La Gaviota
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“What can I do at present? Go and repose my head, prematurely bald, and cure my lacerated heart in the shade of the linden-trees which surround my father’s house. There, at least, they will not charge me with crime for having showed pity for a dying man.”
After the pause of a few minutes, the unhappy man made an effort. “Let us go, Fidele,” said he; “move on! move on!” and the traveller and his faithful animal pursued their painful route.
But soon the man lost the right path, which he had until now followed, and which had been beaten by the steps of the shepherds. The ground was covered more and more with briers and with high and thick bushes; it was impossible to follow a straight line; he must turn aside alternately to the right and left.
The sun had finished his course, and no part of the horizon discovered the least appearance of any human habitation. There was nothing to be seen but limitless solitude; nothing but the desert tinged with green, and uniform as the ocean.
Fritz Stein, whom our reader no doubt already recognizes, perceived too late that he had placed too much confidence in his strength. With pain and difficulty his swollen and aching feet could barely sustain him. His arteries throbbed with violence, a sharp pain racked his temples, an ardent thirst devoured him, and to heighten the horror of his situation, the deafening and prolonged bellowings announced the approach of some droves of wild bulls, so dangerous in Spain.
“God has saved me from many perils,” said the poor traveller; “he will yet protect me. If not, his will be done.”
He redoubled his speed; but what was his terror, when, after having passed a little plantation of mastic-trees, he found himself face to face with a bull!
Stein remained immovable, and, to say truly, petrified.
The animal, surprised at this encounter and at so much audacity, remained also without motion; his eyes were inflamed like two burning coals. The man immediately understood that at the least movement he was lost. The bull, who was, by instinct, conscious of his strength and his courage, waited to be provoked to fight; lowering and raising his head three or four times impatiently, he began to paw the earth and to fill the air with dust, in token of his defiance. Stein preserved his immobility. The animal then stepped one pace backward, lowered his head and prepared for the attack – when he felt himself bitten in the ham. At the same time the furious barking of his brave companion informed Stein who was his rescuer. The bull, full of rage, turned to repel this unlooked-for attack; Stein profited by this movement and took to flight. The horrible situation from which he had with so great difficulty escaped, gave him new strength to fly past the green oaks and through the briers, the thickness of which sheltered him from his formidable adversary.
He had already passed a little dale, and climbed a hillock, and then he stopped nearly out of breath. He turned round to observe the place of his perilous adventure. He saw through the clearing his poor companion, which the ferocious animal tossed in the air as if diverting himself.
Stein extended his arms towards his dog, so courageous, so devoted, and, sobbing, he exclaimed:
“Poor Fidele! poor Fidele! my only friend! you well merit your name! You pay dear for the affection you have shown for your masters.”
Then, to distract his thoughts from this frightful spectacle, Stein hurried on, shedding profuse tears. He thus arrived at the summit of another hill, where was spread open to his view a magnificent landscape. The ground sloped almost insensibly to the borders of the sea, which, calmly and tranquilly, reflected the last rays of the sun, and presented the appearance of a vast field spangled with rubies and sapphires.
The white sail of a vessel, which appeared as if held stationary by the waves, seemed detached like a pearl in the midst of these splendid riches.
The line formed by the coast was marvellously uneven; the shore seemed covered with golden sands, where the sea rolled its long silver fringes.
Bordering the coast, rose rocks whose gigantic boulders seemed to pierce the azure sky. In the distance, at the left, Stein discovered the ruins of a fort – human labor which could resist nothing; and whose base was the rock – divine work which resisted every thing: at the right he perceived a cluster of houses, without being able to perceive whether it was a village, a palace, or a convent.
Nearly exhausted by his last hurried walk, and by his saddened emotions, it was towards this point he would direct his steps. He could not reach it until night had set in. What he saw was, in fact, one of those convents constructed in the times of Christian faith and enthusiasm. The monastery had been in the olden time brilliant, sumptuous, and hospitable; now it was abandoned, poor, empty, dismantled, offered for sale – as was indicated by some strips of paper pasted on its ruined walls. Nobody, however, desired to purchase it, however low was the price asked.
The wide folding-doors which formerly offered an easy access to all comers, were now closed as if they would never again be opened.
