Part 10

"Nieves, come here, Nieves; see, how foolish Carmen Agonde is; she says she likes the arch-priest, that barrel, better than Don Eugeniño, the parish priest of Naya, because it makes her laugh, she says, to see him perspiring and to look at the rolls of fat in the back of his neck. And say, Nieves, what trick shall we play to-night on Don Eugeniño? And on Ramon Limioso, who has been daring us all day?"

It was Teresa Molende, a masculine-looking black-eyed brunette, a good specimen of the mountaineer, who spoke thus.

"They must pay for the trick they played on us yesterday," added her sister Elvira, the sentimental poetess.

"What was that?"

"You must know that they locked Carmen up. They are the very mischief! They shut her up in Mendez's room. What is there that they won't think of! They tied her hands behind her back with a silk handkerchief, tied another handkerchief over her mouth, so that she couldn't scream, and left her there like a mouse in a mouse-trap. And we, hunting and hunting for Carmen, and no Carmen to be seen. And there we were thinking all sorts of things until Mendez went up to his room to go to bed and found her there. Of course they had that silly creature to deal with, for if it had been I----"

"They would shut you up too," declared Carmen.

"Me!" exclaimed the Amazon, drawing up her portly figure. "They would be the ones to get shut up!"

"But they entrapped me into it," affirmed Carmen, looking as if she were just ready to cry. "See, Nieves, they said to me: 'Put your hands behind you, Carmiña, and we'll put a five-dollar piece in them,' and I put them behind me, and they were so treacherous as to tie them together."

Nieves joined in the laughter of the two sisters. It could not be denied that this simplicity was very amusing. Nieves seemed to be in a new world in which routine, the worn-out conventionalities of Madrid society, did not exist. True, such noisy and ingenuous diversions might at times verge on impropriety or coarseness, but sometimes they were really entertaining. From the moment the guests rose from table in the afternoon nothing was thought of but frolic and fun. Teresa had proposed to herself not to allow Tropiezo to eat a meal in peace, and with the utmost dexterity she would catch flies on the wing, which she would throw slyly into his soup, or she would pour vinegar into his glass instead of wine, or rub pitch on his napkin so that it might stick to his mouth. For the arch-priest they had another trick--they would draw him on to talk of ceremonies, a subject on which he loved to expatiate, and when his attention was engaged, take away his plate slyly, which was like tearing a piece of his heart out of his breast.

At night, in the parlor of the turbid mirrors, in which were the piano and the rocking-chairs, a gay company assembled; they sang fragments of _El Juramento_, and _El Grumete_; they played at hide-and-seek, and, without hiding, played _brisea_ with _malilla_ counters; when they grew tired of cards, they had recourse to forfeits, to mind-reading, and other amusements. And the frolicsome rustic nature once aroused, they passed on to romping games--fool in the middle, hoodman-blind, and others which have the zest imparted by physical exercise--shouts, pushes and slaps.

Then they would retire to their rooms, still excited by their sports, and this was the hour when their merriment was at its height, when they played the wildest pranks; when they fastened lighted tapers to the bodies of crickets and sent them under the bedroom doors; when they took the slats out of Tropiezo's bedstead so that when he lay down he might fall to the ground and bruise his ribs. In the halls could be heard smothered bursts of laughter and stealthy footsteps, white forms would be seen scurrying away, and doors would be hastily locked and barricaded with articles of furniture, while from behind them a mellow voice could be heard crying:

"They are coming!"

"Fasten the door well, girls! Don't open, not if the king himself were to knock!"

XVII.

