La Gaviota

CHAPTER VII

THE following day Maria set off for the house of the invalid, in company with Stein and Momo, foot-equerry to his grandmother, who travelled mounted on the philosophic Golondrina. The animal, always good, gentle, and docile, trotted on the road, the head lowered, ears depressed, without making a single rough movement, except when he encountered a thistle in proximity with his nostrils.

When they were arrived, Stein was astonished to find, in the middle of this arid country, of a nature so dry and so sterile, a village so leafy and so coquettish.

The sea had formed, between two great rocks, a little circular creek, and surrounded by a coast of the finest sand, which appeared like a plateau of crystal placed on a table of gold. Several rocks showed themselves timidly, as if they wished to repose themselves, and be seated on the tranquil shore. At one of them was made fast a fisherman’s bark; balancing herself at the will of the waves, she seemed as impatient as a horse reined in.

On one side of the rocks was elevated the fort of San Cristobal, crowned by the peaks of wild figs, like the head of an old Druid adorned with green oak-leaves.

The fisherman had constructed his cabin with the wrecked remains of his vessel, which the sea had thrown on the coast; he had based all against the rocks, which formed, in some sort, three stories of the habitation. The roof was horizontal, and covered with aquatica, the first layer of which, rotted by the rains, had given growth to a great quantity of herbs and of flowers; so that in the autumn, when the dryness disappeared with the heat of summer, the cabin appeared covered as with a delicious garden.

When the persons just arrived entered the cabin, they found the fisherman sad and cast down, seated near the fire, opposite to his daughter; who, her hair in disorder, and falling down on both sides of her pale face, bent up and shivering, her emaciated limbs enveloped in a rag of brown flannel. She seemed to be not more than thirteen years of age. The invalid turned, with an expression of but little kindliness, her large, black, and sullen eyes upon the persons who entered, and instantly sank down anew in the corner of the chimney.

“Pedro,” said Maria, “you forget your friends, but they do not forget you. Will you tell me why the good God has given you a mouth? Could you not have let me known of the illness of the little girl? If you had let me known of it sooner, I had sooner come with this gentleman, who is such a doctor as is seldom seen, and who in no time will cure your daughter.”

Pedro Santalo rose brusquely, and advanced to Stein; he would speak to him, but he was so overcome with emotion that he could not articulate a single word, and he covered his face with his hands. He was a man already advanced in life, his aspect sufficiently rude, and his form colossal. His countenance, bronzed by the sun, was crowned by a gray head of hair, thick and uncombed; his breast, red as that of an Ohio Indian, was also covered with hair.

“Come, Pedro!” said Maria, from whose eyes the tears began to flow at the sight of the poor father’s despair; “a man like you, big as a church, a man they believe ready to devour infants uncooked, to be discouraged thus without reason! Come! I see here nothing but what appears solid.”

“Good mother Maria,” replied the fisherman, in a feeble voice, “I count, with this one, five children in their tombs.”

“My God! and why thus lose courage? Remember the saint whose name you bear, and who threw himself into the sea when he had lost the faith which sustained him. I tell you that, with the grace of God, Don Frederico will cure the child in as little time as you could call on Jesus.”

Pedro sadly shook his head.

“How obstinate are these Catalans!” said Maria, with a little anger; and passing before the fisherman, she approached the invalid: “Come, Marisalada, come; rise up, daughter, that this gentleman may examine you.”

Marisalada did not stir.

“Come, my daughter,” repeated the good woman; “you will see that he will cure you as by enchantment.” At these words, she took the girl by the arm, and wished to raise her up.

“I have no desire,” said the invalid, rudely disengaging herself from the hand which held her.

“The daughter is as sweet as the father; ‘he who inherits steals not,’ ” murmured Momo, who appeared at the door.

“It is her illness that renders her impatient,” added the father, to exculpate his child.

Marisalada had an access of coughing. The fisherman wrung his hands with grief.

“A fresh cold,” said Maria; “come, come, it is not a very extraordinary thing. But then he will consent to what this child does; the cold she takes, running, with naked feet and legs, on the rocks and on the ice.”

“She would do it,” replied Pedro.

“And why not give her healthy food – good soups, milk, eggs? But no, she eats only fish.”

“She does not wish them,” replied the father, with dejection.

“She dies from negligence,” suggested Momo, who, with arms crossed, was posted against the door-post.

“Will you put your tongue in your pocket!” said his grandma to him. She returned towards Stein:

“Don Frederico, try and examine our invalid, as she will not move, for she will let herself die rather than make a movement.”

Stein commenced by asking of the father some details of the illness of his daughter. He then approached the young girl who was drowsy, he remarked that the lungs were too compressed in their right cavity, and were irritated by the oppression. The case was grave, the invalid was feeble, from want of proper food; the cough was hard and dry, the fever constant; the consumption indeed would not allow it to pause.

“Has she always had a taste for singing?” demanded the old woman during the examination.

“She would sing crucified, like the bald mice,” said Momo, turning away his head, that the wind would carry his hard speech, and that his grandma could not hear him.

