A JOURNEY IN THE HEART OF SPAIN
When they had proceeded some distance on their way and had left behind
them the hovels of Villahorrenda, the traveller, who was young and
handsome spoke thus:
“Tell me, Señor Solon--”
“Licurgo, at your service.”
“Señor Licurgo, I mean. But I was right in giving you the name of a wise
legislator of antiquity. Excuse the mistake. But to come to the point.
Tell me, how is my aunt?”
“As handsome as ever,” answered the peasant, pushing his beast forward
a little. “Time seems to stand still with Señora Doña Perfecta. They say
that God gives long life to the good, and if that is so that angel of
the Lord ought to live a thousand years. If all the blessings that are
showered on her in this world were feathers, the señora would need no
other wings to go up to heaven with.”
“And my cousin, Señorita Rosario?”
“The señora over again!” said the peasant. “What more can I tell you of
Doña Rosarito but that that she is the living image of her mother? You
will have a treasure, Señor Don José, if it is true, as I hear, that you
have come to be married to her. She will be a worthy mate for you, and
the young lady will have nothing to complain of, either. Between Pedro
and Pedro the difference is not very great.”
“And Señor Don Cayetano?”
“Buried in his books as usual. He has a library bigger than the
cathedral; and he roots up the earth, besides, searching for stones
covered with fantastical scrawls, that were written, they say, by the
Moors.”
“How soon shall we reach Orbajosa?”
“By nine o’clock, God willing. How delighted the señora will be when she
sees her nephew! And yesterday, Señorita Rosario was putting the room
you are to have in order. As they have never seen you, both mother and
daughter think of nothing else but what Señor Don José is like, or is
not like. The time has now come for letters to be silent and tongues
to talk. The young lady will see her cousin and all will be joy and
merry-making. If God wills, all will end happily, as the saying is.”
“As neither my aunt nor my cousin has yet seen me,” said the traveller
smiling, “it is not wise to make plans.”
“That’s true; for that reason it was said that the bay horse is of one
mind and he who saddles him of another,” answered the peasant. “But
the face does not lie. What a jewel you are getting! and she, what a
handsome man!”
The young man did not hear Uncle Licurgo’s last words, for he was
preoccupied with his own thoughts. Arrived at a bend in the road, the
peasant turned his horse’s head in another direction, saying:
“We must follow this path now. The bridge is broken, and the river can
only be forded at the Hill of the Lilies.”
“The Hill of the Lilies,” repeated the cavalier, emerging from his
revery. “How abundant beautiful names are in these unattractive
localities! Since I have been travelling in this part of the country
the terrible irony of the names is a constant surprise to me. Some place
that is remarkable for its barren aspect and the desolate sadness of
the landscape is called Valleameno (Pleasant Valley). Some wretched
mud-walled village stretched on a barren plain and proclaiming its
poverty in diverse ways has the insolence to call itself Villarica (Rich
Town); and some arid and stony ravine, where not even the thistles
can find nourishment, calls itself, nevertheless, Valdeflores (Vale of
Flowers). That hill in front of us is the Hill of the Lilies? But where,
in Heaven’s name, are the lilies? I see nothing but stones and withered
grass. Call it Hill of Desolation, and you will be right. With the
exception of Villahorrenda, whose appearance corresponds with its name,
all is irony here. Beautiful words, a prosaic and mean reality. The
blind would be happy in this country, which for the tongue is a Paradise
and for the eyes a hell.”
Señor Licurgo either did not hear the young man’s words, or, hearing, he
paid no attention to them. When they had forded the river, which, turbid
and impetuous, hurried on with impatient haste, as if fleeing from its
own hands, the peasant pointed with outstretched arm to some barren and
extensive fields that were to be seen on the left, and said:
“Those are the Poplars of Bustamante.”
