Висенте Бласко-Ибаньес
The Dead Command
On going down to Can Mallorquí he found the farmhouse closed. Nobody! His footsteps did not even arouse the dog that lived under the porch. The vigilant animal had also gone to the fiesta with the family.
"They've all gone to the dance," thought Febrer. "Suppose I go to the pueblo myself!"
He hesitated for awhile. What could he do there? He detested these diversions in which the presence of a stranger aroused animosity among the peasants. They preferred to remain by themselves. Should he, at his age, and with his austere appearance, that inspired only respect and chill, go and dance with an island maiden? He would have to keep near Pèp and the other men, breathing the odor of native tobacco, discussing the almond crop and the possibility of a frost, making an effort to bring his mind down to the level of these peasant farmers.
At last he decided to go. He dreaded solitude. Rather than spend the rest of the afternoon alone he preferred the dull, monotonous, conversation of the simple folk, a restful conversation, he said to himself, which did not compel him to think, and which left his mind in a state of sweet, animal calm.
Near San José he saw the Spanish flag floating over the roof of the alcalde's office, while the hollow beating of a drum, the bucolic quavering of a flute, and the snapping of castanets, reached his ears.
The dance took place in front of the church. The young people were formed into groups, standing near the musicians, who occupied low seats. The drummer, with his round instrument resting on one knee, beat the parchment with rhythmical strokes, while his companion blew on a long, wooden flute, carved with primitive designs. The Little Chaplain was flipping castanets as enormous as the shells brought in by Tío Ventolera.
The girls, their arms about each other's waists, or leaning against their shoulders, glanced with modest hostility at the young men, who strutted through the center of the plaza, hands in belts, broad felt hats thrust back to show the curls hanging over their foreheads, embroidered kerchiefs or ribbon cravats around their necks, wearing sandals of immaculate whiteness, almost concealed by the bell of the velveteen trousers cut in the shape of an elephant's foot.
At one side of the plaza, seated on a hummock or on chairs from the nearby tavern, were the mothers and old women; matrons anemic and saddened in their relative youth by excessive procreation and the hardships of rural life, with eyes sunken in a blue circle that seemed to reveal internal disorders, wearing on their breasts the gold chains of their youthful days, their sleeves decorated with silver buttons. The old women, coppery and wrinkled, wearing dark dresses, sighed grievously at sight of the merriment among the young girls and boys.
After gazing for some time at these people who scarcely yielded him a glance, he placed himself beside Pèp in a circle of old peasants. They received the gentleman from the tower with respectful silence, and after puffing a few mouthfuls of smoke from pipes filled with native tobacco, they resumed their stupid conversation about the probable severity of the approaching winter and the prospects of the coming crop of almonds.
The drum continued beating, the flute shrilled, the enormous castanets clanked, but not a couple sprang into the center of the plaza. The swains seemed to confer with indecision, as if each were afraid to venture first. Besides, the unexpected presence of the Majorcan gentleman somewhat intimidated the bashful girls.
Jaime felt someone nudge his elbow. It was the Little Chaplain, who whispered mysteriously into his ear, at the same time pointing with a finger: "There's Pere the Ironworker, the famous vèrro." He designated a youth of less than medium stature, but arrogant and ostentatious in his appearance. The young men were grouped around the hero. The Minstrel was talking animatedly with him, and he was listening with condescending gravity, spitting through his half-open lips, and admiring himself for the distance to which he sent the stream of saliva.
Suddenly the Little Chaplain sprang into the center of the plaza, flourishing his hat. What, were they going to spend the whole afternoon listening to the flute without dancing? He ran to the group of damsels and grasped the biggest one by the hands, dragging her after him: "You!" he called. This was invitation enough. The more rudely he slapped her arm the greater was the compliment.
The mischievous youth stood facing his partner, an arrogant and ugly girl with coarse hands, oily hair, and swarthy face, nearly a head taller than himself. Suddenly turning toward the musicians, the boy protested. He did not want to dance the "llarga"; he wanted to dance the "curta." The "long" and the "short" were the only two dances known on the island. Febrer had never been able to distinguish between them—a simple variation of rhythm, otherwise the music and the step seemed identical.
