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INTERNATIONAL POCKET LIBRARY EDITED BY EDMUND R. BROWN
THE LAST LION AND OTHER TALES
BY VICENTE BLASCO IBÁÑEZ
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY MARIANO JOAQUIN LORENTE
BOSTON INTERNATIONAL POCKET LIBRARY
_Copyright, 1919, by_ JOHN W. LUCE & COMPANY
Reprinted by arrangement with John W. Luce & Company. All Rights
Reserved.
First printing, 2,000 copies Second printing, 5,000 copies Third
printing, 10,000 copies
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE COLONIAL PRESS INC.,
CLINTON, MASS.
THE LAST LION AND OTHER TALES
VICENTE BLASCO IBÁÑEZ
Don Vicente Blasco Ibáñez was born on the 29th of January, 1867, in the
city of Valencia, that same picturesque sunshiny Valencia which was
captured from the Moors by the formidable Cid a little over eight
centuries ago. But Blasco Ibáñez is a _valenciano_ only by birth, for
his family came from the old kingdom of Aragon.
The Aragonese are a sturdy, hardworking, adventurous people, somewhat
stubborn, suicidally valorous, passionately independent, fanatically
religious, fond of music and of the honest pleasures of life. Their
adventurous spirit led them in ages gone by as far as Asia Minor, where,
with the Catalonians, they gave a good account of themselves. They
fought against the Moors as doughtily as did the Castilians, and when
their kingdom was united to that of Castile, under Isabella and
Ferdinand, Granada was conquered and Mahomedan domination in Spain
ceased for ever. The great Napoleon had no fiercer antagonists than the
Aragonese, and when, after two sieges, his troops took Saragossa, they
found in it nothing but corpses and ashes. The Aragonese were so jealous
of their liberties that when one of their kings was being crowned, the
Chief Justice of Aragon, addressing His Majesty in the familiar form,
reminded him that they, the people, were greater than their king,
"_somos más que tu_".
Of his Aragonese ancestry, we find in Blasco Ibáñez the intense love of
freedom, the adventurous spirit and the untiring energy for work.
Blasco Ibáñez was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth; his earlier
years were a continual struggle for existence in which he made a close
acquaintance with poverty and even hunger. He followed many trades and
occupied, after a hard hunt, minor clerical positions. Yet, he managed
to study law and at the age of eighteen he was a full fledged lawyer.
His studies may have impressed him with the august majesty of the law,
but did not imbue him with any respect for the then existing government,
and he proceeded to write a sonnet which gave full vent to his contempt
for it.
Considering that many sonneteers escape the gallows they so richly
deserve for their miserable productions, it was hard on Blasco Ibáñez
that he should have to go to jail for a period "not exceeding six
months," but perhaps it was just as well for him, as he no doubt has
made good use of his experience.
Jails, as we all know, are not meant to correct political ideas: they
are merely punitive institutions. Blasco Ibáñez took his punishment like
the man he is, and at the first opportunity attacked the government with
renewed vigor and was banished from Spain. During his exile, Blasco
Ibáñez lived in France and visited Italy.
Returning to Valencia after an amnesty, he founded a newspaper, "El
Pueblo" (The People) in 1891. From the columns of his paper, which he
still edits, he continued his fight "agin' the government," advocating a
republican form of government. He became a leader in the Republican
party and was elected Deputy to the Spanish Parliament, for the city of
Valencia, six consecutive times.
Though his political career has been a most strenuous one, it by no
means exhausted his tremendous energy, and he managed at the same time
to do an immense amount of literary work. As a young man, he became
secretary to Manuel Fernandez y Gonzalez, a prolific writer--he is said
to have written over three hundred novels--whose name has been almost
forgotten. Fernandez y Gonzalez was an old man when Blasco Ibáñez made
his acquaintance, and it often happened that the old man, exhausted by
age, or merely feeling heavy after a hearty meal, fell asleep while
dictating to his young secretary. Blasco Ibáñez, however, did not stop
writing; he let his own fancy do the dictating, for a change, and he
continued the novel until the old man woke up of his own accord. Then,
he read what he had written, and Fernandez y Gonzalez, who must have had
good literary taste, was generally delighted with the collaboration.
It is extremely doubtful whether Fernandez y Gonzalez had any influence
on Blasco Ibáñez as a writer. He was an excellent example of an
energetic worker ... and that is all. But Blasco Ibáñez did not need any
such examples. He is, and has always been, activity personified.
While Blasco Ibáñez was actively engaged in political warfare, editing
his own paper, contributing radical articles to other papers and
periodicals, issuing innumerable pamphlets, preparing speeches, and
addressing meetings, he still found time to write novels. Seventeen
novels, two books of short stories, and three of travels stand to his
name, as well as many uncollected critical and biographical essays.