“My lands!” exclaimed the traveller joyfully, gazing at the melancholy
fields illumined by the early morning light. “For the first time, I see
the patrimony which I inherited from my mother. The poor woman used to
praise this country so extravagantly, and tell me so many marvellous
things about it when I was a child, that I thought that to be here was
to be in heaven. Fruits, flowers, game, large and small; mountains,
lakes, rivers, romantic streams, pastoral hills, all were to be found
in the Poplars of Bustamante; in this favored land, the best and most
beautiful on the earth. But what is to be said? The people of this place
live in their imaginations. If I had been brought here in my youth, when
I shared the ideas and the enthusiasm of my dear mother, I suppose that
I, too, would have been enchanted with these bare hills, these arid or
marshy plains, these dilapidated farmhouses, these rickety norias,
whose buckets drip water enough to sprinkle half a dozen cabbages, this
wretched and barren desolation that surrounds me.”
“It is the best land in the country,” said Señor Licurgo; “and for the
chick-pea, there is no other like it.”
“I am delighted to hear it, for since they came into my possession these
famous lands have never brought me a penny.”
The wise legislator of Sparta scratched his ear and gave a sigh.
“But I have been told,” continued the young man, “that some of the
neighboring proprietors have put their ploughs in these estates of mine,
and that, little by little, they are filching them from me. Here
there are neither landmarks nor boundaries, nor real ownership, Señor
Licurgo.”
The peasant, after a pause, during which his subtle intellect seemed to
be occupied in profound disquisitions, expressed himself as follows:
“Uncle Paso Largo, whom, for his great foresight, we call the
Philosopher, set his plough in the Poplars, above the hermitage, and bit
by bit, he has gobbled up six fanegas.”
“What an incomparable school!” exclaimed the young man, smiling. “I
wager that he has not been the only--philosopher?”
“It is a true saying that one should talk only about what one knows, and
that if there is food in the dove-cote, doves won’t be wanting. But you,
Señor Don José, can apply to your own cause the saying that the eye of
the master fattens the ox, and now that you are here, try and recover
your property.”
“Perhaps that would not be so easy, Señor Licurgo,” returned the young
man, just as they were entering a path bordered on either side by
wheat-fields, whose luxuriance and early ripeness gladdened the eye.
“This field appears to be better cultivated. I see that all is not
dreariness and misery in the Poplars.”
The peasant assumed a melancholy look, and, affecting something of
disdain for the fields that had been praised by the traveller, said in
the humblest of tones:
“Señor, this is mine.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied the gentleman quickly; “now I was going to
put my sickle in your field. Apparently the philosophy of this place is
contagious.”
They now descended into a canebrake, which formed the bed of a shallow
and stagnant brook, and, crossing it, they entered a field full of
stones and without the slightest trace of vegetation.
“This ground is very bad,” said the young man, turning round to look
at his companion and guide, who had remained a little behind. “You
will hardly be able to derive any profit from it, for it is all mud and
sand.”
Licurgo, full of humility, answered:
“This is yours.”
“I see that all the poor land is mine,” declared the young man, laughing
good-humoredly.
As they were thus conversing, they turned again into the high-road. The
morning sunshine, pouring joyously through all the gates and balconies
of the Spanish horizon, had now inundated the fields with brilliant
light. The wide sky, undimmed by a single cloud, seemed to grow wider
and to recede further from the earth, in order to contemplate it, and
rejoice in the contemplation, from a greater height. The desolate,
treeless land, straw-colored at intervals, at intervals of the color
of chalk, and all cut up into triangles and quadrilaterals, yellow or
black, gray or pale green, bore a fanciful resemblance to a beggar’s
cloak spread out in the sun. On that miserable cloak Christianity and
Islamism had fought with each other epic battles. Glorious fields, in
truth, but the combats of the past had left them hideous!
“I think we shall have a scorching day, Señor Licurgo,” said the young
man, loosening his cloak a little. “What a dreary road! Not a single
tree to be seen, as far as the eye can reach. Here everything is in
contradiction. The irony does not cease. Why, when there are no poplars
here, either large or small, should this be called The Poplars?”
Uncle Licurgo did not answer this question because he was listening
with his whole soul to certain sounds which were suddenly heard in the
distance, and with an uneasy air he stopped his beast, while he explored
the road and the distant hills with a gloomy look.
“What is the matter?” asked the traveller, stopping his horse also.
“Do you carry arms, Don José?”
“A revolver--ah! now I understand. Are there robbers about?”
“Perhaps,” answered the peasant, with visible apprehension. “I think I
heard a shot.”
“We shall soon see. Forward!” said the young man, putting spurs to his
nag. “They are not very terrible, I dare say.”
