![The Cabin [La barraca] cover](/books/content/38165/OEBPS/8309042946712465770_38165-cover.png)
IX
ST. JOHN'S day arrived, the greatest period of the year; the time of harvest and abundance.
The air vibrated with light and colour. An African sun poured torrents of gold upon the earth, cracking it with its ardent caresses, and its arrows of gold slipped in between the compressed foliage, an awning of verdure under which the vega protected its babbling canals and its humid furrows, as though fearful of the heat which generated life everywhere.
The trees showed their branches loaded with fruit. The medlar trees bent over under the weight of the yellow clusters covered with glazed leaves; apricots glowed among the foliage like the rosy cheeks of a child; the boys scanned the corpulent fig-trees with impatience, greedily seeking the early first fruit, and in the gardens on top of the walls, the jasmines exhaled their suave fragrance, and the magnolias, like incensories of ivory, scattered their perfume in the burning atmosphere, impregnated with the odour of ripe fruit.
The gleaming sickles were shearing the fields, felling low the golden heads of wheat, the heavy ears of grain, which oppressed with superabundance of life, were bending toward the ground, their slender stalks doubling beneath them.
On the threshing-floor the straw was mounting up, forming hills of gold which reflected the light of the sun; the wheat was fanned amid the whirling clouds of dust, and in the fields whose tops were lopped off, along the stubble, the sparrows hopped about, seeking the forgotten grains.
Every one was happy, all worked joyfully. The carts creaked on all the roads, bands of boys ran over the fields, or gambled on the threshing-floors, thinking of the cakes of new wheat, of the life of abundance and satisfaction which began in the farm-house upon the filling of the lofts; even the old nags seemed to look on with happy eyes, and to walk with more alacrity, as though stimulated by the odour of the mounds of straw which, like rivers of gold, would slip through their cribs during the course of the year.
The money, hoarded in the bedrooms during the winter, hidden away in the chest or in the depth of a stocking, began to circulate through the vega. Toward the close of the day, the taverns began to fill with men, reddened and bronzed by the sun, their rough shirts soaked with sweat, who talked about the harvest and the payment of Saint John, the half-year's rent which they had to pay over to the masters of the land.
The abundance had also brought happiness to the farm-house of Batiste. The crops had made them forget the little "Abbot." Only the mother, with sudden tears and some profound sighs, revealed the fleeting remembrance of the little one.
It was the wheat, the full sacks which Batiste and his son carried up to the granary, and which made the floor tremble, and the whole house shake as they fell from their shoulders, that interested all the family.
The good season began. Their good fortune now was as extreme as their past misfortune. The days slipped by in saintly calm and much work, but without the slightest incident to disturb the monotony of a laborious existence.
The affection which all the neighbours had shown at the burial of the little one had somewhat cooled down. As the remembrance of this misfortune became deadened, the people seemed to repent of the spontaneous impulse of tenderness and recalled once more the catastrophe of old Barret and the arrival of the intruders.
But the peace spontaneously made before the white casket of the little one was not disturbed by this. Somewhat cold and suspicious, yes; but all exchanged salutations with the family; the sons were able to go through the plain without being annoyed, and even Pimentó when he met Batiste, would nod his head in a friendly manner, mumbling something which was like an answer to his salutation.
In short, those who did not like them, left them alone, which was all that they could desire.
And in the interior of the farm-house, what abundance ... what tranquillity! Batiste was surprised at the harvest. The lands, rested, untouched by cultivation for a long time, seemed to have sent forth at one time all the life accumulated in their depths after ten years of repose. The grain was heavy and abundant. According to the news which circulated through the plain, it was going to command a good price, and what was better (Batiste smiled on thinking of this), he did not need to pay out the profit as rent, for he was exempt for two years. He had paid well for this advantage by many months of alarm and struggle and by the death of poor Pascualet.
The prosperity of the family seemed to be reflected in the farm-house, clean and brilliant as never before. Seen at a distance, it stood out from the neighbouring houses, as though revealing that it had in it more prosperity and peace. Nobody would have recognized in it the tragic house of old Barret.
The red bricks of the pavement in front of the door shone, polished by the daily rubbings; the flower-beds of sweet-basil and morning-glories and the bind-weeds formed pavilions of green, on top of which, outlined against the sky, stood out the sharp, triangular pediment of the farm-house, of immaculate whiteness; within might be seen the fluttering of the white curtains which covered the windows of the bedrooms, the shelves with piles of plates and concave platters leaning against the wall, showing big fantastic birds, and flowers like tomatoes painted on the background, and on the pitcher-shelf, which looked like an altar of glazed tile, there appeared, like divinities against thirst, the fat enamelled pitchers, and the jars of china and greenish glass, hanging from nails in a row.
The ancient and ill-treated furniture, which was a continuous reminder of the old wanderings and fleeing from misery, began to disappear, leaving space for others, which the diligent Teresa bought on her trips to the city. The money from the harvest was invested in repairing the breaches in the furniture of the farm-house made by the months of waiting.
The family smiled at times, recalling the threatening words of Pimentó. This wheat, which according to the bully, nobody should reap, began to fatten all the family. Roseta had two more skirts, and Batistet and the little ones strutted about on Sundays, dressed anew from head to foot.
While crossing the plain during the sunniest hours, when the atmosphere burned, and the flies and bees buzzed heavily, one felt a sensation of comfort before this farm-house, which was so fresh and clean. The corral through its walls of mud and stakes, revealed the life which it enclosed. The hens clucked, the cock crowed, the rabbits leaped forth from the burrows of a great pile of new kindling; the ducks, watched by the two little sons of Teresa, swam upon the nearby canal, and the flocks of chickens ran over the stubble, peeping without ceasing, moving their little rosy bodies, scarcely covered with fine down.
To say nothing of the fact that Teresa shut herself up in her bedroom more than once, and opening a drawer of the dresser, untied handkerchief after handkerchief, in order to go into ecstasies before a little heap of silver coins, the first money which her husband had been able to make the fields yield. This was just a beginning, and if times should be good, more and more money would be added to this, and who knows if when the time came these savings might not free the little ones from military service.
The concentrated and silent joy of the mother was noted also in Batiste.
One should have seen him on a Sunday afternoon, smoking a cuarto-stogie in honour of the festival, passing before the house, and watching his fields lovingly. Two days before, he had planted corn and beans in them, as almost all of his neighbours had, since the earth must not be allowed to remain idle.
He could hardly manage with the two fields which he had broken up and cultivated. But like old Barret, he felt the intoxication of the land; he wished to take in more and more with his labour, and though it was somewhat late, he planned on the following day to break up that part of the uncultivated earth which remained behind the farm-house, and plant melons there, an unsurpassed crop, from which his wife might make a very good profit, taking them as others did to the market at Valencia.
He should thank God for finally permitting him to live at peace in this paradise. What lands were these of the plain! According to history, even the Moorish dogs had wept upon being ejected from them.
