What a walk was his along the marshy borders of the Avieiro! At
times he hurried on without any motive for accelerating his steps,
and again, equally without motive, stood still, his gaze riveted on
some object but in reality seeing nothing. One regret, a gnawing
grief, pierced his soul when he recalled the past. As in a shipwreck
there is for each of the passengers some one particular object whose
loss he deplores more bitterly than that of all his other
possessions, so Segundo, of all his past life, regretted one instant
above every other, an instant which he would have given all he
possessed to live over again--that during which he had stood with
Nieves on the edge of the precipice, when he might have obtained a
worthy and glorious death, carrying with him into the abyss the
precious treasure of his illusions, and the form of the woman who for
that one unforgettable instant only, had truly loved him.
"A coward then, and a coward now!" thought the poet, calling all
his resolution to his aid but finding himself unable to summon the
necessary courage to throw himself at once into the cold and muddy
waters of the river. What moments of anguish! Giddy with suffering he
seated himself on a stone on the river bank and watched with idiotic
vacancy of expression the circles formed on the bosom of the river by
the drops of rain that fell slantingly from the gray sky, as they
expanded and were lost in other circles that pressed upon them on all
sides, while new circles took their place, to be lost in their turn
in yet other circles, covering the surface of the water with a wavy
design resembling the silver work called _guilloché_. The poet did
not even notice that these same rain-drops that fell thick and fast
on the surface of the Avieiro fell also on his hat and shoulders, ran
down his forehead and, making their way between his collar and his
skin, trickled down his neck. He noticed it only when the chill they
produced made him shiver and he rose and walked slowly home, where
dinner was already over and no one thought of offering him even so
much as a cup of broth.
Two or three days later a fever declared itself, which was at
first slight, but soon grew serious. Tropiezo called it a gastric and
catarrhal fever, and truth compels us to say that he administered
remedies not altogether inappropriate; gastric and catarrhal fevers
are, for physicians whose knowledge is derived chiefly from
experience, a perfect boon from Heaven, a glorious field in which
they may count every battle a victory; a beaten path in which they
run no risk of going astray. It will not lead them to the unknown
pole of science, but at least it will betray them into no abyss.
As Tropiezo was leaving García's house one evening, after his
customary visit to Segundo, muffled up to the ears in his comforter,
he saw, standing beside the lawyer's door in the shadow cast by the
contiguous wall, a woman clad in an old morning gown and with her
head bare. The night was bright and Don Fermin was able to
distinguish her features, but it was not without some difficulty that
he recognized her to be Leocadia, so altered and aged did the poor
schoolmistress look. Her countenance betrayed the keenest anxiety as
she asked the doctor:
"And what news, Don Fermin? How is Segundo getting on?"
"Ah, good evening, Leocadia. Do you know that at first I did not
recognize you?--Well, very well; there is no cause for uneasiness.
To-day I ordered him some of the _puchero_ and some soup. It was
nothing--a cold caught by getting a wetting. But the boy seems a
little preoccupied, and he was for a time so sad and dejected that I
thought he was never going to get back his appetite. At this season
it is necessary to go warmly clad; we have a fine day, and then, when
you least expect it, back come the rain and the cold again. And
you--how are you getting on? They tell me that you have not been
well, either. You must take care of yourself."
"There is nothing the matter with me, Don Fermin."
"So much the better. Any news of the boy?"
"He is in Orense, poor child. He can't get used to it."
"He will get used to it by and by. Of course--accustomed to be
petted. Well, Leocadia, good-night. Go home, my dear woman, go home."
Don Fermin proceeded on his way, drawing his comforter up closer
around his ears. That woman was mad; she had not taken the disease
lightly, it seemed. And how altered she was! How old she had grown in
these last few months! Old women were worse than young girls when
they fell in love. He had done wisely, very wisely in telling her
nothing about Segundo's new plans. She was capable of tearing down
the house if he had told her. No, silence, silence. A shut mouth
catches no flies. Let her find it out through someone else besides
him. And with these sensible ideas and worthy intentions Tropiezo
reached Agonde's, and before a quarter of an hour had elapsed
unbosomed himself of his news: Segundo García was going to America to
seek his fortune--as soon as he should be entirely well, of course.
He would take the steamer at Corunna.
The occasion was a favorable one for the company to lament once
more in concert the death of Don Victoriano Andres de la Comba,
protector and father of all the Vilamortans in want of situations, a
useful representative and an untiring worker for the district. If he
were alive now most assuredly a young man of so much ability--a
poet--that night the party all agreed that Segundo had ability and
was a poet--would not be obliged to go across the raging seas in
quest of a decent situation. But since they had lost Don Victoriano,
Vilamorta was without a voice in the regions of influence and favor,
for Señorito de Romero, the present representative of the district,
belonged to the class of docile representatives who give no trouble
to the Government, who vote when their votes are wanted, and who hold
themselves cheap, valuing themselves at no more than a few tobacco
shops, and half a dozen or so of official appointments. Agonde took
his revenge that night, expatiating on his favorite theme, and
abusing the pernicious Eufrasian influence which was responsible for
the decadence of Vilamorta, on account of which its youth were
obliged to emigrate to the New World. The apothecary expounded his
theories--he liked the representative of a district to show himself
in it occasionally. Otherwise of what use was he? In his eyes the
ideal representative was that famous politician from whom the barber
of the town he represented had asked a place, basing his request on
the fact that, owing to the distribution of appointments among the
persons of his station in the town, there were no customers left for
him to shave and he was starving. The Alcalde here interposed, saying
that he had it on very good authority that Señorito de Romero
intended to interest himself in earnest for Vilamorta; the
confectioner and some others of those present confirmed this
statement, and then arose a discussion in which it was proved beyond
a doubt that a dead representative has no friends and that the new
representative of the district had already, in the very stronghold of
the former Combista radicals, friends and adherents.