“Ite missa est!” The high mass is finished and the antique church is emptying. Outside, in the yard, among the tombs, the assistants scatter1. And all the joy of a sunny noon greets them, as they come out of the sombre nave2 where each, according to his naive3 faculties4, had caught more or less a glimpse of the great mystery and of the inevitable5 death.
Wearing all the uniform national cap, the men come down the exterior6 stairway; the women, slower to be captivated by the lure7 of the blue sky, retaining still under the mourning veil a little of the dream of the church, come out of the lower porticoes8 in black troops; around a grave freshly closed, some stop and weep.
The southern wind, which is the great magician of the Basque country, blows softly. The autumn of yesterday has gone and it is forgotten. Lukewarm breaths pass through the air, vivifying, healthier than those of May, having the odor of hay and the odor of flowers. Two singers of the highway are there, leaning on the graveyard9 wall, and they intone, with a tambourine10 and a guitar, an old seguidilla of Spain, bringing here the warm and somewhat Arabic gaieties of the lands beyond the frontiers.
And in the midst of all this intoxication11 of the southern November, more delicious in this country than the intoxication of the spring, Ramuntcho, having come down one of the first, watches the coming out of the sisters in order to greet Gracieuse.
The sandal peddler has come also to this closing of the mass, and displays among the roses of the tombs his linen12 foot coverings ornamented13 with woolen14 flowers. Young men, attracted by the dazzling embroideries15, gather around him to select colors.
The bees and the flies buzz as in June; the country has become again, for a few hours, for a few days, for as long as this wind will blow, luminous16 and warm. In front of the mountains, which have assumed violent brown or sombre green tints17, and which seem to have advanced to-day until they overhang the church, houses of the village appear in relief, very neat, very white under their coat of kalsomine,—old Pyrenean houses with their wooden balconies and on their walls intercrossings of beams in the fashion of the olden time. In the southwest, the visible portion of Spain, the denuded18 and red peak familiar to smugglers, stands straight and near in the beautiful clear sky.
Gracieuse does not appear yet, retarded20 doubtless by the nuns21 in some altar service. As for Franchita, who never mingles22 in the Sunday festivals, she takes the path to her house, silent and haughty23, after a smile to her son, whom she will not see again until to-night after the dances have come to an end.
A group of young men, among whom is the vicar who has just taken off his golden ornaments24, forms itself at the threshold of the church, in the sun, and seems to be plotting grave projects.—They are the great players of the country, the fine flower of the lithe25 and the strong; it is for the pelota game of the afternoon that they are consulting, and they make a sign to Ramuntcho who pensively26 comes to them. Several old men come also and surround them, caps crushed on white hair and faces clean shaven like those of monks27: champions of the olden time, still proud of their former successes, and sure that their counsel shall be respected in the national game, which the men here attend with pride as on a field of honor.—After a courteous28 discussion, the game is arranged; it will be immediately after vespers; they will play the “blaid” with the wicker glove, and the six selected champions, divided into two camps, shall be the vicar, Ramuntcho and Arrochkoa, Gracieuse's brother, against three famous men of the neighboring villages: Joachim of Mendiazpi; Florentino of Espelette, and Irrubeta of Hasparren—
Now comes the “convoy”, which comes out of the church and passes by them, so black in this feast of light, and so archaic29, with the envelope of its capes30, of its caps and of its veils. They are expressive32 of the Middle Age, these people, while they pass in a file, the Middle Age whose shadow the Basque country retains. And they express, above all, death, as the large funereal33 slabs34, with which the nave is paved, express it, as the cypress35 trees and the tombs express it, and all the things in this place, where the men come to pray, express it: death, always death.—But a death very softly neighboring life, under the shield of the old consoling symbols—for life is there marked also, almost equally sovereign, in the warm rays which light up the cemetery36, in the eyes of the children who play among the roses of autumn, in the smile of those beautiful brown girls who, the mass being finished, return with steps indolently supple37 toward the village; in the muscles of all this youthfulness of men, alert and vigorous, who shall soon exercise at the ball-game their iron legs and arms.—And of this group of old men and of boys at the threshold of a church, of this mingling38, so peacefully harmonious39, of death and of life, comes the benevolent40 lesson, the teaching that one must enjoy in time strength and love; then, without obstinacy41 in enduring, submit to the universal law of passing and dying, repeating with confidence, like these simple-minded and wise men, the same prayers by which the agonies of the ancestors were cradled.—
It is improbably radiant, the sun of noon in this yard of the dead. The air is exquisite42 and one becomes intoxicated43 by breathing it. The Pyrenean horizons have been swept of their clouds, their least vapors44, and it seems as if the wind of the south had brought here the limpidities of Andalusia or of Africa.
