THE
CITY OF THE DISCREET
[Illustration: text decoration]
THE BORZOI SPANISH TRANSLATIONS
I THE CABIN (LA BARRACA)
_By V. Blasco Ibáñez_
II THE CITY OF THE DISCREET
_By Pío Baroja_
III MARTIN RIVAS
_By Alberto Blest-Gana_
_Other volumes in preparation_
THE CITY OF THE
DISCREET
BY
PIO BAROJA
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH
By JACOB S. FASSETT, Jr.
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK
ALFRED A. KNOPF
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY
ALFRED A. KNOPF
_Published October, 1917_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
INTRODUCTION
In San Sebastián, a beautiful watering place on the northern coast of
Guipúzcoa, Spain, Don Pío Baroja y Nessi was born on the 28th day of
December, 1872. There, wandering among the foothills of the Pyrenees,
listening to the talk of the hardy Basque peasants, playing on the
beautiful crescent of the _playa_, sailing about the pretty land-locked
harbour, he spent his childhood. In those early days he became
thoroughly conversant with the Basque tongue--that mysterious and
impossibly difficult language of whose true origin students are still in
doubt.
His father was Don Serafín Baroja. Born in San Sebastián in 1840, Don
Serafín was a well known mining engineer, and enjoyed no small amount of
fame as a writer. As far as literature is concerned, he is perhaps best
known for his songs and ballads written in the Basque tongue. He
composed the libretto of the first Basque opera ever produced, the music
of which was by Santesteban. He is said to have been responsible for the
libretto of one other opera--a Spanish one.
His son, Don Pío, decided to take up the study of medicine, and he went
to Valencia for that purpose. He received his doctorate in 1893, when he
was but twenty-one years of age.
He practised his profession in Cestona, in the Province of Guipúzcoa.
Life in that small, provincial town proved very dull indeed, and he
decided that the medical profession was not his proper sphere. After two
years in Cestona, he moved to Madrid. There he tried his hand at several
kinds of business. He even set up a bakery in partnership with his
brother Ricardo, a painter and engraver of no mean ability! We do not
hear of his return to the practice of medicine. Evidently he had proved
to his own satisfaction that he was not suited to it.
After he had failed in several attempts at business, he began writing
for the newspapers. He succeeded in obtaining positions on _El País_,
_El Imparcial_, and _El Globo_. His success in this line of work
inspired him to further effort, and, from that time on (1900), he
devoted himself entirely to literature.
His first published work was a collection of short stories, or sketches,
entitled _Vidas Sombrías_. Among them are some exquisite pictures of
Basque life. This volume was closely followed by a novel, _La casa de
Aizgorri_. These two books scarcely caused a ripple in the literary
circles of the Cortes. Certainly, Baroja cannot claim to have sprung
into fame over night! His next attempt was a humorous novel which he
called _Aventuras, inventos y mixtificaciones de Silvestre Paradox_. It
was scarcely more successful than the first two.
His next book, _Camino de perfección_, was characterized as “a book of
apparently sane tendencies”! From that time on, he became a recognized
figure in the Spanish literature of the day. _Idilios vascos_ appeared
that same year, and in 1903 he produced _El mayorazgo de Labraz_, a
novel that has been compared most favourably (by Spanish critics) with
the best of contemporary novels both in Spain and abroad.
In all lists of the works of Pío Baroja, most of his novels are divided
into trilogies. For the sake of convenience, I shall follow the same
plan, without any attempt at chronological order:
_Tierra vasca (Basque Country): La casa de Aizgorri; El mayorazgo de
Labraz; Zalacaín, el aventurero._
_La vida fantastica (Life Fantastic): Camino de perfección; Inventos,
aventuras y mixtificaciones de Silvestre Paradox; Paradox, rey._
_La Raza (Race): La dama errante; La ciudad de la niebla; El árbol de la
ciencia._
_La lucha por la vida (The Struggle for Life): La busca; Mala hierba;
Aurora roja._ (In this trilogy, Don Pío evinces a “spirit of opposition
to the present social organization and the prejudices that embitter life
and kill human spontaneity.”)