His first novels were written at odd moments, after he had edited "El
Pueblo" and attended to political business. In later years, he has
devoted less time to politics and more to literature. Whereas his
earlier novels required little preparation, for they deal with his
native city, which he has known all his life, his later works represent
a gigantic amount of study and forethought, for Blasco Ibáñez is nothing
if not thorough. He studies his characters at first hand. When he was
preparing _Flor de Mayo_, he became one of those tobacco smugglers of
whom he speaks; he obtained his material for _La Horda_ by living with
the scum of Madrid and joining some of the poachers in their excursions
to the royal preserves at El Pardo, thereby running the risk of being
shot at sight by the guards; later on, while he was planning _Los
Muertos Mandan_, he joined the fishermen on the coast of Ibiza, in the
Balearic Islands, and having been caught in a storm, nearly lost his
life; he lived a long time among bullfighters before writing _Sangre y
Arena_ and became intimately acquainted with the famous "espada" Antonio
Fuentes.
As if all the activities we have enumerated were not enough to keep an
ordinary Hercules busy for a life-time, Blasco Ibáñez has been
interested for many years in a publishing firm which has been the means
of introducing into Spain what is more instructive or interesting in the
literatures of other countries. Some of the publications of this
firm--Prometeo, of Valencia--bear witness to the indefatigable energy of
the man. Such are the "New Universal History," by Lavisse and Rambaud,
of which ten volumes have thus far been published; the "History of the
French Revolution," by Michelet, in three volumes; the "New Universal
Geography," by Reclus; "The Thousand Nights and One Night," all of them
translated by Blasco Ibáñez. The same firm is now publishing a
monumental "History of the European War of 1914," from the pen of Blasco
Ibáñez. Six ponderous tomes of this work have already been published.
Blasco Ibáñez has travelled extensively. He has visited most of Europe,
the Near East, and Argentina. In the latter country, he has acquired
some land and has founded a colony.
There is a curious contradiction between Blasco Ibáñez' personal
appearance and his life's activities. In his younger days, when he was
more of a man of action than to-day, he wore a curly beard and a
mustache that grew untouched by scissors. They gave him an artistic
appearance and harmonized well with the rest of his features. In those
days he was a decidedly handsome man. To-day, when he is more of an
artist, perhaps, than a man of action, the beard has disappeared and the
mustache is close-cropped. The hairy camouflage, sacrificed--as we
suspect--to the goddess of Anglo-Saxon fashion, concealed a determined
chin and two deep lines, running from the base of the nose to the
corners of his mouth, that give him an energetic air. His forehead is
now larger than ever, for he is getting somewhat bald; his eyes are
piercing, with moderate eyebrows and slightly puffed lower eyelids, and
they have lost that touch of dreaminess they had in their younger days;
his nose is large and shapely modelled, his face broad and fleshy, his
ears round and big. Altogether, his head--supported by a short bullish
neck--is that of a deep thinker, a sharp observer, and active energetic
man, and withal a _bon vivant_. In other words, a true Aragonese.
_Ecce homo!_
MARIANO JOAQUIN LORENTE
CONTENTS
Page
The Last Lion 15
The Toad 26
Compassion 36
The Windfall 46
Luxury 56
Rabies 61
THE LAST LION
Scarcely had the meeting of the honorable guild of _blanquers_ come to
order within its chapel near the towers of Serranos, when Señor Vicente
asked for the floor. He was the oldest tanner in Valencia. Many masters
recalled their apprentice days and declared that he was the same now as
then, with his white, brush-like mustache, his face that looked like a
sun of wrinkles, his aggressive eyes and cadaverous thinness, as if all
the sap of his life had been consumed in the daily motions of his feet
and hands about the vats of the tannery.
He was the only representative of the guild's glories, the sole survivor
of those _blanquers_ who were an honor to Valencian history. The
grandchildren of his former companions had become corrupted with the
march of time; they were proprietors of large establishments, with
thousands of workmen, but they would be lost if they ever had to tan a
skin with their soft, business-man's hands. Only he could call himself a
_blanquer_ of the old school, working every day in his little hut near
the guild house; master and toiler at the same time, with no other
assistants than his sons and grandchildren; his workshop was of the old
kind, amid sweet domestic surroundings, with neither threats of strikes
nor quarrels over the day's pay.
The centuries had raised the level of the street, converting Señor
Vicente's shop into a gloomy cave. The door through which his ancestors
had entered had grown smaller and smaller from the bottom until it had
become little more than a window. Five stairs connected the street with
the damp floor of the tannery, and above, near a pointed arch, a relic
of medieval Valencia, floated like banners the skins that had been hung
up to dry, wafting about the unbearable odor of the leather. The old man
by no means envied the _moderns_, in their luxuriously appointed
business offices. Surely they blushed with shame on passing through his
lane and seeing him, at breakfast hour, taking the sun,--his sleeves and
trousers rolled up, showing his thin arms and legs, stained red,--with
the pride of a robust old age that permitted him to battle daily with
the hides.
Valencia was preparing to celebrate the centenary of one of its famous
saints, and the guild of _blanquers_, like the other historic guilds,
wished to make its contribution to the festivities. Señor Vicente, with
the prestige of his years, imposed his will upon all the masters. The
_blanquers_ should remain what they were. All the glories of the past,
long sequestrated in the chapel, must figure in the procession. And it
was high time they were displayed in public! His gaze, wandering about
the chapel, seemed to caress the guild's relics; the sixteenth century
drums, as large as jars, that preserved within their drumheads the
hoarse cries of revolutionary Germania; the great lantern of carved
wood, torn from the prow of a galley; the red silk banner of the guild,
edged with gold that had become greenish through the ages.
