STICKS, SHOTS, AND STONES
That night, Quentin went to look for Cornejo at the print-shop where _La
Víbora_ was published.
The shop was situated in a cellar, and contained a very antique press,
which took a whole day to print its fifteen hundred copies.
“For the next number,” said Quentin to the poet, “you’ve got to make up
a poisonous poem in the same style as those that have been published
against the Alguacil Ventosilla, Padre Tumbón, and La Garduña.”
“Good. Against whom is it to be?”
“La Aceitunera.”
“The Countess?”
“Yes.”
“The devil! Isn’t she a relative of yours?”
“Yes, on the left hand side.”
“Let’s have it. What must I say?”
“You already know that they call her La Aceitunera?”
“Yes.”
“And you also know that she has no morals to boast of?”
“Yes.”
“Well, with that you’ve got it all made. As a sort of refrain to your
poem, you may use the quotation she wears on her garters; it goes like
this:
_Intrépido es amor;_
_de todo sale vencedor._”
“Very good; but give me an idea.”
“Do you need still more? You can begin with a poetic invocation, asking
every crib in Cordova who the lady of such and such a description is;
then give hers; including the fact that she wears garters with this
motto engraved upon them:
_Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”_
“Good! For example: I’ll say that she has black eyes, and a wonderful
pair of hips, and--”
“An olive complexion.”
“And an olive complexion ... and I’ll finish up with:
_Y ésta leyenda escrita en la ancha liga,
que tantos vieron con igual fatiga:_
_Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor._
(And this legend written upon her broad garter, which so many men
have seen with the same feeling of fatigue: etc.)
“Eh? How’s that?”
“Very good.”
“All right, it won’t take a minute to finish it. What shall I call the
poem?”
“_To La Aceitunera._”
“It’s done. How would you like me to begin like this?:
_Casas de la Morería;
Trascastillo y Murallón,
ninfas, dueñas, y tarascas,
baratilleras de amor._
(Houses of La Morería, Trascastillo and Murallón; nymphs,
mistresses, and lewd women, second-hand dealers in love.)”
“You may begin as you wish. The idea is that the thing must hurt.”
“It’ll hurt, all right; never fear.”
Cornejo finished the poem; two days later the paper came out, and in
cafés and casinos, the only subject of conversation was the Countess’
garters, and everybody maliciously repeated the refrain:
_Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor._
The following night, Quentin was waiting for the poet in the Café del
Recreo. He had made an appointment with him for ten o’clock, but Cornejo
had failed to appear.
Quentin waited for him for over two hours, and finally, tired out, he
started to go home. As he left the café, a little man wrapped in a cloak
came up to him at the very door.
“Listen to me a second,” he said.
“Eh!”
“Be very careful, Don Quentin, they are following you.”
“Me?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Who are you? Let’s hear first who you are.”
“I am Carrahola.”
“Aren’t you angry at me for what I did to you the other night?”
“No, Señor, you’re a brave fellow.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, Señor José has sent Cantarote, the gipsy, and me to go home with
you.”
“Bah! No one interferes with me.”
“Don’t say what you know nothing about. Take this club”--and he gave him
one which he had concealed under his cloak--“and walk on.”
“Aren’t you armed, Carrahola?”
“I?--Look!”--and lifting aside his cloak, he showed his sash, which was
filled with stones.
Quentin took the club, wrapped himself up to his eyes in his cloak, and
began to walk slowly along the middle of the street, looking carefully
before passing cross-streets and corners. When he reached one corner, he
saw two men standing in the doorway of a convent, and two others
directly opposite. No sooner had he perceived them, than he stopped,
went to a doorway, took off his cloak and wrapped it about his left arm,
and grasped the club with his right hand.
When the four men saw a man hiding himself, they supposed that it was
Quentin, and rushed toward him. Quentin parried two or three blows with
his left arm.
“Evohé! Evohé!” he cried; and an instant later began to rain blow after
blow about him with his club, with such vigour, that he forced his
attackers to retreat. In one of his flourishes, he struck an adversary
on the head, and his club flew to pieces. The man turned and fell
headlong to the ground, like a grain-sack.
Carrahola and Cantarote came running to the scene of the fray; one
throwing stones, the other waving a knife as long as a bayonet.
Carrahola hit one of the men in the face with a stone, and left him
bleeding profusely. Of the three who were left comparatively sound, two
took to their heels, while the strongest, the one who seemed to be the
leader of the gang, was engaged in a fist fight with Quentin. The
latter, who was an adept in the art of boxing, of which the other was
totally ignorant, thrust his fist between his adversary’s arms, and gave
him such a blow upon the chin, that he fell backward and would have
broken his neck, had he not stumbled against a wall. As the man fell, he
drew a pistol from his pocket and fired.
“Gentlemen,” said Quentin to Carrahola and Cantarote; “to your homes,
and let him save himself who can!”
Each began to run, and the three men escaped through the narrow
alleyways.
The next afternoon Quentin went to the Casino. The newspapers spoke of
the battle of the day before as an epic; a ruffian known as El Mochuelo,
had been found in the street with concussion of the brain, and a
contusion on his head; besides this, there were pools of blood in the
street. According to the newspaper reports, passions had been at a white
heat. Immediately after the description of the fight, followed the news
that the notable poet Cornejo had been a victim of an attack by persons
unknown.
“They must have beaten him badly,” thought Quentin.
He went to Cornejo’s house and found him in bed, his head covered with
bandages, and smelling of arnica.
“What’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Can’t you see? They gave me the devil of a beating!”
“They tried to do it to me yesterday, but I knocked a few of them down.”
“Well, don’t be overconfident.”
“No, I’m not; I carry a pistol in each pocket, and I can’t tell you what
would happen to the man who comes near me.”
“It’s a bad situation.”
“_Ca_, man! There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“You can do as you like, but I’m not going out until I’m well; nor will
I write for _La Víbora_ any more.”
“Very well. Do as you wish.”
“I’ve got to live.”
“Psh! I don’t see why,” replied Quentin contemptuously. Then he added,
“See here, my lad, if this business scares you, take up sewing on a
machine. Perhaps you’ll earn more.”... And leaving the poet, Quentin
returned to the Casino. He was the man of the hour; he related his
adventure again and again, and in order that the same thing might not be
repeated that night, a group of eight or ten of his friends accompanied
him to his house.