THE MAN OF ACTION BEGINS TO MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN
Quentin got up late, ate his breakfast and wrote several letters to his
friends in England. In the evening he looked through the amusement
section of the paper and saw that there was to be an entertainment in
the Café del Recreo.
He asked Palomares where this café was, and was told that it was on the
Calle del Arco Real, a street that ran into Las Tendillas.
The constant irritation in Quentin’s mind troubled him so, that he
calmly decided to get drunk.
“Tell me,” he said to the waiter after seating himself at a table in the
café, “what refreshments have you?”
“We have currants, lemons, blackberries, and French ice-cream.”
“Fine! Bring me a bottle of cognac.”
The waiter brought his order, filled his glass, and was about to remove
the bottle.
“No, no; leave it here.”
“Aren’t you going to see the show?” asked the waiter with obsequious
familiarity. “They are giving _La Isla de San Balandrán_: it’s very
amusing.”
“I’ll see.”
After Quentin had emptied several glasses, he began to feel heartened,
and ready for any folly. At a near-by table several men were talking
about an actress who took the principal part in a musical comedy that
had just been put on. One with a very loud voice was dragging the
actress’ name through the mire.
This man was extremely fat; a kind of a sperm whale, with the bulging
features of a dropsical patient, a shiny skin, and the voice of a
eunuch. He had a microscopic nose that was lost between his two chubby
cheeks, which were a pale yellow; his hatchet-shaped whiskers were so
black that they seemed painted with ink; his stiff, bluish hair grew low
on his forehead, with a peak above the eyebrows. He wore diamonds upon
his bosom, rings upon his pudgy fingers, and, to cap his offensiveness,
he was smoking a kilometric cigar with a huge band.
The bearing, the voice, the diamonds, the cigar, the waddling, and the
laughter of that man set Quentin’s blood afire to such an extent, that
rising and striking the table where the whale was talking to his
friends, he shouted:
“Everything you say is a lie!”
“Are you the woman’s brother or husband?” inquired the obese gentleman,
staring into space and stroking his black sideburns with his much
bediamonded hand.
“I am nothing of hers,” replied Quentin; “I don’t know her, and I don’t
want to know her; but I do know that everything you say is a lie.”
“Pay no attention to him,” said one of the fat man’s companions; “he’s
drunk.”
“Well, he’d better look out, or I’ll strike him with my stick.”
“You’ll strike me with your stick!” exclaimed Quentin. “Ha ... ha ...
ha!... But have you ever looked into a mirror?... You really are most
repulsive, my friend!”
The fat man, before such an insult to his appearance, rose and
endeavoured to reach Quentin, but his friends restrained him. Quentin
quickly removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready to box.
“Evohé! Evohé!” he thundered. “Come who will! One by one, two by two,
every one against me!”
A thin, blond man with blue eyes and a golden beard, stepped up to him;
not as though to fight, but with a smile.
“What do _you_ want?” Quentin asked him rudely.
“Oh! Don’t you remember Paul Springer, the son of the Swiss
watch-maker?”
“Is that you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I should have liked it had it been the fat man or one of his
friends, so I could have cut him open with my fist.”
“I see that you are just as crazy as ever.”
“I, crazy? I’m one of the few people on this planet in their right
senses! Moreover, I have decided to become a man of action. Believe me!”
“I can’t believe anything of you now, my lad. What you ought to do is to
put on your coat and go to bed. Come, I’ll go with you.”
Quentin assented, and went home with his friend.
“We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” said the Swiss.
“Yes.”
“Then, until another day.”
They took leave of each other. Quentin remained in his doorway.
“I’m not going in,” he said to himself. “Am I not a man of action? Well,
_adelante_! Where can I go? I’ll go and see Señora Patrocinio. I’ll take
a few turns about here until my head is a little clearer....”
He knocked at the house in Los Tejares, and the door was immediately
opened to him.
“Ah! Is it you?” said the old woman, as she lifted the candle to see who
it was.
“Yes, it is I.”
“Come in.”
The old woman lit the lamp in the same room on the lower floor that Don
Gil Sabadía and Quentin had occupied.
“What’s the matter?” asked Señora Patrocinio. “Do you need money?”
“No. Do you, too, wish to offend me?”
“No; I just wanted to give you some.”
“Thanks very much! You are the only person who takes any interest in
me--why, I don’t know.... I have come to see you tonight because I am
unhappy.”
“I know.... Rafaela is going to get married.”
“And how do you know that that is the reason for my unhappiness?”
“Nothing is secret from me. You liked her, but you will get over it
soon. She was fond of you, too.”
“Do you think ...?”
