The Torrent by Vicente Blasco Ibanez
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Vicente Blasco Ibanez >> The Torrent
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The Jucar was rising. The waters, turned to so much liquid clay, lashed
red and slimy against the buttresses of the bridges. People living along
the banks followed the swelling of the river with anxious eyes, studying
the markers placed along the shores to note how the water was coming up.
_"Munta?"_ ... asked the people from the interior, in their quaint
dialect.
_"Munta!"_ answered the river dwellers.
And the water was indeed slowly rising, already threatening the city
that had so audaciously taken root in the very middle of its bed.
But despite the danger, the townspeople seemed to be feeling nothing
more than uneasy curiosity. No one thought of moving across the bridges
to take refuge on the high land. Nonsense! The Jucar was always
flooding. You had to expect something of the sort every once in a while.
Thank heaven there was something to break the monotony of life in that
sleepy town! Why complain at a week's vacation? It was hard to disturb
the placid complacency of those descendants of the Moors. Floods had
been coming since the days of their fathers, their grandfathers and
their great-grandfathers, and never had the town been carried off. A few
houses at the worst. Why suppose the catastrophe would be due now?...
The Jucar was a sort of husband to Alcira. As happens in any decent
family, there would be a quarrel now and then--a thrashing followed by
kisses and reconciliation. Just imagine--living seven or eight centuries
together! Besides,--and this the lesser people thought--there was Father
San Bernardo, as powerful as God Himself in all that concerned Alcira.
He was able, single-handed, to tame the writhing monster that wound its
coiling way underneath the bridges.
It rained day and night; and yet the city, from its animation, seemed to
be having a holiday. The young ones, sent home from school because of
the bad weather, were all on the bridges throwing branches into the
water to see how swift the current was, or playing along the lanes close
to the river, planting sticks in the banks and waiting for the
ever-broadening torrent to reach them.
Under the shelter of the projecting eaves, whence broken water-spouts
were belching streams as thick as a man's arm, loungers in the cafes
would slip along the streets toward the river-front; and after glancing
at the flood from the scant protection of their umbrellas, would make
their way proudly back, stopping in every drinking place to offer their
opinions on the rise that had taken place since their previous
inspection.
The city from end to end was one seething storm of heated, typically
"Southern" argument and prophecy. Friendships were being made and
broken, over questions as to whether the river had risen four inches the
past hour, or only one, and as to whether this freshet were more
important than the one five years before.
Meantime the sky kept on weeping through its countless eyes; the river,
roaring more wrathful every moment, was now licking at the ends of the
low-lying streets near the bank, creeping up into the gardens on the
shore, stealing in between the orange-trees, opening holes in the hedges
and the mudwalls.
The main concern of the populace was whether it were raining also in the
mountains of Cuenca. If much water came down from there, the flood would
become serious. And experienced eyes studied the color of the waters
carefully. If there was any black in them, it meant they came from the
upper provinces.
The cloud-burst lasted for two whole days. The night of the second day
closed, and the roar of the river sounded forebodingly in the darkness.
On its black surface lights could be seen reflected like restless
flashes of flame--candles from the shore houses and lanterns of watchmen
on guard along the banks.
In the lower streets the water was coming under the doors into the
houses. Women and children were taking refuge in the garrets while the
men, with their trousers rolled up to their knees, were splashing about
in the liquid silt, carrying their farming tools to places of safety, or
tugging at some donkey who would be balking at going too deep into the
water.
All these people of the suburbs, on finding their houses flooded in the
darkness of night, lost the jesting calm which they had so boastfully
displayed during the daytime. Now fear of the supernatural came over
them, and with childish anxiety they sought protection of some Higher
Power to avert the danger. Perhaps this freshet was the final one!
Perhaps they were the victims destined to perish in the final downfall
of the city!... Women began to shriek with terror on seeing their
wretched lanes converted into deep canals.
"_El pare San Bernat!... Que traguen al pare San Bernat_! Father Saint
Bernard!... Let them fetch father Saint Bernard!"
The men looked at each other uneasily. Nobody could handle a matter like
this so well as the glorious patron. It was now high time to have
recourse to him, as had so often been done before, and get him to
perform his miracle.
They ought to go to the City Council, and compel the big guns there, in
spite of their scepticism, to bring the saint out for the consolation of
the poor.