All this must be displayed during the celebration, shaking off the dust
of oblivion; even the famous lion of the _blanquers_!
The _moderns_ burst into impious laughter. The lion, too?... Yes, the
lion, too. To Señor Vicente it seemed a dishonor on the part of the
guild to forget that glorious beast. The ancient ballads, the accounts
of celebrations that might be read in the city archives, the old folks
who had lived in the splendid epoch of the guilds with their fraternal
camaraderie,--all spoke of the _blanquers'_ lion; but now nobody knew
the animal, and this was a shame for the trade, a loss to the city.
Their lion was as great a glory as the silk mart or the well of San
Vicente. He knew very well the reason for this opposition on the part of
the _moderns_. They feared to assume the rôle of the lion. Never fear,
my young fellows! He, with his burden of years, numbered more than
seventy, would claim his honor. It belonged to him in all justice; his
father, his grandfather, his countless ancestors, had all been lions,
and he felt equal to coming to blows with anybody who would dare dispute
his right to the rôle of the lion, traditional in his family.
With what enthusiasm Señor Vicente related the history of the lion and
the heroic _blanquers_. One day the Barbary pirates from Bujia had
landed at Torreblanca, just beyond Castellón, and sacked the church,
carrying off the Shrine. This happened a little before the time of Saint
Vicente Ferrer, for the old tanner had no other way of explaining
history than by dividing it into two periods; before and after the
Saint.... The population, which was scarcely moved by the raids of the
pirates, hearing of the abduction of pale maidens with large black eyes
and plump figures, destined for the harem, as if this were an inevitable
misfortune, broke into cries of grief upon learning of the sacrilege at
Torreblanca.
The churches of the town were draped in black; people went through the
streets wailing loudly, striking themselves as a punishment. What could
those dogs do with the blessed Host? What would become of the poor,
defenseless Shrine?... Then it was that the valiant _blanquers_ came
upon the scene. Was not the Shrine at Bujia? Then on to Bujia in quest
of it! They reasoned like heroes accustomed to beating hides all day
long, and they saw nothing formidable about beating the enemies of God.
At their own expense they fitted out a galley and the whole guild went
aboard, carrying along their beautiful banner; the other guilds, and
indeed the entire town, followed this example and chartered other
vessels.
The Justice himself cast aside his scarlet gown and covered himself with
mail from head to foot; the worthy councilmen abandoned the benches of
the Golden Chamber, shielding their paunches with scales that shone like
those of the fishes in the gulf; the hundred archers of la Pluma, who
guarded _la Señera_, filled their quivers with arrows, and the Jews from
the quarter of la Xedrea did a rushing business, selling all their old
iron, including lances, notched swords and rusty corselets, in exchange
for good, ringing pieces of silver.
And off sped the Valencian galleys, with their jib-sails spread to the
wind, convoyed by a shoal of dolphins, which sported about in the foam
of their prows!... When the Moors beheld them approaching, the infidels
began to tremble, repenting of their irreverence toward the Shrine. And
this, despite the fact that they were a set of hardened old dogs.
Valencians, headed by the valiant _blanquers_! Who, indeed, would dare
face them!
The battle raged for several days and nights, according to the tale of
Señor Vicente. Reinforcements of Moors arrived, but the Valencians,
loyal and fierce, fought to the death. And they were already beginning
to feel exhausted from the labor of disembowelling so many infidels,
when behold, from a neighboring mountain a lion comes walking down on
his hind paws, for all the world like a regular person, carrying in his
forepaws, most reverently, the Shrine,--the Shrine that had been stolen
from Torreblanca! The beast delivered it ceremoniously into the hands of
one of the guild, undoubtedly an ancestor of Señor Vicente, and hence
for centuries his family had possessed the privilege of representing
that amiable animal in the Valencian processions.
Then he shook his mane, emitted a roar, and with blows and bites in
every direction cleared the field instantly of Moors.
The Valencians sailed for home, carrying the Shrine back like a trophy.
The chief of the _blanquers_ saluted the lion, courteously offering him
the guild house, near the towers of Serranos, which he could consider as
his own. Many thanks; the beast was accustomed to the sun of Africa and
feared a change of climate.
But the trade was not ungrateful, and to perpetuate the happy
recollection of the shaggy-maned friend whom they possessed on the other
shore of the sea, every time the guild banner floated in the Valencian
celebrations, there marched behind it an ancestor of Señor Vicente, to
the sound of drums, and he was covered with hide, with a mask that was
the living image of the worthy lion, bearing in his hands a Shrine of
wood, so small and poor that it caused one to doubt the genuine value of
Torreblanca's own Shrine.
Perverse and irreverent persons even dared to affirm, to the great
indignation of Señor Vicente, that the whole story was a lie. Sheer
envy! Ill will of the other trades, which couldn't point to such a
glorious history! There was the guild chapel as proof, and in it the
lantern from the prow of the vessel, which the conscienceless wretches
declared dated from many centuries after the supposed battle; and there
were the guild drums, and the glorious banner; and the moth-eaten hide
of the lion, in which all his predecessors had encased themselves, lay
now forgotten behind the altar, covered with cobwebs and dust, but it
was none the less as authentic and worthy of reverence as the stones of
el Miguelete.[A]
[A] A belfry in Valencia.