“Yes; but the poor girl had a bad beginning in life, and does well not
to get mixed up in adventures; for the majority of men aren’t even worth
the trouble of looking in the face. Still, what her sweetheart did was
disgraceful. Rafaela was brought up weakly,--too carefully guarded; then
she began to grow quite happy, what with taking care of her mother and
her betrothal. Then her mother died; her father remarried immediately;
in a few months it began to be rumoured that her family was on the verge
of ruin, and her sweetheart skipped out. Think of it! The poor abandoned
girl began to turn yellow, and thought she was going to die. I believe
that she owes her cure to the trouble her younger sister gave her.”
“Yes; I understand that she has no faith in men. Probably I ought not to
have paid any attention to the fact,” Quentin added ingenuously. “But
won’t this Juan de Dios make her suffer?”
“No. He’s coarse, but good at heart. What are you going to do?”
“I! I don’t know. We live in such a contemptible epoch. If I had been
born in Napoleon’s time! God! I’d either be dead by now or else on the
road to a generalship.”
“Would you have enlisted with Napoleon?”
“Rather!”
“And would you have fought against your own country?”
“Against the whole world.”
“But not against Spain.”
“Especially against Spain. It would be pretty nice to enter these towns
defended by their walls and their conventionalities against everything
that is noble and human, and raze them to the ground. To shoot all these
flat-nosed, pious fakers and poor quality hidalgos; to set fire to all
of the churches, and to violate all the nuns....”
“You’ve been drinking, Quentin.”
“I? I’m as calm as a bean plant, which is the calmest vegetable there
is, according to the botanists.”
“You must not talk like that of your native land in front of me.”
“Are you a patriot?”
“With all my heart. Aren’t you?”
“I am a citizen of the world.”
“It seems to me that you’ve been drinking, Quentin.”
“No; believe me.”
“I say this to you,” added the old woman after a long pause, “because
for me, this is a solemn moment. I have told no one the story of my life
until this moment.”
“The devil! What is she going to tell me?” mumbled Quentin.
“Are you vengeful?” asked the old woman.
“I?”
Quentin was not sure whether he was vengeful or not, but the old woman
took his exclamation for one of assent.
“Then you shall avenge me, Quentin, and your family. We are of the same
blood. Your grandfather, the Marquis of Tavera, and I are brother and
sister.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He doesn’t know that he has a sister living. He thinks I died a
long time ago.”
Quentin scrutinized the old woman closely and discovered certain
resemblances to the old Marquis.
She pressed Quentin’s hand, and then commenced her story as follows:
“In villages, there are certain families in which hatred is perpetuated
through century after century. In cities, after one or two generations,
hatred and rivalry are gradually wiped out until they disappear
altogether. Not so in the villages: people unconcerned in the quarrel
carry the story of it from father to son, present the chapter of
insults to different individuals, and go on feeding the flame of rancour
when it tends to extinguish itself.
“I was born in a large, highland village, of such an illustrious family
as that of Tavera. My mother died young, my older brother went to
England, the other to Madrid to take up a diplomatic career, while I
remained in the village with my father and two maiden aunts.
“My mother, whom I scarcely knew, was very good, but rather simple; so
much so that they say that when the fishes in our pool did not bite, she
called in a professional fisherman and gave him a good day’s wages to
teach them to do so.
“My family came from an important village in the province of Toledo,
near La Puebla, where long ago there used to stand a tower and a castle
and various strongholds, which are now nothing but ruins.
“According to my father, a harsh man, proud of his titles and lineage,
we came from the oldest nobility, from the conquerors of Cordova, and
were related to the whole Andalusian aristocracy: the Baenas, Arjonas,
Cordovas, Velascos, and Gúzmans.
“In spite of our ancestry, our family did not enjoy any especial respect
from the townspeople on account of the display we made, because our
property had diminished somewhat, and also because the new liberal ideas
were beginning to make themselves felt.
“My father owned nearly the whole village; he received a contribution
from every chimney; he had the only interment chapel in the large
church; and a patronage in several smaller churches and hermitages. In
spite of the prestige of his lineage and his wealth, every one hated
him--justly, I believe, for he was despotic, violent and cruel.
“That was about fifty years ago. My nose did not try to meet my chin
then, nor did I lack any teeth; I was a lass worth looking at; graceful
as a golden pine, and blonder than a candle. Any one seeing me in those
days would have liked to know me! I lived with my father, who used to
aim a blow at me every once in a while, and with my aunts, who were
busybodies, meddlers, and crazy.
“As I have already said, my father had enemies; some openly avowed,
others secret, but who all did the greatest amount of harm they could.
Among them, the most powerful was the Count of Doña Mencia, whose
family, much more recently come to the village than ours, was slowly
acquiring property and power.
