The Torrent by Vicente Blasco Ibanez

V >> Vicente Blasco Ibanez >> The Torrent

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

Rafael thought he did. As he went back in his memory, the picture of an
old wrinkled woman rose before his mind, a woman round-shouldered, bent
with age, but with a kindly face smiling with simple-mindedness and good
nature. He could see her now, with a rosary usually in her hand, a
camp-stool under her arm, and her _mantilla_ drawn down over her face.
As she passed the Brull door on her way to church, she would greet his
mother; and dona Bernarda would remark in a patronizing way: "Dona Pepa
is a very fine woman; one of God's own souls.... The only decent person
in her family."

"Yes; I remember; I remember dona Pepa," said Rafael.

"Well, your 'foreigner,'" don Andres continued, "is dona Pepa's niece,
daughter of her brother, the doctor. The girl has been all over the
world singing grand opera. You were probably too young to remember
Doctor Moreno, who was the scandal of the province in those days...."

But Rafael certainly did remember Doctor Moreno! That name was one of
the freshest of his childhood recollections, the bugaboo of many nights
of terror and alarm, when he would hide his trembling head under the
clothes. If he cried about going to bed so early, his mother would say
to him in a mysterious voice:

"If you don't keep quiet and go right to sleep I'll send for Doctor
Moreno!"

A weird, a formidable personage, the Doctor! Rafael could see him as
clearly as if he were sitting there in front of him; with that huge,
black, curly beard; those large, burning eyes that always shone with an
inner fire; and that tall, angular figure that seemed taller than ever
as young Brull evoked it from the hazes of his early years. Perhaps the
Doctor had been a good fellow, who knows! At any rate Rafael thought so,
as his mind now reverted to that distant period of his life; but he
could still remember the fright he had felt as a child, when once in a
narrow street he met the terrible Doctor, who had looked at him through
those glowing pupils and caressed his cheeks gently and kindly with a
hand that seemed to the youngster as hot as a live coal! He had fled in
terror, as almost all good boys did when the Doctor petted them.

What a horrible reputation Doctor Moreno had! The curates of the town
spoke of him in terms of hair-raising horror. An infidel! A man cut off
from Mother Church! Nobody knew for certain just what high authority had
excommunicated him, but he was, no doubt, outside the pale of decent,
Christian folks. Proof of that there was, a-plenty. His whole attic was
filled with mysterious books in foreign languages, all containing
horrible doctrines against God and the authority of His representatives
on earth. He defended a certain fellow by the name of Darwin, who
claimed than men were related to monkeys, a view that gave much
amusement to the indignant dona Bernarda, who repeated all the jokes on
the crazy notion her favorite preacher cracked of a Sunday in the
pulpit. And such a sorcerer! Hardly a disease could resist Doctor
Moreno. He worked wonders in the suburbs, among the lower scum; and
those laborers adored him with as much fear as affection. He succeeded
with people who had been given up by the older doctors, wiseacres in
long frocks and with gold-headed canes, who trusted more in God than in
science, as Rafael's mother would say in praise of them. That devil of a
physician used new and unheard-of treatments he learned from atheistic
reviews and suspicious books he imported from abroad. His competitors
grumbled also because the Doctor had a mania for treating poor folk
gratis, actually leaving money, sometimes, into the bargain; and he
often refused to attend wealthy people of "sound principles" who had
been obliged to get their confessor's permission before placing
themselves in his hands.

"Rascal!... Heretic!... Lower scum!..." dona Bernarda would exclaim.

But she said such things in a very low voice and with a certain fear,
for those days were bad ones for the House of Brull. Rafael remembered
how gloomy his father had been about that time, hardly even leaving the
_patio_. Had it not been for the respect his hairy claws and his
frowning eye-brows inspired, the rabble would have eaten him alive.
"Others" were in command, ... "others" ... everybody, in fact, except
the House of Brull.

The monarchy had been treasonably overturned; the men of the Revolution
of September were legislating in Madrid. The petty tradesmen of the
city, ever rebellious against the tyranny of don Ramon, had taken guns
in their hands and formed a little militia, ready to send a fusilade
into the _cacique_ who had formerly trodden them under foot. In the
streets people were singing the _Marseillaise_, waving tricolored
bunting, and hurrahing for the Republic. Candles were being burned
before pictures of Castelar. And meantime that fanatical Doctor, a
Republican, was preaching on the public squares, explaining the "rights
of man" at daytime meetings in the country and at night meetings in
town. Wild with enthusiasm he repeated, in different words, the orations
of the portentous Tribune who in those days was traveling from one end
of Spain to the other, administering to the people the sacrament of
democracy to the music of his eloquence, which raised all the grandeurs
of History from the tomb.

