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.”
CHAPTER V.
BEFORE we continue our recital, it is well, we believe, to make the acquaintance of this new personage. Don Modesto Guerrero was the son of an honorable farmer, who, like many others, was possessed of excellent parchments of nobility. During the war of independence, the French burned these parchments in burning his house, under the pretext that the children of a laborer are brigands,—that is to say, that they have committed the unpardonable crime of defending their country. The brave man could reconstruct his house; but as to the parchments, they were not of the class of phœnix. Modesto was called to the military service, and, in default of a substitute, he entered a regiment of infantry as a cadet. Sufficiently good-natured, he was not long in becoming a butt, the object of coarse jokes from his companions. These, encouraged by his forbearance, pushed their mockeries so far that Don Modesto put an end to them, as we will directly see. On a grand parade day he took his station at the end of a file. Near by was a cart. His comrades, with as much address as promptitude, passed a noose round his leg, and attached it to the wheels of the cart. The colonel gave the orders to “March!” The trumpets sounded, and all the men were in motion, with the exception of Modesto, who was brought up with his feet in the air, in the position which the sculptors give to the Zephyrs ready to fly.
The review ended. Modesto returned to quarters calm and tranquil as he had set out, and, without changing his step, he demanded satisfaction of his companions. Neither of them would assume the responsibility of the trick played. He then declared he would fight with them all, one after the other. Then he who had planned and executed the trick came forward, and they went out to fight. In the combat, Modesto’s adversary lost an eye. “If you desire to lose the other,” the vanquisher said to him, with his habitual phlegm, “I am at your service when you please.”
Without relations or patrons at court, without ambitious views, and no fondness for intrigue, Modesto continued his career at a tortoise pace, until the siege of Gaëte, in 1805, a period at which his regiment received an order to join the troops of Napoleon. Modesto distinguished himself so well by his bravery and coolness, that he merited a cross, and the praises of his chiefs. His name was blazoned at Gaëte like a meteor, to disappear immediately in eternal obscurity.
These laurels were the first and the last which he had an opportunity of gathering during his military career: severely wounded in the arm, he was obliged to quit active service, and received as compensation the post of commandant of the ruined fort of San Cristobal. It was then forty years that he had under his orders the skeleton of a fort, and a garrison of lizards of all varieties. In the commencement, our Guerrero could not content himself with this abandonment. No one year passed without his pressing a request to the government to obtain the necessary repairs; also the guns and troops which this point of defence demanded. All these requests remained unnoticed, although, according to circumstances, he did not fail to represent the possibility of an invasion, whether by the English or the American insurgents, whether by the French, or the revolutionists, or the Carlists. A similar reception was accorded to his continual solicitations to obtain part: the government took no account whatever of these two ruins—the fort, and its commander. Don Modesto was patient; he finished by submitting to his destiny. When he arrived at Villamar, he lodged with the widow of the sacristan, who, in company with her then young daughter, lived a life of devotion. It was the abode of excellent women, a little meagre, and tainted with excessive intolerance, and scolds; but good, charitable, and of exquisite neatness.
The inhabitants of the village, who had great affection for the commandant, and who, at the same time, knew how irksome his position was, did all they possibly could to render his situation less irksome. They never killed a pig without sending him a supply of lard and pudding. At harvest-times they brought him some wheat, pease, oil, and honey. The women made him presents of the fruits of their orchards; and his happy hostess had always an abundance of provisions, thanks to the generous kindness which inspired the good Modesto, who, of a nature corresponding with his name, far from feeling pride from so many favors, was accustomed to say that Providence was everywhere, but that his headquarters were at Villamar. He knew, in truth, how to show his gratitude for all these bounties by being serviceable to every one, and complaisant in the extreme. He arose with the sun, and his first duty was to assist the cura in the services of the mass. One villager charged him with a commission; another besought him to write to his son, who was a soldier; a mother confided to his care her little children, while she attended out doors to some little household affairs: he watched at the bedsides of the sick, and mingled his prayers with those of his hostesses; indeed, he sought to be useful to everybody in all that was in his power, consistent with decorum or honor. The widow of the sacristan died, leaving her daughter Rosa, now full forty-five years of age, and of an ugliness which you would travel far to see the like of. The mournful consequences of the varioloid did not contribute a little to augment this last misfortune. The evil was concentrated on one of her eyes, and chiefly on the pupil, which she could but half open; and it resulted that the pupil half effaced gave to all her physiognomy an aspect devoid of intelligence and mind, forming a singular contrast with the other eye, from which shot out flames like the fire of a brier-bush at the slightest cause of scandal; and certainly the occasions which presented themselves were frequent enough.