“The rivalry between the two houses was increased by a lawsuit which the
Doña Mencias won against us, and it grew into a savage hatred when my
father committed the offensive act of violating one of the rival
family’s little girls.
“The Doña Mencias took the child to Cordova; my father once heard a
bullet whistle by his head as he was on his way to a farm--and this was
the state of affairs, my family hated by our rivals and by nearly all of
the townspeople, when I reached my eighteenth year, with no one to
advise me but my aunts.
“I was, as I have said before, very pretty, and attracted attention
wherever I went. Even at that age I had already had two or three beaux
with whom I used to talk through my window-grating, when the Count of
Doña Mencia’s eldest son began to call upon me, and finally to ask for
my hand. The whole village was surprised at this; I was disposed to pay
no attention to him; moreover, I received several anonymous letters
telling me that if I listened to the Count’s son, very disagreeable
consequences might arise, because the hatred was still latent between
the two families. I was just about decided to refuse him, when my aunts,
crazy novel readers that they were, insisted that I ought to listen to
him, for the boy’s intentions were honourable, and in this way I could
once and for all put an end to the rivalry and hatred.
“My father prided himself upon the fact that he never interfered with
what was happening in the family; his only occupations were hunting,
drinking, and chasing after farm girls, and if I had consulted him about
the affair, he would have sent me harshly about my business.
“So, following my aunts’ advice, I accepted the enemy of our home as a
sweetheart, and received him for a year. One time in the garden, which
was where we used to see each other, he threw himself upon me and
attempted to overpower me; but people came in answer to my cries. My
betrothed said that I had foolishly taken fright, as he was only trying
to kiss me; I wanted to break the engagement, but instead of breaking
off our relations, the affair only hastened the wedding.
“Grand preparations were made, but so sure were the townspeople that my
sweetheart would never marry me, that servants, friends, every one, gave
me to understand that the wedding would never take place, and that my
betrothed would be capable of changing his mind at the very foot of the
altar. Thus warned, I attempted to lessen the expense of the wedding,
but my aunts tried to convince me not to do such a crazy thing.
“In fine, the day which was as dreaded as it was hoped for, arrived; my
betrothed appeared at the church, and the wedding was celebrated. God
knows how many hopes I had of being happy. The marriage feast was eaten;
the ball was held. The festivities lasted until midnight, when we
retired.
“The next morning when I awoke, I looked for my husband at my side, but
did not find him. He never appeared all day long; they looked for him,
but in vain. Days and days passed, and more days, while I waited for
him, fearing an accident rather than an insult. After a long time, I
received a mocking letter from him in which he told me that he would
never come back to me.
“From that one wedding night, I became pregnant, and on this account
suffered much anxiety. My father, in whom the affair had rekindled the
anger at the rival family, assured me that he would strangle the child
if it were born alive: my aunts did nothing but weep at every turn.
“I was restless; I don’t know whether from pain or what, and gave
premature birth at eight months to a dead boy.
“A short time after, my father died of a fall from his horse, the
administrator started a lawsuit against us, and took all our property
from us; my older brother was travelling, the other was in Rome; I wrote
to them, and they did not answer; my aunts took refuge in the house of
some relatives, and I went where the will of God took me.
“At first I was in mortal terror, but I soon got used to it, and did
everything. I’ve lived like a princess and like a beggar; I’ve intrigued
in high circles, and have been an army vivandière. I have been in a
battle in the Carlist wars, and have walked among the bullets with the
same indifference with which I walk the streets of Cordova today.
“After a while, with the pain I suffered, I forgot
everything,--everything except my husband’s infamy, and that of his
whole family.
“That family has gone on implacably bringing disgrace to ours. When they
killed your father there was a man pursuing him with the soldiers. Do
you know who he was? My husband’s son. And his grandson was Rafaela’s
sweetheart, the one who left her when he thought she was penniless.
“My husband married again. He is a bigamist, and probably falsified my
death certificate. Today he moves in high circles, but the blow he gets
from his downfall will be all the greater.”
“What are you thinking of doing?” asked Quentin.
“Of denouncing him. I have not done so before on account of my older
brother. I don’t want to bring shame to him in his last days. As for the
other brother, I don’t mind; he is an egoist. When the Marquis dies,
you’ll see what I shall do. If I die before he does, you will avenge me.
Will you, Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I want. Your word is enough. Ask me for whatever you want,
and come to see me.”
Señora Patrocinio kissed Quentin’s cheek, and he left the house
confounded.
“Now,” he murmured, “this woman turns out to be the sister of a marquis,
married to a count, and my aunt. And she wants us to avenge ourselves.
Why then let’s do so ... or let’s not. It’s all the same to me. You know
your plan, Quentin,” he said to himself. “Who are you?” he asked
himself, and immediately replied, “You are a man of action. Very good!”