The girl, with one arm bent against her waist in the form of a handle, and the other hanging down, began to whirl slowly. She had nothing else to do; this was her entire dance. She lowered her eyes, curled her lips as if performing a vigorous task, and with a gesture of virtuous scorn, as if dancing against her will, she turned and turned, tracing great figure eights. It was the man who really did the dancing. This traditional reel, invented, doubtless, by the first settlers of the island, lusty pirates of the heroic age, illustrated the eternal history of the human race, the pursuing and hunting of the female. She whirled, cold and unfeeling, with the asexual hauteur of a rude virtue, fleeing from his springing and contortions, presenting her back to him with a gesture of scorn, while his fatiguing duty consisted in placing himself ever before her eyes, obstructing her path, coming out to meet her so that she should see and admire him. The dancer sprang and sprang, following no rule whatever, with no other restraint than the rhythm of the music, rebounding from the ground with tireless elasticity. Sometimes he would open his arms with a masterful gesture of domination, again he would fold them across his back, kicking his feet in the air.
It was a gymnastic exercise rather than a dance, the delirium of an acrobat, a phrenetic movement like the war dances of African tribes. The woman neither perspired nor flushed; she continued her turning, coldly, never accelerating her pace, while her companion, dizzy from his velocity, panted for breath with reddened face, at last retiring tremulous with fatigue. Every girl could dance with several men, exhausting them without effort. It was the triumph of feminine passiveness, laughing at the arrogant ostentation of the opposite sex, knowing that in the end she would witness his humiliation.
The appearance of the first couple drew out the others. In a moment the entire open space before the musicians was covered with heavy skirts, beneath whose rigid and multiple folds moved the small feet in white hempen sandals or yellow shoes. The broad bells of the pantaloons vibrated with the rapid movement of the springing or the energetic stamping which raised clouds of dust. Manly arms chose with gallant slap among the clustered maidens. "You!" And this monosyllable followed the tug of conquest, the blows which were equivalent to a momentary title of possession, all the extremes of a crude, ancestral predilection, of a gallantry inherited from remote forbears of the dark epoch when the club, the stone, and the hand-to-hand struggle were the first declaration of love.
Some youths who had allowed themselves to be preceded by others more bold in the choice of partners, stood near the musicians watching for a chance to succeed to their companions. When they saw a dancer red-faced and perspiring, making every effort to continue, they approached him, grasping him by the arm and flinging him aside, and calling, "Leave her to me!" And they took his place with no other explanation, springing and pursuing the girl with the ardor of fresh energy, while she did not seem to notice the change, for she continued her turning with lowered eyes and disdainful mien.
Jaime had not seen Margalida at first, as she was surrounded by her companions, but soon he recognized her among the dancers.
Beautiful Almond Blossom! Febrer thought her more lovely than ever as he compared her with her friends, brown and tanned by the sun and by toil. Her white skin, its flower-like delicacy, with the deep and brilliant eyes of a gentle little animal, her graceful figure, and even the softness of her hands, set her apart, as if she belonged to a different race from her dusky companions, seductive on account of their youth, lively, good-natured, but who seemed to be chopped out with an axe.
Looking at her, Jaime thought that in a different atmosphere she might have been an adorable creature. He divined in Almond Blossom countless delicate ways, of which she herself was unconscious. What a pity that she had been born in this island which she would never leave! And her beauty would be for some of those barbarians who admired her with a canine stare of eagerness! Perhaps she was destined for the Ironworker, that odious vèrro, who seemed to patronize them all with his gloomy eyes!
When she married she would cultivate the soil like the other women; her flower-like whiteness would fade and turn yellow; her hands would become black and scaly; she would be like her mother and all the old peasant women, a female skeleton, bent and knaggy, like the trunk of an olive tree. These thoughts saddened Febrer, as a great injustice. How had the simple Pèp, who stood beside him, produced this offspring? What obscure combination of race had made it possible for Margalida to be born in Can Mallorquí? Must this mysterious and perfumed flower of peasant stock fade as would the woodland buds growing beside her?
Suddenly something unusual distracted Febrer's mind from these thoughts. The flute, the tambourine, and the castanets continued playing, the dancers sprang, the girls turned, but a gleam of alarm shone in the eyes of all, an expression of defensive solidarity. The old men ceased their conversation, glancing in the direction of the women. "What is it? What is it?" The Little Chaplain ran about among the couples, whispering into the ears of the dancers. These dashed from the circle, their hands in their belts, and after disappearing for a few seconds returned immediately to take their places, while the girls continued turning.
Pèp smiled lightly as he guessed what had happened, and he whispered to the señor. "It is nothing; just what happens at every dance." There had been danger, and the boys had put their equipment in a safe place.