“The first thing to do,” said Stein, “is to forbid this girl to expose herself to the rigors of the season.”

“Do you hear, my child?” said the father with anxiety.

“She must,” continued Stein, “wear shoes and dress warm.”

“If she will not?” cried the fisherman, rising suddenly, and opening a box of cedar, from whence he took numerous objects of toilet.

“Nothing is wanting: all that I have and all that I can amass are hers. Maria! my daughter! you will put on this clothing! Do this for the love of heaven! – Mariquita, you see it is what the doctor orders.”

Marisalada, who was aroused by the noise made by her father, cast an irritated look on Stein, and said to him in a sharp voice:

“Who governs me?”

“And say that they do not give this government to me, by means of a good branch of wild olive!” murmured Momo.

“She must have,” continued Stein, “good nourishment, and substantial soups.”

Maria made an expressive gesture of approbation at the same time.

“She should be nourished with milk diet, and chickens, and fresh eggs.”

“Did I not tell you so!” interrupted the old woman, exchanging a look with Pedro: “Don Frederico is the best doctor in the world.”

“Take care that she does not sing,” remarked Stein.

“Am I never to listen to her again?” cried poor Pedro with grief.

“See, then, what a misfortune!” replied Maria. “Let her be cured, and then she can sing night and day, like the ticking of a watch. But I think it will be best to have her taken to me, for there is no one to nurse her, nor any one who knows like me how to make good soup for her.”

“I can prove that,” said Stein, smiling, “and I assure you one might set before a king a soup prepared by my good nurse.”

Maria never felt more happy.

“Thus, Pedro, it is useless talking of it; I will take her home.”

“Remain without her! no, no, it is impossible.”

“Pedro, Pedro, it is not thus we should love our children,” replied Maria. “To love them is to do above all that which will benefit them.”

“So let it be!” replied the fisherman, rising with resolution; “I place her in your hands, I confide her to this doctor’s care, and commend her to the divine goodness.”

With difficulty could he pronounce these last words, which flowed rapidly, as if he feared to recall his determination; and he went to harness his ass.

“Don Frederico,” asked Maria, when they were alone with the invalid, who remained drowsy, “is it not true, that, with God’s help, we will cure her?”

“I hope so,” replied Stein; “I cannot tell you how much this poor father interests me.”

Maria made a package of the linen which the fisherman had taken out of the box, and Pedro came back leading the ass by the bridle. They placed the invalid on the saddle: the young girl, enfeebled by the fever, opposed no resistance. Before Maria had mounted Golondrina, who appeared quite content to return in company with Urca (name given to a great sea-fish, and which was that of Pedro’s ass), the fisherman took Maria aside, and said to her, in trying to slip some pieces of gold in her hand:

“This is all I could save from my shipwreck, take it, and give it to the doctor, for all I have is for him who can give me back my daughter.”

“Keep your gold,” replied Maria, “and know, in the first place, it is God who has conducted the doctor hither; in the second place – it is I.”

Maria pronounced these last words with a light tinge of vanity.

They commenced their journey.

“Do not stop, grandma,” said Momo, who walked behind; “however large may be the convent, it must be filled with people. Eh! what? the cabin was not good enough for the Princess Gaviota?”

“Momo,” replied the grandma, “mind your own affairs.”

“But what do you see in her? And what touches you in this wild Gaviota, to take her thus under your care?”

“Momo, a proverb says, ‘Who is thy sister? thy nearest neighbor;’ another adds, ‘Wipe the nose of thy neighbor’s child, and take her to thee.’ And here is the moral: ‘Treat thy neighbor as thyself.’ ”

“There is yet another proverb,” added Momo, “which says, ‘He is mad who occupies himself about others.’ But it is of no use. You were obstinate about raising the palm to San Juan de Dios.”

“You will not be the angel to aid me,” said Maria with sadness.

Dolores received the invalid with open arms, as approving the resolution of her mother-in-law.

Pedro Santalo, who had accompanied his daughter, called the charitable nurse before he returned, and, putting the pieces of gold in her hand, said —

“This is to defray the expenses, and that she may want for nothing. As to your care, God will recompense you.”

The good old woman hesitated an instant, took the gold, and said —

“It is well, she shall want for nothing. Depart without uneasiness, Pedro, your daughter is in good hands.”

The poor father went away hurriedly, and did not stop till he reached the coast. Then he returned to the side of the convent, and wept with bitterness.

Maria said to Momo: “Bestir yourself. Go to the village, and bring me a ham from Serrano’s, who will please send me a good one, when he knows it is for a poor sick girl. Bring me at the same time a pound of sugar and a quart of almonds.”

“Just so, always sent about! Throw away every thing you possess,” cried Momo. “Think you they will give me all this on credit, and for my handsome face?”

“Here is to pay for them,” replied the grandma, and she placed in his hand a piece of gold of four duros (about 4 dollars).

“Gold!” cried Momo, stupefied: for the first time in his life he saw this metal in the form of money. “From what demons have you snatched this?”

“What is it to you?” replied Maria; “don’t worry yourself.”