After the funeral, the nine days of mourning passed, the Señorita Rosita said one morning to Don Modesto: “I regret much, señor, the duty of announcing to you that we must separate.”
“We part!” cried the brave man, opening his large eyes, and placing his cup of chocolate on the table-cloth, instead of placing it on the tray. “And why, Rosita?”
Don Modesto was accustomed, during thirty years, to employ this pet name when he spoke to the daughter of his old hostess.
“It seems to me,” she replied, elevating her eyelids, “it seems to me you need not ask me why. You know it is not proper that two honest persons live together under the same roof. It gives rise to scandal.”
“And who could bring scandal against you?” replied Don Modesto; “you, the village model!”
“Are you sure there will not be something? What will you say when you learn that you yourself, despite your great age, your uniform, and your cross, and I, a poor girl who thinks only of serving God, that we afford amusement to these scandal-mongers?”
“What say you?” demanded Don Modesto, saddened.
“What you have just heard. And no one knows us but under nicknames which they apply to us, these cursed!”
“I am stunned, Rosita. I cannot believe—”
“So much the better for you if you do not believe it,” said the devout girl; “but I avow to you that these impious ones,—God pardon them!—when they see us arrive together at the church, at the early morning mass, they say, one to the other: ‘Sound the mass, here come the Mystic Rose and the Tower of David, in armor and in company, as in the litanies.’ They have thus dubbed you, because your figure is so erect, so tall, and so solid.”
Don Modesto remained, his mouth open, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Yes, señor,” continued the Mystic Rose; “the neighbor who told me this was scandalized, and advised me to go and complain to the cura. I replied to her it were better that I restrained myself, and suffered. Our Lord suffered more than I, without complaining.”
“Well!” said Modesto; “I will not permit that they mock me, and still less you.”
“The best will be,” continued Rosa, “to prove by our patience that we are good Christians, and by our indifference that we care little for the world’s opinion. Beyond this, if these wicked persons are punished, they will be worse, believe me, Don Modesto.”
“You are, as always, right, Rosita. I know these babblers; if you cut out their tongue, they will speak with their nose. But if, in by-gone days, any of my comrades had dared to call me Tower of David, he would have had to add, ‘Pray for us!’ How is it that you, a saint, have any fear of these slanders?”
“You know, Don Modesto, what say the vulgar, who think evil of all the world: ‘Between saint and saint there should be a strong wall.’ ”
“But between you and I there is no need of a wall. I am old, and never in all my life was I ever, except once, in love; and then it was with a very pretty young girl, whom I would have married, if I had not surprised her in a counter-flirtation with the drum-major, who—”
“Don Modesto!” cried Rosita, choked with this discourse. “Honor your name and your position, and abandon your souvenirs of love.”
“My intention was not to offend you,” replied Don Modesto, in a contrite tone. “Know that well; and I swear to you that I never had, and never will have, an evil thought.”
“Don Modesto,” replied Rosa, with impatience (she looked on him with her eye of fire, while the other eye made vain efforts in the hope of being inflamed in unison), “do you judge me so simple as to think that two persons, like you and I, having both the fear of God, could conduct ourselves like those hair-brained people who have neither shame nor horror of sin? But in the world it is not sufficient to do well. We must even not give cause for scandal, and guard on all sides even against appearances.”
“That is another thing,” replied the commandant. “What appearances can there be between us? Do you not know that they who excuse, accuse themselves?”
“I tell you,” replied the devotee, “there will not be wanting persons to blame us.”
“And what can I do without you?” demanded Don Modesto, afflicted. “Alone in the world, what can you do without me?”
“He who gives food to the little birds,” said Rosita, in a solemn tone, “will take care of those who trust in Him.”
Don Modesto, disconcerted, and knowing not what further to say, went to consult with the cura, who was at the same time his friend and Rosita’s.
The cura persuaded the good girl that her scruples were exaggerated, and her fears without reason; that the projected separation would much more give rise to ridiculous comments.
They continued then to live together, as formerly, in peace, and in the fear of God;—the commandant always good and useful; Rosa always careful, attentive, and disinterested: because, on the one hand, Don Modesto was not the man to take any recompense for his services; and, on the other, if the handle of his gala-sword had not been silver, she could well have forgotten the color of that metal.
CHAPTER VI.
WHEN Stein returned to the convent, all the family were assembled in the court. Momo and Manuel arrived at the same time, each from his direction. The last had been going his rounds of the farm in the exercise of his functions as gamekeeper; he held his gun in one hand, and in the other three partridges and two hares.
The children ran to Momo, who at once emptied his wallet, from which escaped, as from a horn of abundance, a multitude of winter fruits, which, according to Spanish custom, served to celebrate All Saints’ Eve; viz., nuts, chestnuts, and pomegranates.
