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318 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
318 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
Behind the pine grove the setting sun had left a zone of fire
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against which the trunks of the pine trees stood out like bronze
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columns. The path was rugged and uneven, giving evidence of the
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ravages wrought by the winter rains; at intervals loose stones,
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looking like teeth detached from the gum, rendered it still more
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impracticable. The melancholy shades of twilight were beginning to
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envelop the landscape; little by little the sunset glow faded away
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and the moon, round and silvery, mounted in the heavens, where the
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evening star was already shining. The dismal croaking of the frogs
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fell sharply on the ear; a fresh breeze stirred the dry plants and
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the dusty brambles that grew by the roadside; and the trunks of the
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pine trees grew momentarily blacker, standing out like inky bars
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against the pale green of the horizon.
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A man was descending the path slowly, bent, apparently, on
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enjoying the poetry and the peace of the scene and the hour. He
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carried a stout walking-stick, and as far as one could judge in the
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fading light, he was young and not ill-looking.
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He paused frequently, casting glances to the right and to the
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left as if in search of some familiar landmark. Finally he stood
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still and looked around him. At his back was a hill crowned with
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chestnut trees; on his left was the pine grove; on his right a small
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church with a mean belfry; before him the outlying houses of the
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town. He turned, walked back some ten steps, stopped, fronting the
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portico of the church, examined its walls, and, satisfied at last
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that he had found the right place, raised his hands to his mouth and
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forming with them a sort of speaking trumpet, cried, in a clear
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youthful voice:
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"Echo, let us talk together!"
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From the angle formed by the walls, there came back instantly
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another voice, deeper and less distinct, strangely grave and
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sonorous, which repeated with emphasis, linking the answer to the
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question and dwelling upon the final syllable:
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"Let us talk togethe-e-e-e-r!"
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"Are you happy?"
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"Happy-y-y-y!" responded the echo.
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"Who am I?"
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"I-I-I-I!"
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To these interrogations, framed so that the answer should make
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sense with them, succeeded phrases uttered without any other object
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than that of hearing them reverberated with strange intensity by the
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wall. "It is a lovely night."--"The moon is shining."--"The sun has
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set."--"Do you hear me, echo?"--"Have you dreams, echo, of glory,
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ambition, love?" The traveler, enchanted with his occupation,
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continued the conversation, varying the words, combining them into
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sentences, and, in the short intervals of silence, he listened to the
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faint murmur of the pines stirred by the evening breeze, and to the
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melancholy concert of the frogs. The crimson and rose-colored clouds
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had become ashen and had begun to invade the broad region of the
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firmament over which the unclouded moon shed her silvery light. The
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honeysuckles and elder-flowers on the outskirts of the pine grove
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embalmed the air with subtle and intoxicating fragrance. And the
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interlocutor of the echo, yielding to the poetic influences of the
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scene, ceased his questions and exclamations and began to recite, in
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a slow, chanting voice, verses of Becquer, paying no heed now to the
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voice from the wall, which, in its haste to repeat his words,
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returned them to him broken and confused.
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Absorbed in his occupation, pleased with the harmonious sounds of
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the verse, he did not notice the approach of three men of odd and
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grotesque appearance, wearing enormous broad-brimmed felt hats. One
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of the men was leading a mule laden with a leathern sack filled,
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doubtless, with the juice of the grape; and as they walked slowly,
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and the soft clayey soil deadened the noise of their footsteps, they
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passed close by the young man, unperceived by him. They exchanged
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some whispered words with one another. "Who is he,
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man?"--"Segundo."--"The lawyer's son?"--"The same."--"What is he
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doing? Is he talking to himself?"--"No, he is talking to the wall of
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Santa Margarita."--"Well, we have as good a right to do that as he
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has."--"Begin you ----"--"One--two--here goes----"
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And from those profane lips fell a shower of vile words and
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coarse and vulgar phrases, interrupting the _Oscuras Golondrinas_
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which the young man was reciting with a great deal of expression, and
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producing, in the peaceful and harmonious nocturnal silence, the
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effect of the clatter of brass pans and kettles in a piece of German
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music. The most refined expressions were in the following style:
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"D---- (here an oath). Hurrah for the wine of the Border! Hurrah for
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the red wine that gives courage to man! D----" (the reader's
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imagination may supply what followed, it being premised that the
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disturbers of the Becquerian dreamer were three lawless muleteers who
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were carrying with them an abundant provision of the blood of the
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grape).
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The nymph who dwelt in the wall opposed no resistance to the
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profanation and repeated the round oaths as faithfully as she had
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repeated the poet's verses. Hearing the vociferations and bursts of
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laughter which the wall sent back to him mockingly, Segundo, the
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lawyer's son, aware that the barbarians were turning his sentimental
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amusement into ridicule, became enraged. Mortified and ashamed, he
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tightened his grasp on his stick, strongly tempted to break it on the
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ribs of some one of them; and, muttering between his teeth, "Kaffirs!