Segundo was the last of the guests to arrive at Las Vides. As he cared but little for games and as Nieves did not take any very active part in them either, they would often have found themselves thrown for society upon each other had it not been for Victorina, who, from the moment Segundo appeared, never left her mother's side, and Elvira Molende who, from the very instant of his arrival, clung to the poet like the ivy to the wall, directing on him a battery of sighs and glances, and treating him to sentimental confidences and rhapsodies sweet enough to surfeit a confectioner's boy. From the moment in which Segundo set foot in Las Vides, Elvira lost all her animation, and assumed a languishing and romantic air, which made her cheeks appear hollower and the circles under her eyes deeper than ever. Her form acquired the melancholy droop of the willow and, giving up sports and pranks, she devoted herself exclusively to the Swan.

As it was moonlight, and the evenings were enjoyable out of doors, as soon as the sun had set, and the labors of the day were ended, and the vintagers assembled for a dance, some of the guests would assemble together also in the garden, generally at the foot of a high wall bordered with leafy camellias, or they would stop and sit down for a chat at some inviting spot on their way home from a walk. Elvira knew by heart a great many verses, both good and bad, generally of a melancholy kind--sentimental and elegiac; she was familiar with all the flowers of poetry, all the tender verses which constituted the poetic wealth of the locality, and uttered by her thin lips, in the silvery tones of her gentle voice, with the soft accents of her native land, the Galician verses, like an Andalusian moral maxim in the sensual mouth of a gypsy, had a peculiar and impressive beauty--the sensibility of a race crystallized in a poetic gem, in a tear of love. These plaintive verses were interrupted at times by mocking bursts of laughter, as the gay sounds of the castanets strike in on the melancholy notes of the bagpipes. The poems in dialect acquired a new beauty, their freshness and sylvan aroma seemed to augment by being recited by the soft tones of a woman's voice, on the edge of a pine wood and under the shadow of a grapevine, on a serene moonlight night; and the rhyme became a vague and dreamy melopoeia, like that of certain German ballads; a labial music interspersed with soft diphthongs, tender _ñ_'s, _x_'s of a more melodious sound than the hissing Castilian _ch_. Generally, after the recitations came singing. Don Eugenio, who was a Borderer, knew some Portuguese _fados_, and Elvira was unrivaled in her rendering of the popular and melancholy song of Curros, which seems made for Druidical nights, for nights illuminated by the solemn light of the moon.

Segundo's heart thrilled with gratified vanity when Elvira recited shyly, in alternation with the verses of the popular and admired poets of the country, songs of the Swan, which had appeared in periodicals of Vigo or Orense. Segundo had never written in dialect, and yet Elvira had a book in which she pasted all the productions of the unknown Swan; Teresa, joining in the animated conversation with the best intentions in the word, betrayed her sister:

"She writes verses too. Come, child, recite something of your own. She has a copy-book full of things invented, composed by herself."

The poetess, after the indispensable excuses and denials, recited two or three little things, almost without poetic form, weak, sincere in the midst of their sentimental falseness--verses of the kind which reveal no artistic faculty, but which are the sure indication that the author or authoress feels an unsatisfied desire, longs for fame or for love, as the inarticulate cry of the infant expresses its hunger. Segundo twisted his mustache, Nieves lowered her eyes and played with the tassels of her fan, impatient and somewhat bored and nervous. This occurred two or three days after the arrival of Segundo who, in spite of all his attempts, had not yet been able to succeed in saying a word in private to Nieves.

"How uncultured these young ladies are!" said Señora de Comba to herself, while aloud she said, "How lovely, how tender! It sounds like some of Grilo's verses."

XVIII.

It was something different from poetry that formed the theme of conversation of the head of the house of Las Vides, the Gendays, and the arch-priest, installed on the balcony under the pretext of enjoying the moonlight, but in reality to discuss the important question of the vintage.

A fine crop! Yes, indeed, a fine crop! The grape had not a trace of oïdium; it was clean, full, and so ripe that it was as sticky to the touch as if it had been dipped in honey. There was not a doubt but that the new wine of this year was better than the old wine of last year. Last year's vintage was an absolute failure! Hail to-day, rain to-morrow! The grape with so much rain had burst before it was time to gather it, and had not an atom of pulp; the result was a wine that scarcely left a stain on the shirt-sleeves of the muleteers.