In an hour a veritable army was formed. Mobs issued from the dark lanes,
paddling in the water like frogs, and raising their war-cry: "_San
Bernat! San Bernat_!"; the men, with their sleeves and trousers rolled
up, or even entirely naked save for the sash that is never removed from
the skin of a Valencian peasant; the women, with their skirts raised
over their heads for protection, sinking their tanned, skinny,
over-worked legs into the slime, and all drenched from head to foot, the
wet clothes sticking to their bodies; and at the head, a number of
strong young men with four-wicked tapers lighted, sputtering and
crackling in the rain and casting a weird flickering radiance back over
the clamoring multitude.
"_San Bernat! San Bernat!... Viva el pare San Bernat!_ Father Saint
Bernard, _viva_!"
Under the drizzle pouring from the sky and the streams tumbling from the
eavespouts, the mob rushed along through the streets in a wild riot.
Doors and windows flew open, and new voices were added to the delirious
uproar, while at every crossing recruits would come to swell the
on-rushing avalanche headed for the _Ayuntamiento_. Muskets, ancient
blunderbusses, and horse-pistols as big as guns, could be seen in the
menacing throng, as though those wild forms were to compel the granting
of a petition that might be denied, or to slay the river, perhaps.
The _alcalde_, with all the members of the council, was waiting at the
door of the City Hall. They had come running to the place, marshalling
the _alguacils_ and the patrols, to face and quell the mutiny.
"What do you want?" the Mayor asked the crowd.
What did they want! They wanted the one remedy, the one salvation, for
the city: they wanted to take the omnipotent saint to the bank of the
river that he might awe it with his presence, just as their ancestors
had been doing for centuries and centuries, and thanks to which the city
was still standing!
Some of the city people, whom the peasants regarded as atheists, began
to smile at the strange request. Wouldn't it be better to spend the time
getting all the valuables out of the houses on the bank? A tempest of
protests followed this proposal. "Out with the saint! Out with _San
Bernat!_ We want the miracle! The miracle!" Those simple people were
thinking of the wonders they had learned in their childhood at their
mothers' knees; times in former centuries, when it had been enough for
San Bernardo to appear on a river road, to start the flood down again,
draining off from the orchard lands as water leaks from a broken
pitcher.
The _alcalde_, a liegeman of the Brull dynasty, was in a quandary. He
was afraid of that ugly mob and was anxious to yield, as usual; but it
would be a serious breach of etiquette not to consult "the chief."
Fortunately, just as the huge, dark mass of human beings was beginning
to surge in indignation at his silence, and hisses and shouts of anger
were being raised, Rafael appeared.
Dona Bernarda had sent him out at the first sign of uneasiness in the
populace. It was in circumstances such as these that her husband used to
shine, taking the helm in every crisis, giving orders and settling
questions, though to no avail at all. But when the river returned to its
normal level, and danger was past, the peasant would remember don
Ramon's "sacrifices" and call him the father of the poor. If the
miraculous saint must come out, let Rafael be the one to produce him!
The elections were at hand. The flood could not have come in better
time. There must be no false steps, no frightening opportunity away.
Something rather must be done to get people to talking about him as they
used to talk about his father on similar occasions.
So Rafael, after having the purpose of this demonstration explained to
him by the most ardent of the leaders, gave a magnificent gesture of
consent:
"Granted; have _San Bernat_ brought out!"
With a thunder of applause and _vivas_ for young Brull, the black
avalanche headed rumbling for the church.
They must now persuade the curate to take the saint out, and that good
priest--a fat, kindly, but rather shrewd fellow--always objected to what
he called a bit of old-fashioned mummery. The truth was he looked
forward with little pleasure to a tramp out in the rain at the head of a
procession, trying to keep dry under an umbrella, with his _soutane_
rolled up to his knees, and his shoes coming off at every step in the
mire. Besides, some day, in the very face of San Bernardo, the river
might carry half the city off, and then what a fix, what a fix, religion
would be in, all on account of those disturbers of the peace!
Rafael and his henchmen of the _Ayuntamiento_ tried their hardest to
convince the curate; but his only reply was to ask whether water was
coming down from Cuenca.
"I believe it is," said the _alcalde_. "You can see that makes the
danger worse. It's more than ever necessary to bring out the saint."
"Well, if there's water coming down from Cuenca," the priest answered,
"we'd better let it come, and San Bernardo also had better keep
indoors, at home. Matters concerning saints must be treated with great
discretion, take my word for that.... And, if you don't agree with me,
just remember that freshet when the river got above the bridges. We
brought the saint out, and the river almost carried him off downstream."
