IN WHICH A COUNTESS, A PROFESSIONAL BANDIT, AND A MAN OF ACTION HAVE A
TALK
One afternoon a few days later, Quentin knocked at the Countess’ door.
“May I come in?”
“Come!”
Quentin opened the door and entered. The room was large, whitewashed,
with a very small window divided into four panes, the floor paved with
red bricks, and blue rafters in the ceiling. Everything was as clean as
silver; in the centre was a table covered with white oil-cloth, upon
which was a glass bottle converted by the Countess into a flower stand
full of wild flowers.
“My lady,” announced Quentin, “I came to find out if you wanted anything
in Cordova.”
“Are you going there?”
“Yes, my lady. If you are bored, we’ll take you in the carriage whenever
you wish.”
“No, I’m not bored. To the contrary.”
“Then, why don’t you stay here?”
“No, I cannot.--When do you go?”
“I was thinking of going today, but if you want me to go with you, I’ll
wait until tomorrow.”
“Very well, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”
The Countess had made friends at the farm. Late in the afternoon she
would take her sewing to the door, and, sitting in the shade, would work
among the women of the house. They told her about their lives and their
troubles, and she listened with great interest. Quentin and Pacheco used
to join the group and chat until the farm bell signalled the labourers,
and night fell, and the flocks of goats returned with a great tinkling
of bells.
The labourers’ children used to play in front of the doorway; three of
them had made friends with the Countess. They were three children who
had been left motherless; Miguel, the eldest, was seven, Dolores, the
second, was five, and Carmen, the third, was three.
The eldest was very lively, already a little rascal; the second had a
tangled mass of blond hair, sad, blue eyes, and a sun-burned face; she
wore one of her father’s vests, a dirty apron, stockings around her
ankles, and a pair of huge shoes. The littlest one spent hour after hour
with her finger thrust into her mouth.
These three children, accustomed to being alone, were content to play
with each other; they played around, striking and throwing each other
about the ground, and never cried.
“She bosses ’em all,” said one of the old wives to the Countess,
pointing to the second child.
“Poor girl. What is your name?”
“Dolores.”
The Countess looked at the child, who lowered her eyes.
“Would you like to come with me, Dolores?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’ll give you pretty dresses, dolls--Will you come?”
“No.”
The Countess kissed the girl, and every afternoon the three children
came, waiting for her to give them some money....
“Look there,” said the Countess to Quentin, pointing to a hen that was
strutting along the barnyard with her still featherless chicks--“I envy
her.”
“Do you?” asked Quentin. “You are more romantic than I thought you
were.”
“Romantic, my friend? Why? That is Truth, Nature.”
“Ah! But do you believe in the goodness of Nature?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I do not. Nature is a farce.”
“_You_ are the farce!” said the Countess. “I could never live with a man
like you, Quentin.”
“Couldn’t you?”
“No. If I had married you, we would have ended badly.”
“Would we have beaten each other?”
“Probably.”
“Look here; two things would have pleased me,” replied Quentin. “To
allow myself to be struck by you would have been magnificent, but to
give you a drubbing would also have been good.”
“Would you have dared?” said the Countess with a slight flush in her
cheeks, and her eyes shining.
“Yes, if I were your husband,” answered Quentin calmly.
“Don’t pay any attention to this fellow,” said Pacheco, “for all that is
just idle fancy.”
Pacheco manifested a respectful enthusiasm toward the Countess, but at
times he wondered if Quentin, with his wild ideas and outbursts, might
not interest the Countess more....
... And as they chatted, the afternoon advanced; the sun poured down,
its reflected rays were blinding as they fell on stones and bushes; and
the air, quivering in the heat, made the outlines of the mountain and
the distant landscape tremble.
“Would you like to take a ride, my lady?” said Pacheco.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Shall I saddle your horse?”
“Fine!”
The Countess mounted, followed by Pacheco and Quentin, and the three
made their way toward the top of the mountain by a broad path that ran
between stout evergreens.
It was late Autumn; the days were sweltering, but as soon as the sun
set, the air became very refreshing.
The mountain was splendid that afternoon. The dry, clean air was so
transparent that it made even the most distant objects seem near; the
trees were turning yellow and shedding their dried leaves; the harvested
meadows had not yet begun to turn green. In the highways and byways,
brambles displayed their black fruit, and the dog-rose bushes their
carmine berries among their thorny branches.
“What are you thinking of doing, Quentin? What have you up your sleeve?”
asked the Countess suddenly.
“Everybody knows,” replied Pacheco--“that he’s a lively fish.”
“_Ca_, man,” answered Quentin. “Why, I’m an unhappy wretch. Just now, I
admit, I am capable of doing anything to get money and live well.”
“He contradicts himself at every turn!” exclaimed the Countess,
somewhat irritated. “I’m beginning to disbelieve everything he says;
whether he tells me that he is bad, or whether he assures me that he is
unhappy.”