Rafael's mother, shutting all the doors and windows, would lift her
angry eyes toward heaven every time the crowd, returning from a meeting,
would pass through her street with banners flying and halt two doors
away, in front of the Doctor's house, where they would cheer, and cheer.
"How long, oh Lord, how long?" And though nobody insulted her nor asked
her for so much as a pin, she talked of moving to some other country.
Those people demanded a Republic--they belonged, as she said, to the
"Dividing-up" gang. The way things were going, they'd soon be winning;
and then they would plunder the house, and perhaps cut her throat and
strangle the baby!

"Never mind them, never mind them!" the fallen _cacique_ would reply,
with a condescending smile. "They aren't so bad as you imagine. They'll
sing their _Marseillaise_ for a time and shout themselves hoarse. Why
shouldn't they, if they're content with so little? Other days are
coming. The Carlists will see to it that our cause triumphs."

In don Ramon's judgment, the Doctor was a good sort, though his head may
have been a bit turned by books. He knew him very well: they had been
schoolmates together, and Rafael's father had never cared to join the
hue and cry against Doctor Moreno. The one thing that seemed to bother
him was that, as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, the Doctor's
friends were eager to send him as a deputy to the Constituent Assembly
of '73. That lunatic a deputy! Whereas he, the friend and agent of so
many Conservative ministries, had never dared think of the office for
himself, because of the fairly superstitious awe in which he held it!
The end of the world was surely coming!

But the Doctor had refused the nomination. If he were to go to Madrid,
what would become of the poor people who depended on him for health and
protection? Besides, he liked a quiet, sedentary life, with his books
and his studies, where he could satisfy his desires without quarrels and
fighting. His deep convictions impelled him to mingle with the masses,
and speak in public places--where he proved to be a successful agitator,
but he refused to join party organizations; and after a lecture or an
oration, he would spend days and days with his books and magazines,
alone save for his sister--a docile, pious woman who worshipped him,
though she bewailed his irreligion--and for his little daughter, a
blonde girl whom Rafael could scarcely remember, because her father's
unpopularity with the "best people" kept the little child away from
"good society."

The Doctor had one passion--music; and everybody admired his talent for
that art. What didn't the man know, anyhow? According to dona Bernarda
and her friends, that remarkable skill had been acquired through "evil
arts." It was another fruit of his impiety! But that did not prevent
crowds from thronging the streets at night, cautioning pedestrians to
walk more softly as they approached his house; nor from opening their
windows to hear better when that devil of a doctor would be playing his
violoncello. This he did when certain friends of his came up from
Valencia to spend a few days with him--a queer, long-haired crew that
talked a strange language and referred to a fellow called Beethoven
with as much respect as if he were San Bernardo himself.

"Yes, don Andres," said Rafael. "I remember Doctor Moreno very well."
And his ears seemed to tingle again with the diabolical melodies that
had floated in to the side of his little bed on terrible nights still
fresh in his memory.

"Very well," continued the old man. "That lady is the Doctor's daughter.
What a man he was! How he made your father and me fume in the days of
'73! Now that all that is so far in the past, I'll say he was a fine
fellow. His brain had gone somewhat bad from reading too much, like don
Quixote; and he was crazy over music. Most charming manners he had,
however. He married a beautiful orchard-girl, who happened to be very
poor. He said the marriage was ... for the purpose of perpetuating the
species--those were his very words--of having strong, sound, healthy
children. For that he didn't need to bother about his wife's social
position. What he was looking for was health. So he picked out that
Teresa of his, as strong as an ox, and as fresh as an apple. But little
good it did the poor woman. She had one baby and died a few days
afterward, despite the science and the desperate efforts of her husband.
They had lived together less than a year."

Rafael's companions were listening with as much attention as he; for
morbid curiosity is the characteristic of the people of small places,
where the keenest pleasure available is that of knowing the private
affairs of others intimately.

