By the time spring came around Manuel was setting type with ease. Somewhat later, the third compositor left, and Jesús advised the boss to let Manuel fill the vacancy1.
“But he doesn’t know anything,” replied the owner.
“What need he know? Pay him by the line.”
“No. I’ll raise his daily wage.”
“How much are you going to give him?”
“Eight reales.”
“That’s too little. The other fellow got twelve.”
“Very well. I’ll give him nine. But let him not come here to sleep.”
Manuel’s new position freed him from the duty of sweeping2 the shop. He abandoned the sty in which he had been sleeping. Jesús took him to the Santa Casilda hostelry, where he himself stayed; it was a huge, one-story structure with three very large patios3, situated4 on the Ronda de Toledo. Manuel would have preferred not to return to this section, which was linked in his memory to so many unpleasant recollections; but his friendship with Jesús[148] won him over. He got, at the hostelry, for a fortnightly rent of eight reales, a tiny room with a bed, a broken reed chair and a mat hanging from the ceiling and serving as the door. When the wind blew from the direction of the fields of San Isidro, the rooms and the corridors of the Santa Casilda hostelry were filled with smoke. The patios of the place were more or less like those at Uncle Rilo’s house, with identical galleries and numbered doors.
From the window of Manuel’s den5 could be seen three red, round-paunched tanks of the gashouse, with their lofty iron girders that ended in pulleys at the top; round about was the Rastro; to one side, dumping-places blackened with coal and slag6; farther on stretched the arid7 landscape, the yellow slopes of which climbed into the horizon. Directly before him rose the Los ángeles hill with the hermitage on its crest8.
In the very next room to that which Manuel occupied were a carpenter, his wife and a child. The couple would get drunk and beat the child unmercifully.
Many a time Manuel was on the point of bursting into the room, for it seemed to him that those beasts were torturing the little girl.
One morning, encountering the carpenter’s wife, he said to her:
“Why do you beat that poor little girl so?”
“Is it any of your business?”
“It certainly is.”
“Isn’t she my daughter? I can do what I please with her.”
[149]
“That’s what your mother should have done with you,” retorted Manuel. “Beat the life out of you for a witch.”
That night the carpenter stopped Manuel.
“What was it you said to my wife, eh?”
“I told her that she oughtn’t to beat her daughter.”
“And who told you to mix into this business?”
The carpenter was a ferocious-looking fellow with a wide, bulging10 space between his eyebrows11, and a bull neck. His forehead was crossed by a swollen12 vein13. Manuel made no reply.
Fortunately for him the carpenter and his wife soon moved from the place.
In the holes of the same corridor there lived also two aged14 gipsies together with their families, both exceedingly noisy and thievish; a blind maiden15 who sang gipsy songs in the streets, wiggling with epileptic convulsions, and who was accompanied by another lass with whom she was for ever fighting, and two very cheap, very slovenly16 sisters, with painted cheeks and loud voices,—a pair of lying, quarrelsome strumpets, but as happy as goats.
Jesús’s room was near Manuel’s, and this life in common both at the printing-shop and at the house tightened17 the bonds of their friendship.
Jesús was an excellent youth, but he got drunk with lamentable18 frequency. He had two maiden sisters, one a pretty chit with green cat’s eyes and an impudent19 face, called La Sinforosa, and the other a[150] sickly creature, all twisted and scrofulous, whom everybody heartlessly called La Fea, ugly.
After they had been living thus for two months or so at the hostelry, Jesús, in his peculiar20, ironic21 tone, remarked one day to Manuel on the way to the shop:
“Did you hear? My sister is pregnant.”
“That so?”
“That’s what.”
“Which of the two?”
“La Fea. I wonder who the hero could have been. He deserves a cross of valour.”
This did not appear very just to Manuel; after all, she was the man’s sister. But Jesús launched forth23 with his invectives against the family, declaring that a fellow need not concern himself about his brothers and sisters, his parents, or anybody.
“A fine theory for egotists,” answered Manuel.
“Why, the family is nothing but egotism that favours a few as against humanity,” agreed Jesús.
“Much you care about humanity. As little as for your family,” retorted Manuel.
This topic was the theme of a number of other discussions, in the heat of which they spoke24 some bitter, mortifying25 words to each other.
Manuel was not much concerned about the theoretical problem. What did fill him with indignation, however, was to see that Jesús and La Sinforosa took no pity upon their sister, sending her on errands and making her sweep the place when the[151] poor rachitic creature couldn’t stir because of her huge abdomen26, which threatened to become monstrous27. As a result of these altercations28 there were days on which Manuel exchanged scarcely two words with Jesús, preferring to chat with Jacob and ask him questions about his native land.