“If Marisalada brings us the fish,” said the eldest of the little girls, “to-morrow we will have a famous feast.”
“To-morrow,” said Maria, “is All Saints; father Pedro will certainly not go out to fish.”
“Then,” said the little one, “it will be for the next day.”
“They no longer fish on the ‘Dia de los Difuntos.’ ”
“And why?” demanded the child.
“Because it would be to profane a day which the church consecrates to sanctified souls. The proof is, that the fishermen having once cast their lines on such a day, and delighted with the weight they were drawing in, were doomed to find only snakes instead of fish. Is it not true, brother Gabriel?”
“I did not see it, but I am sure of it,” replied the brother.
“And is it for that you make us pray so much on the ‘day of the dead?’ ” asked the little girl.
“For that same,” said the grandma; “it is a holy custom, and God is not willing that we should ever neglect it.”
“Certainly,” added Manuel, “nothing is more just than to pray to the Lord for the dead; and I remember a fellow of the Congregation of Souls who begged for them in these terms, at the door of the chapel: ‘He who places a small piece of money in this place, withdraws a soul from purgatory.’ There came along a wag who, after having deposited his piece: ‘Tell me, brother,’ asked he, ‘do you believe the soul is yet clear of purgatory?’ ‘Do you doubt it?’ replied the brother. ‘In that case,’ replied the other, ‘I take back my piece; I know this soul; she is not such a fool as to go back when she is once out.’ ”
“You may be assured, Don Frederico,” said Maria, “that with every thing, good or bad, my son finds always something appropriate to a story, a witticism, or a bon-mot.”
At this moment Don Modesto entered by the court; he was as stiff and grave as when he was presented to Stein at the end of the village. The only change was, that he carried suspended to his stick a large stock of fish covered over with cabbage leaves.
“The commandant! The commandant!” was the general cry.
“Do you come from your citadel, San Cristobal?” asked Manuel of Don Modesto, after exchanging the preliminary compliments, and an invitation to be seated on the same stone bench where Stein was seated.
“You might join my mother, who is so good a Christian, to pray to the saints to build again the walls of the fort, contrary to that which, by report, Joshua did at the walls of Jericho.”
“I have to ask of the Lord things more important than that,” replied the grandma.
“Certainly,” said brother Gabriel, “Maria has more important things than the reconstruction of the walls of a fort to ask of the Lord. It would be better of her to implore Him to reconstruct the convent.”
Don Modesto, on hearing these words, turned with a severe gesture towards the monk, who, at this moment, went and placed himself behind the old mother, and dissimulated so well, that he disappeared almost entirely to the eyes of the others present.
“After what I see,” continued the old commandant, “brother Gabriel does not belong to the church militant. Do you not remember that the Jews, before building their Temple, had conquered the promised land, sword in hand? Would there have been churches and priests in the Holy Land if the crosses had not conquered it, lance in hand?”
“But,” then said Stein, with the laudable intention to divert from this discussion the commandant, whose bile commenced to be stirred, “why does Maria ask for what is impossible?”
“That signifies little,” replied Manuel; “all old women act the same, except she who asked God to tell her a good number in the drawing of a lottery.”
“Was it sent her?” they asked.
“It had been well kept, if I had gained the prize. He who could do all things, where the miracle?”
“That which is certain,” declared Don Modesto, “is, that I will be very grateful to the Lord, if he will inspire the government with the happy idea of re-establishing the fort of San Cristobal.”
“To rebuild, would you say?” observed Manuel; “take care and repent at once, as it happened to a woman consecrated to the Lord, and who had a daughter so ugly, so stupid, and so awkward, that she could not find even a despairing man to espouse her. The poor woman, much embarrassed, passed all her days on her knees at prayer, asking a husband for her daughter. At last one presented himself: the joy of the mother was extreme, but of short duration. The son-in-law was so bad, he so maltreated his wife and his mother-in-law, that the latter went to the church, and there posted before the saint this inscription:
Whose measure could a giant’s meet!
(And with a head of bony horns),
Is’t thou among the saints I saw?
Thou—Jewish as my son-in-law.’ ”
While the conversation was going on, Morrongo, the house cat, awoke from a long sleep, bent his croup like the back of a camel, uttered a sharp mew, opened out his mustaches, and approached, little by little, towards Don Modesto, just so as to place himself behind the perfumed pocket suspended to the baton. He immediately received on his velvet paws a little stone thrown by Momo, with that singular address which children of his age so well know how to cast. The cat skipped off in a gallop, but lost no time in returning to his post of observation, and made believe to sleep. Don Modesto saw him, and lost his tranquillity of mind.
“You have not said, Señor Commandant, how Marisalada is?”