The reaping had cleared the countryside, bringing low the masses of wheat variegated with poppies which shut in the view on all sides like ramparts of gold; now the plain seemed to be much larger, infinite; it stretched out and out until the large patches of red earth, cut up by paths and canals, disappeared from view.
Over all the plain the Sunday holiday was rigorously observed, and as there was a recent harvest, and not a little money, nobody thought of violating the rule. There was not a single man to be seen working in the fields, nor a horse upon the roads. The old women passed over the paths with the snowy mantle over their eyes, and their little chair upon their arm, as if the bells which were ringing in the distance, very far away, over the tiled roofs of the village, were calling them; along a cross-road, a numerous group of children were screaming, pursuing one another; over the green of the sloping-banks stood out the red trousers of some soldiers who were taking advantage of the holiday, to spend an hour in their homes; there sounded in the distance, like the sharp ripping of cloth, the reports of shot-guns fired at flocks of swallows which were wheeling about from one side to the other in a capricious quadrille, emitting mellow whistles, so high it seemed they would graze their wings against the crystal blue of the sky; over the canals buzzed clouds of mosquitoes, almost invisible; and in a green farm-house, under the old vine-arbour, there stirred about, in a kaleidoscopic maze of colours, flowered skirts and showy handkerchiefs, and the guitars sounded with a dreamy rhythm, lulling to sleep at last the cornet which was shrieking, pouring forth to every end of the plain, as it slept beneath the sun, the Moorish sounds of the jota, the Valencian dance.
This tranquil landscape was the idealization of laborious and happy Arcadia. There could be no evil people here. Upon awakening, Batiste stretched himself with a pleasurable feeling of laziness, yielding to the tranquil comfort with which the atmosphere seemed to be impregnated. Roseta had gone away with the little ones to a dance at a farm-house: his wife was taking her siesta, and he was walking back and forth from his house to the road over the bit of uncultivated land which served as an entrance for vehicles.
Standing on the little bridge, he answered the salutations of the neighbours, who passed by laughing, as if they were going to witness a very funny spectacle.
They were going to Copa's tavern to see at close range the famous contest between Pimentó and the two brothers, Terrerola, two bad characters like the husband of Pepeta, who also had sworn hatred to work, and passed the whole day in the tavern. Among them sprung up no end of rivalry and bets, especially when a time like this arrived, when the gatherings at the establishment swelled. The three bullies outdid one another in brutality, each one anxious to acquire more renown than the others.
Batiste had heard of this bet, which was drawing people to the famous tavern as though it were a public festivity.
The proposition was to see who could remain seated longest playing at cards, and drinking nothing but brandy.
They started Friday evening, and on Sunday afternoon, the three were still in their little rope-chairs, playing the hundredth game of cards, with the jug of aguardiente on the little table before them, leaving the cards only to swallow the savoury blood-pudding which gave great fame to Copa, because he knew so well how to preserve it in oil.
And the news, spreading itself throughout all the plain, made all the people come in a procession from a league roundabout. The three bullies were not alone for a moment. They had their supporters, who assumed the duty of occupying the fourth place in the game, and upon the coming of the night, when the mass of spectators retired to their farms, they remained there, watching them play in the light of the candle dangling from a black poplar-tree, for Copa was an impatient fellow, incapable of putting up with the tiresome wager, and so when the hour for sleep arrived, he would close the door, and after renewing their supply of brandy leave the players in the little square.
Many feigned indignation at the brutal contest, but at bottom they all felt satisfaction in having such men for neighbours. Such men were reared by the huerta! The brandy passed through their bodies as if it were water.
All the neighbourhood seemed to have an eye fixed upon the tavern, spreading the news about the course of the bet with prodigious celerity. Two pitchers had already been drunk, and no effect at all. Then three ... and still they were steady. Copa kept account of the drinking. And the people, according to their preference, bet for one or the other of the three contestants.
This event, which for two days had stirred up so much interest in the vega, and did not yet seem to have any end, had reached the ears of Batiste. He, a sober man, incapable of drinking without feeling nauseated and having a headache, could not avoid feeling a certain astonishment, bordering on admiration, for these brutes whose stomachs, it seemed to him, must be lined with tin-plate. It would be a spectacle worth seeing.
And with a look of envy, his eyes followed those who were going toward the tavern. Why should he not go also? He had never entered the house of Copa, in other times the den of his enemies: but now the extraordinary nature of the event justified his presence ... and, the devil! after so much work and such a good harvest, an honest man could allow himself a little self-indulgence.
And crying out to his sleeping wife to tell her where he was going, he set out on the road toward the tavern.
The mass of people which filled the little plaza in front of the house of Copa were like a swarm of human ants. All the men of the neighbourhood were there without any coats or waistcoats, with corduroy trousers, bulging black sash and a handkerchief wound around their heads in the form of a mitre. The old people were leaning upon their heavy staffs of yellow Lira-wood, with black arabesque work; the young people with shirt-sleeves rolled up, displayed sinewy and ruddy arms, and as though in contrast moved slender wands of ash between their thick, calloused fingers. The tall black poplars which surrounded the tavern gave shade to the animated groups.
Batiste noticed attentively for the first time the famous tavern with its white walls, its painted blue windows, and its hinges inset with showy tiles of Manises.
It had two doors. One was to the wine-cellar. Through the open doors could be seen two rows of enormous casks, which reached up to the ceiling, heaps of empty and wrinkled skin-sacks, large funnels and enormous measures tinged red by the continuous flow of liquid; there at the back of the room stood the heavy cart which went to the very ends of the province to deliver purchases of wine. This dark and damp room exhaled the fumes of alcohol, the perfume of grape-juice which so intoxicated the sense of smell and disturbed the sight that one had the feeling that both earth and air would soon be drenched with wine.
Here were the treasures of Copa, which were spoken of with unction and respect by all the drunkards of the huerta. He alone knew the secret of the casks; his vision, penetrating the old staves, estimated the quality of the red liquid which they contained; he was the high priest of this temple of alcohol; when he wished to treat some one, he would draw forth a glass in which sparkled liquid the colour of topaz, and which was topped by a rainbow-hued crown of brilliants, as piously as though he held the monstrance in his hands.
The other door was that of the tavern itself, which was open from an hour before daybreak until ten at night; through this the light of the oil-lamp which hung above the counter cast over the black road a large and luminous square.
The walls and wainscots were of red, glazed bricks to the height of a man, and were bordered by a row of flowered tiles. From there up to the ceiling, the wall was dedicated to the sublime art of the painter, for Copa, although he seemed to be a coarse man, whose only thought was to have his cash drawer full at night, was a true Mæcenas. He had brought a painter from the city, and kept him there more than a week, and this caprice of the great protector of the arts had cost him, as he himself declared, some five dollars, more or less.
It was really true that one could not shift his gaze about without meeting with some masterful work of art, whose loud colours seemed to gladden the customers and stimulate them to drink. Blue trees over purple fields, yellow horizons, houses larger than trees, and people larger than houses; hunters with shot-guns which looked like brooms, and Andalusian gallants with blunderbusses thrown over their legs, and mounted upon spirited steeds which had all the appearance of gigantic rats. A prodigy of originality which filled the drinkers with enthusiasm! And over the doors of the rooms, the artist, referring discreetly to the establishment, had painted astonishing paintings of edible delicacies; pomegranates like open hearts, and bleeding melons which looked like enormous pimientoes, and balls of red worsted which were supposed to represent peaches.
