Paseo-por-arboles-de-Madrid/data/emilia_english_fragment.txt

Behind the pine grove the setting sun had left a zone of fire
against which the trunks of the pine trees stood out like bronze
columns. The path was rugged and uneven, giving evidence of the
ravages wrought by the winter rains; at intervals loose stones,
looking like teeth detached from the gum, rendered it still more
impracticable. The melancholy shades of twilight were beginning to
envelop the landscape; little by little the sunset glow faded away
and the moon, round and silvery, mounted in the heavens, where the
evening star was already shining. The dismal croaking of the frogs
fell sharply on the ear; a fresh breeze stirred the dry plants and
the dusty brambles that grew by the roadside; and the trunks of the
pine trees grew momentarily blacker, standing out like inky bars
against the pale green of the horizon.

A man was descending the path slowly, bent, apparently, on
enjoying the poetry and the peace of the scene and the hour. He
carried a stout walking-stick, and as far as one could judge in the
fading light, he was young and not ill-looking.

He paused frequently, casting glances to the right and to the
left as if in search of some familiar landmark. Finally he stood
still and looked around him. At his back was a hill crowned with
chestnut trees; on his left was the pine grove; on his right a small
church with a mean belfry; before him the outlying houses of the
town. He turned, walked back some ten steps, stopped, fronting the
portico of the church, examined its walls, and, satisfied at last
that he had found the right place, raised his hands to his mouth and
forming with them a sort of speaking trumpet, cried, in a clear
youthful voice:

"Echo, let us talk together!"

From the angle formed by the walls, there came back instantly
another voice, deeper and less distinct, strangely grave and
sonorous, which repeated with emphasis, linking the answer to the
question and dwelling upon the final syllable:

"Let us talk togethe-e-e-e-r!"

"Are you happy?"

"Happy-y-y-y!" responded the echo.

"Who am I?"

"I-I-I-I!"

To these interrogations, framed so that the answer should make
sense with them, succeeded phrases uttered without any other object
than that of hearing them reverberated with strange intensity by the
wall. "It is a lovely night."--"The moon is shining."--"The sun has
set."--"Do you hear me, echo?"--"Have you dreams, echo, of glory,
ambition, love?" The traveler, enchanted with his occupation,
continued the conversation, varying the words, combining them into
sentences, and, in the short intervals of silence, he listened to the
faint murmur of the pines stirred by the evening breeze, and to the
melancholy concert of the frogs. The crimson and rose-colored clouds
had become ashen and had begun to invade the broad region of the
firmament over which the unclouded moon shed her silvery light. The
honeysuckles and elder-flowers on the outskirts of the pine grove
embalmed the air with subtle and intoxicating fragrance. And the
interlocutor of the echo, yielding to the poetic influences of the
scene, ceased his questions and exclamations and began to recite, in
a slow, chanting voice, verses of Becquer, paying no heed now to the
voice from the wall, which, in its haste to repeat his words,
returned them to him broken and confused.

Absorbed in his occupation, pleased with the harmonious sounds of
the verse, he did not notice the approach of three men of odd and
grotesque appearance, wearing enormous broad-brimmed felt hats. One
of the men was leading a mule laden with a leathern sack filled,
doubtless, with the juice of the grape; and as they walked slowly,
and the soft clayey soil deadened the noise of their footsteps, they
passed close by the young man, unperceived by him. They exchanged
some whispered words with one another. "Who is he,
man?"--"Segundo."--"The lawyer's son?"--"The same."--"What is he
doing? Is he talking to himself?"--"No, he is talking to the wall of
Santa Margarita."--"Well, we have as good a right to do that as he
has."--"Begin you ----"--"One--two--here goes----"

And from those profane lips fell a shower of vile words and
coarse and vulgar phrases, interrupting the _Oscuras Golondrinas_
which the young man was reciting with a great deal of expression, and
producing, in the peaceful and harmonious nocturnal silence, the
effect of the clatter of brass pans and kettles in a piece of German
music. The most refined expressions were in the following style:
"D---- (here an oath). Hurrah for the wine of the Border! Hurrah for
the red wine that gives courage to man! D----" (the reader's
imagination may supply what followed, it being premised that the
disturbers of the Becquerian dreamer were three lawless muleteers who
were carrying with them an abundant provision of the blood of the
grape).

The nymph who dwelt in the wall opposed no resistance to the
profanation and repeated the round oaths as faithfully as she had
repeated the poet's verses. Hearing the vociferations and bursts of
laughter which the wall sent back to him mockingly, Segundo, the
lawyer's son, aware that the barbarians were turning his sentimental
amusement into ridicule, became enraged. Mortified and ashamed, he
tightened his grasp on his stick, strongly tempted to break it on the
ribs of some one of them; and, muttering between his teeth, "Kaffirs!
brutes! beasts!" and other offensive epithets, he turned to the left,
plunged into the pine grove and walked toward the town, avoiding the
path in order to escape meeting the profane trio.