At the recollection of so great a calamity, Mendez pressed his thin lips together, and the arch-priest breathed hard. And the conversation continued, sustained by Primo Genday, who, with much verbosity, spitting and laughter, recounted details of harvests of twenty years before, declaring:

"This year's crop is exactly like the crop of '61."

"Exactly," assented Mendez. "As for the Rebeco, it will not give a load less this year, and the Grilloa--I don't know but that it will give us six or seven more. It is a great vine, the Grilloa!"

After these cheerful prognostications of a rich harvest, Mendez described with satisfaction to his attentive audience some improvements which he had introduced into the cultivation of the vine. He had most of his casks secured with iron hoops; they were more expensive than wooden ones, but they lasted longer and they saved the troublesome labor of making new hoops for each harvest; he was thinking too, by way of experiment, of setting up a wine-press, doing away with the repulsive spectacle of the trampling of the grapes by human feet, and in order that the pressed skins and the pulp of the grapes might not go to waste, he would distill from them a refined alcohol which Agonde would buy from him at its weight in gold.

Lulled by the grave voices discussing important agricultural questions on the balcony, Don Victoriano, somewhat fatigued by his expedition to the vineyards, sat smoking in the rocking-chair, buried in painful meditations. Since his return from the springs he had been growing weaker day by day; the temporary improvement had vanished; the debility, the unnatural appetite, the thirst, and the desiccation of the body had increased. He remembered that Sanchez del Abrojo had told him that a slight perspiration would be of the greatest benefit to him, and when he observed, after he had been drinking the waters for a few days, the re-establishment of this function, his joy knew no bounds. But what was his terror when he found that his shirt, stiff and hard, adhered to his skin as if it had been soaked in syrup. He touched a fold of the sleeve with his lips and perceived a sweetish taste. It was plain! He perspired sugar! The glucose secretion was, then, uncontrollable, and by a tremendous irony of fate all the bitterness of his existence had come to end in this strange elaboration of sweet substances.

For some days past he had noticed another alarming symptom. His sight was becoming affected. As the aqueous humor of the eye dried up the crystalline lens became clouded, producing the cataract of diabetes. Don Victoriano had chills. He regretted now having put himself into the homicidal hands of Tropiezo and drunk the waters. There was not a doubt but that he was being wrongly treated. From this day forth a strict regimen, a diet of fruits, fecula, and milk. To live, to live, but for a year, and to be able to hide his malady! If the electors saw their candidate blind and dying, they would desert to Romero. The humiliation of losing the coming election seemed to him intolerable.

Bursts of silvery laughter, and youthful exclamations proceeding from the garden, changed the current of his thoughts. Why was it that Nieves did not perceive the serious condition of her husband's health? He wished to dissemble before the whole world, but before his wife----Ah, if his wife belonged to him she ought to be beside him now, consoling and soothing him by her caresses instead of diverting herself and frolicking among the camellias, like a child. If she was beautiful and fresh and her husband sickly, so much the worse for her. Let her put up with it, as was her duty. Bah! What nonsense! Nieves did not love him, had never loved him!

The noise and laughter below increased. Victorina and Teresa, the verses being exhausted, had proposed a game of hide-and-seek. Victorina was crying at every moment, "Teresa's it!" "Segundo's it!"

The garden was very well adapted for this exercise because of its almost labyrinthine intricacy, owing to the fact of its being laid out in sloping terraces supported on walls and separated by rows of umbrageous trees, communicating with each other by uneven steps, as is the case with all the estates in this hilly country. Thus it was that the play was very noisy, as the seeker had great difficulty in finding those who were hiding.

Nieves endeavored to hide herself securely, through laziness so as not to have to run after the others. Chance provided her with a superb hiding-place, a large lemon tree situated at one end of a terrace, near some steps which afforded an easy means of escape. She hid herself here in the densest part of the foliage, drawing her light gown closely around her so that it might not betray her. She had been only a few moments in her hiding-place when a shadow passed before her and a voice murmured softly:

"Nieves!"

