elegant room reserved for distinguished patrons; and she was a healthy,
robust creature, who seemed to bring a whiff of the pure mountain air
into the heavy atmosphere of this closed house, saturated with cheap
cologne, rice powder and the vapor from dirty wash-basins.
"As she spoke to me she stroked the ribbons of her gown with childish
complacency; it was a fine piece of satin, of screaming yellow, somewhat
too tight for her body, a dress which I recalled having seen months
before on the delicate charms of another girl, who had since died,
according to reports, in the hospital.
"Poor girl! She had become a sight! Her coarse, abundant hair, combed in
Greek fashion, was adorned with glass beads; her cheeks, shiny from the
dew of perspiration, were covered with a thick layer of cosmetic; and as
if to reveal her origin, her arms, which were firm, swarthy and of
masculine proportions, escaped from the ample sleeves of her chorus-girl
costume.
"As she saw me follow with attentive glance all the details of her
extravagant array, she thought that I was admiring her, and threw her
head back with a petulant expression.
"And such a simple creature!... She hadn't yet become acquainted with
the customs of the house, and told the truth,--all the truth--to the men
who wished to know her history. They called her Flora; but her real name
was Mari-Pepa. She wasn't the orphan of a colonel or a magistrate, nor
did she concoct the complicated tales of love and adventure that her
companions did, in order to justify their presence in such a place. The
truth; always the truth; she would yet be hanged for her frankness. Her
parents were comfortably situated farmers in a little town of Aragón;
owned their fields, had two mules in the barn, bread, wine, and enough
potatoes for the year round; and at night the best fellows in the place
came one after the other to soften her heart with serenade upon
serenade, trying to carry off her dark, healthy person together with the
four orchards she had inherited from her grandfather.
"'But what could you expect, my dear fellow?... I couldn't bear those
people. They were too coarse for me. I was born to be a lady. And tell
me, why can't I be? Don't I look as good as any of them?...'
"And she snuggled her head against my shoulder, like the docile
sweetheart she was,--a slave subjected to all sorts of caprices in
exchange for being clothed handsomely.
"'Those fellows,' she continued, 'made me sick. I ran off with the
student,--understand?--the son of the town magistrate, and we wandered
about until he deserted me, and I landed here, waiting for something
better to turn up. You see, it's a short tale.... I don't complain of
anything. I'm satisfied.'
"And to show how happy she was, the unhappy girl rode astride my legs,
thrust her hard fingers through my hair, rumpling it, and sang a tango
in horrible fashion, in her strong, peasant voice.
"I confess that I was seized with an impulse to speak to her 'in the
name of morality,'--that hypocritical desire we all possess to propagate
virtue when we are sated and desire is dead.
"She raised her eyes, astonished to see me look so solemn, preaching to
her, like a missionary glorifying chastity with a prostitute on his
knees; her gaze wandered continually from my austere countenance to the
bed close by. Her common sense was baffled before the incongruity
between such virtue and the excesses of a moment before.
"Suddenly she seemed to understand, and an outburst of laughter swelled
her fleshy neck."
"'The deuce!... How amusing you are! And with what a face you say all
these things! Just like the priest of my home town ...'
"No, Pepa, I'm serious. I believe you're a good girl; you don't realize
what you've gone into, and I'm warning you. You've fallen very low, very
low. You're at the bottom. Even within the career of vice, the majority
of women resist and deny the caresses that are required of you in this
house. There is yet time for you to save yourself. Your parents have
enough for you to live on; you didn't come here under the necessity of
poverty. Return to your home, and the past will be forgotten; you can
tell them a lie, invent some sort of tale to justify your flight, and
who knows?... One of the fellows that used to serenade you will marry
you, you'll have children and you'll be a respectable woman.
"The girl became serious when she saw that I was speaking in earnest.
Little by little she began to slip from my knees until she was on her
feet, eyeing me fixedly, as if she saw before her some strange person
and an invisible wall had arisen between the two.
"'Go back to my home!' she exclaimed in harsh accents. 'Many thanks. I
know very well what that means. Get up before dawn, work like a slave,
go out in the fields, ruin your hands with callouses. Look, see how my
hands still show them.'