The crowd, growing restless at the delay, began to shout against the
priest. The good sense of that canny churchman was powerless in the face
of superstitions instilled by centuries of fanaticism.
"Since you will it so, so let it be," he said gravely. "Let the Saint
come forth, and may the Lord have mercy on us!"
A frenzied acclamation burst from the crowd, which now filled the whole
square in front of the church. The rain continued falling, and above the
serried ranks of heads covered with skirts, cloaks, and an occasional
umbrella, the flames of the tapers flickered, staining the wet faces
red.
The people smiled happily in all their discomfort from the downpour.
Confident of success, they were foretasting gleefully the terror of the
stream at sight of the blessed image entering its waters. What could not
San Bernardo do? His marvelous history, a blend of Moorish and Christian
romance, flamed in all those credulous imaginations. He was a saint
native to that region--the second son of the Moorish king of Carlet.
Through his talent, courtesy and beauty he won such success at court in
Valencia, that he rose to the post of prime minister.
Once when his sovereign had to have some dealings with the king of
Aragon, he sent San Bernardo, who at that time was called Prince Hamete,
to Barcelona. During his journey he drew up one night at the portal of
the monastery of Poblet. The chants of the Cistercians, drifting
mystical and vague through the Gothic arches, moved the Saracen youth to
the bottom of his soul. He felt drawn to the religion of his enemies by
the magic of its poetry. He received baptism, assumed the white habit of
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, and later returned to the kingdom of
Valencia to preach Christianity. There he enjoyed the tolerance Saracen
monarchs always had for new religious doctrines. He converted his two
sisters--beautiful Mooresses they were--and they took the names of
Gracia and Maria, and aflame in turn with pious fervor, they chose to go
with their brother on his tour of preachment.
But the old king of Carlet had died, and his first-born--the arrogant
Almanzor, a brutal, vainglorious Moor--succeeded to the rulership of the
tiny state--a sort of military satrapy. This haughty potentate, offended
in his magnificence to see members of his family traveling over the
roads dressed like vagabonds and preaching a religion of beggars, called
a troop of horse and set out in pursuit of his brother and sisters. He
came upon them near Alcira, hiding on the riverbank. With one slash of
his sword he cut the heads off both his sisters; San Bernardo he
crucified and drove a big nail through his forehead. Thus the sacred
preacher perished, but all the humble continued to adore him; for here
was a handsome prince, who had turned to a poor man, become a wandering
mendicant even--a sacrifice that endeared him to the poorest of his
votaries. Of all this that crowd of peasants was thinking as it shouted
_vivas_ to San Bernardo, now, surely, prime minister of God, as he had
been of the pagan king of Valencia.
The procession was rapidly organized. Along the narrow lanes of the
island where the rain coursed in streams, people kept coming in droves.
They were barefoot for the most part, but some were sinking shoes
indifferently into the water. Most of them had tapers or shotguns. The
women did their best to shelter little ones under the skirts they had
gathered about their heads. The musicians, all barefoot, were in regular
uniform--gold braided jackets and plumed hats--looking for all the world
like Malay chiefs who beautify their nakedness with castoff coats and
three-cornered hats the missionaries give them.
In front of the church the lights of the tapers blended into one great
flare. Through the wide doorway the candles on the altars gleamed like a
distant constellation.
The whole neighborhood, almost, had assembled in the square, despite the
increasing rain. Many had come to scoff. What a farce it all would be!
They did well, however, to wait two days! The rain was almost over. It
would probably stop by the time they got the Saint out!
In double file of tapers the procession began to move between two lines
of tightly jammed spectators.
"_Vitol el pare San Bernat!_ Hurrah for father San Bernardo!" a
multitude of hoarse voices cried.
"_Vitol les chermanetes_! Hurrah for his sisters!" others added, to
correct the lack of gallantry displayed by the most enthusiastic of the
idolators in putting ladies last.
For the sisters, the holy martyrs, Gracia and Maria, also figured in
the procession. San Bernardo never went anywhere alone. As even children
in baby-school knew, not a power on earth, not all the men and horses in
the orchards put together, could lift the saint from his altar unless
his sisters went first. That was one of his miracles long accredited by
tradition. He had very little confidence in women--less pious
commentators said--and not willing to trust his sisters out of sight, he
insisted that they precede him whenever he left his pedestal.