The town was but a step away. The walls of its nearest houses
shone white in the moonlight, and the stones of some buildings in
course of erection, garden walls, orchards, and vegetable beds,
filled up the space between the town and the pine grove. The path
grew gradually broader, until it reached the highroad, on either side
of which leafy chestnut trees cast broad patches of shade. The town
was already asleep, seemingly, for not a light was to be seen, nor
were any of those noises to be heard which reveal the proximity of
those human beehives called cities. Vilamorta is in reality a very
small beehive, a modest town, the capital of a district. Bathed in
the splendor of the romantic satellite, however, it was not without a
certain air of importance imparted to it by the new buildings, of a
style of architecture peculiar to prison cells, which an
_Americanized_ Galician, recently returned to his native land with a
plentiful supply of cash, was erecting with all possible expedition.

Segundo turned into an out-of-the-way street--if there be any
such in towns like Vilamorta. Only the sidewalks were paved; the
gutter was a gutter in reality; it was full of muddy pools and heaps
of kitchen garbage, thrown there without scruple by the inhabitants.
Segundo avoided two things--stepping into the gutter and walking in
the moonlight. A man passed so close by him as almost to touch him,
enveloped, notwithstanding the heat, in an ample cloak, and holding
open above his head an enormous umbrella, although there was no sign
of rain; doubtless he was some convalescent, some visitor to the
springs, who was breathing the pleasant night air with hygienic
precautions. Segundo, when he saw him, walked closer to the houses,
turning his face aside as if afraid of being recognized. With no less
caution he crossed the Plaza del Consistorio, the pride of Vilamorta,
and then, instead of joining one of the groups who were enjoying the
fresh air, seated on the stone benches round the public fountain, he
slipped into a narrow side street, and crossing a retired little
square shaded by a gigantic poplar turned his steps in the direction
of a small house half hidden in the shadow of the tree. Between the
house and Segundo there stood a lumbering bulk--the body of a
stage-coach, a large box on wheels, its shafts raised in air,
waiting, lance in rest, as it were, to renew the attack. Segundo
skirted the obstacle, and as he turned the corner of the square,
absorbed in his meditations, two immense hogs, monstrously fat,
rushed out of the half-open gate of a neighboring yard, and at a
short trot that made their enormous sides shake like jelly, made
straight for the admirer of Becquer, entangling themselves stupidly
and blindly between his legs. By a special interposition of
Providence the young man did not measure his length upon the ground,
but, his patience now exhausted, he gave each of the swine a couple
of angry kicks, which drew from them sharp and ferocious grunts, as
he ejaculated almost audibly: "What a town is this, good Heavens!
Even the hogs must run against one in the streets. Ah, what a
miserable place! Hell itself could not be worse!"

By the time he had reached the door of the house, he had, to some
extent, regained his composure. The house was small and pretty and
had a cheerful air. There was no railing outside the windows, only
the stone ledges, which were covered with plants in pots and boxes;
through the windows shaded by muslin curtains a light could be seen
burning, and in the silent façade there was something peaceful and
attractive that invited one to enter. Segundo pushed open the door
and almost at the same instant there was heard in the dark hall the
rustling of skirts, a woman's arms were opened and the admirer of
Becquer, throwing himself into them, allowed himself to be led,
dragged, carried bodily, almost, up the stairs, and into the little
parlor where, on a table covered with a white crochet cover, burned a
carefully trimmed lamp. There, on the sofa, the lover and the lady
seated themselves.

Truth before all things. The lady was not far from thirty-six or
thirty-seven, and what is worse, could never have been pretty, or
even passably good-looking. The smallpox had pitted and hardened her
coarse skin, giving it the appearance of the leather bottom of a
sieve. Her small black eyes, hard and bright like two fleas, matched
well her nose, which was thick and ill-shaped, like the noses of the
figures of lay monks stamped on chocolate. True, the mouth was
fresh-colored, the teeth white and sound like those of a dog; but
everything else pertaining to her--dress, manner, accent, the want of
grace of the whole--was calculated rather to put tender thoughts to
flight than to awaken them. With the lamp shining as brightly as it
does, it is preferable to contemplate the lover. The latter is of
medium height, has a graceful, well-proportioned figure, and in the
turn of his head and in his youthful features there is something that
irresistibly attracts and holds the gaze. His forehead, which is high
and straight, is shaded and set off by luxuriant hair, worn somewhat
longer than is allowed by our present severe fashion. His face, thin
and delicately outlined, casts a shadow on the walls which is made up
of acute angles. A mustache, curling with the grace which is peculiar
to a first mustache, and to the wavy locks of a young girl, shades
but does not cover his upper lip. The beard has not yet attained its
full growth; the muscles of the throat have not yet become prominent;
the Adam's apple does not yet force itself on the attention. The
complexion is dark, pale, and of a slightly bilious hue.

