainly."
This time Nieves, making an effort, pronounced an unequivocal
_yes_. Segundo released her hands, raised his own to his lips with a
passionate gesture of gratitude, and springing down the stairs,
disappeared among the trees.