Many maintained that the importance of the house over the other taverns of the huerta was due to such astonishing adornment, and Copa cursed the flies which dimmed such beauty.
Close to this door was the counter, grimy and sticky: behind it the three rows of little casks, crowned with battlements of bottles, all the diversified and innumerable liquors of the establishment. From the beams, like grotesque babies, hung sheets of long sausages and black-puddings, clusters of peppers as red and pointed as devils' fingers; and relieving the monotony of the scene, some red hams and majestic bunches of pork-sausage. The free-lunch for delicate palates was kept in a closet of turbid glass close to the counter. There were the estrellas de pastaflora,[H] the raisin-cakes, the sugar-frosted rolls, the magdalenas[I] all of a certain dark tinge and with suspicious spots which showed old age; the cheese of Murviedo, tender and fresh, pieces like soft white loaves still dripping whey.
Also the tavern-keeper counted on his larder, where in monumental tins were the green split olives and the black-puddings of onion preserved in oil, which had the greatest sale.
At the back of the tavern opened the door of the yard, vast and spacious with its half dozen fireplaces to cook the paellas[J]; its white pillars propping up an old wall-vine, which gave shade to the large enclosure; and piled along one side of the wall, stools and small zinc tables of such prodigious quantity that Copa seemed to have foreseen the invasion of his house by the whole population of the plain.
Batiste, scanning the tavern, perceived the owner, a big man whose breast was bare, but whose cap with ear-laps was drawn down even in midsummer over his face, which was enormous, chubby-cheeked and livid. He was the first customer of his establishment: he would never lie down satisfied if he had not drunk a half-pitcher of wine during his three meals.
On this account, doubtless, this bet which stirred up the entire plain as it spread abroad, scarcely took his attention.
His counter was the watch-tower from which, as an expert critic, he watched the drunkenness of his customers. And in order that no outsider should assume the rôle of bully in his house, he always put his hand before speaking upon a club which he kept under the counter, a species of ace of clubs, the sight of which made Pimentó and all the bullies of the neighbourhood tremble. In his house there was no trouble. If they were going to kill each other, out into the road! And when claspknives began to be opened and raised aloft on Sunday nights, Copa, without speaking a word, nor losing his composure, would rush in between the combatants, seize the bravest by the arm, carry him through space to the door and put him out upon the very highroad; then barring the door, he would calmly begin to count the money in the drawer before going to bed, while blows and the tumult of the renewed quarrel resounded outside. It was all just a matter of closing the tavern an hour early, but within it, there would never need to be a judge while he should be behind the counter.
Batiste, after glancing furtively from the door to the saloonkeeper, who, aided by his wife and a servant, waited on the customers, returned to the little plaza, and joined a group of old people, who were discussing which of the three supporters of the bet seemed most serene.
Many farmers, tired of admiring the three bullies, were playing cards on their own account, or lunched, forming a group around the little tables. The jug circulated, pouring forth a red stream which emitted a faint glu-glu as it gushed into the open mouths. Some gave others handfuls of peanuts and lupines. The maids of the tavern served in hollow plates from Manises the dark and oily black-puddings, the fresh cheese and the split olives in their broth, on whose surface floated fragrant herbs; and on the little tables appeared the new wheat bread, the rolls of ruddy crust, inside of which the dark and succulent substance of the thick flour of the huerta was visible. All these people, eating, drinking, and gesticulating, raised such a buzzing that one would have thought the little plaza occupied by a colossal wasp's nest. In the atmosphere floated the vapours of alcohol, the suffocating fumes of olive-oil, the penetrating odour of must, mingled with the fresh perfume of the neighbouring fields.
Batiste drew near the large group which surrounded those involved in the wager.
At first he did not see anything; but gradually, pushed ahead by the curiosity of those who were behind him, he opened a space between the sweaty and compressed bodies, until he found himself in the first row. Some spectators were seated on the floor, with their chin supported on both hands, their nose over the edge of the little table, and their eyes fixed upon the players, as though they did not wish to lose one detail of the famous event. Here it was that the odour of alcohol proved to be most intolerable. The breath and the clothing of all the people seemed impregnated with it.
Batiste looked at Pimentó and his opponents seated upon stools of strong carob-wood, with the cards before their eyes, the jar of brandy within easy reach, and on the zinc the little heap of corn which was equivalent to chips for the game. And at each play, one of the three grasped the jar, drank deliberately, then passed it on to his companions, who took a long draft with no less ceremony.
The onlookers nearest by looked at the cards over their shoulders in order to be sure they were well played. But the heads of the players were as steady as if they had drunk nothing more than water: no one became careless or made a poor play.
And the game continued, although those in the wager never ceased to talk with their friends, or to joke over the outcome of the contest.
Pimentó, upon seeing Batiste, mumbled a "Hello!" which he intended for a salutation, and returned to his cards.
Unmoved outwardly he might be; but his eyes were red; a bluish unsteady spark, similar to the flame of alcohol, glowed in their pupils, and his face at times took on a dull pallor. The others were no better; but they laughed and joked among themselves: the onlookers, as though infected by this madness, passed from hand to hand the jug which they paid for in shares, and there was a regular inundation of brandy which, overflowing the tavern, descended like a wave of fire into the stomachs of all.
Even Batiste, urged by the others of the group, had to drink. He did not like it, but a man ought to try everything; and he began to hearten himself with the same reflections which had brought him to the tavern. When a man has worked and has his harvest in the granary, he can well afford to permit himself his bit of folly.
He felt a warmth in his stomach, and a delicious confusion in his head: he began to grow accustomed to the atmosphere of the tavern, and found the contest more and more entertaining.
Even Pimentó seemed to him to be a notable man ... after a fashion.
They had ended the game with a score of ... (nobody knew how much) and they were now discussing the approaching supper with their friends. One of the Terrerolas was losing ground visibly. The two days of brandy-drinking without food, the two nights passed in a haze, began to affect him in spite of himself. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back heavily upon his brother, who revived him with tremendous blows on the sides secretly given under the table.
Pimentó smiled craftily. He already had one of them down. And he discussed the supper with his admirers. It ought to be sumptuous without regard for expense: in any event, he did not have to pay for it. A meal which would be a worthy climax to the exploit, for on that same night, the bet would surely be ended.
And like a glorious trumpet announcing beforehand Pimentó's triumph, the snores of Terrerola the younger began to be heard; he had collapsed face downward over the table, and was almost on the point of falling from the stool, as if all the brandy which had gone into his stomach were by the law of gravity seeking the floor.
His brother spoke of arousing him with slaps, but Pimentó intervened good-naturedly, like a magnanimous conqueror. They would awaken him at the supper-hour. And pretending to give but little importance to the contest and to his own prowess, he spoke of his lack of appetite as of a great misfortune, after having passed two days in this place eating and drinking brutally.
