Читать книгу: «La Gaviota», страница 15

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE state of the Gaviota, already ill before she went to take supper with Pepe Vera, was made sensibly worse, and on the morrow she was seized with a violent fever.

“Marina,” she said to her maid, after an agitated sleep, “call my husband; I do not feel well.”

“The señor has not come in,” replied Marina.

“He has remained to attend some sick person. So much the better; he would have prescribed for me a dose of physic, which I abhor.”

“You are very hoarse, señora.”

“Yes, ’tis true. I require care. I will remain at home to-day. If the duke calls, tell him I sleep. I do not wish to see anybody. My head is on fire.”

“And if some one presents himself at the door privately?”

“If it be Pepe Vera, you can let him come in: I have something to say to him.”

The servant left; but she returned immediately.

“Señora,” she said, “here is a letter which the señor, my master, has sent to you by Nicolas.”

“Go along with your letter; there is no light to read here, and I wish to sleep. What is it he says: ‘The path where duty calls him.’ What does this communication mean? Leave the letter on the round table, and go away at once.”

Marina a few moments after again entered.

“You here again?” groaned the Gaviota.

“It is because the señor Pepe Vera wishes to see you.”

“Let him enter.”

Pepe Vera entered without ceremony, opened the blinds, threw himself on a chair, without abandoning his cigarette, and gazed at Maria, whose inflamed cheeks and swollen eyes indicated a serious illness.

“How beautiful you are!” he said to her “and your husband?”

“He has gone out.”

“So much the better! and may he follow his path like the wandering Jew until the last day. I come, Mariquita, on my way to visit the bull destined for the course this afternoon. They will give this corrida to annoy me. There is one bull which they call Medianoche (midnight), who has already killed a man in the pasture.”

“Do you wish to frighten me, and render me still more ill? Close the blinds, I cannot stand this glare of light.”

“Nonsense!” replied Pepe. “Pure childishness! the duke is not here, my dear, so that you might fear that too much light may glare on you; nor your mata sanos of a husband, to dread a draft of air on his beloved. One inhales here the infernal odors of musk, lavender, and all the stench of perfumery; these are the drugs which make you ill. Let the air into your room, that will do you good. Tell me, my dear, do you go this evening to the corrida?”

“I am perhaps in a state to go!” replied Maria. “Shut that window, Pepe, I pray you; the cold and the light make me ill.”

Pepe arose, and threw the window wide open.

“That which makes you ill, is affectation. You moan too much for such a trifle. Do they not tell you, you are about rendering up your soul? Señora Princess, I go to order your coffin, and afterwards to kill Medianoche, in honor of Lucia del Salto, who, gracias á Dios, cannot but be more amiable.”

“Still this woman!” screamed Maria. “This woman, who is going off with an Englishman! Pepe, you will not do as you say. It would be infamous!”

“Do you know what would be an infamy?” said Pepe, placing himself in front of the Gaviota; “it would be, when I go to risk my life, that you, in lieu of sustaining my courage by your presence, remain at home to receive the duke freely.”

“Always the same fear! Will it not content you to be concealed here in my alcove, and act as a spy upon me, and to be convinced with your own eyes that there exists nothing between the duke and me? Do you not know that that which pleases him in me is only my voice, and not my person? As to me, you know too well – ”

“What I do know is, that you fear me; and, by the blood of Christ! you have reason to fear me. But God only knows what may happen if I leave you alone, and certain not to be surprised by me. I have faith in no woman, not even my mother.”

“I have fear? I?” said Maria, “I have fear?”

“But do you believe myself so blind,” interrupted Pepe, “as not to see what is passing? Do I not know, from a good source, that you put on a good face before the duke, because you have got it in your head to obtain for your imbecile husband the position of surgeon to the queen.”

“’Tis a lie!” cried Maria.

“Maria, Pepe Vera does not mistake bladders for lanterns. Know that I understand as well the ruses of the rude bull of the mountains as those of the less ferocious bull of the plains.”

Maria began to weep.

“Come!” replied Pepe, “dry your tears, the refugium peccatorum of women. You know the proverb which says, ‘Make a woman weep, and you vanquish her;’ but, my beautiful, there is another proverb, ‘Confide not either in the barking of dogs, or in the tears of women.’ Keep your tears for the theatre; here we do not play comedy. Look well to yourself. If you deceive me, you make me incur the danger of death; I do not prove my love by the recipes of the apothecary, nor by dollars. I am not satisfied with grimaces, I must have acts. If you do not come this afternoon to the bull-fight you will repent of it.”