“You see I’m not to be classified by common standards. One half of me is
good, and the other half bad. Sometimes it seems as if I were a
demagogue, and I turn out to be a reactionary. I have all sorts of
humility and all sorts of arrogance within me. For example, if you were
to say to me tomorrow: ‘By selling all the inhabitants of Cordova into
slavery, you can make a fortune,’ I would sell them.”
“A lie!” replied the Countess. “You would not sell them.”
“No, I would not sell them if you told me not to.”
“Really, now!”
“Do you know what I used to think of doing when I was in England?” said
Quentin.
“What?” asked Pacheco.
“Of putting up a money box. You must have seen one of them in Madrid, I
think in the Calle del Fuencarral; people throw lots of money into it.
Well, I saw it on my way through the city, and in school I was always
thinking: ‘When I get to Spain, I’m going to set up four or five money
boxes, and take all the money that’s thrown into them.’”
“What ideas you do have!” said the Countess.
“I have always thought that the first thing to do was to get rich.”
“Why not work?”
“One can never make one’s self rich by working. I have two aphorisms
that rule my life; they are: first, be it yours or another’s, you will
never get on without money; second, laziness has always its reward, and
work its punishment.”
“You are a faker, and one cannot talk to you,” said the Countess. “What
about you, Pacheco?”
“He? Why, he’s another romanticist,” replied Quentin.
“Really?” asked the woman.
“Yes, somewhat,” replied the bandit with a sigh.
“Some fine day,” added Quentin, “you will hear that Pacheco has done
something either very foolish, or very heroic.”
“May God hear you,” murmured the bandit.
“Do you see?”
“Isn’t it better to do something famous, than to live in a hole like a
toad all your life?”
“What would you like to do?” asked the Countess with curiosity.
“I?--Take part in a battle; lead it if possible.”
“Then you want to be a soldier.”
“You mean a general,” interrupted Quentin with a laugh.
“And why not, if he has good luck?”
“What does one need to be a general?” asked Pacheco. “To have a soul, to
be valiant, and to be ready to give up your life every minute.”
“And furthermore, to have a career,” replied Quentin ironically ... “to
have good recommendations.”
“But you always look upon everything as small and niggardly!” exclaimed
the bandit hotly.
“And you, my friend, hope to encounter great and strong things in a mean
society. You are deceived.”
Pacheco and Quentin fell silent, and the Countess contemplated the two
men as they rode quietly along....
It was late afternoon. The dry earth, warmed by the sun, exhaled the
aroma of rosemary and thyme and dried grass. Upon the round summit of
the mountain, trees, bushes, rocks, stood out in minutest detail in the
diaphanous air.
The sun was sinking. The naked rocks, the thickets of heather and furze,
were reddened as if on the point of bursting into flame. Here and there
among the yellow foliage of the trees, appeared the white and smiling
walls of farmhouses....
Soon night began to fall; bands of deep violet crept along the
hillsides; one could hear in the distance the crowing of cocks and the
tinkling of bells, which sounded louder than usual in that peaceful
twilight; the air was tranquil, the sky azure.... Herds of cattle spread
over the fields, which were covered with dry bushes; and along the damp
pathways, bordered by huge, grey century-plants, a torrent of sheep and
goats flowed, followed by their shepherd and his great, gentle-eyed,
white mastiff.
When they returned to the farmhouse, Tío Frasquito said to Pacheco:
“We have been waiting for you.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“They just baptized a baby in the farm next to ours, and are having a
little dance. If you people would like to go....”
“Shall we go?” Pacheco asked the Countess.
“Why not?”
“Then we’ll have supper right away, and be there in a moment.”
They ate their supper; and on foot and well cloaked, as it was rather
cool, they walked along paths and across fields to the neighbouring
farm.
As they drew near, they could hear the murmur of conversation and the
strumming of a guitar. The entryway in which the fiesta was being
celebrated was large and very much whitewashed. It had a wide, open
space in the centre, with two columns; suspended from the beams of the
ceiling, were two big lamps, each with three wicks. Seated upon benches
and rope chairs were several young girls, old women, sun-blackened men,
and children who had come to witness the baptism.
In the centre was a space left free for the dancers. Seated near a small
table, which held a jug and a glass, an old man was strumming a guitar,
a man with a face and side-whiskers that just begged for a gun.
The entrance of the Countess and her escorts was greeted with loud
acclaim; one of the farm hands asked, and it was not easy to tell
whether in jest or in all seriousness, if that lady was the Queen of
Spain.
The caretaker of the farm, after installing the three guests in the most
conspicuous place, brought them some macaroons and glasses of white
wine.
Boleras and fandangos alternated, and between times they drank all the
brandy and wine they wanted. The Countess went to see the mother of the
baptized child.