“Ill, very ill, she grows weaker every day. I am much afflicted to see her poor father, who has had so much to suffer. This morning his daughter had a high fever; her cough did not quit her for an instant.”
“What do you say, Señor Commandant?” cried Maria.
“Don Frederico, you who have made such wonderful cures, you who have extracted a stone from brother Gabriel and restored the sight of Momo, can you not do something for this poor creature?”
“With great pleasure,” replied Stein; “I will do all in my power to relieve her.”
“And God will repay you. To-morrow morning we will go and see her. To-day you are too much fatigued from your walk.”
“I am not jealous of his kind,” said Momo, grumbling. “The proudest girl—”
“That is not so,” exclaimed the old woman; “she is a little wild, a little ferocious; one can see she has been educated alone, and allowed to have her own way by a father more gentle than a dove, although a little rough in manner, like all good sailors. But Momo cannot bear Marisalada, since one day when she called him Romo (flat-nosed), as indeed he is.”
At this moment a noise was heard; it was the commandant pursuing at a quick pace the thief Morrongo, who had deceived the vigilance of his master and ran off with the stock fish.
“My commandant,” cried out Manuel to him, laughing, “the sardine which the cat carries will not come to the dish except late or never, but I have here a partridge in exchange.”
Don Modesto seized the partridge, thanked him, took leave of the company, and went away, inveighing against cats.
During all this scene, Dolores had given the breast to her nursing infant; she tried to hush him to sleep, cradling him in her arms and singing to him:
Woods of olives, wood of perfume meets;
A nightingale—four larks—whose breath,
Would warble forth a Saviour’s death.”
For those who suppress the circulation of poetry of the people, as the child crushes with its hand the feeblest butterfly, it would be difficult to say why larks and nightingales warble the death of Christ; why the swallow plucked out the thorns of his crown; why the rosemary is an object of veneration, in the belief that the Virgin dried the swaddling-clothes of the infant Jesus on a bush of this plant? Why, or rather how do they know that the willow is a tree of bad augury, since Judas hung himself on a branch of this tree? Why does no misfortune ever happen in a house if it has been perfumed with rosemary during Christmas eve? Why in the flower which is called the passion-flower are found all the instruments of the passion of Christ? In truth, there are no answers to these questions. The people do not possess them, nor demand them. These beliefs have accumulated like the vague sounds of distant music, without research into their origin, without analyzing their authenticity.
“But, Don Frederico,” said Maria, while Stein was occupied with reflections on the proceedings, “you have not told us how you find our village.”
“I have seen nothing,” replied Stein, “save only the chapel of our Lord of Good-Help.”
“Miraculous chapel, Don Frederico. Hold,” pursued the old woman, after some instants of silence, “the only motive why I am not as much pleased here as in the village is, that I cannot follow out my devotions. Yes, Manuel, thy father, who had not been a soldier, thought like me. My poor husband!—he is in heaven—my poor husband was brother of Rosaire of the dawn; Rosaire who went out after midnight to pray for souls. Fatigued with a long day’s work he slept profoundly; and precisely at midnight a brother rang a bell, came to the door, and chanted:
It is not she the warnings tell;
Of thy parents ’tis the voice!
The cross’s foot then make thy choice;
Raise thee, my son, so full of zeal,
And prayerful in the chapel kneel.
On thy knees in the holy place,
For parents supplicate God’s grace.’
When thy father heard this chant, he felt no longer fatigue nor need of sleep. In the twinkling of an eye he got up and followed the other brother. It seems to me I yet hear him singing in the distance:
And meekly laid the sceptre down;
Presenting them to Christ was seen,
Exclaiming—I no more am Queen.
If not held back thy wrath from o’er the human race,
Then is thy crown divine with too just rigor placed.’
Jesus answered her:
Without thy grace so pure, and thy sweet hallowed prayer,
The thunderbolt had hurled the sinner to despair.’ ”
The children, who love so much to imitate what they see as at all great or remarkable, undertook to sing in a beautiful tone the couplets of the aurora:
The voice of the Angel through Heaven resounds:
Jerusalem! within thy walls,
An infant’s foot triumphant falls;
What was the people’s homage in that hour?
What grand equipments decked the kingly bower?
The all-powerful whom Heaven had sent,
Rode on an ass which men had lent.”
“Don Frederico,” said Maria, after a moment’s silence, “in the world which God has made, is it true that there have been men without faith?”
Stein was mute.
“Can you not cure the blindness of their intelligence, as you have cured the eyes of Momo?” replied, with sadness, the good old woman, who remained altogether pensive.
CHAPTER VII.
