_Magdalena_ was found among them,--a timorous rat whose name the papers
mentioned like that of a terrible criminal. He was always included in
the trail of vagrant suspects who, without being charged with any
specific crime, were sent from province to province by the authorities,
in the hope that they would die of hunger along the roads, and thus he
had covered the whole peninsula on foot, from Cadiz to Santander, from
Valencia to La Coruña. With what enthusiasm he recalled his travels! He
spoke of them as if they were joyous excursions, just like a wandering
charity-student of the old _Tuna_ converting his tales into courses in
picturesque geography. With hungry delight he recollected the abundant
milk of Galicia, the red sausages of Extramadura, the Castilian bread,
the Basque apples, the wines and ciders of all the districts he had
traversed, with his luggage on his shoulder. Guards were changed every
day,--some of them kind or indifferent, others ill-humored and cruel,
who made all the prisoners fear a couple of shots fired beyond the ruts
of the road, followed by the papers justifying the killing as having
been caused by an attempt at flight. With a certain nostalgia he evoked
the memory of mountains covered with snow or reddened and striped by the
sun; the slow procession along the white road that was lost in the
horizon, like an endless ribbon; the highlands, under the trees, in the
hot noon hours; the storms that assailed them upon the highways;
inundated ravines that forced them to camp out in the open; the arrival,
late at night, at certain town prisons, old convenes or abandoned
churches, in which every man hunted up a dry corner, protected from
draughts, where he could stretch his mat; the endless journey with all
the calm of a purposeless procession; the long halts in spots where life
was so monotonous that the presence of a group of prisoners was an
event; the urchins would come running up to the bars to speak with them,
while the girls, impelled by morbid curiosity, would approach within a
short distance, to hear their songs and their obscene language.
"Some mighty interesting travels, sir," continued the robber. "For those
of us who had good health and didn't drop by the roadside it was the
same as a strolling band of students. Now and then a drubbing, but who
pays any attention to such things!... They don't have these
_conductions_ now; prisoners are transported by railroad, caged up in
the cars. Besides, I am held for a criminal offense, and I must live
inside the walls... jailed for good."
And again he began to lament his bad luck, relating the final deed that
had landed him in jail.
It was a suffocating Sunday in July; an afternoon in which the streets
of Valencia seemed to be deserted, under the burning sun and a wind like
a furnace blast that came from the baked plains of the interior.
Everybody was at the bull-fight or at the seashore. _Magdalena_ was
approached by his friend _Chamorra_, an old prison and traveling
companion, who exercised a certain influence over him. That _Chamorra_
was a bad soul! A thief, but of the sort that go the limit, not
recoiling before the necessity of shedding blood and with his knife
always handy beside his skeleton-keys. It was a matter of cleaning out a
certain house, upon which this fearful fellow had set his eye.
_Magdalena_ modestly excused himself. He wasn't made for such things; he
couldn't go so far. As for gliding up to a roof and pulling down the
clothes that had been hung out to dry, or snatching a woman's purse with
a quick pull and making off with it... all right. But to break into a
house, and face the mystery of a dwelling, in which the people might be
at home?...
But _Chamorra's_ threatening look inspired him with greater fear than
did the anticipation of such an encounter, and he finally consented.
Very well; he would go as an assistant,--to carry the spoils, but ready
to flee at the slightest alarm. And he refused to accept an old
jack-knife that his companion offered him. He was consistent.
"Petty thefts aplenty; but as to blood, not a single drop."
Late in the afternoon they entered the narrow vestibule of a house that
had no janitor, and whose inhabitants were all away. _Chamorra_ knew his
victim; a comfortably fixed artisan who must have a neat little pile
saved up. He was surely at the beach with his wife or at the bull-fight.
Above, the door of the apartment yielded easily, and the two companions
began to work in the gloom of the shuttered windows.
_Chamorra_ forced the locks of two chiffoniers and a closet. There was
silver coin, copper coin, several bank-notes rolled up at the bottom of
a fan-case, the wedding-jewelry, a clock. Not a bad haul. His anxious
looks wandered over the place, seeking to make off with everything that
could be carried. He lamented the uselessness of _Magdalena_, who,
restless with fear and with his arms hanging limp at his sides, was
pacing to and fro without knowing what to do.
"Take the quilts," ordered _Chamorra_, "We're sure to get something for
the wool."
And _Magdalena_, eager to finish the job as soon as possible, penetrated
into the dark alcove, gropingly passing a rope underneath the quilts and
the bed-sheets. Then, aided by his friend, he hurriedly made a bundle of
everything, casting the voluminous burden upon his shoulders.