A friend ran to the tavern to carry over a long string of red pepper-pods. This would bring his appetite back to him. The jest provoked great laughter; and Pimentó, in order to amaze his admirers the more, offered the infernal titbit to Terrerola, who still remained firm, and he, on his part, began to devour it with the same indifference as though it were bread.
A murmur of admiration ran through the group. For each pod which was eaten by the other, the husband of Pepeta gulped down three, and thus made an end of the string, a regular rosary of red demons. The brute must have an iron-plate stomach!
And he went on, just as firm, just as impassive, though growing continually paler and with eyes red and swollen, asking if Copa had killed a pair of chickens for the supper, and giving instructions about the manner of cooking them.
Batiste gazed at this with amazement and vaguely felt a desire to go away. The afternoon began to wane; in the little square the sound of voices was rising, the tumult of every Sunday evening beginning, and Pimentó gazed at him too often, with his strange and troubling eyes, the eyes of a habitual drinker. But without knowing why, he remained here, as though the attraction of this spectacle, so novel to him, were stronger than his will.
The friends of the bully jested with him on seeing that he was draining the jar after the red pepper-pods, without even heeding whether his weary rival was imitating him. He ought not to drink so much: he would lose, and he would not have the money to pay. He was not as rich now as he had been in other years, when the masters of the lands had agreed not to charge him any rent.
An imprudent fellow said this without realizing what he was saying, and it produced a painful silence, as in the bedroom of an invalid, when the injured part has been laid bare.
To speak of rents and of payments in this place, when brandy had been drunk by pitchersful both by actors and spectators!
Batiste received a disagreeable impression. It seemed to him that suddenly there passed through the atmosphere something hostile, threatening; without any great urging, he would have started to run; but he remained, feeling that all were looking fixedly at him. He feared that he would be held by insults if he fled before he was attacked; and with the hope of being unmolested, he remained motionless, overcome by a feeling which was not fear, but something more than prudence.
These people, whom Pimentó filled with admiration, made him repeat the method which he had made use of, all these years, to avoid paying his rent to the masters of the lands, and greeted it with loud bursts of laughter, and tremors of malignant joy, like slaves who rejoice at the misfortunes of a master.
The bully modestly related his glorious achievements. Every year at Christmas and St. John's Day, he had set out on the road to Valencia at full speed to see his landlord. Others carried a fine brace of chickens, a basket of cakes or fruits as a means to persuade the masters to accept incomplete payment, and would weep and promise to complete the sum before long. He alone carried words and not many of them.
The mistress, a large, imposing woman, received him in the dining-room. The daughters, proud young ladies, all dressed up with bows of ribbons and bright colours, came and went nearby.
Doña Manuela turned to the memorandum book, to look up the half-years that Pimentó was behind. He came to pay, eh?... And the crafty rogue, upon hearing the question of the lady of the "Hay-Lofts" always answered the same. No, señora, he could not pay because he hadn't a copper. He was not ignorant of the fact that by this he was proving himself a scamp. His grandfather, who was a man of great wisdom, had told him so. "For whom were chains forged? For men. Do you pay? You are an honest man. Do you not pay? You are a rogue." And following this short discourse on philosophy, he had recourse to the second argument. He drew forth a black stogie and a pocket-knife from his sash, and began to pick tobacco in order to roll a cigarette.
The sight of the weapon sent chills through the lady, made her nervous; and for this very reason the crafty fellow cut the tobacco slowly and was deliberate about putting it away. Always repeating the same arguments of the grandfather, in order to explain his tardiness about the payment.
The children with the little bows of ribbon called him "the man of the chains"; the mamma felt uneasy in the presence of this rough fellow of black reputation, who smelt vilely of wine, and gesticulated with the knife as he talked; and convinced that nothing could be gotten from him, she told him that he might go; but he felt a deep joy in being troublesome, and tried to prolong the interview. They even went so far as to say that if he could not pay anything, he could even spare them his visits and not appear there further; they would forget that they had those lands. Ah, no, señora. Pimentó fulfilled his obligations punctually, and as a tenant, he should visit his landlord at Christmas and San Juan, in order to show that though he was not paying, he remained nevertheless their very humble servant.
And there he would go, twice a year, smelling of wine, and stain the floor with his sandals, clay covered, and repeat that chains were made for men, making sabre-thrusts the while with his knife. It was the vengeance of the slave, the bitter pleasure of the mendicant who appears in the midst of a feast of rich men, with his foul tatters.
All the farmers laughed, commenting on the conduct of Pimentó with his landlord.
And the bully justified his conduct with arguments. Why should he pay? Come now, why? His grandfather had cultivated his lands before him; at his father's death they had been divided among the brothers at their pleasure, following the custom of the huerta, and without consulting the landlord in any way. They were the ones who had worked them; they had made them produce, they had worn away their lives upon their fields.
Pimentó, speaking with vehemence of his work, showed such shamelessness that some smiled.... Good: he was not working much now, because he was shrewd and had recognized the farce of living. But at one time he had worked, and this was enough to make the lands more justly his own than they were of that big, fat woman of Valencia. When she would come to work them; when she would take the plough with all its weight, and the two little girls with the bows yoked together would draw it after them, then she would legitimately be the mistress.
The coarse jokes of the bully made the people roar with laughter. The bad flavour of the payment of St. John remained with them and they took much pleasure in seeing their masters treated so cruelly. Ah! The joke about the plough was very funny; and each one imagined that he could see the master, the stout and timid landlord, or the señora, old and proud, hitched up to the ploughshare pulling and pulling, while they, the farmers, those under the heel, were cracking the whip.
And all winked at each other, laughed and clapped their hands, in order to express their approbation. Oh! It was very comfortable in the house of Copa listening to Pimentó. What ideas the man had!
But the husband of Pepeta became gloomy, and many noticed that often he would cast a side-long look about him, that look of murder which was long known in the tavern to be a certain sign of immediate aggression. His voice became thick, as if all the alcohol which was swelling his stomach had ascended like a hot wave and burned his throat.
They might laugh until they burst, but their laughs would be the last. Already the huerta was not the same as it had been for ten years. The masters, who had been timid rabbits, had again become unruly wolves. They were showing their teeth again. Even his mistress had taken liberties with him. With him who was the terror of all the landowners of the huerta! During his visit last St. John's day she had laughed at his saying about the chains, and even at the knife, announcing to him that he might prepare either to leave the lands or pay his rent, not forgetting the back payments either.
And why had they turned in such a manner? Because already they no longer feared them.... And why did they not fear them? Christ! Because now the fields of old Barret were no longer abandoned and uncultivated, a phantom of desolation to awe the landlords and make them sweet and reasonable. So the charm had been broken. Since a half-starved thief had succeeded in imposing himself upon them, the landlords had laughed, and wishing to take revenge for ten years of enforced meekness, had grown worse than the infamous Don Salvador.
"True ... it is true," said all the group, supporting the arguments of Pimentó, with furious nods.