And above all there was his faith, ardent and incontrovertible, capable
of receiving as an affront to the family the slightest irreverence
toward the African lion, the illustrious friend of the guild.
The procession took place on an afternoon in June. The sons, the
daughters-in-law, and the grandsons of Señor Vicente helped him to get
into the costume of the lion, perspiring most uncomfortably at the mere
touch of that red-stained wool. "Father, you're going to
roast."--"Grandpa, you'll melt inside of this costume."
The old man, however, deaf to the warnings of the family, shook his
moth-eaten mane with pride, thinking of his ancestors; then he tried on
the terrifying mask, a cardboard arrangement that imitated, with a faint
resemblance, the countenance of the wild beast.
What a triumphant afternoon! The streets crowded with spectators; the
balconies decorated with bunting, and upon them rows of variegated
bonnets shading fair faces from the sun; the ground covered with myrtle,
forming a green, odorous carpet whose perfume seemed to expand the
lungs.
The procession was headed by the standard-bearers, with beards of hemp,
crowns, and striped dalmatics, holding aloft the Valencian banners
adorned with enormous bats and large L's beside the coat of arms; then,
to the sound of the flageolet, the retinue of wild Indians, shepherds
from Bethlehem, Catalans and Majorcans; following these passed the
dwarfs with their monstrously huge heads, clicking the castanets to the
rhythm of a Moorish march; behind these came the giants of the Corpus
and at the end, the banners of the guilds; an endless row of red
standards, faded with the years, and so tall that their tops reached
higher than the first stories of the buildings.
Plom! Rotoplom! rolled the drums of the _blanquers_,--instruments of
barbarous sonority, so large that their weight forced the drummers to
bow their necks. Plom! Rotoplom! they resounded, hoarse and menacing,
with savage solemnity, as if they were still marking the tread of the
revolutionary guild regiments, sallying forth to the encounter with the
emperor's young leader,--that Don Juan of Aragon, duke of Segorbe, who
served Victor Hugo as the model for his romantic personage _Hernani_!
Plom! Rotoplom! The people ran for good places and jostled one another
to obtain a better view of the guild members, bursting into laughter and
shouts. What was that? A monkey?... A wild man?... Ah! The faith of the
past was truly laughable.
The young members of the trade, their shirts open at the neck and their
sleeves rolled up, took turns at carrying the heavy banner, performing
feats of jugglery, balancing it on the palms of their hands or upon
their teeth, to the rhythm of the drums.
The wealthy masters had the honor of holding the cords of the banner,
and behind them marched the lion, the glorious lion of the guild, who
was now no longer known. Nor did the lion march in careless fashion; he
was dignified, as the old traditions bade him be, and as Señor Vicente
had seen his father march, and as the latter had seen his grandfather;
he kept time with the drums, bowing at every step, to right and to left,
moving the Shrine fan-wise, like a polite and well-bred beast who knows
the respect due to the public.
The farmers who had come to the celebration opened their eyes in
amazement; the mothers pointed him out with their fingers so that the
children might see him; but the youngsters, frowning, tightened their
grasp upon their mothers' necks, hiding their faces to shed tears of
terror.
When the banner halted, the glorious lion had to defend himself with his
hind paws against the disrespectful swarm of gamins that surrounded him,
trying to tear some locks out of his moth-eaten mane. At other times the
beast looked up at the balconies to salute the pretty girls with the
Shrine; they laughed at the grotesque figure. And Señor Vicente did
wisely; however much of a lion one may be, one must be gallant toward
the fair sex.
The spectators fanned themselves, trying to find a momentary coolness in
the burning atmosphere; the _horchateros_[A] bustled among the crowds
shouting their wares, called from all directions at once and not knowing
whither to go first; the standard-bearers and the drummers wiped the
sweat off their faces at every restaurant door, and at last went inside
to seek refreshment.
[A] Vendors of "horchata," iced orgeat.
But the lion stuck to his post. His mask became soft; he walked with a
certain weariness, letting the Shrine rest upon his stomach, having by
this time lost all desire to bow to the public.
Fellow tanners approached him with jesting questions.
"How are things going, _so Visent_?"
And _so Visent_ roared indignantly from the interior of his cardboard
disguise. How should things go? Very well. He was able to keep it up,
without failing in his part, even if the parade continued for three
days. As for getting tired, leave that to the young folks. And drawing
himself proudly erect, he resumed his bows, marking time with his
swaying Shrine of wood.
The procession lasted three hours. When the guild banner returned to the
Cathedral night was beginning to fall.
Plom! Retoplom! The glorious banner of the _blanquers_ returned to its
guild house behind the drums. The myrtle on the streets had disappeared
beneath the feet of the paraders. Now the ground was covered with drops
of wax, rose leaves and strips of tinsel. The liturgic perfume of
incense floated through the air. Plom! Retoplom! The drums were tired;
the strapping youths who had carried the standards were now panting,
having lost all desire to perform balancing tricks; the rich masters
clutched the cords of the banner tightly as if the latter were towing
them along, and they complained of their new shoes and their bunions;
but the lion, the weary lion (ah, swaggering beast!) who at times seemed
on the point of falling to the ground, still had strength left to rise
on his hind paws and frighten the suburban couples, who pulled at a
string of children that had been dazzled by the sights.