The holy sisters appeared in the church doorway, swaying on their
litters above the heads of the worshippers.
"_Vitol les chermanetes!_"
And the poor _chermanetes_, dripping from every fold of their vestments,
came out into that dark, tempestuous, rain-soaked atmosphere that was
rent by sheaves of crude light from the tapers.
The musicians tuned their instruments, ready to break into the Royal
March! In the brilliantly lighted doorway something shining could be
seen laboriously advancing, swaying this way and that, as if the waves
of an angry sea were rocking it.
The crowd again began to cheer, and the music sounded.
"_Vitol el pare San Bernat!_"
But the music and the acclamations were drowned by a deafening crash, as
if the island had suddenly burst into a thousand pieces, dragging the
city to the depths of the Abyss. The square was shooting a fusillade of
lightning flashes, a veritable cannonade. Those ancient arms,
blunderbusses, muzzle-loaders, pistols, crammed full of powder, could
roar like artillery. All the guns in the neighborhood were saluting the
appearance of the Saint. And the crowd, drunk with the smell of powder,
began to shout and gesticulate in the presence of that bronze image,
whose round, kindly face--that of a healthy well-fed friar--seemed to
quiver with life in the light of the torches.
Eight strong men, almost naked, came forward staggering under the weight
of the metal saint. The crowd surged against them, threatening to upset
the statue. But two bare-breasted strong-armed boys, devotees of the
patron, were marching on either side, and they fought the multitude
back.
The women, shoved hither and thither and almost suffocated in the jam,
burst into tears as their gaze fell upon the miraculous image.
"_Ay_, father San Bernardo! Father San Bernardo! Save us! Save us!"
Others dragged children out from the folds of their skirts, and held
them out above their heads toward the powerful guards.
"Lift him up! Let him kiss the Saint!"
And those muscular peasants would pick the children up like dolls, now
by an arm, now by a leg, now by the nape of the neck, raise them to a
level with the saint, that they might kiss the bronze face, and then
toss them back into the arms of their mothers, working like automatons,
dropping one child to seize another, with the regularity of machines in
action. Many times the impact was too rough; the noses of the children
would flatten against the folds of the metallic garb; but the fervor of
the crowd seemed to infect the little ones. They were the future adorers
of the Moorish monk. Rubbing their bruises with their soft little hands
they would swallow their tears and return to their snug places in their
mothers' skirts.
Behind the glorious saint marched Rafael and the gentlemen of the
_Ayuntamiento_ with long wax tapers; and after them the curate,
grumbling as he heard the first dashes of rain beat on the large red
silk umbrella which the sacristan held over him, and felt the impact of
the crowd of orchard-folk, that was mixed at random with the musicians.
The latter, paying more attention to where they stepped than to their
instruments, played a rather discordant march. Guns, meanwhile,
continued to blaze away. The wild cheering for San Bernardo and his
sisters went on; and, framed in a red nimbus of torch-light, greeted at
every street-corner by a new fusillade, the image sailed along over that
sea of heads, pelted by the rain, which, in the light of the candles,
looked like a maze of transparent crystal threads. Around the saint the
arms of the athletes kept ever moving, lifting children up to bump their
drooling noses on the bronze of father San Bernardo. Balconies and
windows along the way were filled with women, their heads protected by
their skirts.
Sighs, wails, exclamations of entreaty welcomed the passing saint in a
chorus of despair and hope.
"Save us, father San Bernardo!... Save us!..."
The procession reached the river, crossing and recrossing the bridges
that led to the suburbs. The flickering torches were mirrored in the
dark edges of the stream, which was growing momentarily more terrifying
and clamorous. The water had not yet reached the railing, as at other
times. Miracle! San Bernardo was at work already!
Then the procession marched to points where the river had flooded the
lanes near the bank, and turned them to virtual ponds. The more
fanatical of the devotees, lifting their tapers above their heads, went
out fearlessly neck high into the water: for surely the Saint must not
go in alone.
One old man, shaking with malaria, caught in the rice-fields, and hardly
able to hold the taper in his trembling hands, hesitated at the brink of
the stream.
"Go on in, _agueelo_!" the women encouraged affectionately. "Father San
Bernardo will cure you. Don't lose such a chance!"
When the saint was out performing miracles, he might remember the old
man, too. So _agueelo_--"grandaddy"--shivering in his drenched clothes
and his teeth chattering, walked resolutely in.