Stein’s strength abandoned him, and he fell almost without consciousness upon a stone bench: the delirium of fever attacked his brain, and he was only aroused by the crowing of a cock.
Rising suddenly, Stein with pain walked to the door, took up a stone and knocked. A loud barking replied to his summons. He made another effort, knocked again; but his strength was exhausted – he sank on the ground.
The door was opened, and two persons appeared.
One of them was a young woman, holding a light in her hand, which she directed towards the object lying at her feet.
“Jesus!” she cried, “it is not Manuel – a stranger! God aid us!”
“Help him,” replied the other, a good and simple old woman. “Brother Gabriel! brother Gabriel!” she called out in entering the court, “come quickly, there is here an unfortunate man who is dying.”
Hurried steps were heard: they were those of an old man of ordinary height, with a placid and high complexioned face. His dress consisted of pantaloons and a large vest with gray sleeves, and the remnant of an old frock-coat; he had sandals on his feet; a cap of black wool covered his shiny forehead.
“Brother Gabriel,” said the elder female, “we must succor this man.”
“He must be cared for,” replied brother Gabriel.
“For God’s sake,” cried the woman who carried the light, “where can we place here a dying man?”
“We will do the best we can, my daughter, without being uneasy about the rest. Help me.”
“Would to God,” said Dolores, “that we may have no disagreement when Manuel returns.”
“It cannot be otherwise,” replied the good old woman, “than that the son will concur in what his mother has done.”
The three conveyed Stein to the chamber of brother Gabriel. They made up for him a bed with fresh straw, and a good large mattress filled with wool. Grandma Maria took out of a large chest a pair of sheets, if not very fine, at least very white. She then added a warm woollen counterpane.
Brother Gabriel wished to give up his pillow; the Grandma opposed it, saying she had two, and that one would suffice for her. During these preparations some one knocked loud at the door, and continued to knock.
“Here is Manuel,” said the young woman. “Come with me, mother; I do not wish to be alone with him, when he learns that we have admitted a stranger.”
The mother-in-law followed the steps of her daughter.
“God be praised! Good evening, mother; good evening, wife,” said, on entering, a strong and powerfully constructed man. He seemed to be thirty-eight to forty years old, and was followed by a child of about thirteen years.
“Come, Momo!2 unlade the ass and lead him to the stable; the poor beast is tired.”
Momo carried to the kitchen, where the family was accustomed to assemble, a supply of large loaves of white bread, some very plump woodcock, and his father’s cloak.
Dolores went and closed the door and then rejoined her husband and her mother in the kitchen.
“Have you brought my ham and my starch?” she asked.
“Here there are.”
“And my flax?”
“I had almost a desire to forget it,” answered Manuel, smiling, and handing some skeins to his mother.
“Why, my son?”
“Because I recollected that villager who went to the fair, and whom all the neighbors loaded with commissions: Bring me a hat, said one; Bring me a pair of gaiters, said another; a cousin asked for a comb; an aunt wished for some chocolate; and for all these commissions no one gave him a cuarto. He had already bestrode his mule, when a pretty little child came to him and said: ‘Here are two cuartos for a flageolet, will you bring me one?’ The child presented his money, the villager stooped, took it, and replied, ‘You shall be flageoleted.’ And in fact when he returned from the fair, of all the commissions they had given him he brought only the flageolet.”
“Be it so! it is well,” said the mother: “why do I pass every day in sewing? Is it not for thee and thy children? Do you wish that I imitate the tailor who worked for nothing, and furnished the thread below the cost?”
At this moment Momo reappeared on the threshold of the kitchen; he was small and fat, high shouldered; he had, besides, the bad habit to raise them without any cause, with an air of scorn and carelessness, almost to touch his large ears which hung out like fans. His head was enormous, his hair short, lips thick. Again – he squinted horribly.
“Father,” said he, with a malicious air, “there, is a man asleep in the chamber of brother Gabriel.”
“A man in my house!” cried Manuel, throwing away his chair. “Dolores, what does this mean?”
“Manuel, it is a poor invalid. Your mother would that we receive him: it was not my opinion: she insisted, what could I do?”
“It is well; but however she may be my mother, ought she for that to lodge here the first man that comes along?”
“No – he should be left to die at the door like a dog, is it not so?”
“But, my mother,” replied Manuel, “is my house a hospital?”