"And she made me feel the rough lumps that rose on the palms of her
strong hands.
"'And all this, in exchange for what? For being respectable?... Not a
bit of it! I'm not that crazy. So much for respectability!'
"And she accompanied these words with some indecent motions that she had
picked up from her companions.
"Afterwards, humming a tune, she went over to the mirror to survey
herself, and smilingly greeted the reflection of her powdered hair,
covered with false pearls, which shone out of the cracked mirror. She
contracted her lips, which were rouged like those of a clown.
"Growing more and more firm in my virtuous rôle, I continued to
sermonize her from my chair, enveloping this hypocritical propaganda in
sonorous words. She was making a bad choice; she must think of the
future. The present could not be worse. What was she? Less than a slave;
a piece of furniture; they exploited her, they robbed her, and
afterwards ... afterwards it would be still worse; the hospital,
repulsive diseases ...
"But again her harsh laughter interrupted me.
"'Quit it, boy. Don't bother me.'
"And planting herself before me she wrapped me in a gaze of infinite
compassion.
"'Why my dear fellow, how silly you are! Do you imagine that I can go
back to that dog's life, after having tasted this one?... No, sir! I was
born for luxury.'
"And, with devoted admiration sweeping her glance across the broken
chairs, the faded sofa, and that bed which was a public thoroughfare,
she began to walk up and down, revelling in the rustle of her train as
it dragged across the room, and caressing the folds of that gown which
seemed to preserve the warmth of the other girl's body."
RABIES
From all the countryside the neighbors of the _huerta_ flocked to
_Caldera's_ cabin, entering it with a certain meekness, a mingling of
emotion and fear.
How was the boy? Was he improving?... Uncle Pascal, surrounded by his
wife, his daughters-in-law and even the most distant relatives, who had
been gathered together by misfortune, received with melancholy
satisfaction this interest of the entire vicinity in the health of his
son. Yes, he was getting better. For two days he had not been attacked
by that horrible _thing_ which set the cabin in commotion. And
_Caldera's_ laconic farmer friends, as well as the women, who were
vociferous in the expression of their emotions, appeared at the
threshold of the room, asking timidly, "How do you feel?"
The only son of _Caldera_ was in there, sometimes in bed, in obedience
to his mother, who could conceive of no illness without the cup of hot
water and seclusion between the bed-sheets; at other times he sat up,
his jaws supported by his hands, gazing obstinately into the furthermost
corner of the room. His father, wrinkling his shaggy white brows, would
walk about when left alone, or, through force of habit, take a look at
the neighboring fields, but without any desire to bend over and pluck
out any of the weeds that were beginning to sprout in the furrows. Much
this land mattered to him now,--the earth in whose bowels he had left
the sweat of his body and the strength of his limbs!... His son was all
he had,--the fruit of a late marriage,--and he was a sturdy youth, as
industrious and taciturn as his father; a soldier of the soil, who
required neither orders nor threat to fulfil his duties; ready to awake
at midnight when it was his turn to irrigate his land and give the
fields drink under the light of the stars; quick to spring from his bed
on the hard kitchen bench, throwing off the covers and putting on his
hemp sandals at the sound of the early rooster's reveille.
Uncle Pascal had never smiled. He was the Latin type of father; the
fearful master of the house, who, on returning from his labors, ate
alone, served by his wife, who stood by with an expression of
submission. But this grave, harsh mask of an omnipotent master concealed
a boundless admiration for his son, who was his best work. How quickly
he loaded a cart! How he perspired as he managed the hoe with a vigorous
forward and backward motion that seemed to cleave him at the waist! Who
could ride a pony like him, gracefully jumping on to his back by simply
resting the toe of a sandal upon the hind legs of the animal?... He
didn't touch wine, never got mixed up in a brawl, nor was he afraid of
work. Through good luck he had pulled a high number in the military
draft, and when the feast of San Juan came around he intended to marry a
girl from a near-by farm,--a maiden that would bring with her a few
pieces of earth when she came to the cabin of her new parents.
Happiness; an honorable and peaceful continuation of the family
traditions; another _Caldera_, who, when Uncle Pascal grew old, would
continue to work the lands that had been fructified by his ancestors,
while a troop of little _Calderitas_, increasing in number each year,
would play around the nag harnessed to the plow, eyeing with a certain
awe their grandpa, his eyes watery from age and his words very concise,
as he sat in the sun at the cabin door.