THE following day Maria set off for the house of the invalid, in company with Stein and Momo, foot-equerry to his grandmother, who travelled mounted on the philosophic Golondrina. The animal, always good, gentle, and docile, trotted on the road, the head lowered, ears depressed, without making a single rough movement, except when he encountered a thistle in proximity with his nostrils.
When they were arrived, Stein was astonished to find, in the middle of this arid country, of a nature so dry and so sterile, a village so leafy and so coquettish.
The sea had formed, between two great rocks, a little circular creek, and surrounded by a coast of the finest sand, which appeared like a plateau of crystal placed on a table of gold. Several rocks showed themselves timidly, as if they wished to repose themselves, and be seated on the tranquil shore. At one of them was made fast a fisherman’s bark; balancing herself at the will of the waves, she seemed as impatient as a horse reined in.
On one side of the rocks was elevated the fort of San Cristobal, crowned by the peaks of wild figs, like the head of an old Druid adorned with green oak-leaves.
The fisherman had constructed his cabin with the wrecked remains of his vessel, which the sea had thrown on the coast; he had based all against the rocks, which formed, in some sort, three stories of the habitation. The roof was horizontal, and covered with aquatica, the first layer of which, rotted by the rains, had given growth to a great quantity of herbs and of flowers; so that in the autumn, when the dryness disappeared with the heat of summer, the cabin appeared covered as with a delicious garden.
When the persons just arrived entered the cabin, they found the fisherman sad and cast down, seated near the fire, opposite to his daughter; who, her hair in disorder, and falling down on both sides of her pale face, bent up and shivering, her emaciated limbs enveloped in a rag of brown flannel. She seemed to be not more than thirteen years of age. The invalid turned, with an expression of but little kindliness, her large, black, and sullen eyes upon the persons who entered, and instantly sank down anew in the corner of the chimney.
“Pedro,” said Maria, “you forget your friends, but they do not forget you. Will you tell me why the good God has given you a mouth? Could you not have let me known of the illness of the little girl? If you had let me known of it sooner, I had sooner come with this gentleman, who is such a doctor as is seldom seen, and who in no time will cure your daughter.”
Pedro Santalo rose brusquely, and advanced to Stein; he would speak to him, but he was so overcome with emotion that he could not articulate a single word, and he covered his face with his hands. He was a man already advanced in life, his aspect sufficiently rude, and his form colossal. His countenance, bronzed by the sun, was crowned by a gray head of hair, thick and uncombed; his breast, red as that of an Ohio Indian, was also covered with hair.
“Come, Pedro!” said Maria, from whose eyes the tears began to flow at the sight of the poor father’s despair; “a man like you, big as a church, a man they believe ready to devour infants uncooked, to be discouraged thus without reason! Come! I see here nothing but what appears solid.”
“Good mother Maria,” replied the fisherman, in a feeble voice, “I count, with this one, five children in their tombs.”
“My God! and why thus lose courage? Remember the saint whose name you bear, and who threw himself into the sea when he had lost the faith which sustained him. I tell you that, with the grace of God, Don Frederico will cure the child in as little time as you could call on Jesus.”
Pedro sadly shook his head.
“How obstinate are these Catalans!” said Maria, with a little anger; and passing before the fisherman, she approached the invalid: “Come, Marisalada, come; rise up, daughter, that this gentleman may examine you.”
Marisalada did not stir.
“Come, my daughter,” repeated the good woman; “you will see that he will cure you as by enchantment.” At these words, she took the girl by the arm, and wished to raise her up.
“I have no desire,” said the invalid, rudely disengaging herself from the hand which held her.
“The daughter is as sweet as the father; ‘he who inherits steals not,’ ” murmured Momo, who appeared at the door.
“It is her illness that renders her impatient,” added the father, to exculpate his child.
Marisalada had an access of coughing. The fisherman wrung his hands with grief.
“A fresh cold,” said Maria; “come, come, it is not a very extraordinary thing. But then he will consent to what this child does; the cold she takes, running, with naked feet and legs, on the rocks and on the ice.”
“She would do it,” replied Pedro.
“And why not give her healthy food—good soups, milk, eggs? But no, she eats only fish.”
“She does not wish them,” replied the father, with dejection.
“She dies from negligence,” suggested Momo, who, with arms crossed, was posted against the door-post.
“Will you put your tongue in your pocket!” said his grandma to him. She returned towards Stein:
“Don Frederico, try and examine our invalid, as she will not move, for she will let herself die rather than make a movement.”
Stein commenced by asking of the father some details of the illness of his daughter. He then approached the young girl who was drowsy, he remarked that the lungs were too compressed in their right cavity, and were irritated by the oppression. The case was grave, the invalid was feeble, from want of proper food; the cough was hard and dry, the fever constant; the consumption indeed would not allow it to pause.