_El pasado (The Past): La feria de los discretos; Los últimos
romanticos; Las tragedias grotescas._
_Las ciudades (Cities): César o nada, El mundo es así_ (incomplete).
_El mar (The Sea): Las inquietudes de Shanti Andía_ (incomplete).
Besides these trilogies, Baroja has written several novels under the
general title of _Memorias de un hombre de acción (Memoirs of a Man of
Action)_, long winded affairs in which any real action is sadly lacking.
In addition to his novels, he has published several volumes of essays,
and not a little verse. Few of his works have been translated into other
languages; none (except the present novel) into English.
Personally, Señor Baroja is somewhat of an enigma, a mystery. He is
extremely modest and retiring, and seldom appears prominently before the
public. It has been said of him that, although he apparently knows what
every one else thinks and believes, there is no one who can say for sure
just what his thoughts and beliefs are. He is an ardent, pious Catholic,
with very advanced ideas. One is led to believe from some of his works
that he is an ardent Republican. Some even go so far as to assert that
he entertains strong anarchistic views. But, just as we have about made
up our minds as to his political creed, along comes a novel like _La
feria de los discretos_, in which he ridicules Republicans and
Anarchists, and we are forced to reject our conception.
While his name is often coupled with that of V. Blasco Ibáñez, there is
more difference than similarity between the two, especially in their
style. The Valencian spreads his canvas with the broad, brilliant,
impressionistic strokes of a Sorolla, while Baroja employs the more
subtle and delicate methods of a Zuloaga. He is a stylist. His
vocabulary is remarkably extensive, and he employs it in a masterly
fashion--not as one who would overwhelm his readers with a flood of
ponderous verbiage, but rather as one who, knowing all the delicate
shades and nuances of his language, employs words as an artist uses his
colours--to produce the proper effects. His power of description is
marvellous. In a sentence, sometimes in a single phrase, he brings a
character or scene vividly before our mental vision. The chapter headed
“Spring,” in _The City of the Discreet_, fairly aches with the
drowsiness of an Andalusian Spring.
_La feria de los discretos_ has been chosen for this series mainly on
account of its Spanish atmosphere. Though not his best novel, it is
perhaps the best one with which to introduce him to the English reading
public. Above all else, it demonstrates his powers of description, and
his subtle, quaint humour. It is not my purpose in this paper to write a
criticism of this novel. I shall leave that to abler pens. I might say,
however, that in this work, Pío Baroja has no special message to convey,
no propaganda. His purpose here is essentially to entertain, to amuse.
One suspects that he derived no little pleasure himself from its
creation. It is said that its appearance aroused a storm of protests
from Republicans on account of the sorry light into which he put them.
Be that as it may, the details of his description of Cordova and its
environs are accurate in the extreme. _The City of the Discreet_ might
almost serve as a guide book to that ancient city. One can follow
Quentin’s adventures on any accurate map of Cordova. Of his knowledge of
Masonry, one cannot speak quite so highly!
J. S. F., Jr.
Cambridge, Mass.
October, 1917.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A conversation on the train 9
II O, oriental, romantic city! 25
III Infancy: sombre vestibule of life 33
IV Blue eyes, black eyes 43
V Noble and ancient ancestral homes! 54
VI Concerning an adventure of Quentin’s in the
neighbourhood of El Potro 65
VII In which is told the history of a tavern on Sierra Morena 82
VIII A fight in an olive orchard 95
IX In which Señor Sabadía abuses words and wine 105
X Don Gil finishes his story 114
XI More incomprehensible than the heart of a
grown woman, is that of a girl-child 124
XII In search of a jewel-case 132
XIII A picnic and a ride 145
XIV Spring 156
XV Where his beautiful expectations went! 163
XVI The man of action begins to make himself known 171
XVII “I am a little Catiline” 182
XVIII The tavern in the Calle del Bodegoncillo 193
XIX The pleasant ironies of reality 207
XX Philosophers without realizing the fact 211
XXI Juan talks 222
XXII Sticks, shots, and stones 227
XXIII Pursuit and escape 233
XXIV The victim of a feuilleton 245
XXV An abduction is prepared 250
XXVI Explanations 261
XXVII In which a countess, a professional bandit, and
a man of action have a talk 273
XXVIII The mason’s message 285
XXIX A conference 292
XXX Projects 305
XXXI Night and day 314
XXXII The city of the discreet 322
XXXIII The departure 332
XXXIV The end 343
THE CITY OF THE DISCREET
CHAPTER I
A CONVERSATION ON THE TRAIN
Quentin awoke, opened his eyes, looked about him, and exclaimed between
his yawns:
“We _must_ be in Andalusia now.”