Christ! And how man's illusions vanish!... One Saturday, as Pascualet
was coming home from his sweetheart's house, along one of the paths of
the _huerta_, about midnight, a dog had bitten him; a wretched, silent
animal that jumped out from behind a sluice; as the young man crouched
to throw a stone at it, the dog bit into his shoulder. His mother, who
used to wait for him on the nights when he went courting, burst into
wailing when she saw the livid semicircle, with its red stain left by
the dog's teeth, and she bustled about the hut preparing poultices and
drinks.
The youth laughed at his mother's fears. "Quiet, mother, quiet!" It
wasn't the first time that a dog had bitten him. His body still showed
faint signs of bites that he had received in childhood, when he used to
go through the _huerta_ throwing stones at the dogs. Old _Caldera_ spoke
to him from bed, without displaying any emotion. On the following day he
was to go to the veterinary and have his flesh cauterized by a burning
iron. So he ordered, and there was nothing further to be said about the
matter. The young man submitted without flinching to the operation, like
a good, brave chap of the Valencian _huerta_. He had four days' rest in
all, and even at that, his fondness for work caused him new sufferings
and he aided his father with pain-tortured arm. Saturdays, when he came
to his sweetheart's farmhouse, she always asked after his health. "How's
the bite getting along?" He would shrug his shoulders gleefully before
the eyes of the maiden and the two would finally sit down in a corner of
the kitchen, remaining in mute contemplation of each other, or speaking
of the clothes and the bed for their future home, without daring to come
close to each other; there they sat erect and solemn, leaving between
their bodies a space "wide enough for a sickle to pass through," as the
girl's father smilingly put it.
More than a month passed by. _Caldera's_ wife was the only one that did
not forget the accident. She followed her son about with anxious
glances. Ah, sovereign queen! The _huerta_ seemed to have been abandoned
by God and His holy mother. Over at Templat's cabin a child was
suffering the agonies of hell through having been bitten by a mad dog.
All the _huerta_ folk were running in terror to have a look at the poor
creature; a spectacle that she herself did not dare to gaze upon because
she was thinking of her own son. If her Pascualet, as tall and sturdy as
a tower, were to meet with the same fate as that unfortunate child!...
One day, at dawn, _Caldera's_ son was unable to arise from his kitchen
bench, and his mother helped him walk to the large nuptial bed, which
occupied a part of the _estudi_, the best room in the cabin. He was
feverish, and complained of acute pain in the spot where he had been
bitten; an awful chill ran through his whole body, making his teeth
chatter and veiling his eyes with a yellowish opacity. Don Jose, the
oldest doctor in the _huerta_, came on his ancient mare, with his
eternal recipe of purgatives for every class of illness, and bandages
soaked in salt water for wounds. Upon examining the sick man he made a
wry face. Bad! Bad! This was a more serious matter; they would have to
go to the solemn doctors in Valencia, who knew more than he. _Caldera's_
wife saw her husband harness the cart and compel Pascualet to get into
it. The boy, relieved of his pain, smiled assent, saying that now he
felt nothing more than a slight twinge. When they returned to the cabin
the father seemed to be more at ease. A doctor from the city had pricked
Pascualet's sore. He was a very serious gentleman, who gave Pascualet
courage with his kind words, looking intently at him all the while, and
expressing regret that he had waited so long before coming to him. For a
week the two men made a daily trip to Valencia, but one morning the boy
was unable to move. That crisis which made the poor mother groan with
fear had returned with greater intensity than before. The boy's teeth
knocked together, and he uttered a wail that stained the corners of his
mouth with froth; his eyes seemed to swell, becoming yellow and
protruding like huge grape seeds; he tried to pull himself together,
writhing from the internal torture, and his mother hung upon his neck,
shrieking with terror; meanwhile _Caldera_, grimly silent, seized his
son's arms with tranquil strength, struggling to prevent his violent
convulsions.