“Aren’t you going to dance, Pacheco?” asked Quentin.
“Are you?”
“Man alive, I’m not graceful enough. I’ll play the guitar. You ask the
Countess to dance with you.”
“She won’t do it.”
“Do you want me to ask her for you?”
“Good idea.”
Quentin did so when she returned. She burst out laughing.
“Well, will you do it?”
“Of course, man.”
“Hurrah for all valiant women. Ladies and gentlemen,” said Quentin,
turning to the bystanders, “the Señora is going to dance with Pacheco; I
shall play the guitar, and I want the best singer here to stand by me.”
Quentin sat in the chair where the old man had been, and near him stood
a little dark-haired girl with large eyes. He tuned the guitar, turning
one key and then another, and then began a devilish preparatory
flourish. Little by little this uncouth flourish grew smoother, changing
into a handling of the strings that was finesse itself.
“Go ahead,” cried Quentin. “Now for the little highlander!”
The Countess arose laughing heartily, with her arms held high; Pacheco,
very serious, also arose and stood before her. An old woman, a mistress
of the art, began to click her castanets with a slow rhythm.
“Girlie,” said Quentin to the singer, “let’s hear what you can do.”
In almost a whisper, the girl sang:
_“Con abalorios, cariño,
con abalorios.”_
(With glass beads, love, with glass beads.)
The dancers made their start rather languidly.
The girl went on:
_“Con abalorios,
tengo yo una chapona,
tengo yo una chapona,
cariño! con abalorios.”_
(With glass beads, I have a dressing sack, I have a dressing sack,
love! with glass beads.)
The dancers were a little more lively in the “parade,” the castanets
clicked louder, and the high, treble voice of the girl increased in
volume:
_“Están bailando
el clavel y la rosa,
están bailando
el clavel y la rosa,
ay! están bailando!”_
(They are dancing, the pink and the rose, they are dancing, the
pink and the rose; Ah! they are dancing!)
This last phrase, which was somewhat sad, was accompanied by a ferocious
sound of castanets, as if the player wished to make the dancers forget
the melancholy of the song.
The girl went on:
_“Porque la rosa
entre más encarnada,
Porque la rosa
entre más encarnada
ay! es más hermosa!”_
(For the rose, the more she blushes, for the rose, the more she
blushes, Ah! the more beautiful she becomes.)
Then the castanets clicked wildly, while all the bystanders cheered the
dancers on. Pacheco pursued his partner with open arms, and she seemed
to provoke him and to flee from him, keeping out of his reach when he
was about to conquer her. In these changes and movements, the Countess’
skirts swished back and forth and folded about her thighs, outlining her
powerful hips. The whole room seemed filled with an effluvia of life.
Quentin enthusiastically continued to strum the guitar. The singer had
offered him a glass of white wine, and without ceasing to play, he had
stretched out his lips and drained it.
The dance was repeated several times, until the dancers, worn out, sat
down.
“Splendid! Magnificent!” exclaimed Quentin with tears in his eyes.
Suddenly the little girl who had sung told him she was going.
“Why?”
“Because some joker is going to put out the lights.”
Quentin put down the guitar and went over to the Countess.
“You’d better go,” he told her, “they are going to put out the lights.”
She got up, but did not have time to go out. Two big youths put out the
lamps with one blow, and the entryway was left in darkness. Quentin led
the Countess to a corner, and stood ready to protect her in case there
was need. There was a bedlam of shrill shrieks from the women, and
laughter, and voices, and all started for the door which was purposely
barred. Quentin felt the Countess by his side, palpitant.
“That’ll do,” said the landlord, “that’s enough of the joke,” and he
relit the lamps.
The fiesta became normal once more, and soon after, all began to file
out.
The following was the day fixed upon for the departure. Pacheco had, as
he said, reasons for not going to Cordova, so he did not go. Quentin sat
upon the box and drove off with the Countess. At nightfall, they were on
the Cuesta de Villaviciosa. From that height, by the light of the
half-hidden sun, they could see Cordova; very flat, very extensive,
among fields of yellow stubble and dark olive orchards. A slight mist
rose from the river bed. In the distance, very far away, rose the high
and sharp-peaked Sierra of Granada.
Carts were returning along the road, jolting and shaking; they could
hear the Moorish song of the carters who were stretched out upon sacks,
or skins of olive oil; riders on proud horses passed them, seated upon
cowboy saddles, their shawls across their saddle bows, and their guns at
their sides....
When they entered Cordova, night had already fallen; the sky was
sprinkled with stars; on either side of the road, which now ran between
the houses, great, many-armed century plants shone in the darkness.
Quentin drove the carriage to the Countess’ palace, and jumped from the
box, much to the astonishment of the porter.
“Good-bye, my lady,” said he, holding out his hand and assisting her
from the carriage.
“Good-bye, Quentin,” she said rather sadly.