The end of October had been rainy, and November sheltered herself under
her thick green mantle.
Stein took a walk one day in front of the convent. A magnificent
panorama presented itself to his sight: at the right, the limitless sea;
at the left, solitude without end. Between them, on the horizon, was
painted the black profile of the fort San Cristobal. The sea undulated
softly, in raising without effort the waves gilded by the sun’s rays,
like a queen who spreads out her gorgeous mantle.
Not far from thence was situated the village of Villamar, near a river
as impetuous during winter, as calm and muddy during summer. The grounds
around, well cultivated, presented the aspect of a chess-board, where
each square revealed the thousand shades of green. Here shone the warm
tints of the vine, then covered with leaves; there, the ash-colored
green of the olive-tree; the emerald green of the fig-trees, which the
rains of autumn had imparted growth to; further off still, the
bluish-green hedges of aloes. At the mouth of the river were collected
several fishermen’s boats.
Near the convent, upon a light hillock, stood a chapel; in front, a
cross based on a block of masonry whitened with lime; behind this cross,
a retreat of verdure: it was the cemetery. Stein went there to meditate
upon the powerful magic of the works of nature, when he saw Momo leaving
the farm and going towards the village. In perceiving Stein, Momo
proposed to him to accompany him, and they both commenced their route.
They arrived soon at the top of the hillock, near the cross and the
chapel. This ascension, however short and easy, had taken away Stein’s
strength, who was yet scarcely convalescent. He rested an instant; then
he entered the chapel, whose walls were covered with “_exvotos_.” Among
these _exvotos_ there was one which singularly attracted by its
strangeness. The front of the altar contracted itself towards the base
in describing a curved line. Stein perceived there in the obscurity an
object supported against the wall, and the form of which he could not
distinguish. Fixing his earnest scrutiny on this object, he became
assured it was a carbine. The size was such, and the weight must have
been so great that it was incomprehensible how one single man could have
the strength to place it in that position: it is but the reflection
which is always inspired by the sight of the armor of the middle ages.
The mouth of the carbine was so large that an orange could easily be
introduced. The arm was broken, and the pieces were artistically put
together by means of little cords.
“Momo,” said Stein, “what does this signify? Is it really a carbine?”
“In looking at it,” replied Momo, “it seems to me to be one.”
“But why do they place a murderous weapon in this holy and peaceful
place? In truth, it is not sense to arm Christ with a pair of pistols.”
“But see, then,” replied Momo, “the carbine is not placed in the hands
of our Lord; it is at his feet, as an offering. The day on which this
carbine was brought here, they called this Christ, the Christ of _Good
Help_.”
“And from what motive?” demanded Stein.
“For what motive!” said Momo in opening his eyes, “everybody knows that,
and you know it not!”
“Have you forgotten that I am a stranger?” replied. Stein.
“That is true; I will tell you then: there was formerly in this country
a highway robber who did not content himself with robbing, he murdered
the people as if they were insects, whether from hatred, whether from
fear of being denounced, or whether from caprice. One day two men of
this village, two brothers, would undertake a journey. All their friends
assembled to conduct them part of the way. There were abundance of good
wishes that they might not encounter the bandit who gave quarter to no
one, and who terrified everybody. But they, good children, commended
themselves to Christ, and departed full of confidence in his protection.
At the entrance of a wood of olives, they found themselves face to face
with the robber, who came before them, with carbine in hand, rested his
gun and aimed. In this extreme peril the two brothers fell on their
knees, addressing themselves to Christ: ‘Help us, Lord!’ The bandit
pulled the trigger, but whose soul was launched into another world? It
was that of the robber: God caused the carbine to burst in the hands of
the bandit. And you see now that, in memory of this miraculous
assistance, they repaired the carbine with cords, and deposited it here,
and it is the Christ who, since then, we implore help from. You knew
nothing about it, Don Frederico?”
“Nothing, Momo,” he replied, in adding as if his own reflections: “If
you know all that others are ignorant of, they who pretend know every
thing.”