A lie! Pure conceit! Señor Vicente knew what it felt like to be inside
of the lion's hide. But nobody is obliged to take the part of the lion,
and he who assumes it must stick it out to the bitter end.
Once home, he sank upon the sofa like a bundle of wool; his sons,
daughters-in-law and grandchildren hastened to remove the mask from his
face. They could scarcely recognize him, so congested and scarlet were
his features, which seemed to spurt water from every line of his
wrinkles.
They tried to remove his skins; but the beast was oppressed by a
different desire, begging in a suffocated voice. He wished a drink; he
was choking with the heat. The family, warning against illness,
protested in vain. The deuce! He desired a drink right away. And who
would dare resist an infuriated lion?...
From the nearest café they brought him some ice-cream in a blue cup; a
Valencian ice-cream, honey-sweet and grateful to the nostrils,
glistening with drops of white juice at the conical top.
But what are ice creams to a lion! _Haaam_! He swallowed it at a single
gulp, as if it were a mere trifle! His thirst and the heat assailed him
anew, and he roared for other refreshment.
The family, for reasons of economy, thought of the _horchata_ from a
near-by restaurant. They would see; let a full jar of it be brought. And
Señor Vicente drank and drank until it was unnecessary to remove the
skins from him. Why? Because an attack of double pneumonia finished him
inside of a few hours. The glorious, shaggy-haired _uniform_ of the
family served him as a shroud.
Thus died the lion of the _blanquers_,--the last lion of Valencia.
And the fact is that _horchata_ is fatal for beasts.... Pure poison!
THE TOAD
"I was spending the summer at Nazaret," said my friend Orduna, "a little
fishermen's town near Valencia. The women went to the city to sell the
fish, the men sailed about in their boats with triangular sails, or
tugged at their nets on the beach; we summer vacationists spent the day
sleeping and the night at the doors of our houses, contemplating the
phosphorescence of the waves or slapping ourselves here and there
whenever we heard the buzz of a mosquito,--that scourge of our resting
hours.
"The doctor, a hardy and genial old fellow, would come and sit down
under the bower before my door, and we'd spend the night together, with
a jar or a watermelon at our side, speaking of his patients, folks of
land or sea, credulous, rough and insolent in their manners, given over
to fishing or to the cultivation of their fields. At times we laughed as
he recalled the illness of Visanteta, the daughter of _la Soberana_, an
old fishmonger who justified her nickname of _the Queen_ by her bulk and
her stature, as well as by the arrogance with which she treated her
market companions, imposing her will upon them by right of might.... The
belle of the place was this Visanteta: tiny, malicious, with a clever
tongue, and no other good looks than that of youthful health; but she
had a pair of penetrating eyes and a trick of pretending timidity,
weakness, and interest, which simply turned the heads of the village
youths. Her sweetheart was _Carafosca_, a brave fisherman who was
capable of sailing on a stick of wood. On the sea he was admired by all
for his audacity; on land he filled everybody with fear by his provoking
silence and the facility with which he whipped out his aggressive
sailor's knife. Ugly, burly, and always ready for a fight, like the huge
creatures that from time to time showed up in the waters of Nazaret
devouring all the fish, he would walk to church on Sunday afternoons at
his sweetheart's side, and every time the maiden raised her head to
speak to him, amidst the simple talk and lisping of a delicate, pampered
child, _Carafosca_ would cast a challenging look about him with his
squinting eyes, as if defying all the folk of the fields, the beach, and
the sea to take his Visanteta away from him.
"One day the most astounding news was bruited about Nazaret. The
daughter of la _Soberana_ had an animal inside of her. Her abdomen was
swelling; the slow deformation revealed itself through her under-skirts
and her dress; her face lost color, and the fact that she had swooned
several times, vomiting painfully, upset the entire cabin and caused her
mother to burst into desperate lamentations and to run in terror for
help. Many of her neighbors smiled when they heard of this illness. Let
them tell it to _Carafosca_!... But the incredulous ones ceased their
malicious talk and their suspicions when they saw how sad and desperate
_Carafosca_ became at his sweetheart's illness, praying for her recovery
with all the fervor of a simple soul, even going so far as to enter the
little village church,--he, who had always been a pagan, a blasphemer
of God and the saints.
"Yes, it was a strange and horrible sickness. The people, in their
predisposition to believe in all sorts of extraordinary and rare
afflictions, were certain that they knew what this was. Visanteta had a
toad in her stomach. She had drunk from a certain spot of the near-by
river, and the wicked animal, small and almost unnoticeable, had gone
down into her stomach, growing fast. The good neighbors, trembling with
stupefaction, flocked to _la Soberana's_ cabin to examine the girl. All,
with a certain solemnity, felt the swelling abdomen, seeking in its
tightened surface the outlines of the hidden creature. Some of them,
older and more experienced than the rest, laughed with a triumphant
expression. There it was, right under their hand. They could feel it
stirring, moving about.... Yes, it was moving! And after grave
deliberation, they agreed upon remedies to expel the unwelcome guest.