And Pepe Vera went away, without even saying á Dios to his mistress. He was at that moment borne down by two opposite feelings which required iron nerves to conceal them, as he did, under appearances the most tranquil, under a countenance the most calm, and the most perfect indifference.

He had studied the bulls he was about to fight with; never had he seen any so ferocious. One of them strangely preoccupied him; as often happens to men of his profession, who, without caring for the other bulls, believe themselves saved if they can conquer the one which causes their anxiety. Besides, he was jealous. Jealous! he who knew only how to vanquish, and be cheered by bravos. He was told that they mocked him, and in a few hours he went to find himself between life and death, between love and treason. At least he believed so.

When he had quitted Maria, she tore the lace trimmings of her bed, unjustly scolded Marina, and shed abundance of tears. Then she dressed herself, called one of her maids, and went with her to the bull-fight, where she seated herself in the box which Pepe had reserved for her.

The noise and the heat increased her fever. Her cheeks, ordinarily pale, were inflamed, and a feverish ardor shone in her large black eyes. Anger, indignation, jealousy, offended pride, terror, anxiety, physical pain, combined in vain to force a complaint, even a sigh, from that mouth closed like a tomb. Pepe Vera perceived her: he smiled; but his smile in no way moved the Gaviota, who, under her icy countenance, swore to revenge her wounded vanity.

One bull had already bitten the dust under the blow of another toreador. This bull had been good: he had been well fought.

The trumpet again sounded. The toril⁸ opened its narrow and sombre door, and a bull, black as night, dashed into the arena.

“It is Medianoche!” cried the crowd.

Medianoche was the bull of the corrida; that is to say, the king of the fête.

Medianoche was in no way like an ordinary bull, who at once seeks his liberty, his fields, and his deserts. He would, before every thing, show them they were not playing with a contemptible enemy; he would revenge himself, and punish. At the noise made by the cries of the crowd, he stopped suddenly.

There is not the least doubt of the bull being a stupid animal. Nevertheless, whether it be the sharp anger, or intelligence the most rebellious, whether it be that he has the faculty to render clear instincts the most blind; it is the fact that some bulls can divine and baffle the most secret ruses of the course. The picadores attracted, at first, the attention of the bull. He charged the one he found nearest to him, and felled him to the earth; he did the same with the second, without leaving the spot, without the lance being able to arrest him, and which inflicted but a slight wound. The third picador shared the fate of his comrades.

Medianoche, his horns and front bloody, raised his head towards the seats whence came cries of admiration at such bravery.

The chulos conveyed the picadores outside the arena. One of them had a broken leg; they took him to the infirmary, and the other two changed their horses.

A new picador replaced the wounded, and while the chulos occupied the attention of the bull, the three picadores resumed their places, their lances in rest.

The bull divided them, and after a combat of two minutes all three were overthrown. One had fainted from having his head cut open; the furious animal attacked the horse, whose lacerated body served as a shield to the unfortunate cavalier.

There was then a moment of profound stupefaction. The chulos searched in vain, at the risk of their lives, to turn aside Medianoche, who appeared to have a thirst for blood, and quenched his rage upon his victim.

At this terrible moment a chulo rushed towards the animal, and covered his head with his cloak. His success was of short duration.

The bull disengaged himself promptly; he made the aggressor fly, and pursued him; but, in his blind fury, he passed him; the chulo had thrown himself on the ground. When the animal suddenly turned round, for he was one of those who never abandon their prey, the nimble chulo had already risen, and leaped the barrier amid the acclamations of the enthusiastic crowd for so much courage and agility.

All this had passed with the rapidity of light. The heroic devotion with which the torreros aid and defend each other, is the only thing really noble and beautiful displayed in these cruel, immoral, inhuman fêtes, which are a real anachronism in our times, so much vaunted as an age of light.

The bull, full of the pride of triumph, walked about as master of the arena. A sentiment of terror pervaded all the spectators.

Various opinions were expressed. Some wished that the cabestro⁹ be let into the arena, to lead out the formidable animal, as much to avoid new misfortunes as to preserve the propagation of his valiant race. They sometimes have recourse to this measure; but it frequently happens that the bull withdrawn does not survive the inflammation of blood which had provoked the fight. Others insisted that his tendons be cut, thus killing the bull easily. Unfortunately the greatest number cried out that it would be a crime not to see so beautiful a bull killed according to all the rules of art.