The second-class coach was occupied by six persons. Opposite Quentin, a
distinguished-looking Frenchman, corpulent, clean-shaven, and with a red
ribbon in his buttonhole, was showing a magazine to a countryman in the
garb of a wealthy cattle owner, and was graciously explaining the
meanings of the illustrations to him.
The countryman listened to his explanations smiling mischievously,
mumbling an occasional aside to himself in an undertone:
“What a simpleton.”
Leaning against the shoulder of the Frenchman, dozed his wife--a faded
woman with a freakish hat, ruddy cheeks, and large hands clutching a
portfolio. The other persons were a bronze-coloured priest wrapped in a
cloak, and two recently-married Andalusians who were whispering the
sweetest of sweet nothings to each other.
“But haven’t we reached Andalusia yet?” Quentin again inquired
impatiently.
“Oh, yes!” replied the Frenchman. “The next station is Baeza.”
“Baeza!--Impossible!”
“It _is_, never-the-less--It _is_,” insisted the Frenchman, rolling his
r’s in the back of his throat. “I have been counting the stations.”
Quentin arose, his hands thrust into his overcoat. The rain beat
incessantly against the coach windows which were blurred by the
moisture.
“I don’t know my own country,” he exclaimed aloud; and to see it better
he opened the window and looked out.
The train was passing through a ruddy country spotted here and there
with pools of rainwater. In the distance, small, low hills, shadowed by
shrubs and thickets raised themselves into the cold, damp air.
“What weather!” he exclaimed in disgust, as he closed the window. “This
is no land of mine!”
“Are you a Spaniard?” inquired the Frenchman.
“Yes, sir.”
“I would have taken you for an Englishman.”
“I have just left England, where I spent eight years.”
“Are you from Andalusia?”
“From Cordova.”
The Frenchman and his wife, who had awakened, studied Quentin. Surely
his looks were not Spanish. Tall, stout, and clean-shaven, with a good
complexion and brown hair, enveloped in a grey overcoat, and with a cap
on his head; he looked like a young Englishman sent by his parents to
tour the continent. He had a strong nose, thick lips, and the expression
of a dignified and serious young man which a roguish, mischievous, and
gipsy-like smile completely unmasked.
“My wife and I are going to Cordova,” remarked the Frenchman as he
pocketed his magazine.
Quentin bowed.
“It must be a most interesting city--is it not?”
“Indeed it is!”
“Charming women with silk dresses ... on the balconies all day.”
“No; not _all_ day.”
“And with cigarettes in their mouths, eh?”
“No.”
“Ah! Don’t Spanish women smoke?”
“Much less than French women.”
“French women do not smoke, sir,” said the woman somewhat indignantly.
“Oh! I’ve seen them in Paris!” exclaimed Quentin. “But you won’t see any
of them smoking in Cordova. You French people don’t know us. You believe
that all we Spaniards are toreadors, but it is not so.”
“Ah! No, no! Pardon me!” replied the Frenchman, “we are very well
acquainted with Spain. There are two Spains: one, which is that of the
South, is Théophile Gautier’s; the other, which is that of Hernani, is
Victor Hugo’s. But perhaps you don’t know that Hernani is a Spanish
city?”
“Yes, I know the place,” said Quentin with aplomb, though never in his
life had he heard any one mention the name of the tiny Basque village.
“A great city.”
“Indeed it is.”
Having made this remark, Quentin lit a cigarette, passed his hand along
the blurred windowpane until he had made it transparent, and began to
hum to himself as he contemplated the landscape. The humid, rainy
weather had saddened the deserted fields. As far as one could see there
were no hamlets, no villages--only here and there a dark farmhouse in
the distance.