They gave the girl spoonfuls of rosemary honey, so that the wicked
creature inside should start to eat it gluttonously, and when he was
most preoccupied in his joyous meal, whiz!--an inundation of onion juice
and vinegar that would bring him out at full gallop. At the same time
they applied to her stomach miraculous plasters, so that the toad, left
without a moment's rest, should escape in terror; there were rags soaked
in brandy and saturated with incense; tangles of hemp dipped in the
calking of the ships; mountain herbs; simple bits of paper with numbers,
crosses and Solomon's seal upon them, sold by the miracle-worker of the
city. Visanteta thought that all these remedies that were being thrust
down her throat would be the death of her. She shuddered with the
chills of nausea, she writhed in horrible contortions as if she were
about to expel her very entrails, but the odious toad did not deign to
show even one of his legs, and _la Soberana_ cried to heaven. Ah, her
daughter!... Those remedies would never succeed in casting out the
wretched animal: it was better to let it alone, and not torture the poor
girl; rather give it a great deal to eat, so that it wouldn't feed upon
the strength of Visanteta who was growing paler and weaker every day.
"And as _la Soberana_ was poor, all her friends, moved by the
compassionate solidarity of the common people, devoted themselves to the
feeding of Visanteta so that the toad should do her no harm. The
fisherwomen, upon returning from the square brought her cakes that were
purchased in city establishments, that only the upper class patronized;
on the beach, when the catch was sorted, they laid aside for her a
dainty morsel that would serve for a succulent soup; the neighbors, who
happened to be cooking in their pots over the fire would take out a
cupful of the best of the broth, carrying it slowly so that it shouldn't
spill, and bring it to _la Soberana's_ cabin; cups of chocolate arrived
one after the other every afternoon.
"Visanteta rebelled against this excessive kindness. She couldn't
swallow another drop! She was full! But her mother stuck out her hairy
nose with an imperious expression. I tell you to eat! She must remember
what she had inside of her.... And she began to feel a faint,
indefinable affection for that mysterious creature, lodged in the
entrails of her daughter. She pictured it to herself; she could see it;
it was her pride. Thanks to it, the whole town had its eyes upon the
cabin and the trail of visitors was unending, and _la Soberana_ never
passed a woman on her way without being stopped and asked for news.
"Only once had they summoned the doctor, seeing him pass by the door;
but not that they really wished him, or had any faith in him. What could
that helpless man do against such a tenacious animal!... And upon
hearing that, not content with the explanations of the mother and the
daughter and his own audacious tapping around her clothes, he
recommended an internal examination, the proud mother almost showed him
the door. The impudent wretch! Not in a hurry was he going to have the
pleasure of seeing her daughter so intimately! The poor thing, so good
and so modest, who blushed merely at the thought of such proposals!...
"On Sunday afternoons Visanteta went to church, figuring at the head of
the daughters of Mary. Her voluminous abdomen was eyed with admiration
by the girls. They all asked breathlessly after the toad, and Visanteta
replied wearily. It didn't bother her so much now. It had grown very
much because she ate so well; sometimes it moved about, but it didn't
hurt as it used to. One after the other the maidens would place their
hands upon the afflicted one and feel the movements of the invisible
creature, admiring as they did so the superiority of their friend. The
curate, a blessed chap of pious simplicity, pretended not to notice the
feminine curiosity, and thought with awe of the things done by God to
put His creatures to the test. Afterwards, when the afternoon drew to a
close, and the choir sang in gentle voice the praises of Our Lady of the
Sea, each of the virgins would fall to thinking of that mysterious
beast, praying fervently that poor Visanteta be delivered of it as soon
as possible.
"_Carafosca_, too, enjoyed a certain notoriety because of his
sweetheart's affliction. The women accosted him, the old fishermen
stopped him to inquire about the animal that was torturing the girl.
'The poor thing! The poor thing!' he would groan, in accents of amorous
commiseration. He said no more; but his eyes revealed a vehement desire
to take over as soon as possible Visanteta and her toad, since the
latter inspired a certain affection in him because of its connection
with her.
"One night, when the doctor was at my door, a woman came in search of
him, panting with dramatic horror. _La Soberana's_ daughter was very
sick; he must run to her rescue. The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 'Ah,
yes! The toad!' And he didn't seem at all anxious to stir. Then came
another woman, more agitated than the first. Poor Visanteta! She was
dying! Her shrieks could be heard all over the street. The wicked beast
was devouring her entrails....
"I followed the doctor, attracted by the curiosity that had the whole
town in a commotion. When we came to _la Soberana's_ cabin we had to
force our way through a compact group of women who obstructed the
doorway, crowding into the house. A rending shriek, a rasping wail came
from the innermost part of the dwelling, rising above the heads of the
curious or terrified women. The hoarse voice of _la Soberana_ answered
with entreating accents. Her daughter! Ah, Lord, her poor daughter....