"And now comes the good part," don Andres continued. "The mad Doctor
had two saints: Castelar and Beethoven. The pictures of those fellows
were scattered in every room of the house, even in the attic. This
Beethoven (in case you don't know it), was an Italian or an Englishman,
I'm not sure which--one of those fellows who makes music up out of his
head for people to play in theatres or for lunatics like Moreno to amuse
themselves with. Well, when his daughter was born the Doctor wondered
what name to give her. As a tribute to Emilio Castelar, his idol, he
felt he ought to call her Emilia: but he liked the sound of Leonora
better (no, not Lenor, but Leonora!). According to what he told us, that
was the title of the only opera Beethoven ever wrote--an opera he could
read, for that matter, the way I read the paper. Anyhow, the foreigner
won out; and the Doctor packed the child off to church with his sister,
who took a few neighbors of the poorer sort along to see Leonora
baptized.

"You can imagine what the priest said after he had looked in vain
through the catalogue of saints for that name. At the time I was
employed in the municipal offices, and I had to intervene. This was all
before the Revolution; Gonzalez Brabo was boss in those days--and good
old days they were! Let an enemy of law and order or sound religion just
raise his voice and he was off on his way to Fernando Pio in no time.
Well, what a racket the Doctor raised! He sat himself down in that
church--first time he'd ever been in the place--and insisted that his
daughter be labeled as he directed. Later he thought he would take her
home without any baptism at all, saying he had no use for the ceremony
anyhow, and that he put up with it only to please his sister. During
the argument, he called all the curates and acolytes assembled in the
sacristy there, a pack of 'brahmans.'"

"He must have said Brahmins," interrupted Rafael.

"Yes, that's it: and Bonzes, too--just joking, of course--I remember
very well. But finally he compromised and let her be baptized with the
orthodox name of 'Leonor.' Not that he cared what they called her in the
church. As he went out he said to the priest: "She will be 'Leonora' for
reasons that please her father, and which you wouldn't understand even
if I were to explain them to you." What a hubbub followed! Don Ramon and
I had to interfere to calm the good curates; they were for sending him
up for sacrilege, insult to religion, what not! We had to go some to
quiet things down. In those days, boy, a matter of that sort was more
serious than killing a man."

"Which name did she keep?" asked a friend of Rafael.

"Leonora, as her father wished. That girl always took after the old man.
Just as queer as he was. The Doctor all over again! I haven't seen her
yet. They say she's a stunning beauty, like her mother, who was a
blonde, and the handsomest girl in all these parts. When the Doctor had
dressed his wife up like a lady, she wasn't much for manners, but she
certainly was something to look at...."

"And what became of Moreno?" asked another. "Is it true, as they said
years ago, that he shot himself?"

"Oh, some say one thing, some another. Perhaps it's all a lie. Who
knows! It all happened so far away.... After the Republic fell, it was
the turn of decent people again. Poor Moreno took it all harder than he
did the death of his Teresa, and kept himself locked up in his house day
in, day out. Your father was stronger than before and we ran things in a
way that was a sight for sore eyes! Don Antonio up in Madrid gave orders
to the Governors to give us a free hand in cleaning up everything that
was left of the Revolution. The people who before had been cheering for
the Doctor all the time, now kept away from him for fear we should catch
them. Some afternoons he would go for a walk in the suburbs, or a stroll
over to his sister's orchard, near the river--always with Leonora at his
side. She was now about eleven years old. All his affection was centered
on her. Poor Doctor! How things had changed from the days when his mobs
would meet the troops shot for shot in the streets of Alcira, shouting
_vivas_ for the Federal Republic!... In his solitude and in all the
dejection coming from the defeat of his perverted ideas, he took more
than ever to music. He had but one joy left him. Leonora loved music as
much as he. She learned her lessons rapidly; and soon could accompany
her father's violoncello on the piano. They would spend the days playing
together, going through the whole pile of music sheets they kept stored
in the attic along with those accursed medical books. Besides, the
little girl showed she had a voice, and it seemed to grow fuller and
more beautiful every day. 'She will be a singer, a great singer,' her
father proclaimed enthusiastically. And when some tenant of his or one
of his dependents came into the house and could hardly believe his ears
at the sweetness of the little angel's voice, the Doctor would rub his
hands and gleefully exclaim: 'What do you think of the little lady,
eh?... Some day people in Alcira will be proud she was born here.'"