Jacob, despite the fact that he was always lamenting29 the evil days he had suffered in his country, was fond of speaking about it.
He came from Fez and was wildly enthusiastic over that city.
He depicted30 it as a paradise flourishing with gardens, palm-trees, lemon and orange trees, and beribboned with crystalline streamlets. In Fez, in the Jewish quarter Jacob had passed his childhood, until he entered the service of a wealthy merchant who did business in Rabat, Mogador and Saffi.
With his lively imagination and his exaggerated speech, which was so picturesque32 and thronged33 with imagery, Jacob communicated an impression of reality whenever he spoke of his country.
He pictured the procession of the caravans34 composed of camels, asses35 and dromedaries. These last he described with their long necks and their small heads, swaying like those of serpents, with their dull eyes directed toward the sky. As one listened to him at the height of his evocations one imagined that one was crossing those white sands in the blinding sun. He described, too, the markets that were set up at the intersection36 of several roads and characterized the folk who came to them: the Moors37 of the nearby Kabyles, with their guns; the serpent[152] charmers; the sorcerers; the tellers38 of tales from the Thousand And One Nights, the medicine men who draw worms from human ears.
And as the caravans departed, each proceeding39 on its different way, the men mounted on their horses and mules40, Jacob would imitate the cawing of the crows that swooped41 down in flocks upon the market place and covered it with a black cloak.
He pictured the effect of beholding42 thirty or forty Berbers on horseback, with their flowing locks, armed with long muskets43. As they passed a Jew they would spit upon the ground. He told of the uncertain life there; on the roads, earless, armless folk, victims of justice, begging alms in the name of Muley Edris; during the winter, the dangerous crossing of the rivers, the nights at the gates of the villages, while the cus-cus was being prepared, playing the guembrí and singing sad, drowsy44 airs.
One Sabbath Jacob invited Manuel to eat with him at his house.
The Jew lived in the Pozas section, in a ramshackle house on a lane near the Paseo de Areneros.
The tiny structure looked strange, somewhat Oriental. One or two low pine tables; small mats instead of chairs, and, hanging from the walls, coloured cloths and two small three-stringed guitars.
Manuel was introduced to Jacob’s father, a long-haired old fellow who walked about the house in a dark tunic45 and a cap, to his wife, Mesoda, and to a black-eyed child called Aisa.
They all sat down to table; the old man solemnly pronounced a number of words in an involved language,[153] which Manuel took for some Hebrew prayer, and then they began to eat.
The meal had a taste of strong aromatic46 herbs and to Manuel it seemed that he was chewing flowers.
At table the old man, employing that extravagant47 Castilian in which the entire family spoke, recounted to Manuel the events of the African war. In his version Prim48, or, as he referred to him, Se?or Juan Prim, assumed epic31 proportions. Jacob must have respected the old man very deeply, for he allowed him to speak on and on about Prim and about the Almighty49. Mesoda, who was very timid, only smiled, and blushed upon the slightest provocation50.
After the meal Jacob took down from the wall one of the small three-stringed guitars and sang several Arabian songs, accompanying himself on the primitive51 instrument.
Manuel bid adieu to Jacob’s family and promised to visit them from time to time.
One autumn night, as Manuel was returning from work after a day during which Jesús had not put in an appearance at the shop, he entered the hostelry to find in the corridor leading to his room a knot of women gossiping about Jesús and his sisters.
La Fea had given birth; the doctor from the Emergency Hospital was in her room together with Se?ora Salomona, a kindly52 woman who made her living as a nurse.
“But what has Jesús done?” asked Manuel, hearing[154] the insults heaped upon the typesetter by the angry women.
“What has he done?” replied one of them. “Nothing at all, only it’s come out that he’s been living with La Sinfo, who’s the blackest of black sheep. Jesús and she had taken to drink and that big fox of a Sinfo has been taking La Fea’s pay from her.”
“That can’t be true,” said Manuel.
“Is that so? Well, Jesús himself was the one to tell it.”
“H’m. The other one isn’t any too decent herself when it comes to that,” interpolated one of the women.
“She’s as decent as the best of them,” retorted the spokeswoman. “She told everything to the doctor from the Emergency Hospital. One night when she hadn’t had a bite in her mouth, because Jesús and La Sinfo had taken every céntimo from her, La Fea went and drank a drop of brandy to quiet her hunger; then she had another; she was so weak that she got drunk right away. In came La Sinfo and Jesús, both stewed53 to the gills, and the shameless fox, seeing La Fea in bed, said to her, she says: ‘Out with you. We need the bed ourselves for ...’ and here she made an indecent gesture. You know what I mean. And she goes and shows her sister the door. La Fea, who was too tipsy to know what was going on, went into the street, and an officer, seeing how drunk she was, took her to the station and shoved her into a dark cell, where some tramp....”