“Has she always had a taste for singing?” demanded the old woman during the examination.
“She would sing crucified, like the bald mice,” said Momo, turning away his head, that the wind would carry his hard speech, and that his grandma could not hear him.
“The first thing to do,” said Stein, “is to forbid this girl to expose herself to the rigors of the season.”
“Do you hear, my child?” said the father with anxiety.
“She must,” continued Stein, “wear shoes and dress warm.”
“If she will not?” cried the fisherman, rising suddenly, and opening a box of cedar, from whence he took numerous objects of toilet.
“Nothing is wanting: all that I have and all that I can amass are hers. Maria! my daughter! you will put on this clothing! Do this for the love of heaven!—Mariquita, you see it is what the doctor orders.”
Marisalada, who was aroused by the noise made by her father, cast an irritated look on Stein, and said to him in a sharp voice:
“Who governs me?”
“And say that they do not give this government to me, by means of a good branch of wild olive!” murmured Momo.
“She must have,” continued Stein, “good nourishment, and substantial soups.”
Maria made an expressive gesture of approbation at the same time.
“She should be nourished with milk diet, and chickens, and fresh eggs.”
“Did I not tell you so!” interrupted the old woman, exchanging a look with Pedro: “Don Frederico is the best doctor in the world.”
“Take care that she does not sing,” remarked Stein.
“Am I never to listen to her again?” cried poor Pedro with grief.
“See, then, what a misfortune!” replied Maria. “Let her be cured, and then she can sing night and day, like the ticking of a watch. But I think it will be best to have her taken to me, for there is no one to nurse her, nor any one who knows like me how to make good soup for her.”
“I can prove that,” said Stein, smiling, “and I assure you one might set before a king a soup prepared by my good nurse.”
Maria never felt more happy.
“Thus, Pedro, it is useless talking of it; I will take her home.”
“Remain without her! no, no, it is impossible.”
“Pedro, Pedro, it is not thus we should love our children,” replied Maria. “To love them is to do above all that which will benefit them.”
“So let it be!” replied the fisherman, rising with resolution; “I place her in your hands, I confide her to this doctor’s care, and commend her to the divine goodness.”
With difficulty could he pronounce these last words, which flowed rapidly, as if he feared to recall his determination; and he went to harness his ass.
“Don Frederico,” asked Maria, when they were alone with the invalid, who remained drowsy, “is it not true, that, with God’s help, we will cure her?”
“I hope so,” replied Stein; “I cannot tell you how much this poor father interests me.”
Maria made a package of the linen which the fisherman had taken out of the box, and Pedro came back leading the ass by the bridle. They placed the invalid on the saddle: the young girl, enfeebled by the fever, opposed no resistance. Before Maria had mounted Golondrina, who appeared quite content to return in company with Urca (name given to a great sea-fish, and which was that of Pedro’s ass), the fisherman took Maria aside, and said to her, in trying to slip some pieces of gold in her hand:
“This is all I could save from my shipwreck, take it, and give it to the doctor, for all I have is for him who can give me back my daughter.”
“Keep your gold,” replied Maria, “and know, in the first place, it is God who has conducted the doctor hither; in the second place—it is I.”
Maria pronounced these last words with a light tinge of vanity.
They commenced their journey.
“Do not stop, grandma,” said Momo, who walked behind; “however large may be the convent, it must be filled with people. Eh! what? the cabin was not good enough for the Princess Gaviota?”
“Momo,” replied the grandma, “mind your own affairs.”
“But what do you see in her? And what touches you in this wild Gaviota, to take her thus under your care?”
“Momo, a proverb says, ‘Who is thy sister? thy nearest neighbor;’ another adds, ‘Wipe the nose of thy neighbor’s child, and take her to thee.’ And here is the moral: ‘Treat thy neighbor as thyself.’ ”
“There is yet another proverb,” added Momo, “which says, ‘He is mad who occupies himself about others.’ But it is of no use. You were obstinate about raising the palm to San Juan de Dios.”
“You will not be the angel to aid me,” said Maria with sadness.
Dolores received the invalid with open arms, as approving the resolution of her mother-in-law.
Pedro Santalo, who had accompanied his daughter, called the charitable nurse before he returned, and, putting the pieces of gold in her hand, said—
“This is to defray the expenses, and that she may want for nothing. As to your care, God will recompense you.”
The good old woman hesitated an instant, took the gold, and said—
“It is well, she shall want for nothing. Depart without uneasiness, Pedro, your daughter is in good hands.”
The poor father went away hurriedly, and did not stop till he reached the coast. Then he returned to the side of the convent, and wept with bitterness.