Don Andres paused to sift his recollections, and after a long silence
added:

"The truth is, I can't tell you any more. At that time, we were in power
again, and I had very little to do with the Doctor. We gradually lost
sight of him, forgot him, practically. The music we heard when going by
the house was all there was to remind us of him. We learned one day,
through his sister, dona Pepa, that he had gone way off with the little
girl somewhere--what was that city you visited, Rafael?--Milan, yes,
Milan, that's it! I've been told that's the market for singers. He
wanted his Leonora to become a prima donna. He never came back, poor
fellow!... Things must have gone badly with them. Every year he would
write home to his sister to sell another piece of land. It is known that
over there they lived in real poverty. In a few years the little fortune
the Doctor got from his parents was gone. Poor dona Pepa, kind old soul,
even disposed of the house--which belonged half to the Doctor and half
to her--sent him every cent of the money, and moved to the orchard. Ever
since then she's been coming in to mass and to Forty Hours in all sorts
of weather. I could learn nothing for certain after that. People lie so,
you see. Some say poor Moreno shot himself because his daughter left him
when she got placed on the stage; others say that he died like a dog in
a poorhouse. The only sure thing is that he died and that his daughter
went on having a great time all over those countries over there. The
way she went it! They even say she had a king or two. As for money! Say,
boys, there are ways and ways of earning it, and ways and ways of
spending it! The fellow who knows all about that side of her is the
barber Cupido. He imagines he's an artist, because he plays the guitar;
and besides he has a Republican grouch, and was a great admirer of her
father's. He's the only one in town who followed all she was up to, in
the papers. They say she doesn't sing under her own name, but uses some
prettier sounding one--foreign, I believe. Cupido is a regular busybody
and you can get all the latest news in his barbershop. Only yesterday he
went to dona Pepa's farmhouse to greet the '_eminent artist_,' as he
calls her. There's no end to what he tells. Trunks in every corner,
enough to pack a house-full of things into, and silk dresses ...
shopfuls of them! Hats, I can't say how many; jewelry-boxes on every
table with diamonds that strike you blind. And she told Cupido to have
the station-agent get a move on and send what was still missing--the
heavier luggage--boxes and boxes that come from way off somewhere--the
other end of the world, and that cost a fortune just to ship.... There
you are!... And why not? The way she earned it!"

Don Andres winking maliciously and laughing like an old faun, gave a sly
nudge at Rafael, who was listening in deep abstraction to the story.

"But is she going to live on here?" asked the young man. "Accustomed as
she is to flitting about the world, do you think she'll be able to stand
this place?"

"Nobody can tell," don Andres replied. "Not even Cupido can find that
out. She'll stay until she gets bored, he says. And to be in less danger
of that, she has brought her whole establishment along on her back, like
a snail."

"Well, she'll be bored soon enough," one of Rafael's friends observed.
"I suppose she thinks she's going to be admired and stared at as she was
abroad! Moreno's girl! Did you ever hear of such a family?... Daughter
of that _descamisado_, as my father calls him because he died without a
stitch on his back! And all people say of them! Last night her arrival
was the subject of conversation in every decent home in town, and there
wasn't a man who did not promise to fight shy of her. If she thinks
Alcira is anything like the places where they dance the razzle-dazzle
and there's no shame, she'll be sadly disappointed."

Don Andres laughed slyly.

"Yes, boys! She'll be disappointed. There's a plenty of morality in this
town, and much wholesome fear of scandal. We're probably as bad as
people in other places, but we don't want anybody to find us out. I'm
afraid this Leonora is going to spend most of her time with her aunt--a
silly old thing, whatever her many virtues may be. They say she's
brought a French maid along.... But she's beginning to cry 'sour grapes'
already. Do you know what she said to Cupido yesterday? That she had
come here with the idea of living all by herself, just to get away from
people; and when the barber spoke to her of society in Alcira, she made
a wry face, as much as to say the place was filled with no-accounts.
That's what the women were talking most about last night. You can see
why! She has always been the favorite of so many big guns!"

An idea seemed to flit across the wrinkled forehead of don Andres,
tracing a wicked smile around his lips:

"You know what I think, Rafael? You're young and you're handsome, and
you've been abroad. Why don't you make a try for her, if only to prick
the bubble of her conceit and show her there are people here, too. They
say she's mighty good-looking, and, what the deuce! It wouldn't be so
hard. When she finds out who you are!..."