They passed abandoned stations, crossed huge olive groves with trees
planted in rows in great squares on the ruddy hillsides. The train
approached a broad and muddy river.
“The Guadalquivir?” inquired the Frenchman.
“I don’t know,” replied Quentin absently. Then, doubtless, this
confession of ignorance seemed ill-advised, for he looked at the river
as if he expected it to tell him its name, and added: “It is a tributary
of the Guadalquivir.”
“Ah! And what is its name?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t believe it has any.”
The rain increased in violence. The country was slowly being converted
into a mudhole. The older leaves of the wet olive trees shone a dark
brown; the new ones glistened like metal. As the train slackened its
speed, the rain seemed to grow more intense. One could hear the patter
of the drops on the roof of the coach, and the water slid along the
windows in broad gleaming bands.
At one of the stations, three husky young men climbed into the coach.
Each wore a shawl, a broad-brimmed hat, a black sash, and a huge silver
chain across his vest. They never ceased for an instant talking about
mills, horses, women, gambling, and bulls.
“Those gentlemen,” asked the Frenchman in an undertone, as he leaned
over to Quentin, “What are they--toreadors?”
“No,--rich folk from hereabouts.”
“Hidalgos, eh?”
“Pst! You shall see.”
“They are talking a lot about gambling. One gambles a great deal in
Andalusia, doesn’t one?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard some one say, that once a hidalgo was riding along on
horseback, when he met a beggar. The horseman tossed him a silver coin,
but the beggar, not wishing to accept it drew a pack of cards from among
his rags and proposed a game to the hidalgo. He won the horse.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Quentin boisterously.
“But isn’t it true?” asked the Frenchman somewhat piqued.
“Perhaps--perhaps it is.”
“What a simpleton!” murmured the countryman to himself.
“Isn’t it true either, that all beggars have the right to use the
‘Don’?”
“Yes, indeed, that’s true enough,” answered Quentin, smiling his gipsy
smile.
The three husky youths in the shawls got off at the next station to
Cordova. The sky cleared for an instant: up and down the platform walked
men with broad-brimmed Andalusian hats, young women with flowers in
their hair, old women with huge, red umbrellas....
“And those young men who just went by,” asked the Frenchman, full of
curiosity about everything, “each one carries his knife, eh?”
“Oh, yes!--Probably,” said Quentin, unconsciously imitating his
interlocutor’s manner of speech.
“The knives they carry are very large?”
“The knives! Yes, very large.”
“What might their dimensions be?”
“Two or three spans,” asserted Quentin, to whom a span more or less
mattered very little.
“And is it hard to manage that terrible weapon?”
“It has its difficulties.”
“Do you know how?”
“Naturally. But the really difficult thing is to hit a mark with a knife
at a distance of twenty or thirty metres.”
“How do they do that?”
“Why, there’s nothing much to it. You place the knife like this,” and
Quentin assumed that he had placed one in the palm of his hand, “and
then you throw it with all your might. The knife flies like an arrow,
and sticks wherever you wish.”
“How horrible!”
“That is what we call ‘painting a _jabeque_ [a facial wound].’”
“A ca--a cha--a what?”
“_Jabeque._”
“It is truly extraordinary,” said the Frenchman, after attempting in
vain to pronounce the guttural. “You have doubtless killed bulls also?”
“Oh! yes, indeed.”
“But you are very young.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Didn’t you tell me that you have been in England for eight years?”
“Yes.”
“So you killed bulls when you were fourteen?”
“No ... in my vacations.”
“Ah! You came from England just for that?”
“Yes--for that, and to see my sweetheart.”
The Frenchwoman smiled, and her husband said:
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid of which?--The bulls, or my sweetheart?”
“Of both!” exclaimed the Frenchman, laughing heartily.
“What a simpleton!” reiterated the countryman, smiling, and looking at
him as he would at a child.
“All you have to do with women and bulls to understand them,” said
Quentin, with the air of a consummate connoisseur, “is to know them. If
the bull attacks you on the right, just step to the left, or _vice
versa_.”
“And if you don’t have time to do that?” questioned the Frenchman rather
anxiously.