"The arrival of the physician was received by a chorus of demands on the
part of the old women. Poor Visanteta was writhing furiously, unable to
bear such pain; her eyes bulged from their sockets and her features were
distorted. She must be operated upon; her entrails must be opened and
the green, slippery demon that was eating her alive must be expelled.
"The doctor proceeded upon his task, without paying any attention to the
advice showered upon him, and before I could reach his side his voice
resounded through the sudden silence, with ill-humored brusqueness:
"'But good Lord, the only trouble with this girl is that she's going to
...!'
"Before he could finish, all could guess from the harshness of his voice
what he was about to say. The group of women yielded before _la
Soberana's_ thrusts even as the waves of the sea under the belly of a
whale. She stuck out her big hands and her threatening nails, mumbling
insults and looking at the doctor with murder in her eyes. Bandit!
Drunkard! Out of her house!... It was the people's fault, for supporting
such an infidel. She'd eat him up! Let them make way for her!... And she
struggled violently with her friends, fighting to free herself and
scratch out the doctor's eyes. To her vindictive cries were joined the
weak bleating of Visanteta, protesting with the breath that was left her
between her groans of pain. It was a lie! Let that wicked man be gone!
What a nasty mouth he had! It was all a lie!...
"But the doctor went hither and thither, asking for water, for bandages,
snappy and imperious in his commands, paying no attention whatsoever to
the threats of the mother or the cries of the daughter, which were
becoming louder and more heart-rending than ever. Suddenly she roared
as if she were being slaughtered, and there was a bustle of curiosity
around the physician, whom I couldn't see. 'It's a lie! A lie!
Evil-tongued wretch! Slanderer!'... But the protestations of Visanteta
were no longer unaccompanied. To her voice of an innocent victim begging
justice from heaven was added the cry of a pair of lungs that were
breathing the air for the first time.
"And now the friends of _la Soberana_ had to restrain her from falling
upon her daughter. She would kill her! The bitch! Whose child was
that?... And terrified by the threats of her mother, the sick woman, who
was still sobbing 'It's a lie! A lie!' at last spoke. It was a young
fellow of the _huerta_ whom she had never seen again ... an indiscretion
committed one evening.... She no longer remembered. No, she could not
remember!... And she insisted upon this forgetfulness as if it were an
incontrovertible excuse.
"The people now saw through it all. The women were impatient to spread
the news. As we left, _la Soberana_, humiliated and in tears, tried to
kneel before the doctor and kiss his hand. 'Ay, Don Antoni!... Don
Antoni!' She asked pardon for her insults; she despaired when she
thought of the village comments. What they would have to suffer now!...
On the following day the youths that sang as they arranged their nets
would invent new verses. The song of the toad! Her life would become
impossible!... But even more than this, the thought of _Carafosca_
terrified her. She knew very well what sort of brute that was. He would
kill poor Visanteta the first time she appeared on the street; and she
herself would meet the same fate for being her mother and not having
guarded her well. 'Ay, Don Antoni!' She begged him, upon her knees, to
see _Carafosca_. He, who was so good and who knew so much, could
convince the fellow with his reasoning, and make him swear that he would
not do the women any harm,--that he would forget them.
"The doctor received these entreaties with the same indifference as he
had received the threats, and he answered sharply. He would see about
it; it was a delicate affair. But once in the street, he shrugged his
shoulders with resignation. 'Let's go and see that animal.'
"We pulled him out of the tavern and the three of us began to walk along
the beach through the darkness. The fisherman seemed to be awed at
finding himself between two persons of such importance. Don Antonio
spoke to him of the indisputable superiority of men ever since the
earliest days of creation; of the scorn with which women should be
regarded because of their lack of seriousness; of their immense number
and the ease with which we could pick another if the one we had happened
to displease us ... and at last, with brutal directness, told what had
happened.
"_Carafosca_ hesitated, as if he had not understood the doctor's words
very well. Little by little the certainty dawned upon his dense
comprehension. 'By God! By God!' And he scratched himself fearfully
under his cap, and brought his hands to his sash as if he were seeking
his redoubtable knife.
"The physician tried to console him. He must forget Visanteta; there
would be no sense or advantage in killing her. It wasn't worth while for
a splendid chap like him to go to prison for slaying a worthless
creature like her. The real culprit was that unknown laborer; but ...
and she! And how easily she ... committed the indiscretion, not being
able to recall anything afterwards!...
"For a long time we walked along in painful silence, with no other
novelty than _Carafosca's_ scratching of his head and his sash. Suddenly
he surprised us with the roar of his voice, speaking to us in Castilian,
thus adding solemnity to what he said:
"'Do you want me to tell you something?... Do you want me to tell you
something?'
"He looked at us with hostile eyes, as if he saw before him the unknown
culprit of the _huerta_, ready to pounce upon him. It could be seen that
his sluggish brain had just adopted a very firm resolution.... What was
it? Let him speak.
"'Well, then,' he articulated slowly, as if we were enemies whom he
desired to confound, 'I tell you ... that now I love the girl more than
ever.'
"In our stupefaction, at a loss for reply, we shook hands with him."