The Basque guitar and tambourine accompany the sung seguilla, which the beggars of Spain throw, like a slight irony46 into this lukewarm breeze, above the dead. And boys and girls think of the fandango of to-night, feel ascending47 in them the desire and the intoxication of dancing.—
At last here come the sisters, so long expected by Ramuntcho; with them advance Gracieuse and her mother, Dolores, who is still in widow's weeds, her face invisible under a black cape31 closed by a crape veil.
What can this Dolores be plotting with the Mother Superior?—Ramuntcho, knowing that these two women are enemies, is astonished and disquiet48 to-day to see them walk side by side. Now they even stop to talk aside, so important and secret doubtless is what they are saying; their similar black caps, overhanging like wagon-hoods, touch each other and they talk sheltered under them; a whispering of phantoms49, one would say, under a sort of little black vault50.—And Ramuntcho has the sentiment of something hostile plotted against him under these two wicked caps.
When the colloquy51 comes to an end, he advances, touches his cap for a salute52, awkward and timid suddenly in presence of this Dolores, whose harsh look under the veil he divines. This woman is the only person in the world who has the power to chill him, and, never elsewhere than in her presence, he feels weighing upon him the blemish53 of being the child of an unknown father, of wearing no other name than that of his mother.
To-day, however, to his great surprise, she is more cordial than usual, and she says with a voice almost amiable54: “Good-morning, my boy!” Then he goes to Gracieuse, to ask her with a brusque anxiety: “To-night, at eight o'clock, say if you will be on the square to dance with me?”
For some time, every Sunday had brought to him the same fear of being deprived of dancing with her in the evening. In the week he hardly ever saw her. Now that he was becoming a man, the only occasion for him to have her company was this ball on the green of the square, in the light of the stars or of the moon.
They had fallen in love with each other five years ago, Ramuntcho and Gracieuse, when they were still children. And such loves, when by chance the awakening55 of the senses confirms instead of destroying them, become in young heads something sovereign and exclusive.
They had never thought of saying this to each other, they knew it so well; never had they talked together of the future which did not appear possible to one without the other. And the isolation56 of this mountain village where they lived, perhaps also the hostility57 of Dolores to their naive, unexpressed projects, brought them more closely together—
“To-night, at eight o'clock, say if you will be on the square to dance with me?”
“Yes—” replies the little girl, fixing on her friend eyes of sadness, a little frightened, as well as of ardent58 tenderness.
“Sure?” asked Ramuntcho again, whom these eyes make anxious.
“Yes, sure!”
So, he is quieted again this time, knowing that if Gracieuse has said and decided59 something one may count on it. And at once the weather seems to him more beautiful, the Sunday more amusing, life more charming—
The dinner hour calls the Basques now to the houses or to the inns, and, under the light, somewhat gloomy, of the noon sun, the village seems deserted60.
Ramuntcho goes to the cider mill which the smugglers and pelota players frequent. There, he sits at a table, his cap still drawn61 over his eyes, with his friends: Arrochkoa, two or three others of the mountains and the somber62 Itchoua, their chief.
A festive63 meal is prepared for them, with fish of the Nivelle, ham and hares. In the foreground of the hall, vast and dilapidated, near the windows, are the tables, the oak benches on which they are seated; in the background, in a penumbra64, are the enormous casks filled with new cider.