“Then you may count yourself among the departed, and beg them to say a
few masses for the salvation of your soul.”
“It is frightful--And the ladies are very enthusiastic over a good
toreador, eh?”
“Of course--on account of the profession.”
“What do you mean by ‘on account of the profession’?”
“Don’t the ladies bully us?”
“That’s true,” said the countryman, smiling.
“And he who fights best,” continued the Frenchman, “will have the doors
of society opened to him?”
“Of course.”
“What a strange country!”
“Pardon me,” asked his wife, “but is it true that if a girl deceives her
lover, he always kills her?”
“No, not always--sometimes--but he is not obliged to.”
“And you--have you killed a sweetheart?” she inquired, consumed with
curiosity.
“I!”--and Quentin hesitated as one loath to confess--“Not I.”
“Ah!--Yes, yes!” insisted the Frenchwoman, “you have killed a
sweetheart. One can see it in your face.”
“My dear,” said her husband, “do not press him: the Spaniards are too
noble to talk about some things.”
Quentin looked at the Frenchman and winked his eye confidentially,
giving him to understand that he had divined the true cause of his
reserve. Then he feigned a melancholy air to conceal the joy this farce
afforded him. After that, he diverted himself by looking through the
window.
“What a bore this weather is,” he murmured.
He had always pictured his arrival at Cordova as taking place on a
glorious day of golden sunshine, and instead, he was encountering
despicable weather, damp, ugly, and sad.
“I suppose the same thing will happen to everything I have planned.
Nothing turns out as you think it will. That, according to my schoolmate
Harris, is an advantage. I’m not so sure. It is a matter for
discussion.”
This memory of his schoolmate made him think of Eton school.
“I wonder what they are doing there now?”
Absorbed in his memories, he continued to look out the window. As the
train advanced, the country became more cultivated. Well-shaped horses
with long tails were grazing in the pastures.
The travellers commenced to prepare their luggage for a quick descent
from the train: Quentin put on his hat, stuffed his cap into his pocket,
and placed his bag on the seat.
“Sir,” said the Frenchman to him quickly, “I thank you for the
information with which you have supplied me. I am Jules Matignon,
professor of Spanish in Paris. I believe we shall see each other again
in Cordova.”
“My name is Quentin García Roelas.”
They shook hands, and waited for the train to stop: it was already
slowing up as it neared the Cordova station.
They arrived; Quentin got off quickly, and crossed the platform, pursued
by four or five porters. Confronting one of these who had a red
handkerchief on his head, and handing him his bag and check, he ordered
him to take them to his house.
“To the Calle de la Zapatería,” he said. “To the store where they sell
South American comestibles. Do you know where it is?”
“The house of Don _Rafaé_? Of course.”
“Good.”
This done, Quentin opened his umbrella, and began to make his way toward
the centre of the city.
“It seems as though I hadn’t crossed the Channel at all,” he said to
himself, “but were walking along one of those roads near the school. The
same grey sky, the same mud, the same rain. Now I am about to see the
parks and the river--”
But no--what he saw was the orange trees on the Victoria, laden with
golden fruit glistening with raindrops.
“I’m beginning to be convinced that I am in Cordova,” murmured Quentin,
and he entered the Paseo del Gran Capitán, followed the Calle de
Gondomar as far as Las Tendillas, whence, as easily as if he had passed
through the streets but yesterday, he reached his house. He scarcely
recognized it at first glance: the store no longer occupied two windows
as before, but the whole front of the house. The doors were covered with
zinc plates: only one of them having a window through which the interior
could be seen full of sacks piled in rows.
Quentin mounted to the main floor and knocked several times: the door
was opened to him, and he entered.
“Here I am!” he shouted, as he traversed a dark corridor. A door was
heard to open, and the boy felt himself hugged and kissed again and
again.
“Quentin!”
“Mother! But I can’t see you in all this darkness.”
“Come”--and his mother, with her arms about him, led him into a room.
Bringing him to the light of a balcony window, she exclaimed: “How tall
you are, my son! How tall, and how strong!”
“I’ve become a regular barbarian.”
His mother embraced him again.