This "equipment" consisted of the pistols and knives which the boys carried as a testimony of citizenship. For an instant Febrer saw flash in the light stupendous and enormous weapons, marvelously concealed on those spare, thin bodies. The old women beckoned with their bony hands, eager to share the risk, the vehemence of an aggressive heroism shining in their eyes. "These accursed times of impiety in which decent people are molested when they were following ancient customs! Here! Here!" And grasping the deadly weapons they hid them beneath the circle made by their innumerable layers of petticoats and skirts. The young mothers settled themselves in their seats and broadened the angle of their bulky legs, as if to offer greater hiding space for the warlike implements. The women looked at each other with bellicose resolution. Let those evil souls dare to approach! They would suffer being torn to shreds before they would stir from their places.
Febrer saw something glittering down a roadway leading to the church. They were leather straps and guns, and above these the white brims of the three-cocked hats of a pair of civil guards.
The two defenders of the peace slowly approached, with a certain hesitation, convinced, no doubt, of having been seen in the distance and of arriving too late. Jaime was the only one who looked at them; the rest pretended not to see, holding their heads low or looking in a different direction. The musicians played more vehemently, but the couples began to retire. The girls deserted the young men and joined the group of women.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen!"
To this greeting from the elder of the guards the drum replied by ceasing to beat and leaving the flute unaccompanied. This whined a few notes which seemed an ironic answer to the salutation.
A long silence fell. Some answered the greeting with a light "Tengui!" but they all pretended not to see, and glanced in another direction, as if the guards were not there.
The painful silence seemed to annoy the two soldiers.
"Vaya! Go on with your diversion. Don't stop on our account!"
He gave a sign to the musicians, and they, incapable of disobeying authority in anything, produced a music more brisk and diabolically gay than before; but they might as well be playing to the dead! Everyone stood silent and glowering, wondering how this unexpected visit would end.
The guards, accompanied by the beating of the drum, the musical capering of the flute, and the dry and strident laughter of the castanets, began moving about among the groups of young men, looking them over.
"You young gallant," said the leader with paternal authority, "hands up!"
The one designated obeyed tamely without the slightest intent of resistance, almost vain of this distinction. He knew his duty. The Ivizan was born to work, to live, and—to be searched. Noble inconveniences of being valorous, and of being held in a certain fear! Every youth seeing in the searching a testimony of his worth, raised his arms and thrust forward his abdomen, lending himself with satisfaction to the fumbling of the guards, while he glanced proudly toward the group of girls.
Febrer noticed that the two officers pretended to ignore the presence of the Ironworker. They acted as if they did not recognize him; they turned their backs, making visible display of paying no attention to him.
Pèp spoke to Febrer in a low voice, with an accent of admiration. Those men with the tricorne hats knew more than the devil himself; by not searching the vèrro they almost offered him an insult; they showed that they had no fear of him; they set him apart from the rest, exempting him from an operation to which everyone else was compelled to submit. Whenever they met the vèrro in the company of other young men, they searched those, without ever touching him. For this reason the boys, through fear of losing their weapons, finally avoided going out with the hero, and they shunned him as an attractor of danger.
The searching continued to the sound of music. The Little Chaplain followed the guards on their evolutions, always placing himself before the elder one, with his hands in his belt, looking at him fixedly, with an expression half threatening, half entreating. The man did not seem to see him; he looked for the others, but he continually stumbled against the youngster, who barred his way. The man with the three-cocked hat finally smiled under his fierce mustache, and called his comrade.
"You!" he said, pointing to the boy. "Search that vèrro. He must be dangerous."
The Little Chaplain, forgiving the enemy's waggish tone, raised his arms as high as possible so that no one should fail to see his importance. The guard had moved away after giving him a tickling in the stomach, but the boy still maintained his position as a man to be feared. Then he rushed toward a group of girls to boast of the danger he had faced. Fortunately his grandfather's knife was at home, safely hidden away by his father. Had he borne it on his person they would have taken it from him.
The guards soon wearied of this fruitless search. The elder glanced maliciously toward the group of women, like a dog sniffing a trail. He knew well enough where the weapons were concealed, but let anyone venture to make the bronze matrons stir from their places! Hostility shone in the eyes of the ancient dames. They would have to be torn away by main force, and they were señoras!
"Gentlemen, good afternoon!"
They slung their guns over their shoulders, refusing the proffer of some youths who had run to a tavern to bring glasses. They were offered without fear or rancor; were they not all neighbors, living together on their little island? The guards, however, were firm in their refusal. "Thanks; it is against the rules." They strode away, perhaps to lie in ambush a short distance away and repeat the searching again at sunset when the party was broken up and the people returning to their lonely farmhouses.
After the danger had passed the instruments ceased playing. Febrer saw the Minstrel take the little drum and seat himself in the open space recently occupied by the dancers. The people crowded around him. The venerable matrons drew up their esparto-seated chairs in order to hear better. He was about to sing a romance of his own composition; a relación, accentuated, according to the custom of the country, by a quavering plaint, a cry of pain drawn out as long as the singer had air left in his lungs.