In this band of Ramuntcho, which is there entire, under the piercing eye of its chief, reigns65 an emulation66 of audacity67 and a reciprocal, fraternal devotion; during their night expeditions especially, they are all one to live or to die.
Leaning heavily, benumbed in the pleasure of resting after the fatigues68 of the night and concentrated in the expectation of satiating their robust69 hunger, they are silent at first, hardly raising their heads to look through the window-panes at the passing girls. Two are very young, almost children like Ramuntcho: Arrochkoa and Florentino. The others have, like Itchoua, hardened faces, eyes in ambuscade under the frontal arcade70, expressing no certain age; their aspect reveals a past of fatigues, in the unreasonable71 obstinacy to pursue this trade of smuggling72, which hardly gives bread to the less skilful73.
Then, awakened74 little by little by the smoking dishes, by the sweet cider, they talk; soon their words interlace, light, rapid and sonorous75, with an excessive rolling of the r. They talk in their mysterious language, the origin of which is unknown and which seems to the men of the other countries in Europe more distant than Mongolian or Sanskrit. They tell stories of the night and of the frontier, stratagems76 newly invented and astonishing deceptions77 of Spanish carbineers. Itchoua, the chief, listens more than he talks; one hears only at long intervals78 his profound voice of a church singer vibrate. Arrochkoa, the most elegant of all, is in striking contrast with his comrades of the mountain. (His name was Jean Detcharry, but he was known only by his surname, which the elders of his family transmitted from father to son for centuries.) A smuggler19 for his pleasure, he, without any necessity, and possessing beautiful lands in the sunlight; the face fresh and pretty, the blonde mustache turned up in the fashion of cats, the eye feline79 also, the eye caressing80 and fleeting81; attracted by all that succeeds, by all that amuses, by all that shines; liking82 Ramuntcho for his triumphs in the ball-game, and quite disposed to give to him the hand of his sister, Gracieuse, even if it were only to oppose his mother, Dolores. And Florentino, the other great friend of Ramuntcho is, on the contrary, the humblest of the band; an athletic84, reddish fellow, with wide and low forehead, with good eyes of resignation, soft as those of beasts of burden; without father or mother, possessing nothing in the world except a threadbare costume and three pink cotton shirts; unique lover of a little fifteen year old orphan85, as poor as he and as primitive86.
At last Itchoua deigns87 to talk in his turn. He relates, in a tone of mystery and of confidence, a certain tale of the time of his youth, in a black night, on the Spanish territory, in the gorges88 of Andarlaza. Seized by two carbineers at the turn in a dark path, he had disengaged himself by drawing his knife to stab a chest with it: half a second, a resisting flesh, then, crack! the blade entering brusquely, a jet of warm blood on his hand, the man fallen, and he, fleeing in the obscure rocks—
And the voice which says these things with implacable tranquility, is the same which for years sings piously91 every Sunday the liturgy92 in the old sonorous church,—so much so that it seems to retain a religious and almost sacred character—!
“When you are caught”—adds the speaker, scrutinizing93 them all with his eyes, become piercing again—“When you are caught—What is the life of a man worth in such a case? You would not hesitate, either, I suppose, if you were caught—?”
“Sure not,” replied Arrochkoa, in a tone of infantile bravado94, “Sure not! In such a case to take the life of a carabinero no one would hesitate!—”
The debonair95 Florentino, turned from Itchoua his disapproving96 eyes. Florentino would hesitate; he would not kill. This is divined in the expression of his face.
“You would not hesitate,” repeated Itchoua, scrutinizing Ramuntcho this time in a special manner; “you would not hesitate, either, I suppose, if you were caught, would you?”
“Surely,” replied Ramuntcho, submissively. “Oh, no, surely—”
But his look, like that of Florentino, has turned from Itchoua. A terror comes to him of this man, of this imperious and cold influence, so completely felt already; an entire soft and refined side of his nature is awakened, made disquiet and in revolt.