Maria said to Momo: “Bestir yourself. Go to the village, and bring me a ham from Serrano’s, who will please send me a good one, when he knows it is for a poor sick girl. Bring me at the same time a pound of sugar and a quart of almonds.”
“Just so, always sent about! Throw away every thing you possess,” cried Momo. “Think you they will give me all this on credit, and for my handsome face?”
“Here is to pay for them,” replied the grandma, and she placed in his hand a piece of gold of four duros (about 4 dollars).
“Gold!” cried Momo, stupefied: for the first time in his life he saw this metal in the form of money. “From what demons have you snatched this?”
“What is it to you?” replied Maria; “don’t worry yourself.”
“It needs no more than this,” replied Momo, “that I serve as domestic to this magpie, this accursed Gaviota! I will not go.”
“Go, boy, at once, and nimbly too.”
“Ha! Well—no, I will not go; I will not annoy myself,” repeated Momo.
“José,” said Maria, on seeing the shepherd go out, “do you go to the village?”
“Yes, Señora; what orders have you for me?”
The good woman gave him the commission, and added—
“This Momo has a bad heart, and will not go. And I have not the strength to complain to his father, who would make him march quickly, and caress him in a manner to break his bones.”
“Yes, yes, do every thing to take care of this crow who will tear out your eyes,” said Momo. “You will receive payment in the trouble she will give you; if it is not so now, it will be in time.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A MONTH after the scenes we have described, Marisalada was more sensible, and did not show the least desire to return to her father’s. Stein was completely re-established; his good-natured character, his modest inclinations, his natural sympathies, attached him every day more to the peaceful habits of the simple and generous persons among whom he dwelt. He felt relieved from his former discouragements, and his mind was invigorated; he was cordially resigned to his present existence, and to the men with whom he associated.
One afternoon, Stein, leaning against an angle of the convent which faced the sea, admired the grand spectacle which the opening of the winter season presented to his view. Above his head floated a triple bed of sombre clouds, forced along by the impetuous wind. Those lower down, black and heavy, seemed like the cupola of an ancient cathedral in ruins, threatening at each instant to sink down. When reduced to water, they fell to the ground. There was visible the second bed, less sombre and lighter, defying the wind which chased them, and separating at intervals sought other clouds, more coquettish and more vaporous, which they hurried into space, as if they feared to soil their white robes by coming in contact with their companions.
“Are you a sponge, Don Frederico, so to like to receive all the water which falls from heaven?” demanded José, the shepherd, of Stein. “Let us enter, the roofs are made expressly for such nights as these. My sheep would give much to shelter themselves under some tiles.”
Stein and the shepherd entered, and found the family assembled around the hearth.
At the left of the chimney, Dolores, seated on a low chair, held her infant, who, turning his back to his mother, supported himself on the arm which encircled him, like the balustrade of a balcony; he moved about incessantly his little legs and his small bare arms, laughing, and uttering joyous cries addressed to his brother Anis. This brother, gravely seated opposite the fire, on the edge of an empty earthen pan, remained stiff and motionless, fearing that, losing his equilibrium, he would be tossed into the said earthen pan, an accident which his mother had predicted.
Maria was sewing at the right side of the chimney; her grand-daughters had for seats dry aloe-leaves, excellent seats, light, solid, and sure. Nearly under the drapery of the chimney-piece slept the hairy Palomo, and a cat, the grave Morrongo, tolerated from necessity, but remaining, by common consent, at a respectful distance from each other.
In the middle of this group there was a little low table, on which burned a lamp of four jets; close to the table the brother Gabriel was seated, making baskets of the palm-tree; Momo was engaged in repairing the harness of the good “Swallow” (the ass); and Manuel, cutting up tobacco. On the fire was conspicuous a stew-pan full of Malaga potatoes, white wine, honey, cinnamon, and cloves. The humble family waited with impatience till the perfumed stew should be sufficiently cooked.
“Come on! Come on!” cried Maria, when she saw her guest and the shepherd enter. “What are you doing outside in weather like this? ’Tis said a hurricane has come to destroy the world. Don Frederico, here, here! come near the fire. Do you know that the invalid has supped like a princess, and that at present she sleeps like a queen! Her cure progresses well—is it not so, Don Frederico?”
“Her recovery surpasses my hopes.”
“My soups!” added Maria with pride.
“And the ass’s milk,” said brother Gabriel quietly.
“There is no doubt,” replied Stein, “and she ought to continue to take it.”
“I oppose it not,” said Maria, “because ass’s milk is like the turnip—if it does no good it does no harm.”
“Ah! how pleasant it is here!” said Stein, caressing the children. “If one could only live in the enjoyment of the present, without thought of the future!”