The alcalde did not know which party to side with. To preside over a bull-fight is not an easy thing.

At last, that which happens in all similar cases occurred in this: victory was with those who cried the loudest, and it was decided that the powerful and terrible Medianoche should die according to rule, and in possession of all his means of defence.

Pepe Vera then appeared in the arena, armed for the combat.

He saluted the authorities, placed himself before Maria, and offered her the brindo– the honor of the bull. He was pale.

Maria, her countenance on fire, her eyes darting from their sockets, breathed with difficulty. Her body bent forward, her nails forced into the velvet cushions of her box, contemplated this young man, so beautiful, so calm before death, and whom she loved. She felt a power in his love which subjugated her, which made her tremble and weep; because that this brutal and tyrannical passion, this exchange of profound affection, impassioned and exclusive, was the love which she felt: as with certain men of a special organization, who require in place of sweet liqueurs and fine wines the powerful excitement of alcoholic drinks.

Everywhere reigned the most profound silence. A gloomy presentiment seemed to agitate every soul. Many arose and left the place.

The bull himself, now in the middle of the arena, appeared valiant: he proudly defied his adversary.

Pepe Vera chose the spot which seemed to him the most favorable, with his habitual calm and self-possessed manner; and designated it to the chulos, by pointing with his finger.

“Here!” he said to them.

The chulos sprang out like rockets in a display of fireworks; the bull had not for an instant the idea of pursuing them. They disappeared. Medianoche found himself face to face with the matador.

This situation did not last long. The bull precipitated himself with a rapidity so sudden, that Pepe had not time to put himself on guard. All he could do was to dodge the first attack of his adversary. But the animal, contrary to the habits of those of his species, took a sudden spring, and, turning suddenly, he came like a clap of thunder on the matador, caught him on his horns, furiously shook his head, and threw at a distance from him the body of Pepe Vera, which fell like an inert mass upon the ground of the arena.

A cry, such as the imagination of Dante alone could conceive, broke forth from a thousand human breasts, a cry profound, mournful, prolonged, and terrific.

The picadores rushed towards the bull to prevent his returning to his victim. The chulos also surrounded him.

“The medias lunas! the medias lunas!” (long partisans by which sometimes the tendons are cut) cried the crowd.

The alcalde repeated the cry of the crowd.

Then were seen to appear these terrible weapons, and soon Medianoche had his tendons cut; he was red with rage and with pain.

At last he fell under the ignoble poniard of the horse-killer.

The chulos raised up the body of Pepe Vera.

“Dead!”

Such was the cry which escaped from the lips of the group of chulos; and which, passing from mouth to mouth throughout the vast amphitheatre, brought mourning to all hearts.

Fifteen days had fled since this fatal bull-fight. In a bedchamber, from which the luxurious furniture had disappeared, on an elegant bed, but whose furniture was soiled and torn, was lying a young woman, pale, meagre, and broken down.

Nobody was near her.

This woman seemed to have awakened from a long sleep; she seated herself on her bed, let her astonished looks ramble around the chamber, and resting her forehead on her hands, sought to collect her ideas.

“Marina,” she called in a voice harsh and feeble.

A woman entered; it was not Marina. It was an old woman bringing in a beverage she had prepared.

The invalid gazed on her attentively.

“I know that face!” she said, surprised.

“It is possible, my sister,” replied the woman with sweetness; “we render our services equally to the rich and to the poor.”

“But where is Marina?”

“She ran off with the servant, carrying with them all they could take.”

“And my husband?”

“He has gone away. No one knows where he has gone to.”

“My God, my God! And the duke? You ought to know him, for it was at his house I believe I saw you.”

“At the Duchess of Almanzas? Indeed, this lady sometimes commissioned me to distribute her charities. She has departed for Andalusia, with all her family, and her husband.”

“Thus, I am alone, abandoned by all,” cried the invalid; “but the recollections of the past come back in a crowd on my memory.”

“Am I not here?” said the good sister of charity, entwining her arms around Maria; “If they had let me know sooner, your present condition would have been less grave.”

A hoarse cry escaped from the breast of the Gaviota.

“Pepe! The bull! Medianoche! Pepe! Dead! Ah!”

And she fell back on her pillow broken-hearted.

CHAPTER XXIX

SIX months after, the Countess de Algar was in her saloon with the marchioness, her mother, occupied in putting a ribbon on her son’s straw hat, when General Santa-Maria entered.

“See, general, how well a straw hat becomes a boy at that age.”

“You spoil this child.”