"Oh!" she cried, startled. "Who has found me out here?"

"No one has found you; there is no one looking for you but me," cried Segundo vehemently, penetrating into Nieves' hiding-place with such impetuosity that the late blossoms which whitened the branches of the giant tree showered their petals over their heads, and the branches swayed rhythmically.

"For Heaven's sake, García!" she cried, "for Heaven's sake, don't be imprudent--go away, or let me go. If the others should come and find us here what would they say? For Heaven's sake, go!"

"You wish me to go?" said the poet. "But, Señora, even if they should find me here, there would be nothing strange in that; a little while ago I was with Teresa Molende behind the camellias there; either we are playing or we are not playing. But if you desire it--to please you----But before I go I wish to ask you a question----"

"Somewhere else--in the parlor," stammered Nieves, lending an anxious ear to the distant noises and cries of the game.

"In the parlor! Surrounded by everybody! No, that cannot be. No, now, do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you," she returned in a voice rendered almost inaudible by terror.

"Well, then, I adore you, Nieves; I adore you, and you love me."

"Hist! Silence, silence! They are coming. I think I hear steps."

"No, it is the leaves. Tell me that you love me and I will go."

"They are coming! For Heaven's sake! I shall die of terror! Enough of jesting, García, I entreat you----"

"You know perfectly well that I am not jesting. Have you forgotten the night of the fireworks? If you did not love me you would have released yourself from my arm on that night, or you would have cried out. You look at me sometimes--you return my glances. You cannot deny it!"

Segundo was close to Nieves, speaking with fiery impetuosity, but without touching her, although the fragrant, rustling branches of their shelter closed around them, inviting them to closer proximity. But Segundo remembered the cold hard whalebones, and Nieves drew back, trembling. Yes, trembling with fear. She might cry out, indeed, but if Segundo persisted in remaining how annoying it would be! What a mortification! What gossip it would give rise to! After all the poet was right--the night of the fireworks she had been culpably weak and she was paying for it now. And what would Segundo do if she gave him the _yes_ he asked for? He repeated his proud and vehement assertion:

"You love me, Nieves. You love me. Tell me that you love me, only once, and I will go."

Not far off could be heard the contralto voice of Teresa Molende calling to her companions:

"Nieves--where is she? Victorina, Carmen, come in, the dew is falling!"

And another shrill voice, that of Elvira, woke the echoes:

"Segundo! Segundo! We are going in!"

In fact that almost imperceptible mizzle, which refreshes the sultry nights of Galicia, was falling; the lustrous leaves of the lemon tree in which Nieves sat, shrinking back from Segundo, were wet with the night dew. The poet leaned toward her and his hands touched her hands chilled with cold and terror. He crushed them between both his own.

"Tell me that you love me, or----"

"But, good Heavens, they are calling me! They are noticing my absence. I am cold!"

"Tell me the truth then. Otherwise there is no human power that can tear me from here--come what will. Is it so hard to say a single word?"

"And what do you want me to say, tell me?"

"Do you love me, yes or no?"

"And you will let me go--go to the house?"

"Anything you wish--but first tell me, do you love me?"

The _yes_ was almost inaudible. It was an aspiration, a prolonged _s_. Segundo crushed her wrists in his grasp.

"Do you love me as I love you? Answer plainly."

This time Nieves, making an effort, pronounced an unequivocal _yes_. Segundo released her hands, raised his own to his lips with a passionate gesture of gratitude, and springing down the stairs, disappeared among the trees.

XIX.

Nieves drew a long breath. She felt dazed. She shook her wrists, hurt by the pressure of Segundo's fingers, and arranged her hair, wet with the night dew, and disordered by the contact of the branches. What had she said after all? Anything, no matter what, to escape from so compromising a situation. She was to blame for having withdrawn from the others and hidden herself in so retired a spot. And with that desire to give publicity to unimportant actions which seizes people when they have something to conceal she called out:

"Teresa! Elvira! Carmen! Carmen!"