They left without being detected, and walked off in the direction of the
outskirts of the town, towards a shanty of Arrancapinos, where
_Chamorra_ had his haunt. The latter walked ahead, ready to run at the
first sign of danger; _Magdalena_ followed, trotting along, almost
hidden beneath the tremendous load, fearing to feel at any moment the
hand of the police upon his neck.
Upon examining the proceeds of the robbery in the remote corral,
_Chamorra_ exhibited the arrogance of a lion, granting his accomplice a
few copper coins. This must be enough for the moment. He did this for
_Magdalena's_ own good, as _Magdalena_ was such a spendthrift. Later he
would give more.
Then they untied the bundle of quilts, and _Chamorra_ bent over, his
hands on his hips, exploding with laughter. What a find!... What a
present!
_Magdalena_ likewise burst into guffaws, for the first time that
afternoon. Upon the bed-clothes lay an infant, dressed only in a little
shirt, its eyes shut and its face purple from suffocation, but moving
its chest with difficulty at feeling the first caress of fresh air.
_Magdalena_ recalled the vague sensation he had experienced during his
journey hither,--that of something alive moving inside the thick load on
his back. A weak, suffocated whining pursued him in his flight.... The
mother had left the little one asleep in the cool darkness of the
alcove, and they, without knowing it, had carried it off together with
the bed-clothes.
_Magdalena's_ frightened eyes now looked questioningly at his companion.
What were they to do with the child?... But that evil soul was laughing
away like a very demon.
"It's yours; I present it to you.... Eat it with potatoes."
And he went off with all the spoils. _Magdalena_ was left standing in
doubt, while he cradled the child in his arms. The poor little thing!...
It looked just like his own Tono, when he sang him to sleep; just like
him when he was ill and leaned his little head upon his father's bosom,
while the parent wept, fearing for the child's life. The same little
soft, pink feet; the same downy flesh, with skin as soft as silk.... The
infant had ceased to cry, looking with surprised eyes at the robber, who
was caressing it like a nurse.
"Lullaby, my poor little thing! There, there, my little king... child
Jesus! Look at me. I'm your uncle."
But _Magdalena_ stopped laughing, thinking of the mother, of her
desperate grief when she would return to the house. The loss of her
little fortune would be her least concern. The child! Where was she to
find her child?... He knew what mothers were like. _Peluchona_ was the
worst of women, yet he had seen even her weep and moan before her little
one in danger.
He gazed toward the sun, which was beginning to sink in a majestic
summer sunset. There was still time to take the infant back to the house
before its parents would return. And if he should encounter them, he
would lie, saying that he had found the infant in the middle of the
street; he would extricate himself as well as he could. Forward; he had
never felt so brave.
Carrying the infant in his arms he walked at ease through the very
streets over which he had lately hastened with the anxious gait of fear.
He mounted the staircase without encountering anybody. Above, the same
solitude. The door was still open, the bolt forced. Within, the
disordered rooms, the broken furniture, the drawers upon the floor, the
overturned chairs and clothes strewn about, filled him with a sensation
of terror similar to that which assails the assassin who returns to
contemplate the corpse of his victim some time after the crime.
He gave a last fond kiss to the child and left it upon the bed.
"Good-bye, my pet!"
But as he approached the head of the staircase he heard footsteps, and
in the rectangle of light that entered through the open door there
bulked the silhouette of a corpulent man. At the same time there rang
out the shrill shriek of a female voice, trembling with fright:
"Robbers!... Help!"
_Magdalena_ tried to escape, opening a passage for himself with his head
lowered, like a cornered rat; but he felt himself seized by a pair of
Cyclopean arms, accustomed to beating iron, and with a mighty thrust he
was sent rolling down the stairs.
On his face there were still signs of the bruises he had received from
contact with the steps, and from the blows rained upon him by the
infuriated neighbors.
"In sum, sir. Breaking and entering. I'll get out in heaven knows how
many years.... All for being kind-hearted. To make matters worse, they
don't even give me any consideration, looking upon me as a clever
criminal. Everybody knows that the real thief was _Chamorra_ whom I
haven't seen since.... And they ridicule me for a silly fool."
END
THE LAST LION
SCARCELY had the meeting of the honorable guild of _blanquers_ come to
order within its chapel near the towers of Serranos, when Señor Vicente
asked for the floor. He was the oldest tanner in Valencia. Many masters
recalled their apprentice days and declared that he was the same now as
then, with his white, brush-like mustache, his face that looked like a
sun of wrinkles, his aggressive eyes and cadaverous thinness, as if all
the sap of his life had been consumed in the daily motions of his feet
and hands about the vats of the tannery.