“Let us go! will you come?” said Momo after a moment’s silence. “You
know I cannot wait.”
“I am fatigued,” replied Stein; “go along, I will wait for you here.”
“God protect you!” and Momo resumed his route, singing:
“God’s sweet protection be your lot,
Is the usual affiance.
Poor be ye rich! for science,
The rich can buy it not.”
Stein contemplated this little village, so tranquil, at once fishing,
commercial, and laborious.
It was not like the villages of Germany, an assemblage of houses
scattered without order, with their roofs of straw, and their gardens;
they resembled in no way those of England, sheltered by the shades of
their large trees; nor those of Flanders, which retired to the borders
of the roads. It was composed of large streets, although badly made,
where the houses, without separate stories, were of various heights, and
covered with old tiles; windows were rare, and still more rare, glass
and every species of ornament.
But the village contained a grand square, which, in spring, was green as
a prairie; on this square was situated a beautiful church: the general
aspect was one of charming neatness.
Fourteen crosses, of dimensions equal to that which was near to Stein,
were placed equidistant from each other; the last, which was raised in
the middle of the square, was opposite to the church: it was the _Road
of the Cross_.
Momo came back, but with a companion, who was old, tall, dry, thin, and
stiff as a wax taper. This man was dressed in a coat and pantaloons made
of coarse gray cloth; a waistcoat enamelled in faded colors, and
embellished with some repairs, real _chef-d’œuvres_ of their kind; a
red belt, such as is worn by the peasants; a slouched hat with large
rim, ornamented with a cockade which had been red, and which time, the
rain, and the sun had colored with the brilliant shades of a watermelon.
On each shoulder was a narrow strip of lace, probably destined to secure
two much-used epaulets; and then an old sword, suspended from a belt of
the same age, completed this _ensemble_, half military and half rural.
Long years had exercised great ravages upon the front part of the long
and narrow skull of this being. To supply the natural ornament, he had
coaxed towards the forehead the sad remnant of his head of hair, and
fixing them there by means of a cord of black silk on the top of his
skull, he formed a tuft as gracious as that of a Chinese coxcomb.
“Momo, who is this man?” asked Stein in a low voice.
“The commandant,” the other replied, very simply.
“The commandant of what?” anew asked Stein.
“Of the Fort de San Cristobal.”
“The Fort de San Cristobal!” cried Stein in ecstasy.
“Your servant,” said the newly arrived, saluting him with courtesy; “my
name is Modesto Guerrero, and I place at your entire command my useless
services.”
The compliment of usage had an application so exact to him who made it,
that Stein could not resist a smile in returning his military salute.
“I know who you are,” pursued Don Modesto; “I have taken a prominent
part in your _contretemps_ and your misfortunes; I congratulate you on
your re-establishment, and on your rencounter with the Alerzas, who are,
by my faith, very good kind of people. My person and my house are
entirely at your orders; I reside at the _Plaza de la Iglesia_, that is
to say, Place of the Constitution, for that is the name at present. If
sometime you would favor it with a visit, the inscription will indicate
to you the place.”
“As if he possessed all the village!” said Momo with a sneer.
“Then there is an inscription?” again demanded Stein, who, in the busy
life of a camp, had never had time to learn the language of studied
compliments, and could not therefore reply to those of the courteous
Spaniard.