“No. It is the house of a Christian; and if you had been here you would have done as I did.”
“Oh! certainly not,” continued Manuel; “I would have put him on our ass and conducted him to the village, now there are no more convents.”
“We had not our ass here, and there was no one to take charge of this unfortunate man.”
“And if he is a robber?”
“Dying men do not rob.”
“And if his illness is long, who will take care of him?”
“They have just killed a fowl to make broth,” said Momo, “I saw the feathers in the court.”
“Have you lost your mind, mother!” cried Manuel furiously.
“Enough, enough,” said his mother, in a severe tone. “You ought to blush for shame to dare to quarrel with me because I have obeyed the law of God. If your father were still living, he would not believe that his son could refuse to open his door to the unfortunate, ill, without succor, and dying.”
Manuel bowed his head: there was a moment of silence.
“It is well, my mother,” he said, at last. “Forget that I have said any thing, and act according to your own judgment. We know that women are always right.”
Dolores breathed more freely.
“How good he is!” she said joyously to her mother-in-law.
“Could you doubt it?” she replied, smiling, to her daughter, whom she tenderly loved; and in rising to go and take her place at the couch of the invalid, she added:
“I have never doubted it, I who brought him into the world.”
And in passing near to Momo, she said to him:
“I already knew that you had a bad heart; but you have never proved it as you have to-day. I complain of you: you are wicked, and the wicked carry their own chastisement.”
“Old people are only good for sermonizing,” growled Momo, in casting a side look at his grandmother.
But he had scarcely pronounced this last word, when his mother, who had heard him, approached and applied a smart blow.
“That will teach you,” she said, “to be insolent to the mother of your father; towards a woman who is twice your mother.”
Momo began to cry, and took refuge at the bottom of the court, and vented his anger in bastinadoing the poor dog who had not offended him.
CHAPTER III
THE grandma and the brother Gabriel took the best care of the invalid; but they could not agree upon the method which should be adopted to cure him.
Maria, without having read Brown, recommended substantial soups, comforts, and tonics, because she conceived that Stein was debilitated and worn out.
Brother Gabriel, without ever having heard the name of Broussais pronounced, pleaded for refreshments and emollients, because, in his opinion, Stein had a brain fever, the blood heated and the skin hot.
Both were right, and with this double system, which blended the soups of the grandma with the lemonade of brother Gabriel, it happened that Stein recovered his life and his health the same day that the good woman killed the last fowl, and the brother divested the lemon-trees of their last fruit.
“Brother Gabriel,” said the grandma, “to which State corps do you think our invalid belongs? Is he military?”
“He must be military,” replied brother Gabriel, who, except in medical or horticultural discussions, had the habit of regarding the good woman as an oracle, and to be guided wholly by her opinion.
“If he were military,” continued the old woman, shaking her head, “he would be armed, and he is not armed. I found only a flute in his pocket. Then he is not military.”
“He cannot be military,” replied brother Gabriel.
“If he were a contrabandist?”
“It is possible he is a contrabandist,” said the good brother Gabriel.
“But no,” replied the old woman, “for to be a contrabandist, he should wear stuffs or jewelry, and he has nothing of these.”
“That is true, he cannot be a contrabandist,” affirmed brother Gabriel.
“See what are the titles of his books. Perhaps by that means we can discover what he is.”
The brother rose, took his horn spectacles, placed them on his nose, and the package of books in his hands, and approached the window which looked out on the grand court. His inspection of the books lasted a long time.
“Brother Gabriel,” asked the old woman, “have you forgotten to know how to read?”
“No – but I do not know these characters; I believe it is Hebrew.”
“Hebrew! Holy Virgin of Heaven, can he be a Jew?”
At that moment, Stein, awaking from a long lethargy, addressed him, and said in German:
“Mein Gott, wo bin ich? My God, where am I?”
The old woman sprang with one bound to the middle of the chamber; brother Gabriel let fall the books, and remained petrified after opening his eyes as large as his spectacles.
“In what language have you spoken?” she demanded.
“It must be Hebrew, like these books,” answered brother Gabriel. “Perhaps he is a Jew, as you said, good Maria.”
“God help us!” she cried. “But no, if he were a Jew, would we not have seen it on his back when we undressed him?”