“It needs no more than this,” replied Momo, “that I serve as domestic to this magpie, this accursed Gaviota! I will not go.”

“Go, boy, at once, and nimbly too.”

“Ha! Well – no, I will not go; I will not annoy myself,” repeated Momo.

“José,” said Maria, on seeing the shepherd go out, “do you go to the village?”

“Yes, Señora; what orders have you for me?”

The good woman gave him the commission, and added —

“This Momo has a bad heart, and will not go. And I have not the strength to complain to his father, who would make him march quickly, and caress him in a manner to break his bones.”

“Yes, yes, do every thing to take care of this crow who will tear out your eyes,” said Momo. “You will receive payment in the trouble she will give you; if it is not so now, it will be in time.”

CHAPTER VIII

A MONTH after the scenes we have described, Marisalada was more sensible, and did not show the least desire to return to her father’s. Stein was completely re-established; his good-natured character, his modest inclinations, his natural sympathies, attached him every day more to the peaceful habits of the simple and generous persons among whom he dwelt. He felt relieved from his former discouragements, and his mind was invigorated; he was cordially resigned to his present existence, and to the men with whom he associated.

One afternoon, Stein, leaning against an angle of the convent which faced the sea, admired the grand spectacle which the opening of the winter season presented to his view. Above his head floated a triple bed of sombre clouds, forced along by the impetuous wind. Those lower down, black and heavy, seemed like the cupola of an ancient cathedral in ruins, threatening at each instant to sink down. When reduced to water, they fell to the ground. There was visible the second bed, less sombre and lighter, defying the wind which chased them, and separating at intervals sought other clouds, more coquettish and more vaporous, which they hurried into space, as if they feared to soil their white robes by coming in contact with their companions.

“Are you a sponge, Don Frederico, so to like to receive all the water which falls from heaven?” demanded José, the shepherd, of Stein. “Let us enter, the roofs are made expressly for such nights as these. My sheep would give much to shelter themselves under some tiles.”

Stein and the shepherd entered, and found the family assembled around the hearth.

At the left of the chimney, Dolores, seated on a low chair, held her infant, who, turning his back to his mother, supported himself on the arm which encircled him, like the balustrade of a balcony; he moved about incessantly his little legs and his small bare arms, laughing, and uttering joyous cries addressed to his brother Anis. This brother, gravely seated opposite the fire, on the edge of an empty earthen pan, remained stiff and motionless, fearing that, losing his equilibrium, he would be tossed into the said earthen pan, an accident which his mother had predicted.

Maria was sewing at the right side of the chimney; her grand-daughters had for seats dry aloe-leaves, excellent seats, light, solid, and sure. Nearly under the drapery of the chimney-piece slept the hairy Palomo, and a cat, the grave Morrongo, tolerated from necessity, but remaining, by common consent, at a respectful distance from each other.

In the middle of this group there was a little low table, on which burned a lamp of four jets; close to the table the brother Gabriel was seated, making baskets of the palm-tree; Momo was engaged in repairing the harness of the good “Swallow” (the ass); and Manuel, cutting up tobacco. On the fire was conspicuous a stew-pan full of Malaga potatoes, white wine, honey, cinnamon, and cloves. The humble family waited with impatience till the perfumed stew should be sufficiently cooked.

“Come on! Come on!” cried Maria, when she saw her guest and the shepherd enter. “What are you doing outside in weather like this? ’Tis said a hurricane has come to destroy the world. Don Frederico, here, here! come near the fire. Do you know that the invalid has supped like a princess, and that at present she sleeps like a queen! Her cure progresses well – is it not so, Don Frederico?”

“Her recovery surpasses my hopes.”

“My soups!” added Maria with pride.

“And the ass’s milk,” said brother Gabriel quietly.

“There is no doubt,” replied Stein, “and she ought to continue to take it.”

“I oppose it not,” said Maria, “because ass’s milk is like the turnip – if it does no good it does no harm.”

“Ah! how pleasant it is here!” said Stein, caressing the children. “If one could only live in the enjoyment of the present, without thought of the future!”

“Yes, yes, Don Frederico,” joyfully cried Manuel, “ ‘Media vida es la candela; pan y vino, la otra media.’ ” (Half of life is the candle; bread and wine are the other half)

“And what necessity have you to dream of the future?” asked Maria. “Will the morrow make us the more love to-day? Let us occupy ourselves with to-day, so as not to render painful the day to come.”

“Man is a traveller,” replied Stein, “he must follow his route.”

“Certainly,” replied Maria, “man is a traveller; but if he arrives in a quarter where he finds himself well off, he would say, ‘We are well here, put up our tents.’ ”

“If you wish us to lose our evening by talking of travelling,” said Dolores, “we will believe that we have offended you, or that you are not pleased here.”

“Who speaks of travelling in the middle of December?” demanded Manuel. “Goodness of heaven! Do you not see what disasters there are every day on the sea? hear the singing of the wind! Will you embark in this weather, as you were embarked in the war of Navarre, for, as then, you would come out mortified and ruined.”

“Besides,” added Maria, “the invalid is not yet entirely cured.”