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brutes! beasts!" and other offensive epithets, he turned to the left,
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plunged into the pine grove and walked toward the town, avoiding the
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path in order to escape meeting the profane trio.
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The town was but a step away. The walls of its nearest houses
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shone white in the moonlight, and the stones of some buildings in
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course of erection, garden walls, orchards, and vegetable beds,
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filled up the space between the town and the pine grove. The path
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grew gradually broader, until it reached the highroad, on either side
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of which leafy chestnut trees cast broad patches of shade. The town
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was already asleep, seemingly, for not a light was to be seen, nor
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were any of those noises to be heard which reveal the proximity of
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those human beehives called cities. Vilamorta is in reality a very
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small beehive, a modest town, the capital of a district. Bathed in
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the splendor of the romantic satellite, however, it was not without a
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certain air of importance imparted to it by the new buildings, of a
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style of architecture peculiar to prison cells, which an
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_Americanized_ Galician, recently returned to his native land with a
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plentiful supply of cash, was erecting with all possible expedition.
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Segundo turned into an out-of-the-way street--if there be any
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such in towns like Vilamorta. Only the sidewalks were paved; the
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gutter was a gutter in reality; it was full of muddy pools and heaps
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of kitchen garbage, thrown there without scruple by the inhabitants.
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Segundo avoided two things--stepping into the gutter and walking in
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the moonlight. A man passed so close by him as almost to touch him,
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enveloped, notwithstanding the heat, in an ample cloak, and holding
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open above his head an enormous umbrella, although there was no sign
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of rain; doubtless he was some convalescent, some visitor to the
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springs, who was breathing the pleasant night air with hygienic
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precautions. Segundo, when he saw him, walked closer to the houses,
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turning his face aside as if afraid of being recognized. With no less
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caution he crossed the Plaza del Consistorio, the pride of Vilamorta,
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and then, instead of joining one of the groups who were enjoying the
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fresh air, seated on the stone benches round the public fountain, he
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slipped into a narrow side street, and crossing a retired little
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square shaded by a gigantic poplar turned his steps in the direction
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of a small house half hidden in the shadow of the tree. Between the
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house and Segundo there stood a lumbering bulk--the body of a
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stage-coach, a large box on wheels, its shafts raised in air,
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waiting, lance in rest, as it were, to renew the attack. Segundo
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skirted the obstacle, and as he turned the corner of the square,
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absorbed in his meditations, two immense hogs, monstrously fat,
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rushed out of the half-open gate of a neighboring yard, and at a
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short trot that made their enormous sides shake like jelly, made
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straight for the admirer of Becquer, entangling themselves stupidly
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and blindly between his legs. By a special interposition of
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Providence the young man did not measure his length upon the ground,
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but, his patience now exhausted, he gave each of the swine a couple
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of angry kicks, which drew from them sharp and ferocious grunts, as
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he ejaculated almost audibly: "What a town is this, good Heavens!
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Even the hogs must run against one in the streets. Ah, what a
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miserable place! Hell itself could not be worse!"
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By the time he had reached the door of the house, he had, to some
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extent, regained his composure. The house was small and pretty and
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had a cheerful air. There was no railing outside the windows, only
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the stone ledges, which were covered with plants in pots and boxes;
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through the windows shaded by muslin curtains a light could be seen
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burning, and in the silent façade there was something peaceful and
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attractive that invited one to enter. Segundo pushed open the door
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and almost at the same instant there was heard in the dark hall the
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rustling of skirts, a woman's arms were opened and the admirer of
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Becquer, throwing himself into them, allowed himself to be led,
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dragged, carried bodily, almost, up the stairs, and into the little
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parlor where, on a table covered with a white crochet cover, burned a
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carefully trimmed lamp. There, on the sofa, the lover and the lady
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seated themselves.
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Truth before all things. The lady was not far from thirty-six or
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thirty-seven, and what is worse, could never have been pretty, or
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even passably good-looking. The smallpox had pitted and hardened her
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coarse skin, giving it the appearance of the leather bottom of a
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sieve. Her small black eyes, hard and bright like two fleas, matched
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well her nose, which was thick and ill-shaped, like the noses of the
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figures of lay monks stamped on chocolate. True, the mouth was
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fresh-colored, the teeth white and sound like those of a dog; but
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everything else pertaining to her--dress, manner, accent, the want of
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grace of the whole--was calculated rather to put tender thoughts to
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flight than to awaken them. With the lamp shining as brightly as it
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does, it is preferable to contemplate the lover. The latter is of
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medium height, has a graceful, well-proportioned figure, and in the
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turn of his head and in his youthful features there is something that
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irresistibly attracts and holds the gaze. His forehead, which is high
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and straight, is shaded and set off by luxuriant hair, worn somewhat
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longer than is allowed by our present severe fashion. His face, thin
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and delicately outlined, casts a shadow on the walls which is made up
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of acute angles. A mustache, curling with the grace which is peculiar
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to a first mustache, and to the wavy locks of a young girl, shades
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but does not cover his upper lip. The beard has not yet attained its
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full growth; the muscles of the throat have not yet become prominent;
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the Adam's apple does not yet force itself on the attention. The
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complexion is dark, pale, and of a slightly bilious hue.