The statue was making its way very slowly along the inundated streets,
for the feet of the bearers sank deep into the water under their load;
and they could advance at all only with the aid of the faithful, who
gathered about the litter on all sides to help. A writhing mass of bare,
sinewy arms rose from the water like tentacles of a human octopus to
carry the Saint along.
Just behind the image came the curate and the political dignitaries,
riding astride the shoulders of some enthusiasts who, for the greater
pomp of the ceremony, were willing to serve as mounts, though the tapers
of their riders kept getting into their faces.
The curate began to feel the cold water creeping up his back, and
ordered the Saint inshore again. In fact San Bernardo was already at
the end of the lane, and actually in the river itself. His guards of
honor were having a time of it to keep their feet in the face of the
current, but they were still willing to go on, believing that the
farther the statue went into the stream, the sooner the waters would go
down. At last, however, the most foolhardy withdrew. The Saint came
back. Though the procession at once went on to the next road and to the
next, repeating the same performance.
And suddenly it stopped raining.
A wild cheer, a shout of joy and triumph, shook the multitude.
"_Vitol el pare San Bernat_!..." Now would the people of the neighboring
towns dare dispute his immense power?... There was the proof! Two days
of incessant downpour, and then, the moment the Saint showed his face
out of doors--fair weather! Excuse me!
In fervent thanksgiving weeping women rushed upon the saint and began to
kiss whatever part of the image was within reach--the handles of the
litter, the decorations of the pedestal, the bronze body itself. The
tottering structure of wood and metal began to stagger and reel like a
frail bark tossing over a sea of shrieking heads and extended arms that
trembled with exaltation.
The procession marched on for more than an hour still along the river.
Then the priest, who was dripping wet and had exhausted more than a
dozen "horses" under him, forbade it to continue. Leave it to those
peasants, and the nonsense would go on till dawn! So the curate observed
that the Saint had already done what was required of him. Now it was
time to go home!
Rafael handed his taper to one of his henchmen and stopped on the bridge
with a number of experienced observers, who were lamenting the damage
done by the flood. At every moment, no one could say just how, alarming
reports of the destruction wrought by the river were coming in. Now a
mill had been isolated by the waters, and the people there had taken
refuge on the roof, firing their shotguns as signals of distress. Many
orchards had been completely submerged. The few boats available in the
city were doing the best they could in the work of rescue. The valley
had become one vast lake. Rowboats caught in the shifting currents were
in danger of smashing against hidden obstructions; and it was
practically impossible to push a punt upstream with oars.
Yet the people spoke with relative calmness. They were accustomed to
this almost annual visitation, and accepted it resignedly as an
inevitable evil. Besides, they referred hopefully to telegrams received
by the _alcalde_. By dawn help would be coming in. The governor in
Valencia was sending a detachment of marines, and the lagoon would be
filled with navy boats. Everything would be all right in a few hours.
But if the water got much higher meanwhile ...!
They consulted stakes and other water marks along the river, and violent
disputes arose. Rafael, for his part, could see the flood was still
rising, though but slowly.
The peasants refused to believe it. How could the river rise after
Father San Bernardo had gone into it? No, sir! it was _not_ rising. That
was all a lie intended to discredit the patron. And a sturdy youth with
flashing eyes threatened to disembowel with one stroke of his
knife--like that!--a certain scoffer who maintained that the river would
go on rising if only for the pleasure of refuting that charlatan of a
friar.
Rafael approached the brawlers, and by the dim lantern light recognized
Cupido--the barber--a sarcastic fellow, with curly side-whiskers and an
aquiline nose, who took great pleasure in poking fun at the barbarous,
unshakable faith of the illiterate peasants.
Brull knew the barber very well. The man was one of his childhood
favorites. Fear of his mother was the only thing that had kept him from
frequenting Cupido's shop--the rendezvous of the city's gayest set, a
hotbed of gossip and practical jokes, a school of guitar playing and
love songs that kept the whole neighborhood astir. Besides, Cupido was
the freak of the city, the sharp-tongued but irresponsible practical
joker, who was forgiven everything in advance, and could enjoy his
idiosyncrasies and speak his mind about people without starting a riot
against him. He was, for instance, the one person in Alcira who scoffed
at the tyranny of the Brulls without thereby losing entrance to the
Party Club, where the young men admired his wit and his eccentric way of
dressing.
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