“What matters it?” said the marchioness. “Do not we all spoil our children, who nevertheless become serious men? Our mother spoilt you also, my brother, and that did not prevent you from becoming what you are.”

“Mamma,” said the child, “wilt thou give me a biscuit?”

“What is this?” cried the general. “Your child tutear’s you? You adopt then, after the French fashion, this te and tu, which corrupts our manners. The grandees of Spain formerly obliged their children to call them ‘excellency.’ It was in the good old time. The tutear, in imitation of the French tutoies, makes children lose the respect they owe to their parents.”

“Eh! general – this innocent creature! Can he distinguish between thou and you?”

“It is taught him.”

“I acknowledge that my children tutear me; and if I had done the same to my mother, I had not less respected nor less loved her.”

“You have always been a good daughter; but the exception proves nothing.”

“General, in spite of your severity, your countenance seems joyous.”

“It is because I have a good piece of news to announce to you. The corvette Iberia, from Havana, has arrived at Cadiz, and to-morrow morning, most probably, we will embrace Raphael. He is fortunate, this Raphael! Hardly had he written us that he desired to revisit Spain, when a magnificent occasion presents itself, and he comes home charged with important dispatches confided to him by the captain-general of Cuba.”

The marchioness and the countess had scarcely time to rejoice at this good news, and to give expression to their happiness, when the door opened, and Raphael threw himself into their arms.

“How happy I am again to see you, my good, dear Raphael!” said the countess to him.

“Jesus!” added the marchioness, “thanks to our lady of Carmen, you are here returned to us. But what idea have you had, you who are rich, to travel by sea, as if it were but a river? I bet you have been sea-sick.”

“That is the least of it; it is nothing but an unpleasant voyage, and I have suffered more from delay and my uneasiness for those I love. I do not know if it be because Spain is a good mother, or because we Spaniards are good sons, but we cannot live far away from our country.”

“It is for both reasons, my dear nephew; it is for both,” repeated the general with ardent satisfaction.

“Cuba is a rich country, is it not, Raphael?” demanded the countess.

“Yes, cousin. Cuba is rich, and it knows how to be so, like a great lady, who has always been one, without ostentation, and parading everywhere its benefits.”

“And the women, do they please you?”

“As a general rule, all women please me: the young, because they are so; the old, because they have been so; and the little girls, because they will be so.”

“Do not generalize so; be more precise.”

“Cousin, the Cuban ladies are charming feminine lazzaroni, covered with muslins and lace, and whose little satin shoes are useless ornaments for the little feet they are destined for, as I have never seen an Havana lady on foot. They speak like nightingale’s singing, live on sugar like bees, and smoke like the chimneys of a steamboat. Their eyes are poems, and their hearts mirrors, without tin-foil. The doleful drama is not written for this country, where the women pass their life lying in a hammock balanced amidst flowers, and fanned by their slaves with fans fringed with flowers of a thousand colors.”

“Do you know that public rumor announces your marriage?”

“Dame Rumor, my dear Gracia, arrogates to herself the royal buffooneries of the olden time. Like them, she tells all that passes in her head without inquiry into the truth. But public rumor has told a lie.”

“They add, that your future wife brings you a fortune of two millions of duros.”

Raphael burst into a fit of laughter.

“Indeed, I remember that the captain-general wished to make me indorse this bill of exchange.”

“And who was to be my future cousin?”

“She was ugly as mortal sin: her left shoulder approached too conspicuously the ear on the same side, while the right shoulder was separated from the ear, its neighbor, by a distance too marked. I therefore refused the indorsement.”

“You were wrong,” said the countess, “above all, knowing that – ” She did not finish. She had seen pass over the frank and open countenance of her cousin the expression of a bitter recollection.

“Is she happy?” he demanded.

“As much as one can be in this world. She lives very retired, since above all she expects soon to be a mother.”

“And he?”

“Entirely changed, since the marriage. He is a model of a husband. The family have received him as a returned prodigal son.”

“And Eloisita?”

“Hers is a lamentable history. She secretly espoused a French adventurer, who called himself cousin of the Prince of Rohan, coadjutor of Alexander Dumas, and sent by the Baron Taylor to purchase artistic curiosities, and who, unfortunately, is called Abelard. She saw in the name of her beloved and in her own the decree of destiny commanding their union; and in this man, at the same time literary, artistic, and of princely family, she believed she saw the ideal being who had appeared to her in her beautiful dreams of gold, and a happy future. She regarded her parents, who opposed this union, as the tyrants of a melodrama, of ideas retrograde, and filled with obscurity.”