“Keep quiet, Señor Don José,” exclaimed the peasant, stopping him.
“Those people are worse than Satan himself. The other day they murdered
two gentlemen who were on their way to take the train. Let us leave off
jesting. Gasparon el Fuerte, Pepito Chispillas, Merengue, and Ahorca
Suegras shall not see my face while I live. Let us turn into the path.”
“Forward, Señor Licurgo!”
“Back, Señor Don José,” replied the peasant, in distressed accents.
“You don’t know what kind of people those are. They are the same men
who stole the chalice, the Virgin’s crown, and two candlesticks from the
church of the Carmen last month; they are the men who robbed the Madrid
train two years ago.”
Don José, hearing these alarming antecedents, felt his courage begin to
give way.
“Do you see that great high hill in the distance? Well, that is where
those rascals hide themselves; there in some caves which they call the
Retreat of the Cavaliers.”
“Of the Cavaliers?”
“Yes, señor. They come down to the high-road when the Civil Guards are
not watching, and rob all they can. Do you see a cross beyond the bend
of the road? Well, that was erected in remembrance of the death of the
Alcalde of Villahorrenda, whom they murdered there at the time of the
elections.”
“Yes, I see the cross.”
“There is an old house there, in which they hide themselves to wait for
the carriers. They call that place The Pleasaunce.”
“The Pleasaunce?”
“If all the people who have been murdered and robbed there were to be
restored they would form an army.”
While they were thus talking shots were again heard, this time nearer
than before, which made the valiant hearts of the travellers quake a
little, but not that of the country lad, who, jumping about for joy,
asked Señor Licurgo’s permission to go forward to watch the conflict
which was taking place so near them. Observing the courage of the boy
Don José felt a little ashamed of having been frightened, or at least
a little disturbed, by the proximity of the robbers, and cried, putting
spurs to his nag:
“We will go forward, then. Perhaps we may be able to lend assistance to
the unlucky travellers who find themselves in so perilous a situation,
and give a lesson besides to those cavaliers.”
The peasant endeavored to convince the young man of the rashness of his
purpose, as well as of the profitlessness of his generous design, since
those who had been robbed were robbed and perhaps dead also, and not in
a condition to need the assistance of any one.
The gentleman insisted, in spite of these sage counsels; the peasant
reiterated his objections more strongly than before; when the appearance
of two or three carters, coming quietly down the road driving a wagon,
put an end to the controversy. The danger could not be very great when
these men were coming along so unconcernedly, singing merry songs; and
such was in fact the case, for the shots, according to what the carters
said, had not been fired by the robbers, but by the Civil Guards, who
desired in this way to prevent the escape of half a dozen thieves whom
they were taking, bound together, to the town jail.
“Yes, I know now what it was,” said Licurgo, pointing to a light cloud
of smoke which was to be seen some distance off, to the right of the
road. “They have peppered them there. That happens every other day.”
The young man did not understand.
“I assure you, Señor Don José,” added the Lacedaemonian legislator, with
energy, “that it was very well done; for it is of no use to try those
rascals. The judge cross-questions them a little and then lets them go.
If at the end of a trial dragged out for half a dozen years one of them
is sent to jail, at the moment least expected he escapes, and returns to
the Retreat of the Cavaliers. That is the best thing to do--shoot them!
Take them to prison, and when you are passing a suitable place--Ah, dog,
so you want to escape, do you? pum! pum! The indictment is drawn up, the
witnesses summoned, the trial ended, the sentence pronounced--all in
a minute. It is a true saying that the fox is very cunning, but he who
catches him is more cunning still.”
“Forward, then, and let us ride faster, for this road, besides being a
long one, is not at all a pleasant one,” said Rey.
