SPRING
No; he was no Bœotian; he was no Epicurean; he could not say that in his
heart, he followed the admirable advice of the great poet: “Pluck
today’s flower, and give no thought to the morrow’s.”
He was passing through all of the most common and most vulgar phases of
falling in love; he had moments of sadness, of anger, of wounded and
maltreated self-esteem.
He tried to analyze his spiritual condition coldly, and he considered it
best and most expedient to make an effort not to appear at Rafaela’s
house for a long time.
“I must be active,” he said to himself. At other times his reason
appealed to him: “Why not go to see her as I used to? What is it that I
want? Do I want her to cease having a sweetheart she has already had?
That would be stupid. We must accept things that have already been.”
At this, his wounded pride responded with fits of anger, obscuring his
intelligence; and the pride generally came out victorious.
Quentin did not appear at Rafaela’s house for some time. Alone, with
nothing to occupy him, friendless; he was desperately bored. How the
Andalusian spring oppressed him! He wandered about from place to place,
without plans, without an object, without a destination.
The sun inundated the silent, deserted streets; the sky, a pure, opaque
blue, seemed something tangible--a huge turquoise, or sapphire in which
roofs and towers and terraces were embedded.
Everything gave the impression of profound lethargy.... The houses:
blue, yellow, pale rose, cream-coloured, all hermetically sealed, seemed
deserted; the irrigated vestibules flowed with water; one smelt vaguely
the odour of flowers, and a penetrating perfume of orange blossoms arose
from the patios and gardens.
The plazas, like white whirlpools of sunlight, were blinding with the
reverberation of light against the walls. In the alleys, tenebrous,
narrow, shadowy, one felt a damp, cave-like cold.... Everywhere silence
and solitude reigned; in some lonely spot, a donkey, tied to a grating,
remained motionless; a hungry dog scratched in a heap of refuse; or a
frightened cat ran with tail erect until it disappeared in its
hiding-place.
In the distance, the crowing of a cock rang out like a bugle call in the
silent air; one heard the melancholy cry of the vendors of medicinal
herbs; and through the deserted plazoletas, through the narrow and
tortuous alleys, there rose the song of love and death that a _grancero_
was singing as he rode along on his donkey.
In La Ribera, some vagabonds and gipsies were sunning themselves, while
others played quoits; little children with brown skins ran about
bare-legged, covered only by a scanty shirt; sunburned old women came to
the windows and gratings; and along the white, the very white highway,
which resembled a great chalk furrow, there passed gallant horsemen,
raising clouds of dust.
The river wound peacefully along--blue at times, at times golden; wagons
and herds passed slowly over the bridges--so slowly that from a distance
they seemed motionless.
An oppressive calm, a tiresome somnolence weighed down upon the city;
and in the midst of this calm, of this death-like silence, there sounded
a bell here, another there--all extremely languid and sad....
At nightfall, the magic of the twilight touched the city and the
distant landscape with gold---‘d lights; splendid colours of
extraordinary magnificence. The clouds became rosy, scarlet.... The
country was tinged with gold, and the last rays of the sun set fire to
the rocks and peaks of the mountain-tops.
In the streets, which were bathed with light, a narrow strip of shadow
appeared upon the walks, which grew and widened until it covered the
whole pavement. Then it slowly climbed the walls, reached the grated
windows and the balconies, scaled the twisted eaves.... The sunlight
completely disappeared from the street, and there only remained the last
vestiges of its brilliancy upon the towers, the high look-outs, and the
flaming windows....
The air grew diaphanous, acquired more transparency; the horizon more
depth; and the sides of the white walls of garrets and corners, as they
reflected the scarlet or rosy sky, resembled blocks of snow animated by
the pale rays of a boreal sun....
Presently the lamps were lighted; their little red flames flickering in
the shadows; and squares of lighted windows punctured the façades of the
houses.
At this hour on work days, women visited the stores; wealthy families
returned in their coaches from their orchards; youths rode back and
forth on horseback; and the nocturnal life of Cordova poured through the
central streets, which were lighted by street lamps and shop windows.
Quentin wandered from place to place, ruminating on his sadness; walked
indifferently along streets and plazas; watched the young ladies coming
and going with their mammas, and followed by their beaux. When his
irritation disappeared, he felt discouraged. The melancholy calmness of
the city, the dreamy atmosphere, produced within him a feeling of great
lassitude and laziness.
At times he firmly believed that Rafaela would trouble him no more; that
his feeling of love had been a superficial fantasy.