“And of Spainishism,” added the general, ironically. “And the learned señorita, nourished by novels and poetic flowers, united herself to this grand swindler, already twice married, as we learned later. After the lapse of some months, after having dissipated the money she had given him, he abandoned her at Valence, where her unfortunate father went to seek her, and to take her back, dishonored, but neither married, nor widow, nor maid. You see, my nephew, to what leads this mad love of strangerism.”

“And our A. Polo, our eternal point of exclamation, what has become of him?”

“He has become a political man,” replied Gracia.

“I know it,” replied Raphael; “I know also that he has written an ode against the throne, under the pseudo name of Tyranny.”

“Poor tyranny,” said the general, “all the world make fagots of the fallen tree.”

“I know, besides,” pursued Raphael, “that he wrote another poem against Prejudice, in which he comprehended the fatal presage of the number thirteen, the infallibility of the Pope, the upsetting of a salt-cellar, and conjugal fidelity. If I do not cite the text, I cite at least the spirit of this chef-d’œuvre which public opinion will class among – ”

“Among?”

“We will see, when they have destroyed this society, with what they will replace it.”

“I know indeed that our A. Polo has composed a satire (he felt himself carried towards this point, and for a long time he has felt growing on his forehead the horns of Marsias), a satire, I say, he declares it to be an act of hypocrisy, all claims of tithes, or the rights of convents.”

“Eh! Well, my dear nephew,” said the general, “these lucubrations will give him sufficient merit to be received in an opposition journal.”

“I understand that much, general, and I can imagine what will happen; it is a comedy played every day: he made of his pen the jaw-bone of an ass, and, armed with this jaw-bone, he will bravely attack the Philistines of power.”

“You have been a good prophet,” affirmed the general; “I do not know how he will get on. But at present he is a personage; he has money, he gives the ton, he is strong.”

“And the duke, will I meet him at Madrid?”

“No, but you may see him, on your way, at Cordoval, where he is at this moment with his family.”

“The duke has finished by following my advice,” said the general; “he has abandoned public life. Everybody of slight importance ought to-day, like Achilles, to retire within their tents.”

“But, my uncle, is it then the fashion to retire?”

“They say that the duke,” interrupted the countess, “is entirely devoted to literature. He writes for the theatre.”

“I bet that the title of his first piece will be, ‘The goat returns always to the mountain,’ ” said Raphael, in the ear of his cousin, alluding to the loves of Maria and Pepe Vera, which everybody knew.

“Hold your tongue, Raphael,” said the countess, “we ought to act with our friends as the sons of Noah did with their father.”

“And Marisalada, has she mounted to the capitol in a chariot of gold, drawn by her fanatical admirers?”

“She has lost her voice, caused by a severe attack of pleurisy; did you not know that?”

“I was so far from knowing it that I bring her magnificent offers from Havana. What does she do?”

“Now, when she can no longer sing,” replied the general, “she will follow without doubt the counsels of the ant: she will learn to dance.”

“But where is she?” repeated Raphael, insisting; “I have a letter to deliver to her from her husband.”

“From her husband!” cried at once the marchioness, the countess, and the general.

“Have you seen him?” demanded the marchioness, with interest.

“He embarked in the same vessel with us for Havana. How he was changed! how sad he was! you would not have recognized him. A little time after our arrival he died of yellow fever.”

“He died! poor Stein!” said the countess.

“The death of this good man,” said the general, “will fall entirely on the conscience of this accursed singer.”

“I, who believe myself invulnerable,” replied Raphael, “and without ever having had the epidemic, I went to see him so soon as I learned he was ill. The attack was so violent that I found him almost at his last extremity; always calm, always filled with serene goodness, he thanked me for my visit, and said to me that he was happy in seeing, before he died, a loved face. He asked me for paper and a pen, and, almost dying, he traced some lines which he asked me, as the last request of a dying man, to convey to his wife. The vomiting soon followed, and he died with one hand clasped in those of the priest, the other in mine. I confide to you this letter, my dear Gracia; send it by a trusty man to Villamar, where, I suppose, Marisalada will have retired near to her father. Here is this letter, which I have often read, as one reads a holy hymn.”

The countess opened the paper, and read —

“Maria, thou whom I have loved, and who I love still; if my pardon can save you from remorse, if my benediction can render you happy, receive them both. I send them to you from my death-bed.

“Fritzen Stein.”