As they passed The Pleasaunce, they saw, a little in from the road, the
guards who a few minutes before had executed the strange sentence
with which the reader has been made acquainted. The country boy was
inconsolable because they rode on and he was not allowed to get a
nearer view of the palpitating bodies of the robbers, which could be
distinguished forming a horrible group in the distance. But they had not
proceeded twenty paces when they heard the sound of a horse galloping
after them at so rapid a pace that he gained upon them every moment. Our
traveller turned round and saw a man, or rather a Centaur, for the most
perfect harmony imaginable existed between horse and rider. The latter
was of a robust and plethoric constitution, with large fiery eyes,
rugged features, and a black mustache. He was of middle age and had a
general air of rudeness and aggressiveness, with indications of strength
in his whole person. He was mounted on a superb horse with a muscular
chest, like the horses of the Parthenon, caparisoned in the picturesque
fashion of the country, and carrying on the crupper a great leather bag
on the cover of which was to be seen, in large letters, the word Mail.
“Hello! Good-day, Señor Caballuco,” said Licurgo, saluting the horseman
when the latter had come up with them. “How is it that we got so far
ahead of you? But you will arrive before us, if you set your mind to
it.”
“I will rest a little,” answered Señor Caballuco, adapting his horse’s
pace to that of our travellers’ beasts, and attentively observing the
most distinguished of the three, “since there is such good company.”
“This gentleman,” said Licurgo, smiling, “is the nephew of Doña
Perfecta.”
“Ah! At your service, señor.”
The two men saluted each other, it being noticeable that Caballuco
performed his civilities with an expression of haughtiness and
superiority that revealed, at the very least, a consciousness of great
importance, and of a high standing in the district. When the arrogant
horseman rode aside to stop and talk for a moment with two Civil Guards
who passed them on the road, the traveller asked his guide:
“Who is that odd character?”
“Who should it be? Caballuco.”
“And who is Caballuco?”
“What! Have you never heard of Caballuco?” said the countryman, amazed
at the crass ignorance of Doña Perfecta’s nephew. “He is a very brave
man, a fine rider, and the best connoisseur of horses in all the
surrounding country. We think a great deal of him in Orbajosa; and he is
well worthy of it. Just as you see him, he is a power in the place, and
the governor of the province takes off his hat to him.”
“When there is an election!”
“And the Governor of Madrid writes official letters to him with a
great many titles in the superscription. He throws the bar like a St.
Christopher, and he can manage every kind of weapon as easily as we
manage our fingers. When there was market inspection here, they could
never get the best of him, and shots were to be heard every night at
the city gates. He has a following that is worth any money, for they are
ready for anything. He is good to the poor, and any stranger who should
come here and attempt to touch so much as a hair of the head of any
native of Orbajosa would have him to settle with. It is very seldom that
soldiers come here from Madrid, but whenever they do come, not a day
passes without blood being shed, for Caballuco would pick a quarrel with
them, if not for one thing for another. At present it seems that he
is fallen into poverty and he is employed to carry the mail. But he is
trying hard to persuade the Town Council to have a market-inspector’s
office here again and to put him in charge of it. I don’t know how it is
that you have never heard him mentioned in Madrid, for he is the son of
a famous Caballuco who was in the last rebellion, and who was himself
the son of another Caballuco, who was also in the rebellion of that
day. And as there is a rumor now that there is going to be another
insurrection--for the whole country is in a ferment--we are afraid that
Caballuco will join that also, following in the illustrious footsteps of
his father and his grandfather, who, to our glory be it said, were born
in our city.”
Our traveller was surprised to see the species of knight-errantry that
still existed in the regions which he had come to visit, but he had no
opportunity to put further questions, for the man who was the object of
them now joined them, saying with an expression of ill-humor:
“The Civil Guard despatched three. I have already told the commander to
be careful what he is about. To-morrow we will speak to the governor of
the province, and I----”
“Are you going to X.?”
“No; but the governor is coming here, Señor Licurgo; do you know that
they are going to send us a couple of regiments to Orbajosa?”
“Yes,” said the traveller quickly, with a smile. “I heard it said in
Madrid that there was some fear of a rising in this place. It is well to
be prepared for what may happen.”
“They talk nothing but nonsense in Madrid,” exclaimed the
Centaur violently, accompanying his affirmation with a string of
tongue-blistering vocables. “In Madrid there is nothing but rascality.
What do they send us soldiers for? To squeeze more contributions out of
us and a couple of conscriptions afterward. By all that’s holy! if there
isn’t a rising there ought to be. So you”--he ended, looking banteringly
at the young man--“so you are Doña Perfecta’s nephew?”
This abrupt question and the insolent glance of the bravo annoyed the
young man.