He beat the drum slowly to impart a gloomy solemnity to his monotonous song, dreamy and sad. "How can I sing for you, friends, when my heart is broken?" began the recitative; and then, in the midst of a general silence, came a strident trill, like the long continued lament of a dying bird.
The entire company gazed at the singer, not seeing in him the indolent, sickly youth, despicable on account of his uselessness for work. In their primitive minds stirred a vague something which impelled them to respect the words and complaints of the weakling. It was something extraordinary, which seemed to sweep, with rude beating of wings, over their simple souls.
The Minstrel's voice sobbed as it told of a woman insensible to his sighs, and as he compared her whiteness with the flower of the almond, they turned their eyes to Margalida, who remained impassive, with no sign of virginal flushing, being accustomed to this tribute of crude poesy which was a sort of prelude to gallantry.
The Minstrel continued his laments, reddening with the strain of the painful crowing which ended every strophe. His narrow chest heaved with the effort; two rosettes of sickly purple colored his cheeks; his slender neck dilated, the veins standing out in blue relief. In accordance with custom, he concealed part of his face under an embroidered kerchief, which he held with his arm resting on the drum. Febrer felt anxiety listening to this painful voice. It seemed to him that the singer's lungs would give way, that his throat would burst; but his hearers, accustomed to this barbaric singing, which was as exhausting as the dance, paid no attention to his fatigue, nor did they weary of his interminable narration.
A group of youths, moving away from the circle around the poet, seemed to be holding a consultation, and then they approached the older men. They were in search of Señor Pèp, of Can Mallorquí, to discuss an important matter. They turned their backs scornfully upon the Minstrel, an unhappy creature, good for nothing but to dedicate verses to the girls.
The most venturesome of the group faced Pèp. They wished to speak of the "festeig" of Margalida; they reminded the father of his promise to sanction the courting of the girl.
The peasant-farmer looked at the group deliberately, as if counting their number.
"How many are you?"
The leader smiled. There were many more. They represented other young men who had remained to hear the song. There were youths from every district. Even from San Juan, at the opposite end of the island, youths were coming to court Margalida.
Despite the mock gesture of an intractable father, Pèp reddened and compressed his lips with ill-concealed satisfaction, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the friends sitting near him. What glory for Can Mallorquí! Such a courtship had never been known before. Never had his companions seen their daughters so honored.
"Are there twenty of you?" he asked.
The youths did not reply immediately, being occupied in mental calculation, murmuring the names of friends. Twenty? More, many more! He might count on thirty.
The peasant persisted in his pretended indignation. Thirty! Maybe they thought he needed no rest, and that he was going to spend a whole night without sleep, witnessing their courting.
Then he grew calm, giving himself up to complicated mental calculations, while he repeated thoughtfully, with an expression of amazement, "Thirty! Thirty!"
In the end he gave his sanction. He would not give more than an hour and a half in one evening to the wooing. Since there were thirty, that made three minutes each; three minutes, counted, watch in hand, to talk to Margalida; not a minute more! Thursday and Saturday would be courting nights. When he had gone courting his wife the suitors were many less, and yet his father-in-law, a man who had never been seen to smile, did not concede more time than this. There must be much formality, understand! Let there be no rivalry nor fighting! The first one to break the agreement Pèp was man enough to beat out of the door with a club; and if it became necessary to use the gun, he would use it.
Good-natured Pèp, gratified at being able to assume unbounded ferocity at the expense of the respect due from his daughter's suitors, heaped bravado upon bravado, talking of killing anyone who should not keep to the agreement, while the youths listened with humble mien, but with an ironic grin under their noses.
The bargain was closed. Thursday next the first audience would be held at Can Mallorquí. Febrer, who had heard the conversation, glanced at the vèrro, who held himself aloof, as if his greatness prevented his condescending to wretched haggling over the arrangement.
When the boys moved away to join the circle, discussing in a low voice the order of precedence, the troubadour ceased his doleful music, crowing his last crow with a dolorous voice that seemed finally to rend his poor throat. He wiped away the perspiration, pressed his hands against his breast, his face becoming a dark purple, but the people had turned their backs and he was already forgotten.
The girls, with the solidarity of sex, surrounded Margalida with vehement gesticulations, pushing her, and urging her to sing a reply to what the troubadour had said about the perfidy of women.
"No! No!" replied Almond Blossom, struggling to rid herself of her companions.
So sincere was she in her resistance that at last the old women intervened, defending her. Let her alone! Margalida had come to enjoy herself, and not to entertain the others. Did they think it such an easy matter to suddenly compose a reply in verse?