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Seeing this handsome youth leaning his head on the shoulder of
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this woman of mature age and undisguised ugliness, it would have been
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natural to take them for mother and son, but anyone coming to this
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conclusion, after a single moment's observation, would have shown
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scant penetration, for in the manifestations of maternal affection,
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however passionate and tender they may be, there is always a
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something of dignity and repose which is wanting in those of every
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other affection.
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Doubtless Segundo felt a longing to see the moon again, for he
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rose almost immediately from his seat on the sofa and crossed over to
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the window, his companion following him. He threw open the sash, and
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they sat down side by side in two low chairs whose seats were on a
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level with the flower-pots. A fine carnation regaled the sense with
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its intoxicating perfume; the moon lighted up with her silvery rays
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the foliage of the poplar that cast broad shadow over the little
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square. Segundo opened the conversation this wise:
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"Have you made any cigars for me?"
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"Here are some," she answered, putting her hand into her pocket
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and drawing from it a bundle of cigars. "I was able to make only a
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dozen and a half for you. I will complete the two dozen to-night
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before I go to bed."
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There was a moment's silence, broken by the sharp sound made by
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the striking of the match and then, in a voice muffled by the first
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puff of smoke, Segundo went on:
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"Why, has anything new happened?"
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"New? No. The children--putting the house in order--and
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then--Minguitos. He made my head ache with his complaining--he
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complained the whole blessed evening. He said his bones ached. And
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you? Very busy, killing yourself reading, studying, writing, eh? Of
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course!"
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"No, I have been taking a delightful walk. I went to Peñas-albas
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and returned by way of Santa Margarita. I have seldom spent a
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pleasanter evening."
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"I warrant you were making verses."
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"No, my dear. The verses I made I made last night after leaving
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you."
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"Ah! And you weren't going to repeat them to me. Come, for the
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love of the saints, come, recite them for me, you must know them by
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heart. Come, darling."
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To this vehement entreaty succeeded a passionate kiss, pressed on
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the hair and forehead of the poet. The latter raised his eyes, drew
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back a little and, holding his cigar between his fingers after
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knocking off the ashes with his nail, proceeded to recite.
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The offspring of his muse was a poem in imitation of Becquer. His
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auditor, who listened to it with religious attention, thought it
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superior to anything inspired by the muse of the great Gustave. And
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she asked for another and then another, and then a bit of Espronceda
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and then a fragment or two of Zorrilla. By this time the cigar had
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gone out; the poet threw away the stump and lighted a fresh one. Then
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they resumed their conversation.
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"Shall we have supper soon?"
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"Directly. What do you think I have for you?"
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"I haven't the least idea."
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"Think of what you like best. What you like best, better than
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anything else."
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"Bah! You know that so far as I am concerned, provided you don't
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give me anything smoked or greasy----"
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"A French omelet! You couldn't guess, eh? Let me tell you--I
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found the receipt in a book. As I had heard that it was something
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good I wanted to try it. I had always made omelets as they make them
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here, so stiff, that you might throw one against the wall without
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breaking it. But this--I think it will be to your taste. As for me, I
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don't like it much, I prefer the old style. I showed Flores how to
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make it. What was in the one you ate at the inn at Orense? Chopped
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parsley, eh?"
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"No, ham. But what difference does it make what was in it?"
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"I'll run and take it out of the pantry! I thought--the book says
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parsley! Wait, wait."
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She overturned her chair in her haste. An instant later the
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jingling of her keys and the opening and closing of a couple of doors
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were heard in the distance. A husky voice muttered some
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unintelligible words in the kitchen. In two minutes she was back
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again.
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"Tell me, and those verses, are you not going to publish them? Am
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I not going to see them in print?"
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"Yes," responded the poet, slowly turning his head to one side
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and sending a puff of smoke through his lips. "I am going to send
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them to Vigo, to Roberto Blanquez, to insert them in the _Amanecer_."
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"I am delighted! You will become famous, sweetheart! How many
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periodicals have spoken of you?"
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Segundo laughed ironically and shrugged his shoulders.
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"Not many." And with a somewhat preoccupied air he let his gaze
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wander over the plants and far away over the top of the poplar whose
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leaves rustled gently in the breeze. The poet pressed his companion's
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hand mechanically, and the latter returned the pressure with
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passionate ardor.
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"Of course. How do you expect them to speak of you when you don't
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put your name to your verses?" she said. "They don't know whose they
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are. They are wondering, likely----"
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"What difference does the name make? They could say the same
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things of the pseudonym I have adopted as of Segundo García. The few
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people who will trouble themselves to read my verses will call me the
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Swan of Vilamorta."
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