“Yes, señor, at your service.”
“I am a friend of the señora’s, and I love her as I do the apple of my
eye,” said Caballuco. “As you are going to Orbajosa we shall see each
other there.”
And without another word he put spurs to his horse, which, setting off
at a gallop, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
After half an hour’s ride, during which neither Señor Don José nor Señor
Licurgo manifested much disposition to talk, the travellers came in
sight of an ancient-looking town seated on the slope of a hill, from the
midst of whose closely clustered houses arose many dark towers, and,
on a height above it, the ruins of a dilapidated castle. Its base was
formed by a mass of shapeless walls, of mud hovels, gray and dusty
looking as the soil, together with some fragments of turreted walls, in
whose shelter about a thousand humble huts raised their miserable
adobe fronts, like anaemic and hungry faces demanding an alms from the
passer-by. A shallow river surrounded the town, like a girdle of tin,
refreshing, in its course, several gardens, the only vegetation that
cheered the eye. People were going into and coming out of the town, on
horseback and on foot, and the human movement, although not great, gave
some appearance of life to that great dwelling place whose architectural
aspect was rather that of ruin and death than of progress and life.
The innumerable and repulsive-looking beggars who dragged themselves on
either side of the road, asking the obolus from the passer-by, presented
a pitiful spectacle. It would be impossible to see beings more in
harmony with, or better suited to the fissures of that sepulchre in
which a city was not only buried but gone to decay. As our travellers
approached the town, a discordant peal of bells gave token, with their
expressive sound, that that mummy had still a soul.
It was called Orbajosa, a city that figures, not in the Chaldean
or Coptic geography, but in that of Spain, with 7324 inhabitants, a
town-hall, an episcopal seat, a court-house, a seminary, a stock farm, a
high school, and other official prerogatives.
“The bells are ringing for high mass in the cathedral,” said Uncle
Licurgo. “We have arrived sooner than I expected.”
“The appearance of your native city,” said the young man, examining the
panorama spread out before him, “could not be more disagreeable. The
historic city of Orbajosa, whose name is no doubt a corruption of Urbs
Augusta, looks like a great dunghill.”
“All that can be seen from here is the suburbs,” said the guide, in
an offended tone. “When you enter the Calle Real and the Calle de
Condestable, you will see handsome buildings, like the cathedral.”
“I don’t want to speak ill of Orbajosa before seeing it,” said the young
man. “And you must not take what I have said as a mark of contempt, for
whether humble and mean, or stately and handsome, that city will always
be very dear to me, not only is it my mother’s native place, but because
there are persons living in it whom I love without seeing them. Let us
enter the august city, then.”
They were now ascending a road on the outskirts of the town, and passing
close to the walls of the gardens.
“Do you see that great house at the end of this large garden whose
wall we are now passing?” said Uncle Licurgo, pointing to a massive,
whitewashed wall belonging to the only dwelling in view which had the
appearance of a cheerful and comfortable habitation.
“Yes; that is my aunt’s house?”
“Exactly so! What we are looking at is the rear of the house. The front
faces the Calle del Condestable, and it has five iron balconies that
look like five castles. The fine garden behind the wall belongs to the
house, and if you rise up in your stirrups you will be able to see it
all from here.”
“Why, we are at the house, then!” cried the young man. “Can we not enter
from here?”
“There is a little door, but the señora had it condemned.”
The young man raised himself in his stirrups and, stretching his neck as
far as he could, looked over the wall.
“I can see the whole of the garden,” he said. “There, under the trees,
there is a woman, a girl, a young lady.”
“That is Señorita Rosario,” answered Licurgo.
And at the same time he also raised himself in his stirrups to look over
the wall.
“Eh! Señorita Rosario!” he cried, making energetic signs with his right
hand. “Here we are; I have brought your cousin with me.”
“She has seen us,” said the young man, stretching out his neck as far as
was possible. “But if I am not mistaken, there is an ecclesiastic with
her--a priest.”
“That is the Penitentiary,” answered the countryman, with naturalness.
“My cousin has seen us--she has left the priest, and is running toward
the house. She is beautiful.”
“As the sun!”
“She has turned redder than a cherry. Come, come, Señor Licurgo.”