He was the only representative of the guild's glories, the sole survivor
of those _blanquers_ who were an honor to Valencian history. The
grandchildren of his former companions had become corrupted with the
march of time; they were proprietors of large establishments, with
thousands of workmen, but they would be lost if they ever had to tan a
skin with their soft, business-man's hands. Only he could call himself a
_blanquer_ of the old school, working every day in his little hut near
the guild house; master and toiler at the same time, with no other
assistants than his sons and grandchildren; his workshop was of the old
kind, amid sweet domestic surroundings, with neither threats of strikes
nor quarrels over the day's pay.
The centuries had raised the level of the street, converting Señor
Vicente's shop into a gloomy cave. The door through which his ancestors
had entered had grown smaller and smaller from the bottom until it had
become little more than a window. Five stairs connected the street with
the damp floor of the tannery, and above, near a pointed arch, a relic
of medieval Valencia, floated like banners the skins that had been hung
up to dry, wafting about the unbearable odor of the leather. The old man
by no means envied the _moderns_, in their luxuriously appointed
business offices. Surely they blushed with shame on passing through his
lane and seeing him, at breakfast hour, taking the sun,--his sleeves and
trousers rolled up, showing his thin arms and legs, stained red,--with
the pride of a robust old age that permitted him to battle daily with
the hides.
Valencia was preparing to celebrate the centenary of one of its famous
saints, and the guild of _blanquers_, like the other historic guilds,
wished to make its contribution to the festivities. Señor Vicente, with
the prestige of his years, imposed his will upon all the masters. The
_blanquers_ should remain what they were. All the glories of their past,
long sequestrated in the chapel, must figure in the procession. And it
was high time they were displayed in public! His gaze, wandering about
the chapel, seemed to caress the guild's relics; the sixteenth century
drums, as large as jars, that preserved within their drumheads the
hoarse cries of revolutionary Germania; the great lantern of carved
wood, torn from the prow of a galley; the red silk banner of the guild,
edged with gold that had become greenish through the ages.
All this must be displayed during the celebration, shaking off the dust
of oblivion; even the famous lion of the _blanquers_!
The _moderns_ burst into impious laughter. The lion, too?... Yes, the
lion, too. To Señor Vicente it seemed a dishonor on the part of the
guild to forget that glorious beast. The ancient ballads, the accounts
of celebrations that might be read in the city archives, the old folks
who had lived in the splendid epoch of the guilds with their fraternal
camaraderie,--all spoke of the _blanquers_' lion; but now nobody knew
the animal, and this was a shame for the trade, a loss to the city.
Their lion was as great a glory as the silk mart or the well of San
Vicente. He knew very well the reason for this opposition on the part of
the _moderns_. They feared to assume the rôle of the lion. Never fear,
my young fellows! He, with his burden of years, that numbered more than
seventy, would claim this honor. It belonged to him in all justice; his
father, his grandfather, his countless ancestors, had all been lions,
and he felt equal to coming to blows with anybody who would dare dispute
his right to the rôle of the lion, traditional in his family.
With what enthusiasm Señor Vicente related the history of the lion and
the heroic _blanquers_! One day the Barbary pirates from Bujia had
landed at Torreblanca, just beyond Castellón, and sacked the church,
carrying off the Shrine. This happened a little before the time of Saint
Vicente Ferrer, for the old tanner had no other way of explaining
history than by dividing it into two periods; before and after the
Saint... The population, which was scarcely moved by the raids of the
pirates, hearing of the abduction of pale maidens with large black eyes
and plump figures, destined for the harem, as if this were an inevitable
misfortune, broke into cries of grief upon learning of the sacrilege at
Torreblanca.
The churches of the town were draped in black; people went through the
streets wailing loudly, striking themselves as a punishment. What could
those dogs do with the blessed Host? What would become of the poor,
defenseless Shrine?... Then it was that the valiant _blanquers_ came
upon the scene. Was not the Shrine at Bujia? Then on to Bujia in quest
of it! They reasoned like heroes accustomed to beating hides all day
long, and they saw nothing formidable about beating the enemies of God.
At their own expense they fitted out a galley and the whole guild went
aboard, carrying along their beautiful banner; the other guilds, and
indeed the entire town, followed this example and chartered other
vessels.