[155]
“Who must have been drunk himself,” interjected a mason, who had paused to hear the story.
“So there you are ...” concluded the gossip.
“I’ll bet that if there had been light in the cell nothing would have happened, for the moment the guy caught sight of that face he would have turned sober with fright,” added the mason, continuing on his way.
Manuel left the gabbling women and stopped in the doorway54 of Jesús’s room. It was a desolating55 spectacle. The typesetter’s sister, pale, with closed eyes, thrown across the floor on a few mats and covered with burlap, looked like a corpse56. The doctor was bandaging her at that moment. Se?ora Salomona was dressing57 the newborn. A pool of blood stained the stone flooring.
Jesús, leaning against the wall in a corner, was gazing impassibly at the doctor and his sister out of glittering eyes.
The physician requested the neighbours to fetch a quilt and a few sheets; when these articles had been brought they placed the quilt upon the mat and laid La Fea carefully into the improvised58 bed. The poor twisted creature looked like a skeleton; her breasts were as flat as a man’s, and though she had no strength to move, when they brought the child to her side she changed position and tried to suckle it.
Gazing upon this scene, Manuel glared angrily at Jesús.
He could have beaten the typesetter with pleasure for having permitted his sister to come to this.
[156]
The physician, after having finished his task, took Jesús over to the end of the gallery and engaged in private conversation with him. Jesús was willing to do exactly as he was told; he would give every céntimo of his pay to La Fea, he promised.
Then, when the physician had left, Jesús fell into the hands of the women, who made a rag of him.
He denied nothing. Quite the contrary.
“During her pregnancy,” he confessed, “she slept on the floor, on the mat.”
The chorus of women received the compositor’s words with indignation. He shrugged59 his shoulders stupidly.
“Just imagine the poor creature sleeping on the mat while La Sinfo and Jesús lay in bed!” exclaimed one.
And higher and higher rose the indignation against La Sinfo, that shameless street-walker, whom they vowed60 to give an unmerciful drubbing. Se?ora Salomona had to interrupt their chatter61, for it kept the woman in childbed awake.
La Sinfo must have suspected something, for she did not show up at the hostelry. Jesús, frowning glumly62, his cheeks aflame and his eyes aglitter, went on the following days from house to shop without a word. Manuel had a notion that the young man was in love with his sister.
During the period of her confinement63 the neighbours took affectionate care of La Fea. They demanded every céntimo of Jesús’s pay, and he surrendered it without any resistance whatsoever64.
[157]
La Sinforosa never appeared there again. According to gossip she had gone into the profession.
The day before Christmas, toward evening, three gentleman dressed in black came to the place. One was a diminutive66 old fellow with white moustaches and merry eyes; the second was a stiff gentleman with a greying beard and gold-rimmed spectacles; the other appeared to be a secretary or a clerk, and was short, with black moustaches, burdened with documents and tapping his heels as he walked. It was said that they came from La Conferencia de San Vicente de Paul; they visited Jesús’ sister and other persons who lived in the nooks and crannies of the house.
Behind these gentlemen attired67 in black went Manuel and Jesús, who only slept at the hostelry and did not know the neighbourhood, so that they walked about their own place as strangers.
“Hypocrites!” cried the mason at the top of his voice.
“And suppose they do?” retorted the neighbour. “Let them! They’re nothing but a gang of hypocrites. Who asks them to come here and pretend to be charitable souls? They come here to show off, to put on airs,—that’s what they come for. The mountebanks, the Jesuits! What in hell do they want to find out? That we live badly?[158] That we’ve turned to swine? That we don’t attend to our children? That we get drunk? Very well. Let them give us their money and we’ll live better. But don’t let them come here with their certificates and their advice.”
The three visitors went into a hole a couple of metres square. On the floor, upon a litter of rags and straw, lay a dropsical woman with a swollen, silly face.
A young woman was seated in a chair, sewing by lamplight.
From the corridor Manuel could hear the conversation that was taking place inside.
The little old man with the white moustaches was asking in his merry voice what ailed70 the woman, and a neighbour who lived in an adjoining room was relating an endless tale of wretchedness and squalor.
Misfortune battened upon her and she sank lower and lower until she reached this doleful position. She could not find a friendly hand, and her sole benefactors72 had been a butcher and his wife, former servants of hers in better days whom she had helped to set up in business. The butcher’s wife, who was also a moneylender, used to purchase cloaks and Manila handkerchiefs in the Rastro, and when there was anything to mend or to put into order she would bring it to the invalid’s daughter for repair.