All confessed that their landlords had changed as they recalled the details of their last interview; the threats of ejection, the refusal to accept the incomplete payments, the ironical way in which they had spoken of the lands of old Barret, cultivated again in spite of the hatred of all the huerta. And now, all at once, after the sweet laziness of ten years of triumph, with the reins on their shoulders and the master at their feet, had come the cruel pull, the return to other times, the finding of the bread bitter and the wine more sour, thinking of the accursed half-year, and all on account of an outsider, a lousy fellow who had not even been born in the huerta, and who had hung himself upon them to interfere in their business and make life harder for them. And should this rogue still live? Did the huerta not have any men?
Good-bye, new friendships, respect born by the side of the coffin of a poor child! All the consideration created by misfortune went tumbling down like a stock of playing-cards, vanishing like a nebulous cloud, and the old hatred reappeared at a single bound—the solidarity of all the huerta, which in combating the intruder was defending its very life.
And at what a moment the general animosity arose! The eyes fixed upon him burned with the fire of hatred; heads muddled with alcohol seemed to feel a horrible itching for murder; instinctively they all started toward Batiste, who felt himself pushed about from all sides as if the circle were tightening in order to devour him.
He repented now of having remained. He felt no fear, but he cursed the hour in which the idea of going to the tavern occurred to him—an alien place which seemed to rob him of his strength, that self-possession which animated him when he felt the earth beneath his feet—the earth which he had cultivated at the cost of so much sacrifice, and in whose defence he was ready to lose his very life.
Pimentó, as he gave way to his anger, felt all the brandy he had drunk during the past two days fall suddenly like a heavy blow upon his brain. He had lost the serenity of an unshakable drunkard; he arose staggering, and it was necessary for him to make an effort to sustain himself upon his legs. His eyes were inflamed as though they were dripping blood; his voice was laboured as though the alcohol and anger were drawing it back and not letting it come forth.
"Go," he said imperiously to Batiste, threateningly, extending a hand, till it almost touched his face. "Go, or I will kill you!"
Go!... It was this that Batiste desired; he grew paler and paler, repenting more and more that he was here. But he well divined the significance of that imperious "Go!" of the bully, supported by signs of approval on the part of all the others.
They did not demand that he should leave the tavern, ridding them of his odious presence; they were ordering him with threats of death to abandon the fields, which were like the blood of his body; to give up for ever the farm-house where his little one had died, and in which every corner bore a record of the struggles and the joys of the family in their battle with poverty. And swiftly he had a vision of himself and all his furniture piled on the cart, wandering over the roads, in search of the unknown, in order to create another existence: carrying along with them like a gloomy companion, that ugly phantom of famine which would be ever following at their heels....
No! He shunned quarrels, but let them not put a finger on his children's bread!
Now he felt no disquietude. The image of his family, hungry and without a hearth, enraged him; he even felt a desire to attack all these people who demanded of him such a monstrous thing.
"Will you go? Will you go?" asked Pimentó, ever darker and more threatening.
No: he would not go. He said it with his head, with his smile of scorn, with his firm glance and the challenging look which he fixed upon the group.
"Scoundrel!" roared the bully; and his hand fell upon the face of Batiste, giving it a terrible resounding slap.
As though stirred by this aggression, all the group rushed upon the odious intruder, but above the line of heads a muscular arm arose, grasping a rush-grass stool, the same perhaps upon which Pimentó had been seated.
For the strong Batiste it was a terrible weapon, this seat of strong cross-pieces, with heavy legs of carob-wood, its corners polished by usage.
The little table and the jars of brandy rolled away, the people backed instinctively, terrified by the gesture of this man, always so peaceful, who seemed now a giant in his madness. But before any one could recede a step, Plaf! a noise resounded like a bursting kettle, and Pimentó, his head broken, fell to the ground.
In the plaza, it produced an indescribable confusion.
Copa, who from his lair seemed to pay attention to nothing, and was the first to scent a quarrel, no sooner saw the stool in the air than he drew out the "ace of clubs" which was under the counter, and with a few quick blows, in a jiffy cleared the tavern of its customers and immediately closed the door in accordance with his usual salutary custom.
The people remained outside, running around the little square; the tables rolled about. Sticks and clubs were brandished in the air, each one placing himself on guard against his neighbour, ready for whatever might come; and in the meantime Batiste, the cause of all the trouble, stood motionless, with hanging arms, grasping the stool now stained with spots of blood, terrified by what had just occurred.
Pimentó, face downward on the ground, uttered groans which sounded like snarls, as the blood gushed forth from his broken head.
Terrerola, the elder, with the fraternal feeling of one drunkard for another ran to the aid of his rival, looking with hostility at Batiste. He insulted him, looking in his sash for a weapon with which to wound him.
The most peaceful fled away through the paths, looking back with morbid curiosity, and the others remained motionless, on the defensive, each one capable of dispatching his neighbour, without knowing why, but not one wishing to be the first aggressor. The clubs remained raised aloft, the clasp knives gleamed in the group, but no one approached Batiste, who slowly backed away, still holding the blood-stained tabouret aloft.
Thus he left the little plaza, ever looking with challenging eyes at the group which surrounded the fallen Pimentó, all brave fellows but evidently intimidated by this man's strength.
Upon finding himself on the road, at some distance from the tavern, he began to run, and drawing near his farm-house, he dropped the heavy stool in a canal, looking with horror at the blackish stain of the dry blood upon the water.
X
BATISTE lost all hope of living peacefully on his land.
The entire huerta once more arose against him. Again he had to isolate himself in his farm-house, to live in perpetual solitude like one cursed by a plague, or like some caged wild-beast, at whom every one shook his fist from afar.
His wife told him on the following day how the wounded bully was conducted to his house. He himself, from his home, had heard the shouts and the threats of the people, who had solicitously accompanied the wounded Pimentó.... It was a real manifestation. The women, already aware of what had happened through the marvellous rapidity with which news spreads over the huerta, ran out on the road to see Pepeta's brave husband at close range, and to express compassion for him as for some hero sacrificed for the good of others.
The same ones who had spoken insultingly of him some hours before, scandalized by his wager of drunkenness, now pitied him, inquired whether he was seriously hurt, and clamoured for revenge against that starving pauper, that thief, who not content with taking possession of that which was not his, tried to win respect by terror, and by attacking good men.
Pimentó was magnificent. He suffered great pain, and went about supported by his friends with his head bandaged, transformed into an eccehomo, as the indignant gossips declared; but he made an effort to smile, and answered every incitement to revenge with an arrogant gesture, declaring that he took the castigation of the enemy upon himself.
Batiste did not doubt that these people would seek vengeance. He was familiar with the usual methods of the huerta. The courts of the city were not made for this land; prison was a small matter when a question of satisfying a grudge was concerned. Why should a man make use of a judge or a civil guard, if he had a good eye and a shotgun in his house? The affairs of men should be settled by the men themselves.