“Good Maria,” replied the brother, “the holy father said that this belief which attributes to a Jew a tail at his back is nonsense, a piece of bad wit, and that the Jews laugh at it.”
“Brother Gabriel,” replied the good Mama Maria, “since this holy constitution, all is changed, all is metamorphosed. This clique, who govern to-day in place of the king, wish that nothing should remain of what formerly existed; it is for that they no longer permit the Jews to wear tails on their backs, although they always before carried them, as does the devil. If the holy father said to the contrary it is because it is obligatory, as they are obliged to say at Mass, ‘Constitutional king.’ ”
“That may be so,” said the monk.
“He is not a Jew,” pursued the old woman; “rather is he a Turk or a Moor, who has been shipwrecked on our coast.”
“A pirate of Morocco,” replied the good brother, “it may be.”
“But then he would wear a turban and yellow slippers, like the Moor I have seen thirty years ago, when I was in Cadiz. They called him the Moor Seylan. How handsome he was! But for me his beauty was nothing: he was not a Christian. After all, be he Jew or Moor let us relieve him.”
“Assist him, Jew or Christian,” repeated the brother. And they both approached the bed.
Stein had raised himself up in a sitting position, and regarded with astonishment all the objects by which he was surrounded.
“He does not understand what we say to him,” said the good Maria. “Let us try, nevertheless.”
“Let us try,” added Gabriel.
In Spain, the common people believe that the best way to make themselves understood is to speak very loud. Maria and Gabriel, with this conviction, cried out both together: “Will you have some soup?” said Maria. “Will you have some lemonade?” said the brother.
Stein, whose ideas became clearer little by little, asked in Spanish:
“Where am I? who are you?”
“He,” replied the old woman, “is brother Gabriel; I am grandma Maria, and we are both at your orders.”
“Ah!” said Stein, “from whom do you take your names? The holy archangel and the holy Virgin, guardians of the sick and consolers of the afflicted, will recompense you for your good action.”
“He speaks Spanish!” cried Maria with emotion; “and he is a Christian! and he knows the litanies!”
In her access of joy, she approached Stein, pressed him in her arms and bravely kissed his forehead.
“Decidedly, who are you?” she said, after having made him take a bowl of soup. “How, ill and dying, have you reached this depopulated village?”
“I am called Stein, and I am a surgeon. I was in the war at Navarre. I came by Estremadura to seek a port whence I could embark for Cadiz, and then regain Germany, my country. I lost myself in my route: I made a thousand detours and finished by arriving here, worn out by fatigue and ready to give up the ghost.”
“You see,” said Maria to brother Gabriel, “that his books are not in the Hebrew language, but in the language of surgeons.”
“That’s true,” repeated brother Gabriel.
“And which party do you belong to?” asked the old woman. “Don Carlos, or the other?”
“I serve in the troops of the Queen,” replied Stein.
Maria turned towards her companion, and with an expressive gesture, said in a low voice:
“He is not with the good.”
“He was not with the good,” repeated brother Gabriel, in bowing his head.
“But where am I?” again demanded Stein.
“You are,” replied the old woman, “in a convent which is no longer a convent. It is a body without a soul. There remain but the walls, the white cross, and brother Gabriel. The others have taken away all the rest. When there was nothing more to take, some gentlemen whom they call the public credit searched for a good man to guard the convent – that is to say, its carcass. They heard my son spoken of, and we came and established ourselves here, where I live with my son, the only one who would remain. When we entered into the convent, the fathers went away. Some retired to America or rejoined the missions in China; some returned to their families; some demanded their subsistence or work, or had recourse to alms. We have with us a monk, borne down by age and grief, who, seated on the steps of the white cross, weeps sometimes for the absent brethren, sometimes for the convent which they have abandoned. ‘Will not your Reverence come here,’ a child but lately attached to the services of the chapel said to him. ‘Where would you that I go?’ he replied. ‘I will never go away from these walls, where I was, poor and an orphan, received by the good fathers. I know nobody in the world, and know nothing but how to take care of the garden of the convent. Where shall I go? What shall I do? I can live only here.’ ‘Then remain with us.’ ‘Well said, mother,’ replied my son; ‘we are seven seated at the same table; we will be eight, and, as the proverb says, We will eat more, and we will eat less.’ ”
“Thanks to this act of charity,” said Gabriel, “I remain here, I take charge of the garden; but since they have sold the large pump, I do not know how to water a foot of ground; the orange and lemon trees dry up under my feet.”