The old man said this with the idea of flattering Rafael, certain that
the prestige of his "prince" was such that no woman could resist him.
But Rafael had lived through the previous afternoon, and the words
seemed very bitter pills. Don Andres at once grew serious, as if a
frightful vision had suddenly passed before his eyes; and he added in a
respectful tone:

"But no: that was only a jest. Don't pay any attention to what I say.
Your mother would be terribly provoked."

The thought of dona Bernarda, the personification of austere,
uncompromising virtue, chased the mirth from every face in the company.

"The strange thing about all this," said Rafael, who was anxious to turn
the conversation in a different direction, "is that now everybody
remembers the Doctor's daughter. But years and years went by without her
name being mentioned, in my hearing at least."

"Well, it's a question of District matters, you see," the old man
answered. "All I've been telling you boys, happened long before your
day, and your parents, who knew the Doctor and his daughter, have always
been careful not to bring this woman into their conversation; for, as
Rafael's mother says, she's the disgrace of Alcira. From time to time we
got a bit of news; something that Cupido fished out of the newspapers
and spread all over town, or something that that silly dona Pepa would
let drop, while telling inquisitive people about the glories her niece
was winning abroad; anyhow, all a heap of lies that were invented I
don't know where or by whom. They kept all that quiet, banking the fire,
so to speak. If it hadn't got into the girl's head to come back to
Alcira, you would never have heard of her probably. But now she's here,
and they're telling all they know, or think they know, about her life,
digging up tales of things that happened years and years ago. You take
my word for it, boys, I've always considered her a high-flyer myself,
but, just the same, people here do tell awful whoppers ... and swear to
them. She can't be as bad as they say ... If one were to swallow
everything one hears! Wasn't poor don Ramon the greatest man the
District ever produced? Well, what don't they say about him?..."

And the conversation drifted away from Doctor Moreno's daughter. Rafael
had learned all he wished to know. That woman had been born within a few
hundred yards of his own birthplace. They had passed their childhood
years almost side by side; and yet, on meeting for the first time in
their lives, they had felt themselves complete strangers to each other.

This separation would increase with time. She made fun of the city,
lived outside its circle of influence, in the open country; she would
not meet the town halfway, and the town would not go to her.

How get to know her better, then?... Rafael was tempted as he walked
aimlessly about the streets, to look up the barber Cupido in his shop
that very afternoon. That merry rogue was the only person in all Alcira
who entered her house. But Brull did not dare, for fear of gossip. His
dignity as a party leader forbade his entering that barbershop where the
walls were papered with copies of "Revolution" and where a picture of Pi
y Margall reigned in place of the King's. How could he justify his
presence in a place he had never visited before? How explain to Cupido
his interest in that woman, without having the whole city know about it
before sundown?

Twice he walked up and down in front of the striped window-panes of the
barbershop, without mustering the courage to raise the latch. Finally he
sauntered off toward the orchards, following the riverbank slowly along,
with his gaze fixed on that blue house, which had never before attracted
his attention, but which now seemed the most beautiful detail in that
ample paradise of orange-trees.

Through the groves he could see the balcony of the house, and on it a
woman unfolding shining gowns of delicate colors. She was shaking the
prima donna's skirts to straighten out the wrinkles and the folds caused
by the packing in the trunks.

It was the Italian maid--that Beppa of the reddish hair whom he had seen
the previous afternoon with her mistress.

He thought the girl was looking at him, and that she even recognized
him through the foliage, despite the distance. He felt a sudden
timorousness, like a child caught redhanded doing something wrong. He
turned in his tracks and strode rapidly off toward the city.

But later, he felt quite comforted. Merely to have approached the Blue
House seemed like progress toward acquaintance with the beautiful
Leonora.

V

All work had stopped on the rich lands of the _ribera_.

The first winter rains were falling over the entire District. Day after
day the gray sky, heavy with clouds, seemed to reach down and touch the
very tops of the trees. The reddish soil of the fields grew dark under
the continuous downpour; the roads, winding deep between the mudwalls
and the fences of the orchards, were changed to rushing streams. The
weeping orange-trees seemed to shrink and cringe under the deluge, as if
in aggrieved protest at the sudden anger of that kindly, friendly land
of sunshine.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21