The drummer had recovered the instrument from the Minstrel's hands and began to beat it. The flute seemed to be gargling the rapid notes before beginning the dreamy melody of an African rhythm. On with the dance!
The boys all began shouting at once with aggressive vehemence, addressing the musicians. Some demanded the "long" and others the "short"; they all felt themselves strong and imperious again. The deadly steel had come forth from beneath the women's petticoats and had returned to their belts, and contact with these companions imparted to each a new life, a recrudescence of their arrogance.
The musicians began to play what they pleased, the curious crowd made way, and again in the center of the plaza the white hempen sandals began to spring, the whorls of green and blue skirts began to turn stiffly, while the points of kerchiefs fluttered above heavy braids, or the flowers worn by the girls behind their ears shook like red tassels.
Jaime continued looking at the Ironworker with the irresistible attraction of antipathy. The vèrro stood silent and as if abstracted among his admirers, who formed a circle around him. He seemed not to see the others, fixing his eyes on Margalida with a tense expression, as if he would conquer her with this stare which inspired fear in men. When the Little Chaplain, with the enthusiasm of youth, approached the vèrro, he deigned to smile, seeing in the boy a future relative.
Even the boys who had ventured to discuss the wooing with Señor Pèp seemed intimidated by the Ironworker's presence. The girls came out to dance, led by the young men, but Margalida remained beside her mother, gazed at enviously by all, yet none of them dared approach to invite her.
The Majorcan felt the Camorrist tendencies of his early youth aroused in him. He loathed the vèrro; he felt the terror inspired by the man as a personal offense. Was there no one to give a slap in the face to this coxcomb from the prison?
A youth approached Margalida, taking her by the hand. It was the Minstrel, still perspiring and tremulous after his exertion. He held himself erect, trying to give the lie to his weakness. The white Almond Blossom began to turn on her small feet and he sprang and sprang, pursuing her in her evolutions.
Poor boy! Jaime felt an impression of anguish, guessing the effort of the pitiful attempt to dominate the fatigue of the body. He breathed laboriously, his legs began to tremble, but in spite of this he smiled, gratified at his triumph. He gazed tenderly at Margalida, and if he turned away his eyes it was to look haughtily at his friends who responded with looks of pity.
In making a turn he almost fell; as he gave a great leap his knees bent. Everyone expected to see him fall to the ground; but he went on dancing, displaying his will-power, his determination to die rather than confess his weakness.
His eyes were closing with vertigo when he felt a touch on his shoulder, according to usage, requiring him to yield his partner.
It was the Ironworker, who flung himself into the dance for the first time that afternoon. His leaping was received with a murmur of applause. They all admired him, with that collective cowardice of a timid multitude.
The vèrro, seeing himself applauded, increased his contortions, pursuing his partner, barring her way, surrounding her in the complicated net of his movements, while Margalida turned and turned with lowered gaze, avoiding the eyes of the dreaded gallant.
At times, the vèrro, to display his vigor, with his bust thrown back and his arms behind him, sprang to a considerable height, as if the ground were elastic and his legs steel springs. This leaping made Jaime think, with a sensation of repugnance, of escapes from prison or of surreptitious assaults with a knife.
Time passed, but the man did not seem to tire. Some of the girls had sat down, in other cases the dancer had been substituted several times, but the vèrro continued his violent dance, ever gloomy and disdainful, as if insensible to weariness.
Jaime himself recognized with a dash of envy the terrible vigor of the Ironworker. What an animal!
Suddenly the dancer was seen to feel for something in his belt, and reach downward with one hand, without ceasing his evolutions or his leaping. A cloud of smoke spread over the ground, and between its white film two rapid flashes were outlined pale and rosy in the sunlight, followed by two reports.
The women huddled together, screaming with sudden fright; the men stood undecided, but soon all were reassured, and burst into shouts of approbation and applause.
"Muy bien!" The vèrro had fired off his pistol at his partner's feet; the supreme gallantry of a valiant man; the greatest homage a girl on the island could receive.
Margalida, a woman at heart, continued dancing, without having been greatly impressed, like a good Ivizan, by the explosion of the powder; giving the Ironworker a look of gratitude for the bravado which made him defy persecution from the civil guards who might still be near; then turning to her friends who were tremulous with envy at this homage.
Even Pèp himself, to the great indignation of Jaime, displayed pride over the two shots fired at his daughter's feet.
Febrer was the only one who did not seem enthusiastic over this gallant deed.
Accursed convict! Febrer was not sure of the motive of his fury, but it was something spontaneous. He meant to settle accounts with that peasant!