Seeing this handsome youth leaning his head on the shoulder of
this woman of mature age and undisguised ugliness, it would have been
natural to take them for mother and son, but anyone coming to this
conclusion, after a single moment's observation, would have shown
scant penetration, for in the manifestations of maternal affection,
however passionate and tender they may be, there is always a
something of dignity and repose which is wanting in those of every
other affection.

Doubtless Segundo felt a longing to see the moon again, for he
rose almost immediately from his seat on the sofa and crossed over to
the window, his companion following him. He threw open the sash, and
they sat down side by side in two low chairs whose seats were on a
level with the flower-pots. A fine carnation regaled the sense with
its intoxicating perfume; the moon lighted up with her silvery rays
the foliage of the poplar that cast broad shadow over the little
square. Segundo opened the conversation this wise:

"Have you made any cigars for me?"

"Here are some," she answered, putting her hand into her pocket
and drawing from it a bundle of cigars. "I was able to make only a
dozen and a half for you. I will complete the two dozen to-night
before I go to bed."

There was a moment's silence, broken by the sharp sound made by
the striking of the match and then, in a voice muffled by the first
puff of smoke, Segundo went on:

"Why, has anything new happened?"

"New? No. The children--putting the house in order--and
then--Minguitos. He made my head ache with his complaining--he
complained the whole blessed evening. He said his bones ached. And
you? Very busy, killing yourself reading, studying, writing, eh? Of
course!"

"No, I have been taking a delightful walk. I went to Peñas-albas
and returned by way of Santa Margarita. I have seldom spent a
pleasanter evening."

"I warrant you were making verses."

"No, my dear. The verses I made I made last night after leaving
you."

"Ah! And you weren't going to repeat them to me. Come, for the
love of the saints, come, recite them for me, you must know them by
heart. Come, darling."

To this vehement entreaty succeeded a passionate kiss, pressed on
the hair and forehead of the poet. The latter raised his eyes, drew
back a little and, holding his cigar between his fingers after
knocking off the ashes with his nail, proceeded to recite.

The offspring of his muse was a poem in imitation of Becquer. His
auditor, who listened to it with religious attention, thought it
superior to anything inspired by the muse of the great Gustave. And
she asked for another and then another, and then a bit of Espronceda
and then a fragment or two of Zorrilla. By this time the cigar had
gone out; the poet threw away the stump and lighted a fresh one. Then
they resumed their conversation.

"Shall we have supper soon?"

"Directly. What do you think I have for you?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Think of what you like best. What you like best, better than
anything else."

"Bah! You know that so far as I am concerned, provided you don't
give me anything smoked or greasy----"

"A French omelet! You couldn't guess, eh? Let me tell you--I
found the receipt in a book. As I had heard that it was something
good I wanted to try it. I had always made omelets as they make them
here, so stiff, that you might throw one against the wall without
breaking it. But this--I think it will be to your taste. As for me, I
don't like it much, I prefer the old style. I showed Flores how to
make it. What was in the one you ate at the inn at Orense? Chopped
parsley, eh?"

"No, ham. But what difference does it make what was in it?"

"I'll run and take it out of the pantry! I thought--the book says
parsley! Wait, wait."

She overturned her chair in her haste. An instant later the
jingling of her keys and the opening and closing of a couple of doors
were heard in the distance. A husky voice muttered some
unintelligible words in the kitchen. In two minutes she was back
again.

"Tell me, and those verses, are you not going to publish them? Am
I not going to see them in print?"

"Yes," responded the poet, slowly turning his head to one side
and sending a puff of smoke through his lips. "I am going to send
them to Vigo, to Roberto Blanquez, to insert them in the _Amanecer_."

"I am delighted! You will become famous, sweetheart! How many
periodicals have spoken of you?"

Segundo laughed ironically and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not many." And with a somewhat preoccupied air he let his gaze
wander over the plants and far away over the top of the poplar whose
leaves rustled gently in the breeze. The poet pressed his companion's
hand mechanically, and the latter returned the pressure with
passionate ardor.

"Of course. How do you expect them to speak of you when you don't
put your name to your verses?" she said. "They don't know whose they
are. They are wondering, likely----"

"What difference does the name make? They could say the same
things of the pseudonym I have adopted as of Segundo García. The few
people who will trouble themselves to read my verses will call me the
Swan of Vilamorta."