"My son! My son!" cried the mother. Ah, her son! Scarcely could she
recognize him as she saw him in this condition. He seemed like another,
as if only his former exterior had remained,--as if an infernal monster
had lodged within and was martyrizing this flesh that had come out of
her own womb, appearing at his eyes with livid flashes.
Afterwards came calm stupor, and all the women of the district gathered
in the kitchen and deliberated upon the lot of the sick youth, cursing
the city doctor and his diabolical incisions. It was his fault that the
boy now lay thus; before the boy had submitted to the cure he had felt
much better. The bandit! And the government never punished these wicked
souls!... There were no other remedies than the old, true and tried
ones,--the product of the experience of people who had lived years ago
and thus knew much more. One of the neighbors went off to hunt up a
certain witch, a miraculous doctor for dog-bites, serpent bites and
scorpion-stings. Another brought a blind old goatherd, who could cure by
the virtue of his mouth, simply by making some crosses of saliva over
the ailing flesh. The drinks made of mountain herbs and the moist signs
of the goatherd were looked upon as tokens of immediate cure, especially
when they beheld the sick youth lie silent and motionless for several
hours, looking at the ground with a certain amazement, as if he could
feel within him the progress of something strange that grew and grew,
gradually overpowering him. Then, when the crisis re-occurred, the doubt
of the women began to rise, and new remedies were discussed. The youth's
sweetheart came, with her large black eyes moistened by tears, and she
advanced timidly until she came near to the sick boy. For the first time
she dared to take his hand, blushing beneath her cinnamon-colored
complexion at this audacious act. "How do you feel?"... And he, so
loving in other days, recoiled from her tender touch, turning his eyes
away so that he should not see her, as if ashamed of his plight. His
mother wept. Queen of heaven! He was very low; he was going to die. If
only they could find out what dog it was that had bitten him, and cut
out its tongue, using it for a miraculous plaster, as experienced
persons advised!...
Throughout the _huerta_ it seemed that God's own wrath had burst forth.
Some dogs had bitten others; now nobody knew which were the dangerous
ones and which the safe. All mad! The children were secluded in the
cabins, spying with terrified glances upon the vast fields, through the
half-open doors; mothers journeyed over the winding paths in close
groups, uneasy, trembling, hastening their step whenever a bark sounded
from behind the sluices of the canals; men eyed the domestic dogs with
fear, intently watching their slavering mouths as they gasped or their
sad eyes; the agile greyhound, their hunting companion,--the barking
cur, guardian of the home,--the ugly mastiff who walked along tied to
the cart, which he watched over during the master's absence,--all were
placed under their owners' observation or coldly sacrificed behind the
walls of the corral, without any display of emotion whatever.
"Here they come! Here they come!" was the shout passed along from cabin
to cabin, announcing the patter of a pack of dogs, howling, ravenous,
their bodies covered with mud, running about without finding rest,
driven on day and night, with the madness of persecution in their eyes.
The _huerta_ seemed to shudder, closing the doors of all the houses and
suddenly bristling with guns. Shots rang out from the sluices, from the
high corn-fields, from cabin windows, and when the wanderers, repelled
and persecuted on every side, in their mad gallop dashed toward the sea,
as if they were attracted by the moist, invigorating air that was washed
by the waves, the revenue-guards camped on the wide strip of beach
brought their mausers to their cheeks and received them with a volley.
The dogs retreated, escaping among the men who were approaching them
musket in hand, and one or another of them would be stretched out at the
edge of the canal. At night, the noisy gloom of the plain was broken by
the sight of distant flashes and the sound of discharges. Every shape
that moved in the darkness was the target for a bullet; the muffled
howls that sounded in the vicinity of the cabins were answered by shots.
The men were afraid of this common terror, and avoided meeting.
No sooner did night fall than the _huerta_ was left without a light,
without a person upon the roads, as if death had taken possession of the
dismal plain, so green and smiling under the sun. A single red spot, a
tear of light, trembled in this obscurity. It was _Caldera's_ cabin,
where the women, squatting upon the floor, around the kitchen lamp,
sighed with fright, anticipating the strident shriek of the sick
youth,--the chattering of his teeth, the violent contortions of his body
whenever he was seized with convulsions, struggling to repel the arms
that tried to quiet him.