And as all the huerta thought thus, vainly on the day following the quarrel did two guards with enamelled tricorns pass and repass over the paths leading from Copa's tavern to the farm-house of Pimentó, making sly inquiries of the people who were in the fields. No one had seen anybody; no one knew anything. Pimentó related with brutal bursts of laughter how he had broken his own head coming home from the tavern, declaring it to be the consequence of his bet; the brandy had made him stagger, and strike his head against the trees on the road. So the rural police had to turn back to their little barracks at Alboraya without any clear information concerning the vague rumours of quarrel and bloodshed which had reached them.
This magnanimity of the victim and his friends alarmed Batiste, who made up his mind to live perpetually on the defensive.
The family, shrinking from contact with the huerta, withdrew within the house as a timid snail withdraws within its shell.
The little ones did not even go to school. Roseta stopped going to the factory, and Batistet did not go a pace away from the fields. Only the father went out, showing himself as calm and confident about his security as he was careful and prudent for the others.
But he made no trips to the city without carrying the shotgun with him, which he left with a friend in the suburbs. He literally lived with his weapon. The most modern thing in his house, it was always clean, shining and cared for with that affection which the Valencian farmer, like the Barbary tribesman, bestows upon his gun.
Teresa was as sad as she had been upon the death of the little one. Every time that she saw her husband cleaning the double-barrelled shotgun, changing the cartridges, or making the trigger play up and down to be sure it would work smoothly, there arose in her mind the image of the prison, the terrible tale of old Barret; she saw blood and cursed the hour in which they had thought of settling upon these accursed lands. And then came the hours of fear on account of the absence of her husband, those long afternoons spent awaiting the man who did not return, going out to the door of the farm-house to explore the road, trembling each time that there sounded from the distance some report from the hunters of sparrows, fearing that it was the beginning of a tragedy, the shot which shattered the head of the father of the family or which would take him to prison. And when Batiste finally appeared, the little ones would shout with joy, Teresa would smile, wiping her eyes, the daughter would run out to embrace her father, and even the dog leaped close to him, sniffing restlessly, as though he scented about his person the danger which he had just encountered.
And Batiste, serene and firm, but without arrogance, laughed at his family's anxiety, and became bolder and bolder as the famous quarrel receded into the past.
He considered himself secure. As long as he carried "the bird with the two voices," as he called his shotgun, he could calmly walk throughout all the huerta. When he went out in such good company, his enemies pretended not to know him. At times he had even seen Pimentó from a distance, walking through the huerta, exhibiting like a flag of vengeance his bandaged head, but the bully, in spite of his recovery from the blow had fled, fearing the encounter perhaps even more than Batiste.
All were watching him from the corner of their eye, but he never heard from the fields adjoining the road a single word of insult. They shrugged their shoulders with scorn, bent over the earth, and worked feverishly until he was lost from sight.
The only person who spoke to him was old Tomba, the crazy shepherd, who recognized him despite his sightless eyes, as though he could scent the atmosphere of calamity around Batiste. And it was ever the same.... Was he not going to abandon the accursed lands?
"You are making a mistake, my son; they will bring you misfortune."
Batiste received the refrain of the old man with a smile.
Grown familiar with peril, he had never feared it less than he did now. He even felt a certain secret joy in provoking it, in marching directly toward it. His tavern exploit had changed his character, previously so peaceful and long-suffering; awakened in him a boastful brutality. He wished to show all these people that he did not fear them, that even as he had burst open Pimentó's head, so was he ready to take up arms against the whole huerta. Since they had driven him to it, he would be a bully and a braggart long enough for them to respect him and allow him to live peacefully ever afterward.
And possessed of this dangerous determination, he even abandoned his lands, passing the afternoons along the roads of the huerta under the pretext of hunting, but in reality to exhibit his shotgun and his look of a man who has few friends.
One afternoon, while hunting swallows in the ravine of Carraixet, the darkness surprised him.
The birds seemed to be following the mazes of some capricious quadrille as they flew about restlessly, reflected in the deep and quiet pools bordered with tall rushes. This ravine, which cut across the huerta like a deep crack, gloomy, with stagnant water, and muddy shores, where there bobbed up and down some rotting, half-submerged canoe, presented a desolate and wild aspect. No one would have suspected that behind the slope of the high banks, farther on beyond the rushes and the cane-brake, lay the plain with its smiling atmosphere and its green vistas. Even the light of the sun seemed dismal, as it sank to the depths of the ravine, sifting through the wild vegetation and pallidly reflecting itself in the dead waters.
Batiste spent the afternoon firing at the wheeling swallows. A few cartridges still remained in his belt, and at his feet, forming a mound of blood-stained feathers, he already had two dozen birds. What a supper! How happy the family would be!
It grew dark in the deep ravine: from the pools, a fetid vapour came forth, the deadly respiration of malarial fever. The frogs croaked by the thousand, as though saluting the stars, contented at not hearing the firing which interrupted their song, and obliged them to dive head-long, disturbing the smooth crystal of the stagnant pools.
Batiste picked up his "bag" of birds, hanging them from the belt, and ascending the bank with two leaps, set out over the paths on his return trip to the farm-house.
The sky, still permeated with the faint glow of twilight, had the soft tone of violet; the stars gleamed, and over the immense huerta there rose the many sounds of rustic life which would soon with the arrival of night die away. Over the paths passed the girls returning from the city; and men coming from the fields, the tired horses dragging the heavy carts; and Batiste answered their "Good night," the greeting of all who passed near him, people from Alboraya, who did not know him or did not have the motives of his neighbours for hating him.
He left the village behind him, and as he drew nearer to his farm, the hostility stood out more plainly with every step. The people hissed him without any greeting.
He was in strange country, and like a soldier who prepares to fight as soon as he crosses the hostile frontier, Batiste sought in his sash for the munitions of war, two cartridges with ball and bird-shot, made by himself, and loaded his shotgun.
The big man laughed after doing this. Whoever tried to cut off his way would receive a good shower of lead.
He walked along without haste, calmly, as though enjoying the freshness of the spring night. But this tranquillity did not prevent him from thinking of the risk he was taking, with the enemies he had, in being abroad in the huerta at such an hour.
His keen ear, that of a countryman, seemed to perceive a sound at his shoulder. He turned about quickly, and in the pale star-light, he thought he saw a dark figure, leaping from the road with a stealthy bound and hiding behind a bank.
Batiste laid hold of his shotgun, and lifting the hammer, approached cautiously. No one.... Only at some distance it seemed to him that the plants were waving in the darkness, as though a body were dragging itself among them.
They were following him: some one intended to surprise him treacherously from behind. But this suspicion lasted but a short time. It might be some vagabond dog which fled upon his approach.
Well, it was certain that whatever it was, it was fleeing from him, and so there was nothing for him to do.
He went along over the dark road, walking silently like a man who knows the country in the dark, and for the sake of prudence does not wish to attract attention. As he approached the farm, he felt a certain uneasiness. This was his neighbourhood, but here also were his most tenacious enemies.
Some minutes before arriving at the farm, near the blue farm-house where the girls danced on Sundays, the road became narrow, forming various curves. At one side, a high bank was crowned by a double row of mulberry-trees; on the other, was a narrow canal whose sloping shores were thickly covered with tall cane-brake.