Silence has followed the tale, and Itchoua, discontented with the effect of it, proposes a song in order to change the course of ideas.
The purely97 material well-being98 which comes after dinner, the cider which has been drunk, the cigarettes which are lighted and the songs that begin, bring back quickly confident joy in these children's heads. And then, there are in the band the two brothers Iragola, Marcos and Joachim, young men of the mountain above Mendiazpi, who are renowned99 extemporary speakers in the surrounding country and it is a pleasure to hear them, on any subject, compose and sing verses which are so pretty.
“Let us see,” says Itchoua, “you, Marcos, are a sailor who wishes to pass his life on the ocean and seek fortune in America; you, Joachim, are a farm hand who prefers not to quit his village and his soil here. Each of you will discuss alternately, in couplets of equal length, the pleasures of his trade to the tune100—to the tune of the 'Iru Damacho'. Go on.”
They looked at each other, the two brothers, half turned toward each other on the oak bench where they sit; an instant of reflection, during which an imperceptible agitation101 of the eyelids102 alone betrays the working of their minds; then, brusquely Marcos, the elder, begins, and they will never stop. With their shaven cheeks, their handsome profiles, their chins which advance somewhat imperiously above the powerful muscles of the neck, they recall, in their grave immobility, the figures engraved103 on the Roman medals. They sing with a certain effort of the throat, like the muezzins in the mosques104, in high tones. When one has finished his couplet, without a second of hesitation105 or silence, the other begins; more and more their minds are animated106 and inflamed107. Around the smugglers' table many other caps have gathered and all listen with admiration108 to the witty109 or sensible things which the two brothers know how to say, ever with the needed cadence110 and rhyme.
At the twentieth stanza111, at last, Itchoua interrupts them to make them rest and he orders more cider.
“How have you learned?” asked Ramuntcho of the Iragola brothers. “How did the knack112 come to you?”
“Oh!” replies Marcos, “it is a family trait, as you must know. Our father, our grandfather were extemporary composers who were heard with pleasure in all the festivals of the Basque country, and our mother also was the daughter of a grand improvisator of the village of Lesaca. And then, every evening in taking back the oxen or in milking the cows, we practice, or at the fireside on winter nights. Yes, every evening, we make compositions in this way on subjects which one of us imagines, and it is our greatest pleasure—”
But when Florentino's turn to sing comes he, knowing only the old refrains of the mountain, intones in an Arabic falsetto voice the complaint of the linen weaver113; and then Ramuntcho, who had sung it the day before in the autumn twilight114, sees again the darkened sky of yesterday, the clouds full of rain, the cart drawn by oxen going down into a sad and closed valley, toward a solitary115 farm—and suddenly the unexplained anguish116 returns to him, the one which he had before; the fear of living and of passing thus always in these same villages, under the oppression of these same mountains; the notion and the confused desire for other places; the anxiety for unknown distances—His eyes, become lifeless and fixed117, look inwardly; for several strange minutes he feels that he is an exile, from what country he does not know, disinherited, of what he does not know, sad in the depths of his soul; between him and the men who surround him have come suddenly irreducible, hereditary118 barriers—
Three o'clock. It is the hour when vespers, the last office of the day, comes to an end; the hour when leave the church, in a meditation119 grave as that of the morning, all the mantillas of black cloth concealing120 the beautiful hair of the girls and the form of their waists, all the woolen caps similarly lowered on the shaven faces of men, on their eyes piercing or somber, still plunged121 in the old time dreams.
It is the hour when the games are to begin, the dances, the pelota and the fandango. All this is traditional and immutable122.
The light of the day becomes more golden, one feels the approach of night. The church, suddenly empty, forgotten, where persists the odor of incense123, becomes full of silence, and the old gold of the background shines mysteriously in the midst of more shade; silence also is scattered124 around on the tranquil89 enclosure of the dead, where the folks this time passed without stopping, in their haste to go elsewhere.