“Yes, yes, Don Frederico,” joyfully cried Manuel, “ ‘Media vida es la candela; pan y vino, la otra media.’ ” (Half of life is the candle; bread and wine are the other half)
“And what necessity have you to dream of the future?” asked Maria. “Will the morrow make us the more love to-day? Let us occupy ourselves with to-day, so as not to render painful the day to come.”
“Man is a traveller,” replied Stein, “he must follow his route.”
“Certainly,” replied Maria, “man is a traveller; but if he arrives in a quarter where he finds himself well off, he would say, ‘We are well here, put up our tents.’ ”
“If you wish us to lose our evening by talking of travelling,” said Dolores, “we will believe that we have offended you, or that you are not pleased here.”
“Who speaks of travelling in the middle of December?” demanded Manuel. “Goodness of heaven! Do you not see what disasters there are every day on the sea? hear the singing of the wind! Will you embark in this weather, as you were embarked in the war of Navarre, for, as then, you would come out mortified and ruined.”
“Besides,” added Maria, “the invalid is not yet entirely cured.”
“Ah! there,” said Dolores, besieged by the children, “if you will not call off these creatures, the potatoes will not be cooked until the last judgment.”
The grandmother rolled the spinning-wheel to the corner, and called the little infants to her.
“We will not go,” they replied with one voice, “if you will not tell us a story.”
“Come, I will tell you one,” said the good old woman.
The children approached. Anis took up his position on the empty earthen pot; and the grandma commenced a story to amuse the little children.
She had hardly finished the relation of this story, when a great noise was heard.
The dog rose up, pointed his ears, and put himself on the defensive. The cat bristled her hair, and prepared to fly. But the succeeding laugh very soon was frightful: it was Anis, who fell asleep during the recital of his grandmother. It happened that the prophecy of his mother was fulfilled as to his falling into the earthen pan, where all his little person disappeared, except his legs which stuck out like plants of a new species. His mother, rendered impatient, seized with one hand the collar of his vest, raised him out of this depth, and, despite his resistance, held him suspended in the air for some time—in the style represented in those card dancing-jacks, which move arms and legs when you pull the thread which holds them.
As his mother scolded him, and everybody laughed at him, Anis, who had a brave spirit, a thing natural in an infant, burst out into a groan which had nothing of timidity in it.
“Don’t weep, Anis,” said Paca, “and I will give you two chestnuts that I have in my pocket.”
“True?” demanded Anis.
Paca took out the two chestnuts, and gave them to him. Instead of tears, they saw promptly shine with joy the two rows of white teeth of the young boy.
“Brother Gabriel,” said Maria, “did you not speak to me of a pain in your eyes? Why do you work this evening?”
“I said truly,” answered brother Gabriel; “but Don Frederico gave me a remedy which cured me.”
“Don Frederico must know many remedies, but he does not know that one which never misses its effect,” said the shepherd.
“If you know it, have the extreme kindness to inform me of it,” replied Stein.
“I am unable to tell you,” replied the shepherd. “I know that it exists, and that is all.”
“Who knows it then?” demanded Stein.
“The swallows,” said José.
“The swallows?”
“Yes, sir. It is an herb which is called pito-real, which nobody sees or knows except the swallows: when their little ones lose their sight they rub their eyes with the pito-real, and cure them. This herb has also the virtue to cut iron—every thing it touches.”
“What absurdities this José swallows without chewing, like a real shark!” interrupted Manuel laughing. “Don Frederico, do you comprehend what he said and believes as an article of faith? He believes and says that snakes never die.”
“No, they never die,” replied the shepherd. “When they see death coming they escape from their skin, and run away. With age they become serpents; little by little they are covered with scales and wings: they become dragons, and return to the desert. But you, Manuel, you do not wish to believe any thing. Do you deny also that the lizard is the enemy of the woman, and the friend of man? If you do not believe it, ask then of Miguel.”
“He knows it?”
“Without doubt, by experience.”
“Whence did he learn it?” demanded Stein.
“He was sleeping in the field,” replied José. “A snake glided near him. A lizard, which was in the furrow, saw it coming, and presented himself to defend Miguel. The lizard, which was of large form, fought with the snake. But Miguel not awaking, the lizard pressed his tail against the nose of the sleeper, and ran off as if his paws were on fire. The lizard is a good little beast, who has good desires; he never sleeps in the sun without descending the wall to kiss the earth.”
When the conversation commenced on the subject of swallows, Paca said to Anis, who was seated among his sisters, with his legs crossed like a Grand Turk in miniature, “Anis, do you know what the swallows say?”
“I? No. They have never spoken to me.”
“Attend then: they say (the little girl imitated the chirping of swallows, and began to sing with volubility),