This service the former servant rewarded by giving the daughter of her mistress a heap of bones,[159] and, at times, when she was particularly pleased with a piece of work, by presenting her with the remainders of a meal.
“A hell of a generous lady, the butcher’s wife!” commented the mason, who had listened to the neighbour’s story.
“Even the common folk,” replied Jesús jestingly, recalling a zarzuela refrain, “has its tender heart.”
The gentlemen from La Conferencia de Paul, after having heard so moving an account, gave three food tickets to the dropsical woman and left the room.
“Now the woman’s happy,” muttered Jesús, ironically. “She was going to die tomorrow and now she can last until the day after. What more does she want?”
“I should say,” chimed the mason.
The secretary,—the fellow burdened with so many documents, recalled a case similar to that of the dropsical woman, and he declared that it was most curious and extremely interesting.
As the three gentlemen were turning down one corridor to go into another, an old lady approached them, addressing them as “Your grace,” and asking them to accompany her. She led the way with a candle to a garret, or, more exactly speaking, a dark nook beneath a staircase. On a heap of rags, wrapped in a frayed73 cloak, lay an emaciated, filthy74 little girl, her face dark and wan69, her eyes black, shy and glittering. At her side slept a little boy of two or three.
“I wish Your grace would place this little girl in[160] an asylum75,” said the old woman. “She’s an orphan76; her mother, who—begging your pardon—did not lead a very good life, died here. She’s planted herself in this hole and nobody can make her stir. She steals eggs, bread, whatever she can lay her hands upon, sometimes in one house, sometimes in another, so that she can feed the baby. I wish you could see that she’s placed in an asylum.”
The little girl stared out of her large eyes, frightened at sight of the three gentlemen, and seized the infant by the hand.
“This little girl,” declared the secretary from behind his bundle of documents, “has a genuinely curious affection for her tiny brother, and I am not sure that it would not be cruel to separate them.”
“An asylum would be better,” insisted the old woman.
“We’ll see. We’ll see,” replied the old gentleman. The trio took their departure.
“What’s your name?” asked Jesús of the girl.
“Me? Salvadora.”
“Do you want to come and live with me, together with your little brother?”
“Yes,” replied the lass, without a moment’s hesitation77.
“Very well, then, let’s be going. Get up. La Fea will be happy to have them,” said Jesús, as if to give an explanation of his impulse. “Otherwise they’ll separate this little girl from her brother, and that would be an outrage78.”
The lass took the babe in her arms and followed Jesús. La Fea must have received the two forsaken[161] children with intense enthusiasm. Manuel was not present, for a young man had stopped him in the corridor.
“Don’t you know me?” he asked directly in front of Manuel.
“Of course, man.... You’re El Aristón.”
“That’s me.”
“Do you live here?”
“Over in El Corral.”
El Corral was one of the patios of the hostelry, and opened upon that pestilential Rastro which extends from La Ronda to the gashouse. El Aristón was as full of necromania as ever. He spoke to Manuel only of deaths, burials and funereal79 matters.
He told Manuel that on Sundays he visited burial grounds; for he considered it a duty to fulfil that merciful work which bids one to bury the dead.
During the course of the conversation the necromaniac insinuated80 the notion that if the king were to die they could make a wonderful interment; but despite this, he imagined that the burial of the Pope would be even more sumptuous81.
The necromaniac and Manuel passed through several corridors.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Manuel.
“If you want to come, you can see a corpse.”
“And what are you going to do with this corpse?”
“I’m going to watch over him and pray for him,” replied El Aristón.
In a tiny room lighted by two candles stuck in the necks of bottles, there was a dead man stretched out on a mattress82....
[162]
From afar came the sound of tambourines83 and songs; from time to time the shrill84 voice of some drunken old hag would shout:
Ande, ande, ande
la marimorena;
ande, ande, ande,
que es la Nochebuena.
On with the fight,
Let no one grieve.
On with the row,
’Tis Christmas Eve.
In the room where the dead man lay, there was, at that moment, nobody.
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收听单词发音
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1
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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2
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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3
patios
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| n.露台，平台( patio的名词复数 ) | |
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4
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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6
slag
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| n.熔渣，铁屑，矿渣；v.使变成熔渣，变熔渣 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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9
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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10
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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12
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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13
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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14
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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altercations
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| n.争辩，争吵( altercation的名词复数 ) | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
tellers
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| n.（银行）出纳员( teller的名词复数 )；（投票时的）计票员；讲故事等的人；讲述者 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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40
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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43
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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47
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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49
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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53
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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56
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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57
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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80
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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81
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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82
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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83
tambourines
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 )；（鸣声似铃鼓的）白胸森鸠 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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