It looked in the darkness like an Indian thicket, a vault of bamboos bending over the road. It was completely dark here; the mass of cane-brake trembled in the light wind of the night, giving forth a mournful sound; the place, so cool and agreeable during the hours of sunlight, seemed to smell of treason.
Batiste, laughing at his uneasiness, mentally exaggerated the danger. A magnificent place to fire a safe shot at him. If Pimentó should come along here, he would not scorn such a beautiful chance.
And scarcely had he thought of this, when there came forth from among the cane-brake a straight and fleeting tongue of fire, a red arrow which vanished, followed by a report; and something passed, hissing close to his ear. Some one was firing upon him. Instinctively he stooped down, wishing to fuse with the darkness of the ground, so as not to present a target to the enemy. In the same moment a new flash glowed, another report sounded, mingling with the echoes still reverberating from the first, and Batiste felt a tearing sensation in the left shoulder, something like the scratch of steel, scraping him superficially.
But his attention scarcely stopped at this. He felt a savage joy. Two shots ... the enemy was disarmed.
"Christ! Now I've got you!"
He rushed out through the cane-brake, plunged, almost rolling down the slope, and entered the water up to the waist, his feet in the mud and his arms aloft, very high, in order to prevent his shotgun from getting wet, guarding like a miser the two shots until the moment should arrive when he could safely deal them out.
Before his eyes the cane-brake met, forming a close arch almost level with the water. Before him in the darkness, he heard a splashing like that of a dog fleeing down through the canal. Here was the enemy: after him!
And in the stream-bed, he entered on a mad race, plunging along groping through the shadows, leaving his sandals behind him, lost in the mud: his trousers, clinging to his body, and dragging heavily, retarded his movements: and the stiff sharp stalks of the broken cane-brake struck and scratched his face.
At one moment Batiste thought he saw something dark clinging to the cane-brake, striving to rise above the bank. He was attempting to run away: he must fire.... His hands, which felt the itching of murder, carried the shotgun to his face, pulled the trigger, ... the report sounded, and the body fell into the canal, among a shower of leaves and rotting cane.
At him! At him!... Again, Batiste heard the splashing of a fleeing dog: but now with more effort, as though the fugitive, spurred on by desperation, were straining every effort to escape.
It was a dizzy flight, that race amid darkness, through the cane-brake and water. The two kept slipping on the soft ground, unable to cling to the brake without loosening their hold on their guns; the water eddied about them, lashed by their reckless haste, but Batiste, who fell several times on his knees, thought only of reaching out his arms, in order to keep his weapon dry and save the shot which remained.
And thus the human hunters went on, groping through the dismal darkness, until in a turn of the canal, they came out to an open space, where the banks were clear of reeds.
The eyes of Batiste, accustomed to the gloom of the vault, saw with perfect clearness a man who, leaning on his firearm, climbed staggering out of the canal, with difficulty moving mud-clogged legs.
It was he ... he! he as usual!
"Thief!... thief! you shall not escape," roared Batiste, and he discharged his second shot from the bottom of the canal, with the certainty of the marksman who is able to aim well and knows he brings down his booty.
He saw him fall heavily headlong over the bank, and climb on all-fours in order to roll into the water. Batiste wanted to catch him, but his haste was so great that it was he who, making a false step, fell full-length into the midst of the canal.
His head sunk in the mud, and he swallowed the earthy, ruddy liquid; he thought he would die, and remain buried in that miry marsh; but finally, by a powerful effort, he succeeded in standing upright, drawing his eyes blinded by the slime out of the water, then his mouth, panting as it breathed in the night air.
As soon as he recovered his sight, he looked for his enemy. He had disappeared.
He came out of the canal, dripping water and mud, and climbed the slope at the same place where his enemy had emerged: but on reaching the top, he could not see him.
On the dry earth, however, he noticed some black stains, and touched them with his hands: they smelled of blood. Now he knew that he had not missed his aim. But, though he looked about, hoping to see his enemy's corpse, he sought in vain.
That Pimentó had a tough skin. Dripping mud and mire, he would go along dragging himself up to his own farm-house. Perhaps that vague rustle which he believed he heard in the immediate fields, as though a great reptile were dragging itself over the furrows, came from him. All the dogs were barking at him, filling the huerta with desperate howlings. He had heard him crawling along in the same manner a quarter of an hour before, when doubtless he was intending to kill him from behind. But on seeing himself discovered, he had fled on all-fours along the road, in order to take his stand further on in the leafy cane and to lie in ambush without any risk.
Batiste felt suddenly afraid. He was alone, in the midst of the plain, completely disarmed; his shotgun, without cartridges, was no more now than a weak club. Pimentó couldn't return, but he had friends.
And overcome by sudden fear, he began to run, seeking as he crossed the fields the road which led to his farm.
The plain trembled with alarm. The four shots in the darkness of the evening had thrown all the neighbourhood into commotion. The dogs barked more and more furiously; the doors of the farm-houses opened, emitting black figures, who certainly did not come forth with empty hands.
With whistling and shouts of alarm, the neighbours summoned each other from a great distance. Shots at night might be signals of fire, of thieves, of who knows what? certainly nothing good. And the men sallied forth from their homes ready for anything, with the forgetfulness of self and solidarity of those who live in solitude.
Batiste, terrified by this movement, ran toward his farm, bending over, in order to pass unnoticed along the shelter of the banks or the high mounds of straw.
He already saw his home, with the open door illumined, and in the centre of the red square, the black forms of his family.
The dog sniffed him and was the first to salute him. Teresa and Roseta gave shouts of joy.
"Batiste, is it you?"
"Father! Father!"
And all rushed toward him, toward the entrance of the farm-house, under the old vine-arbour, through whose vines the stars shone like glow-worms.
The mother, with the woman's keen ear, restless and alarmed by the tardiness of her husband, had heard from far, far off, the four shots, and her heart "had given a leap," as she expressed it. All the family had rushed toward the door, anxiously scanning the dark horizon, convinced that the reports which alarmed the plain had some connection with the father's absence.
Mad with joy upon seeing him and hearing his voice, they did not notice his mud-stained face, his unshod feet, or his clothing, dirty and dripping mire.
They drew him within. Roseta hung herself upon his neck, breathing lovingly, with her eyes still moist.
But he was not able to restrain a grimace of pain, an ay! suppressed but full of suffering. Roseta had flung her arm about his left shoulder, in the same place where he had felt the tearing of steel, and which he now felt more and more crushingly heavy.
When he entered the house, and came into the full candlelight, the woman and the children gave a cry of astonishment. They saw the blood-stained shirt....
Roseta and her mother burst out crying. "Most holy queen! Sovereign mother! They have killed him!"
But Batiste, who felt the pain in his shoulder growing more and more insufferable, hushed their lamentations and ordered them with a dark gesture to see at once what had happened to him.