The mother hung upon the neck of that raving patient who struck terror
to men. She scarcely knew him; he was somebody else, with those eyes
that popped out of their sockets, his livid or blackish countenance, his
writhings, like that of a tortured animal, showing his tongue as he
gasped through bubbles of froth in the agonies of an insatiable thirst.
He begged for death in heart-rending shrieks; he struck his head against
the wall; he tried to bite; but even so, he was her child and she did
not feel the fear experienced by the others. His menacing mouth withdrew
before the wan face that was moistened with tears. "Mother! Mother!" He
recognized her in his lucid moments. She need not fear him; he would
never bite her. And as if he must sink his teeth into something or other
to glut his rage, he bit into his arms until the blood came.
"My son! My son!" moaned the mother and she wiped the deadly froth from
his lips, afterwards carrying the handkerchief to her eyes, without fear
of contagion. _Caldera_, in his solemn gravity, paid no heed to the
sufferer's threatening eyes, which were fixed upon him with an impulse
of attack. The boy had lost his awe of his father.
That powerful man, however, facing the peril of his son's mouth, thrust
him back into bed whenever the madman tried to flee, as if he must
spread everywhere the horrible affliction that was devouring his
entrails.
No longer were the crises followed by extended intervals of calm. They
became almost continuous, and the victim writhed about, clawed and
bleeding from his own bites, his face almost black, his eyes tremulous
and yellow, looking like some monstrous beast set apart from all the
human species. The old doctor had stopped asking about the youth. What
was the use? It was all over. The women wept hopelessly. Death was
certain. They only bewailed the long hours, perhaps days, of horrible
torture that poor Pascualet would have to undergo.
_Caldera_ was unable to find among his relatives or friends any men
brave enough to help him restrain the sufferer in his violent moments.
They all looked with terror at the door to the _estudi_, as if behind it
were concealed the greatest of dangers. To go shooting through roads and
canals was man's work. A stab could be returned; one bullet could answer
another; but ah! that frothing mouth which killed with a bite!... that
incurable disease which made men writhe in endless agony, like a lizard
sliced by a hoe!
He no longer knew his mother. In his final moments of lucidity he had
thrust her away with loving brusqueness. She must go!... Let him not see
her again!... He feared to do her harm! The poor woman's friends dragged
her out of the room, forcing her to remain motionless, like her son, in
a corner of the kitchen. _Caldera_, with a supreme effort of his dying
will, tied the agonizing youth to the bed. His beetling brows trembled
and the tears made him blink as he tied the coarse knots of the rope,
fastening the youth to the bed upon which he had been born. He felt as
if he were preparing his son for burial and had begun to dig his grave.
The victim twisted in wild contortions under the father's strong arms;
the parent had to make a powerful effort to subdue him under the rope
that sank into his flesh.... To have lived so many years only to behold
himself at last obliged to perform such a task! To give life to a
creature, only to pray that it might be extinguished as soon as
possible, horrified by so much useless pain!... Good God in heaven! Why
not put an end to the poor boy at once, since his death was now
inevitable?...
He closed the door of the sick room, fleeing from the rasping shriek
that set everybody's hair on end; but the madman's panting continued to
sound in the silence of the cabin, accompanied by the lamentations of
the mother and the weeping of the other women grouped around the lamp
that had just been lighted.
_Caldera_ stamped upon the floor. Let the women be silent! But for the
first time he beheld himself disobeyed, and he left the cabin, fleeing
from this chorus of grief.
Night descended. His gaze wandered toward the thin yellow band that was
visible on the horizon, marking the flight of day. Above his head shone
the stars. From the other homes, which were scarcely visible, resounded
the neighing of horses, barking, and the clucking of fowl--the last
signs of animal life before it sank to rest. That primitive man felt an
impression of emptiness amid the Nature which was insensible and blind
to the sufferings of its creatures. Of what concern to the points of
light that looked down upon him from above could be that which he was
now going through?... All creatures were equal; the beasts that
disturbed the silence of dusk before falling asleep, and that poor youth
similar to him, who now lay fettered, writhing in the worst of agony.
How many illusions his life had contained!... And with a mere bite, a
wretched animal kicked about by all men could finish them all. And no
remedy existed in heaven or upon earth!...