COMPASSION
At ten o'clock in the evening Count de Sagreda walked into his club on
the Boulevard des Capucins. There was a bustle among the servants to
relieve him of his cane, his highly polished hat and his costly fur
coat, which, as it left his shoulders revealed a shirt bosom of
immaculate neatness, a gardenia in his lapel, and all the attire of
black and white, dignified yet brilliant, that belongs to a gentleman
who has just dined.
The story of his ruin was known by every member of the club. His
fortune, which fifteen years before had caused a certain commotion in
Paris, having been ostentatiously cast to the four winds, was exhausted.
The count was now living on the remains of his opulence, like those
shipwrecked seamen who live upon the debris of the vessel, postponing in
anguish the arrival of the last hour. The very servants who danced
attendance upon him like slaves in dress suits, knew of his misfortune
and discussed his shameful plight; but not even the slightest suggestion
of insolence disturbed the colorless glance of their eyes, petrified by
servitude. He was such a nobleman! He had scattered his money with such
majesty!... Besides, he was a genuine member of the nobility, a nobility
that dated back for centuries and whose musty odor inspired a certain
ceremonious gravity in many of the citizens whose forebears had helped
bring about the Revolution. He was not one of those Polish counts who
permit themselves to be entertained by women, nor an Italian marquis who
winds up by cheating at cards, nor a Russian personage of consequence
who often draws his pay from the police; he was genuine _hidalgo_, a
grandee of Spain. Perhaps one of his ancestors figured in the _Cid_, in
_Ruy Blas_ or some other of the heroic pieces in the repertory of the
Comédie Française.
The count entered the salons of the club with head erect and a proud
gait, greeting his friends with a barely discernible smile, a mixture of
hauteur and light-heartedness.
He was approaching his fortieth year, but he was still the _beau_
Sagreda, as he had long been nicknamed by the noctambulous women of
Maxim's and the early-rising Amazons of the Bois. A few gray hairs at
his temples and a triangle of faint wrinkles at the corner of his brows,
betrayed the effects of an existence that had been lived at too rapid a
pace, with the vital machinery running at full speed. But his eyes were
still youthful, intense and melancholy; eyes that caused him to be
called "the Moor" by his men and women friends. The Viscounte de la
Tresminière, crowned by the Academy as the author of a study on one of
his ancestors who had been a companion of Condé, and highly appreciated
by the antique dealers on the left bank of the Seine, who sold him all
the bad canvases they had in store, called him _Velazquez_, satisfied
that the swarthy, somewhat olive complexion of the count, his black,
heavy mustache and his grave eyes, gave him the right to display his
thorough acquaintance with Spanish art.
All the members of the club spoke of Sagreda's ruin with discreet
compassion. The poor count! Not to fall heir to some new legacy. Not to
meet some American millionairess who would be smitten with him and his
titles!... They must do something to save him.
And he walked amid this mute and smiling pity without being at all aware
of it, encased in his pride, receiving as admiration that which was
really compassionate sympathy, forced to have recourse to painful
simulations in order to surround himself with as much luxury as before,
thinking that he was deceiving others and deceiving only himself.
Sagreda cherished no illusions as to the future. All the relatives that
might come to his rescue with a timely legacy had done so many years
before, upon making their exit from the world's stage. None that might
recall his name was left beyond the mountains. In Spain he had only some
distant relatives, personages of the nobility united to him more by
historic bonds than by ties of blood. They addressed him familiarly, but
he could expect from them no help other than good advice and admonitions
against his wild extravagance.... It was all over. Fifteen years of
dazzling display had consumed the supply of wealth with which Sagreda
one day arrived in Paris. The granges of Andalusia, with their droves of
cattle and horses, had changed hands without ever having made the
acquaintance of this owner, devoted to luxury and always absent. After
them, the vast wheat fields of Castilla and the rice fields of Valencia,
and the villages of the northern provinces, had gone into strange
hands,--all the princely possessions of the ancient counts of Sagreda,
plus the inheritances from various pious aunts, and the considerable
legacies of other relatives who had died of old age in their ancient
country houses.
Paris and the elegant summer seasons had in a few years devoured this
fortune of centuries. The recollection of a few noisy love affairs with
two actresses in vogue; the nostalgic smile of a dozen costly women of
the world; the forgotten fame of several duels; a certain prestige as a
rash, calm gambler, and a reputation as a knightly swordsman,
intransigeant in matters of honor, were all that remained to the _beau_
Sagreda after his downfall.
He lived upon his past, contracting new debts with certain providers
who, recalling other financial crises, trusted to a re-establishment of
his fortune. "His fate was settled," according to the count's own words.
When he could do no more, he would resort to a final course. Kill
himself?... never. Men like him committed suicide only because of
gambling debts or debts of honor. Ancestors of his, noble and glorious,
had owed huge sums to persons who were not their equals, without for a
moment considering suicide on this account. When the creditors should
shut their doors to him, and the money-lenders should threaten him with
a public court scandal, Count de Sagreda, making a heroic effort, would
wrench himself away from the sweet Parisian life. His ancestors had been
soldiers and colonizers. He would join the foreign legion of Algeria, or
would take passage for that America which had been conquered by his
forefathers, becoming a mounted shepherd in the solitudes of Southern
Chile or upon the boundless plains of Patagonia.