“Yes, sir,” replied Don Modesto, “the subordinate should obey the orders
of his superiors. You should comprehend that in this little village it
is not easy to procure a slab of marble with letters of gold, like those
you can purchase in Cadiz or Seville. We must have recourse to the
schoolmaster, who writes a good hand, and who, to paint the inscription
on the walls of common houses, is obliged to place himself at a certain
height. The schoolmaster prepared a black color with soot and vinegar
mixed, mounted the ladder, and commenced the work by tracing the letters
about a foot long. Unfortunately, in wishing to make an elegant
flourish, he gave such a violent shake to the ladder that it fell to the
earth, carrying with it in its fall the schoolmaster with his pot of
black, and all rolled together into the stream. Rosita, my hostess, who
from the window had been a witness of this catastrophe, and having seen
the unfortunate man come out black as coal, was frightened to that
degree that she went into spasms, and continued thus for three days; and
in truth I was myself not without some uneasiness. The Alcalde,
notwithstanding, gave orders to the poor bruised schoolmaster to
complete his work, and saw that the inscription gave only the letters
CONSTI. The unfortunate man was ill at ease, but this time he would not
use the ladder; he would bring a cart, and place a table on it, and
secure it with strong cords. Hoisted upon this improvised scaffolding,
the poor devil was so astounded that, reflecting on his accident, he had
but one thought, which was, to complete his work as speedily as
possible. This is the reason why the last letters, in lieu of being a
foot long like the first, are not longer than your thumb; and that is
not the worst of it--in his eagerness he forgot one letter at the bottom
of his pot of black; and the inscription thus appears:
PLAZA DE LA CONSTItucin.
“The Alcalde was thrown into a pious fury; but the schoolmaster
stoutly declared that neither for God nor for all the Saints would
he recommence it, and that he preferred to mount a bull of eight
years old rather than to work upon that mountebank plank. Thus has
the inscription remained as it was: happily no one reads it. He is
sorry that the schoolmaster had not completed it, for it would have
been very handsome and done great honor to Villamar.”
Momo, who carried on his shoulder some saddlebags, well filled, and who
was in a hurry, asked the commandant if he was going to Fort San
Cristobal.
“I go there, and on my way I will first go to see the daughter of Pedro
Santalo; she is ill.”
“Who! The Gaviota?” asked Momo; “don’t believe it: I saw her yesterday
on the top of a rock, screaming like the sea-gull.”
“Gaviota!” said Stein, with surprise.
“It is,” said the commandant, “a wicked nickname, which Momo has given
this young girl.”
“Because she has long legs,” replied Momo, “because she lives equally on
the sea and on the earth, because she sings, cries, and leaps from rock
to rock like the seagulls.”
“Your grandmother,” replied Don Modesto, “loves her much, and never
calls her any thing but Marisalada (witty Maria), on account of her
piquant frolics, the grace of her song and her dance, and her beautiful
imitation of the singing of birds.”
“It is not that,” replied Momo. “It is because that her father is a
fisherman, and brings us salt and fish.”
“And does she live near the port?” asked Stein, whose curiosity was much
excited by all these details.
“Very near,” replied the commandant. “Pedro Santalo possessed a bark:
having made sail for Cadiz he encountered a tempest, and was shipwrecked
on our coast. All perished, crew and cargo, with the exception of Pedro
and his daughter, whom he had with him; the desire to save her doubled
his strength: he gained the shore, but his ruin was complete. His
sadness and discouragement were so profound that he would not return to
his country. With the debris of his bark he constructed a little skiff
among the rocks, and commenced as a fisherman. It was he who furnished
the convent with fish: the brothers in exchange gave him bread, oil, and
vinegar. It is now twelve years that he has lived here in peace with all
the world.”
This recital finished when they had arrived at a point where the paths
divide into two roads.
“I will return soon,” said the old commandant; “in an instant I will be
at your disposal, and salute your hosts.”
“Say to Gaviota,” cried Momo, “that her illness does not alarm me, bad
weeds never die.”
“Has the commandant been long at Villamar?” asked Stein of Momo.
“Let me count--a hundred and one years before the birth of my father.”
“And who is this Rosita, his hostess?’
“Who? Señorita Rosa Mistica!” replied Momo, with grotesque gesture. “It
is a first love: she is uglier than hunger; she has one eye which looks
to the east, and the other to the west; and her face, which the
small-pox has not spared, is filled with cavities, each sufficient to
hold an echo. But, Don Frederico, the heavens scorch, the clouds rush as
if they would pursue us--let us hasten our steps.”