Roseta, who was the bravest, tore open the coarse rough shirt, leaving the shoulder uncovered. How much blood! The girl grew pale, trying not to faint; Batistet and the little ones began to weep, and Teresa continued her howlings as though her husband were in his death agony.
But the wounded man would not tolerate their lamentations and protested rudely. Less weeping: it was nothing: not serious, and the proof of this was that he could move his arm, although he felt, all the time, a greater weight in his shoulder. It was just a scratch, an abrasion, nothing more. He felt too strong for the wound to be deep. Look ... water, cloth, lint, the bottle of arnica which Teresa was guarding as a miraculous remedy in her room ... move about quickly! This was no time to stand gaping with open mouths.
Teresa, returning to her room, searched the depths of her chests, tearing up linen cloths, untying bandages, while the girl washed and washed again the lips of the bleeding wound, which was cut like a sabre-slash across the fleshy shoulder.
The two women checked the hemorrhage as best they could, bandaged the wound, and Batiste breathed with satisfaction, as though he were already cured. Worse blows than this had descended upon him in this life.
And he began to admonish the little ones to be prudent. Of what they had seen, not a word to anybody. There are subjects which it is best to forget. And he repeated the same to his wife, who talked of sending word to the doctor; it would amount to the same thing as attracting the attention of the court. It would cure itself. His constitution was wonderful. What was important was that no one should get mixed up in what occurred down below. Who knows in what condition the other man was by this time?
While his wife was helping him to change his clothes and prepared his bed, Batiste told her all that had occurred. The good woman opened her eyes with a frightened expression, sighed, thinking of the danger encountered by her husband, and cast anxious glances at the closed door of the farm-house, as if the rural police were about to enter through it.
Batistet, meanwhile, with precocious prudence, picked up the gun, and dried it in the candlelight, striving to wipe away from it all signs of recent usage, of that which had occurred.
The night was a bad one for all the family; Batiste was delirious; he had a fever, and tossed about furiously as if he still were running along the bed of the canal, pursuing the man. He terrified the little ones with his cries, so they were not able to sleep, as well as the women who, seated close to his bed, and offering him every moment some sugared water, the only domestic remedy which they could invent, passed a white night.
On the following day, the door of the farm-house was closed all morning. The wounded man seemed to be better: the children, their eyes reddened from lack of sleep, remained motionless in the corral, seated on the manure-heap, following dully the motions of the animals which were being raised there.
Teresa watched the plain through the closed door, and entered afterward into her husband's room.... How many people! All the neighbourhood was passing over the road in the direction of Pimentó's house; a swarm of men could be seen thronging around it. And all of them with sad and frowning faces shouting with energetic motions, from a distance, and casting glances of hatred toward old Barret's farm-house.
Batiste received this news with grunts. Something itched in his breast, hurting him. The movement of the plain toward the house of his enemy meant that Pimentó was in a serious condition; perhaps he was dead! He was sure that the two shots from his gun were in his body.
And now, what was going to happen? Would he die in prison like poor Barret? No; the customs of the huerta would be respected; faith in justice obtained by one's own hand. The dying man would be silent, leaving it to his friends, the Terrerolas and the others, to avenge him. And Batiste did not know which to fear more, the justice of the city, or that of the huerta.
It was drawing toward evening, when the wounded man, despite the protests and cries of the two women, sprang out of bed.
He was stifling; his athletic body, accustomed to fatigue, was not able to stand so many hours of inactivity. The weight in his shoulder forced him to change his position, as if this would free him from pain.
With a hesitating step, benumbed by lying in bed so long, he went forth from his house and seated himself on the brick-bench beneath the vine-arbour.
The afternoon was disagreeable; the wind blew too freshly for the season; heavy dark clouds covered the sun, and the light was sinking under them, closing up the horizon like a curtain of pale gold.
Batiste looked uncertainly in the direction of the city, turning his back toward the farm-house of Pimentó, which could be seen clearly now that the fields were stripped of the golden grain which hid it before the harvest.
There might be noted in the wounded man both the impulse of curiosity and the fear of seeing too much; but at last his will was conquered, and he slowly turned his gaze toward the house of his enemy.
Yes; many people swarmed before the door; men, women, children; all the people of the plain who were anxiously running to visit their fallen liberator.
How they must hate him!... They were distant, but nevertheless he guessed that his name must be on the lips of all; in the buzzing of his ears, in the throbbing of his feverish temples he thought he perceived the threatening murmur of that wasp's nest.
And yet, God knew that he had done nothing more than defend himself; that he wished only to keep his own without harming any one. Why should he take the blame of being in conflict with these people, who, as Don Joaquín, the master, said, were very good but very stupid?
The afternoon closed in; the twilight, grey and sad, sifted over the plain. The wind, growing continually stronger, carried toward the farm-house the distant echo of lamentations and furious voices.
Batiste saw the people eddying in the door of the distant farm-house, saw arms extended with a sorrowful expression, clenched hands which snatched handkerchief from head and cast it in fury to the ground.
The wounded man felt all his blood mounting toward his heart, which stopped beating for some instants, as if paralysed, and afterward began to thump with more fury, shooting a hot, red wave to his face.
He guessed what was happening yonder: his heart told him. Pimentó had just died.
Batiste felt cold and afraid, with a sensation of weakness as if suddenly all his strength had left him; and he went into his farm-house, not breathing easily until he saw the door closed and the candle lit.
The evening was dismal. Sleep overwhelmed the family, dead tired from the vigil of the preceding night. Almost immediately after supper, they retired: before nine, all were in bed.
Batiste felt that his wound was better. The weight in the shoulder diminished: the fever was not so fierce; but now a strange pain in his heart was tormenting him.
In the darkness of the bedroom, still awake, he saw a pale figure rising up, at first indefinite, then little by little taking form and colour, till it became Pimentó as he had seen him the last few days, with his head bandaged and the threatening gesture of one stubbornly bent upon revenge.
The vision bothered him and he closed his eyes in order to sleep. Absolute darkness; sleep was overpowering him, but his closed eyes were beginning to fill the dense gloom with red points which kept growing larger, forming spots of various colours; and the spots, after floating about capriciously, joined themselves together, amalgamated, and again there stood Pimentó, who approached him slowly, with the cautious ferocity of an evil beast which fascinates its victim.
Batiste tried to free himself from the nightmare.
He did not sleep; he heard his wife snoring close to him, and his sons overcome with weariness, but all the while he was hearing them lower and lower, as if some mysterious force were carrying the farm-house away, far away, to a distance: and he there inert, unable to move, no matter how hard he tried, saw the face of Pimentó close to his own, and felt in his nostrils his enemy's hot breath.
But was he not dead?... His dulled brain kept asking this question, and after many efforts, he answered himself that Pimentó had died. Now he did not have a broken head as before: his body was exposed, torn by two wounds, though Batiste was not able to determine where they were; but two wounds he had, two inexhaustible fountains of blood, which opened livid lips. The two gunshots, he already knew it: he was not one to miss his aim.
And the phantom, enveloping his face with its burning breath, fixed a glance upon him which pierced his eyes, and descended lower and lower until it tore his very vitals.