* * * * *
In the morning Quentin often went to the Patio de los Naranjos where El
Pende’s father used to spend his time with a coterie of old men,
beggars, and tramps, which all Cordova ironically called _La Potrá_, or
the herd of young mares.
El Pende senior, or Matapalos, passed his time there chatting with his
friends. He was an original and knowing fellow who spoke in apothegms
and maxims. He dominated the meetings as few others could. No one could,
like him, so slyly introduce a number of subjects in a conversational
hiatus, or in the act of rolling a cigarette. Of course, for him, this
last was by no means a simple affair; but rather an operation that
demanded time and science. First, Matapalos took out a little knife and
began to scrape a plug of tobacco; after the scraping came the rubbing
of it between his hands; then he tore a leaf of cigarette paper from its
little book, held it for a moment sticking to his under lip, and then
began to roll the cigarette first on one end, and then on the other,
until the manœuvre was happily consummated. This operation over,
Matapalos removed his calañés, placed it between his legs, and from
somewhere within the hat drew forth a little leather purse, from which
he extracted flint and steel and tinder.
After this, he slowly covered himself and from time to time, in the
midst of the conversation, struck the steel with the flint until he
happened to light the tinder, and with the tinder, his cigarette.
The old man lived in a hut in the Matadero district; he knew everything
that had occurred in Cordova for many years, and boasted of it. For
Matapalos, there were no toreadors like those of his own time.
“I’m not taking any merit away from Lagartijo or Manuel Fuentes,” he
said, “but you don’t see any more toreadors like El Panchón, or Rafael
Bejarano, or Pepete, or El Camará. You ought to have seen Bejarano! He
was such a great rival of no less a person than Costillares, that in my
time they used to sing:
_“Arrogante Costillares,
anda, vete al Almadén
para ver bien matar toros
al famoso Cordobés.”_
(Proud Costillares, come, and go to the Almadén to see the famous
Cordovese kill bulls right.)
* * * * *
In this subject Matapalos had a formidable adversary; another old man
whom they called Doctor Prosopopeya, who, as a native of Seville, never
admitted that a Cordovese toreador could come up to one from Seville.
Quentin found Matapalos very funny and very amusing, and he often went
to listen to him.
While the old man related ancient history in his quiet, peaceful voice,
Quentin contemplated the Patio de los Naranjos, sometimes listening to
what was said, sometimes not.
The orange trees were in full blossom, and their penetrating perfume
produced a certain giddiness; from time to time one could hear distant
bells which the cathedral bell seemed to answer, clanging loudly....
Then silence again reigned; the birds chirped in the trees; the water
murmured in the fountain; the butterflies bathed in the pure air; and
the lizards and salamanders glided along the walls.
Among the shadows of the orange trees shone vivid splashes of sunlight;
doves tumbled from the cathedral roof and flew softly through the blue
and luminous air, making a slight sound of ripping gauze; sometimes they
made a metallic whirr as they rapidly beat their wings.
The majority of the _Potrá_ was made up of beggars and tramps. These
beggars were neither emaciated, squalid, nor ill; but strong, vigorous
men, hirsute, with long, matted locks, sunburned, covered with rags....
Some wore threadbare calañés hats; others, broad-brimmed sombreros worn
over grass handkerchiefs; some, a very few, wore loose, yellowish coats
with long sleeves; a good many wrapped themselves up in grey cloaks of
heavy cloth and many folds. Nearly all of them had private homes where
they were given leavings and cigarette butts; those who did not, went to
the barracks, or to a convent; no one lacked the hodge-podge necessary
for wandering on, though poorly, through the bitter adversities of
life.
From time to time the _Potrá_ came into a little money; and then ten or
twelve of them got up a pool to play the lottery.
In that troop there was a beggar with a black beard, younger than the
rest, bent almost double at the waist, who went about leaning on a short
crutch. They called this man El Engurruñao. He had one shrunken leg
wrapped in rags, although really he had no illness at all. He howled in
a doleful voice after every decently-dressed passer-by, and he took in
plenty of money.
Through the conversations of these tramps and beggars, Quentin came to
know Cordova life, and that of the principal families of the town.
Through them he learned that the majority of the great families were on
their way to poverty.
One example of an economic catastrophe was that of a gentleman who
walked through the arcade of the Mosque every morning. This gentleman
was dressed like a dandy of other days: well-fitting coat, flowing black
cravat, tall silk hat with a flat brim, and, on some cold days, a blue
cape. The poor man was emaciated, had long, grey, bushy hair, and wore
yellow gloves.
He was a ruined aristocrat. It was pitiful to see that living ruin
walking up and down under the porticos, with his hands behind his back,
talking to himself with a gesture of resignation and sadness....