The Justice himself cast aside his scarlet gown and covered himself with
mail from head to foot; the worthy councilmen abandoned the benches of
the Golden Chamber, shielding their paunches with scales that shone like
those of the fishes in the gulf; the hundred archers of la Pluma, who
guarded _la Señera_ filled their quivers with arrows, and the Jews from
the quarter of la Xedrea did a rushing business, selling all their old
iron, including lances, notched swords and rusty corselets, in exchange
for good, ringing pieces of silver.
And off sped the Valencian galleys, with their jib-sails spread to the
wind, convoyed by a shoal of dolphins, which sported about in the foam
of their prows!... When the Moors beheld them approaching, the infidels
began to tremble, repenting of their irreverence toward the Shrine. And
this, despite the fact that they were a set of hardened old dogs.
Valencians, headed by the valiant _blanquers_! Who, indeed, would dare
face them!
The battle raged for several days and nights, according to the tale of
Señor Vicente. Reinforcements of Moors arrived, but the Valencians,
loyal and fierce, fought to the death. And they were already beginning
to feel exhausted from the labor of disembowelling so many infidels,
when behold, from a neighboring mountain a lion comes walking down on
his hind paws, for all the world like a regular person, carrying in his
forepaws, most reverently, the Shrine,--the Shrine that had been stolen
from Torreblanca! The beast delivered it ceremoniously into the hands of
one of the guild, undoubtedly an ancestor of Señor Vicente, and hence
for centuries his family had possessed the privilege of representing
that amiable animal in the Valencian processions.
Then he shook his mane, emitted a roar, and with blows and bites in
every direction cleared the field instantly of Moors.
The Valencians sailed for home, carrying the Shrine back like a trophy.
The chief of the _blanquers_ saluted the lion, courteously offering him
the guild house, near the towers of Serranos, which he could consider as
his own. Many thanks; the beast was accustomed to the sun of Africa and
feared a change of climate.
But the trade was not ungrateful, and to perpetuate the happy
recollection of the shaggy-maned friend whom they possessed on the other
shore of the sea, every time the guild banner floated in the Valencian
celebrations, there marched behind it an ancestor of Señor Vicente, to
the sound of drums, and he was covered with hide, with a mask that was
the living image of the worthy lion, bearing in his hands a Shrine of
wood, so small and poor that it caused one to doubt the genuine value of
Torreblanca's own Shrine.
Perverse and irreverent persons even dared to affirm, to the great
indignation of Señor Vicente, that the whole story was a lie. Sheer
envy! Ill will of the other trades, which couldn't point to such a
glorious history! There was the guild chapel as proof, and in it the
lantern from the prow of the vessel, which the conscienceless wretches
declared dated from many centuries after the supposed battle; and there
were the guild drums, and the glorious banner; and the moth-eaten hide
of the lion, in which all his predecessors had encased themselves, lay
now forgotten behind the altar, covered with cobwebs and dust, but it
was none the less as authentic and worthy of reverence as the stones of
el Miguelete.[1]
[Note 1: A belfry in Valencia.]
And above all there was his faith, ardent and incontrovertible, capable
of receiving as an affront to the family the slightest irreverence
toward the African lion, the illustrious friend of the guild.
The procession took place on an afternoon in June. The sons, the
daughters-in-law and the grandsons of Señor Vicente helped him to get
into the costume of the lion, perspiring most uncomfortably at the mere
touch of that red-stained wool. "Father, you're going to
roast."--"Grandpa, you'll melt inside of this costume."
The old man, however, deaf to the warnings of the family, shook his
moth-eaten mane with pride, thinking of his ancestors; then he tried on
the terrifying mask, a cardboard arrangement that imitated, with a faint
resemblance, the countenance of the wild beast.
What a triumphant afternoon! The streets crowded with spectators; the
balconies decorated with bunting, and upon them rows of variegated
bonnets shading fair faces from the sun; the ground covered with myrtle,
forming a green, odorous carpet whose perfume seemed to expand the
lungs.
The procession was headed by the standard-bearers, with beards of hemp,
crowns and striped dalmatics, holding aloft the Valencian banners
adorned with enormous bats and large L's beside the coat of arms; then,
to the sound of the flageolet, the retinue of brave Indians, shepherds
from Belen, Catalans and Mallorcans; following these passed the dwarfs
with their monstrously huge heads, clicking the castanets to the rhythm
of a Moorish march; behind these came the giants of the Corpus and at
the end, the banners of the guilds; an endless row of red standards,
faded with the years, and so tall that their tops reached higher than
the first stories of the buildings.