"Nieves! where are you, Nieves?" came in answer from various quarters.

"Here, beside the big lemon tree. Wait for me, I am coming!"

When they entered the house, Nieves, who had to some extent recovered her composure, began to reflect on what had passed and could not but wonder at herself. To say _yes_ to Segundo. She had uttered the word partly under compulsion, but she had uttered it. How daring the poet had been. It seemed impossible that the son of the lawyer of Vilamorta should be so determined. She was a lady of distinction, highly respected, her husband had just been Minister. And García's family, what were they--nobodies; the father wore collars frayed at the edges that were a sight to see; they kept no servant; the sisters ran about barefooted half the time. Even Segundo himself--he had an unmistakable provincial air and a strong Galician accent. He could not indeed be called ugly; there was something remarkable in his face and in his manner. He spoke with so much passion! As if he commanded instead of entreating! What a masterful air he had! And there was something flattering to one's vanity in having a suitor of this kind, so ardent and so daring. Who had ever fallen in love with Nieves before? There were three or four who had made gallant speeches to her--one who had watched her through his opera-glass. Everyone in Madrid treated her with that indifference and consideration which respectable ladies inspire.

For the rest, this persistency of Segundo's was to a certain extent compromising. Would people notice it? Would her husband notice it? Bah! Her husband thought only of his ailments, of the elections. He scarcely ever spoke to her of anything else. But what if he should notice it? How horrible, good Heavens! And the girls who had been playing hide and seek, might they not suspect something? Elvira seemed more languishing and sighed more frequently than usual. Elvira admired Segundo. He--no, he did not pay the slightest attention to her. And Segundo's verses sounded well, they were beautiful; they were worthy of a place in _La Ilustracion_. In short, as they would be obliged to return to Madrid before the elections, there was hardly any real danger. She would always preserve a pleasant recollection of the summer. The thing was to avoid--to avoid----

Nieves did not venture to tell herself what it was necessary to avoid, nor had she settled this point when she entered the parlor, where the game of tresillo was already going on. Señora de Comba seated herself at the piano and played several quick airs--polkas and rigadoons, for the girls to dance. When she stopped they cried out for another air.

"Nieves, the _muñeira_!"

"The _riveirana_, please!"

"Do you know the whole of it, Nieves?"

"The whole of it--why, did I not hear it in the feasts?"

"Let us have it then, come."

"Who will dance it?"

"Who knows how to dance it?"

Several voices answered immediately:

"Teresa Molende; ah! it is a pleasure to see her dance it."

"And who will be her partner?"

"Ramonciñe Limioso here, he dances it to perfection."

Teresa laughed in the deep, sonorous tones of a man, declaring solemnly that she had forgotten the muñeira--that she never knew it well. From the tresillo table came a protest--from the master of the house, Mendez: Teresina danced it to perfection. Let her not try to excuse herself; no excuse would avail her; there was not in all the Border a girl who danced the riveirana with more grace; it was true indeed that the taste and the skill for these old customs of the country were fast disappearing.

Teresa yielded, not without once more affirming her incompetence. And after fastening up her skirt with pins, so that it might not impede her movements she stopped laughing and assumed a modest and ingenuous air, veiling her large lustrous eyes under her thick lashes, dropping her head on her breast, letting her arms fall by her sides, swaying them slightly, rubbing the balls of the thumbs and the forefingers together, and thus, moving with very short steps, her feet close together, keeping time to the music, she made the tour of the room, with perfect decorum, her eyes fixed on the floor, stopping finally at the head of the room. While this was taking place, Señorito de Limioso took off his short jacket, remaining in his shirt-sleeves, put on his hat, and asked for an indispensable article.

"Victorina, the castanets."