“Have you been well? But you will soon tell us all about it. Are you
hungry? Do you want something to drink?--A cup of chocolate?”
“No, no--none of your chocolate. Something a bit more solid: ham,
eggs.... I’m ferociously hungry.”
“Good! I’ll tell them to get your breakfast ready.”
“Is everybody well?”
“Everybody. Come and see them.”
They followed a narrow corridor and entered a room where two boys, aged
fifteen and twelve respectively, had just finished dressing. Quentin
embraced them none too effusively, and from the larger room they went
into a bedroom, where a little girl between eight and nine years old was
sleeping in a huge bed.
“Is that Dolores?” asked Quentin.
“Yes.”
“The last time I saw her she was a tiny little thing. How pretty she
is!”
The child awoke, and seeing a stranger before her, became frightened.
“But it’s your brother Quentin, who has just arrived.”
Her fears immediately allayed, she allowed herself to be kissed.
“Now we shall go and see your father.”
“Very well,” said Quentin reluctantly.
They left the bedroom, and at the end of the corridor, found themselves
in a room in whose doorway swung a black screen with a glass panel.
“We’ll wait a moment. He must have gone into the store,” said his
mother, as she seated herself upon the sofa.
Quentin absently examined the furnishings of the office: the large
writing-desk full of little drawers; the safe with its gilt knobs; the
books and letter-press lying upon a table near the window. Upon the wall
opposite the screen hung two large, mud-coloured lithographs of Vesuvius
in eruption. Between them was a large, hexagonal clock, and below it, a
“perpetual” calendar of black cardboard, with three elliptic apertures
set one above the other--the upper one for the date, the middle one for
the month, and the lower one for the year.
Mother and son waited a moment, while the clock measured the time with a
harsh _tick-tock_. Suddenly the screen opened, and a man entered the
office. He was clean-shaven, elegantly dressed, with a full, pink face,
and an aristocratic air.
“Here is Quentin,” said his mother.
“Hello!” exclaimed the man, holding out his hand to the youth. “So you
have arrived without notifying us in advance? How goes it in England?”
“Very well.”
“I suppose you’re quite a man now, ready to do something useful.”
“I believe so,” answered Quentin.
“I am glad--I am very glad to see you so changed.”
At this point an elderly man entered the office. He was tall and thin,
with a drooping grey moustache. He bowed low by way of a greeting, but
Quentin’s mother, nodding toward her son, said:
“Don’t you know him, Palomares?”
“Whom, Doña Fuensanta?”
“This boy. It’s Quentin.”
“Quentin!” the old man fairly shouted. “So it is! My boy, how you have
grown! You’re a regular giant! Well, well! How do you like the English?
They’re a bad race, aren’t they? They’ve done me many a bad turn! When
did the boy come, Doña Fuensanta?”
“This very minute.”
“Well--” said Quentin’s father to Palomares.
“Come,” announced his mother, “they have work to do.”
“We shall have a little more time to talk later on at the table,” said
his father.
Mother and son left the office and made their way to the dining-room.
Quentin sat at the table and ravenously devoured eggs, ham, rolls, a bit
of cheese, and a plate of sweets.
“But you’ll lose your appetite for dinner,” warned his mother.
“_Ca!_ I never lose my appetite. I could go right on eating,” replied
Quentin. Then, smacking his lips over the wine as he stuck his nose into
the glass, he added: “What wine, mother! We didn’t drink anythink like
this at school.”
“No?”
“I should say not!”
“Poor boy!”
Quentin, touched, cried:
“I was lonesome, oh, so lonesome over there for such a long time. And
now ... you won’t love me as you do the others.”--
“Yes, I shall--just the same. I’ve thought about you so much--” and the
mother, again embracing her son, wept for a time upon his
shoulder--overcome with emotion.
“Come, come, don’t cry any more,” said Quentin, and seizing her by her
slender waist, he lifted her into the air as easily as if she had been a
feather, and kissed her upon the cheek.
“What a brute! How strong you are!” she exclaimed, surprised and
pleased.