Flom! Rotoplom! rolled the drums of the _blanquers_,--instruments of
barbarous sonority, so large that their weight forced the drummers to
bow their necks. Flom! Rotoplom! they resounded, hoarse and menacing,
with savage solemnity, as if they were still marking the tread of the
revolutionary German regiments, sallying forth to the encounter with the
emperor's young leader,--that Don Juan of Aragón, duke of Segorbe, who
served Victor Hugo as the model for his romantic personage _Hernani_!
Flom! Rotoplom! The people ran for good places and jostled one another
to obtain a better view of the guild members, bursting into laughter and
shouts. What was that? A monkey?... A wild man?... Ah! The faith of the
past was truly laughable.
The young members of the trade, their shirts open at the neck and their
sleeves rolled up, took turns at carrying the heavy banner, performing
feats of jugglery, balancing it on the palms of their hands or upon
their teeth, to the rhythm of the drums.
The wealthy masters had the honor of holding the cords of the banner,
and behind them marched the lion, the glorious lion of the guild, who
was now no longer known. Nor did the lion march in careless fashion; he
was dignified, as the old traditions bade him be, and as Señor Vicente
had seen his father march, and as the latter had seen his grandfather;
he kept time with the drums, bowing at every step, to right and to left,
moving the Shrine fan-wise, like a polite and well-bred beast who knows
the respect due to the public.
The farmers who had come to the celebration opened their eyes in
amazement; the mothers pointed him out with their fingers so that the
children might see him; but the youngsters, frowning, tightened their
grasp upon their mothers' necks, hiding their faces to shed tears of
terror.
When the banner halted, the glorious lion had to defend himself with his
hind paws against the disrespectful swarm of gamins that surrounded him,
trying to tear some locks out of his moth-eaten mane. At other times the
beast looked up at the balconies to salute the pretty girls with the
Shrine; they laughed at the grotesque figure. And Señor Vicente did
wisely; however much of a lion one may be, one must be gallant toward
the fair sex.
The spectators fanned themselves, trying to find a momentary coolness in
the burning atmosphere; the _horchateros_[2] bustled among the crowds
shouting their wares, called from all directions at once and not knowing
whither to go first; the standard-bearers and the drummers wiped the
sweat off their faces at every restaurant door, and at last went inside
to seek refreshment.
[Note 2: Vendors of _horchata_, iced orgeat.]
But the lion stuck to his post. His mask became soft; he walked with a
certain weariness, letting the Shrine rest upon his stomach, having by
this time lost all desire to bow to the public.
Fellow tanners approached him with jesting questions.
"How are things going, _so Visent?"_
And _so Visent_ roared indignantly from the interior of his cardboard
disguise. How should things go? Very well. He was able to keep it up,
without failing in his part, even if the parade continued for three
days. As for getting tired, leave that to the young folks. And drawing
himself proudly erect, he resumed his bows, marking time with his
swaying Shrine of wood.
The procession lasted three hours. When the guild banner returned to the
Cathedral night was beginning to fall.
Plom! Retoplom! The glorious banner of the _blanquers_ returned to its
guild house behind the drums. The myrtle on the streets had disappeared
beneath the feet of the paraders. Now the ground was covered with drops
of wax, rose leaves and strips of tinsel. The liturgic perfume of
incense floated through the air. Plom! Retoplom! The drums were tired;
the strapping youths who had carried the standards were now panting,
having lost all desire to perform balancing tricks; the rich masters
clutched the cords of the banner tightly, as if the latter were towing
them along, and they complained of their new shoes and their bunions;
but the lion, the weary lion (ah, swaggering beast!), who at times
seemed on the point of falling to the ground, still had strength left to
rise on his hind paws and frighten the suburban couples, who pulled at a
string of children that had been dazzled by the sights.
A lie! Pure conceit! Señor Vicente knew what it felt like to be inside
of the lion's hide. But nobody is obliged to take the part of the lion,
and he who assumes it must stick it out to the bitter end.
Once home, he sank upon the sofa like a bundle of wool; his sons,
daughters-in-law and grandchildren hastened to remove the mask from his
face. They could scarcely recognize him, so congested and scarlet were
his features, which seemed to spurt water from every line of his
wrinkles.
They tried to remove his skins; but the beast was oppressed by a
different desire, begging in a suffocated voice. He wished a drink; he
was choking with the heat. The family, warning against illness,
protested in vain. The deuce! He desired a drink right away. And who
would dare resist an infuriated lion?...
From the nearest café they brought him some ice-cream in a blue cup; a
Valencian ice cream, honey-sweet and grateful to the nostrils,
glistening with drops of white juice at the conical top.