“Brother Gabriel,” continued the grandma, “will not quit these walls to which he is attached like the ivy; he also says, ‘Very well, there remain but the walls. The barbarians! They have proved this maxim: Destroy the nest, the birds will never come back again.’ ”
“Notwithstanding,” hazarded Stein, “I have heard said there are too many convents in Spain.”
Maria fixed her black sparkling eyes on the German, and said to herself in an undertone:
“Were our first suspicions well founded?”
CHAPTER IV
THE end of October had been rainy, and November sheltered herself under her thick green mantle.
Stein took a walk one day in front of the convent. A magnificent panorama presented itself to his sight: at the right, the limitless sea; at the left, solitude without end. Between them, on the horizon, was painted the black profile of the fort San Cristobal. The sea undulated softly, in raising without effort the waves gilded by the sun’s rays, like a queen who spreads out her gorgeous mantle.
Not far from thence was situated the village of Villamar, near a river as impetuous during winter, as calm and muddy during summer. The grounds around, well cultivated, presented the aspect of a chess-board, where each square revealed the thousand shades of green. Here shone the warm tints of the vine, then covered with leaves; there, the ash-colored green of the olive-tree; the emerald green of the fig-trees, which the rains of autumn had imparted growth to; further off still, the bluish-green hedges of aloes. At the mouth of the river were collected several fishermen’s boats.
Near the convent, upon a light hillock, stood a chapel; in front, a cross based on a block of masonry whitened with lime; behind this cross, a retreat of verdure: it was the cemetery. Stein went there to meditate upon the powerful magic of the works of nature, when he saw Momo leaving the farm and going towards the village. In perceiving Stein, Momo proposed to him to accompany him, and they both commenced their route. They arrived soon at the top of the hillock, near the cross and the chapel. This ascension, however short and easy, had taken away Stein’s strength, who was yet scarcely convalescent. He rested an instant; then he entered the chapel, whose walls were covered with “exvotos.” Among these exvotos there was one which singularly attracted by its strangeness. The front of the altar contracted itself towards the base in describing a curved line. Stein perceived there in the obscurity an object supported against the wall, and the form of which he could not distinguish. Fixing his earnest scrutiny on this object, he became assured it was a carbine. The size was such, and the weight must have been so great that it was incomprehensible how one single man could have the strength to place it in that position: it is but the reflection which is always inspired by the sight of the armor of the middle ages. The mouth of the carbine was so large that an orange could easily be introduced. The arm was broken, and the pieces were artistically put together by means of little cords.
“Momo,” said Stein, “what does this signify? Is it really a carbine?”
“In looking at it,” replied Momo, “it seems to me to be one.”
“But why do they place a murderous weapon in this holy and peaceful place? In truth, it is not sense to arm Christ with a pair of pistols.”
“But see, then,” replied Momo, “the carbine is not placed in the hands of our Lord; it is at his feet, as an offering. The day on which this carbine was brought here, they called this Christ, the Christ of Good Help.”
“And from what motive?” demanded Stein.
“For what motive!” said Momo in opening his eyes, “everybody knows that, and you know it not!”
“Have you forgotten that I am a stranger?” replied. Stein.
“That is true; I will tell you then: there was formerly in this country a highway robber who did not content himself with robbing, he murdered the people as if they were insects, whether from hatred, whether from fear of being denounced, or whether from caprice. One day two men of this village, two brothers, would undertake a journey. All their friends assembled to conduct them part of the way. There were abundance of good wishes that they might not encounter the bandit who gave quarter to no one, and who terrified everybody. But they, good children, commended themselves to Christ, and departed full of confidence in his protection. At the entrance of a wood of olives, they found themselves face to face with the robber, who came before them, with carbine in hand, rested his gun and aimed. In this extreme peril the two brothers fell on their knees, addressing themselves to Christ: ‘Help us, Lord!’ The bandit pulled the trigger, but whose soul was launched into another world? It was that of the robber: God caused the carbine to burst in the hands of the bandit. And you see now that, in memory of this miraculous assistance, they repaired the carbine with cords, and deposited it here, and it is the Christ who, since then, we implore help from. You knew nothing about it, Don Frederico?”