Then they went over the house together. Some of the details demonstrated
very clearly the economic stride the family had made: the hall with its
large mirrors, marble consoles, and French hearth, was luxuriously
furnished: displayed in a cabinet in the dining-room, were a
table-service of Sèvres porcelain, and dishes, teapots, and platters of
repoussé silver.
“This table-service,” said Quentin’s mother, “we bought for a song from
a ruined marquis. Every one of the dishes and platters had a crown and
the marquis’ initials painted on it--but between the three girls and me,
we have rubbed them all off with pumice stone. It took us months.”
After seeing the entire house, mother and son descended to the store.
Here, the commercial ballast of the house was in evidence: heaped-up
piles of sacks of all sorts separated by narrow aisles. The employés of
the store came forward to greet Quentin; then he and his mother
reclimbed the stairs and entered the house.
“Your room is all ready for you,” said his mother. “We shall have dinner
directly.”
Quentin changed his clothes, washed, and presented himself in the
dining-room, very much combed and brushed, and looking extremely
handsome. His father, elegant in the whitest of collars, presided at the
table: his mother distributed the food: the children were clean and
tidy. A girl in a white apron served the meal.
Throughout the entire meal there existed a certain coldness, punctuated
by long and vexatious moments of silence. Quentin was furious, and when
the meal was finished, he arose immediately and went to his room.
“They have forgotten nothing here,” he thought. “I don’t believe I shall
be able to stay in this house for any length of time.”
His baggage had been brought to his room, so he devoted himself to
unpacking his books, and to arranging them in a bookcase. It was still
raining, and he had no desire to go out. It soon grew dark; for these
were the shortest days of the year. He went down to the store, where he
came upon Palomares, the old dependent of the house.
“How did you like England?” he was asked.
“Very much. It is a great country.”
“But a bad race, eh?”
“_Ca_, man! Better than ours.”
“Do you think so?”
“I certainly do.”
“Maybe you’re right. Have you seen the store?”
“Yes, this morning.”
“We’ve made a great fight here, my boy. We have worked wonders--your
mother most of all. When she’s around, I can laugh at any other woman,
no matter how clever she may be.”
“Yes, she must be clever.”
“Indeed she is! She is responsible for everything. When I used to go
into the office upstairs, and turn the screws on the calendar, I thought
‘Today we’ll have the catastrophe’--but no, everything turned out well.
I’m going upstairs for a while. Are you coming?”
“No.”
Quentin seized an umbrella and took a stroll through the city. It was
pouring rain; so, very much bored, he soon returned to the house.
His mother, Palomares, and all the children were playing Keno in the
dining-room. They invited him to take part in the game, and although it
did not impress him as particularly amusing, he had no choice but to
accept. It was a source of much laughter and shouting when Quentin
failed to understand the nicknames which Palomares gave to the numbers
as he called them; for beside those that were common and already
familiar to him, such as “the pretty little girl” for the 15, he had
others that were more picturesque which he had to explain to Quentin.
The 2, for example, was called “the little turkey-hen”; the 11, “the
Catalonians’ gallows”; the 6, “the clothier’s rat”; the 22, “mother
Irene’s turkeys”; the 17, “the crooked _Maoliyo_.” Among the nicknames,
were some that were surprisingly fantastic; like the 10, which Palomares
designated by calling “María Francisca, who goes to the theatre in dirty
petticoats.”
At the end of each game, Palomares took a tray with a glass of water on
it, and said to the winner:
“You who have won behold your glass of water and your sugar-loaf: you
who have lost,” and he pointed to the loser, “go whence you came.”
His fun was hailed with delight every time he went through the ceremony.
“Now tell us what you did in Chile,” said one of the youngsters.
“No, no,” said Quentin’s mother. “You two boys must study now, and my
little girl must go to bed.”
They obeyed without a protest, and soon after, one could hear the
buzzing of the two boys as they read their lesson aloud.
“Well,” said Palomares, “I’m going to supper,” and taking his cloak, he
went out into the street.
Quentin’s father came in, and they had supper. The evening meal had the
same character as the dinner. As soon as they had finished dessert,
Quentin arose and went to his room.
He climbed into bed, and amid the great confusion of images and
recollections that crowded his brain, one idea always predominated: that
he was not going to be able to live in that house.