On the square of the ball-game, people are beginning to arrive from everywhere, from the village itself and from the neighboring hamlets, from the huts of the shepherds or of the smugglers who perch125 above, on the harsh mountains. Hundreds of Basque caps, all similar, are now reunited, ready to judge the players, to applaud or to murmur126; they discuss the chances, comment upon the relative strength of the players and make big bets of money. And young girls, young women gather also, having nothing of the awkwardness of the peasants in other provinces of France, elegant, refined, graceful127 in costumes of the new fashions; some wearing on their hair the silk kerchief, rolled and arranged like a small cap; others bareheaded, their hair dressed in the most modern manner; most of them pretty, with admirable eyes and very long eyebrows—This square, always solemn and ordinarily somewhat sad, is filled to-day, Sunday, with a lively and gay crowd.
The most insignificant128 hamlet in the Basque country has a square for the ball-game, large, carefully kept, in general near the church, under oaks.
But here, this is a central point and something like the Conservatory129 of French ball-players, of those who become celebrated130, in South America as well as in the Pyrenees, and who, in the great international games, oppose the champions of Spain. So the place is particularly beautiful and pompous131, surprising in so distant a village. It is paved with large stones, between which grass grows expressing its antiquity132 and giving to it an air of being abandoned. On the two sides are extended, for the spectators, long benches—made of the red granite133 of the neighboring mountain and, at this moment, all overgrown with autumn scabwort.
And in the back, the old monumental wall rises, against which the balls will strike. It has a rounded front which seems to be the silhouette134 of a dome135 and bears this inscription136, half effaced137 by time: “Blaidka haritzea debakatua.” (The blaid game is forbidden.)
Still, the day's game is to be the blaid; but the venerable inscription dates from the time of the splendor138 of the national game, degenerated140 at present, as all things degenerate139. It had been placed there to preserve the tradition of the “rebot”, a more difficult game, exacting141 more agility142 and strength, and which has been perpetuated143 only in the Spanish province of Guipuzcoa.
While the graded benches are filling up, the paved square, which the grass makes green, and which has seen the lithe and the vigorous men of the country run since the days of old, remains144 empty. The beautiful autumn sun, at its decline, warms and lights it. Here and there some tall oaks shed their leaves above the seated spectators. Beyond are the high church and the cypress trees, the entire sacred corner, from which the saints and the dead seem to be looking at a distance, protecting the players, interested in this game which is the passion still of an entire race and characterises it—
At last they enter the arena145, the Pelotaris, the six champions among whom is one in a cassock: the vicar of the parish. With him are some other personages: the crier, who, in an instant, will sing the points; the five judges, selected among the experts of different villages to intervene in cases of litigation, and some others carrying extra balls and sandals. At the right wrist the players attach with thongs146 a strange wicker thing resembling a large, curved fingernail which lengthens147 the forearm by half. It is with this glove (manufactured in France by a unique basket-maker of the village of Ascain) that they will have to catch, throw and hurl148 the pelota,—a small ball of tightened149 cord covered with sheepskin, which is as hard as a wooden ball.
Now they try the balls, selecting the best, limbering, with a few points that do not count, their athletic arms. Then, they take off their waistcoats and carry them to preferred spectators; Ramuntcho gives his to Gracieuse, seated in the first row on the lower bench. And all, except the priest, who will play in his black gown, are in battle array, their chests at liberty in pink cotton shirts or light thread fleshings.
The assistants know them well, these players; in a moment, they shall be excited for or against them and will shout at them, frantically150, as it happens with the toreadors.
At this moment the village is entirely151 animated by the spirit of the olden time; in its expectation of the pleasure, in its liveliness, in its ardor152, it is intensely Basque and very old,—under the great shade of the Gizune, the overhanging mountain, which throws over it a twilight charm.
And the game begins in the melancholy153 evening. The ball, thrown with much strength, flies, strikes the wall in great, quick blows, then rebounds154, and traverses the air with the rapidity of a bullet.
This wall in the background, rounded like a dome's festoon on the sky, has become little by little crowned with heads of children,—little Basques, little cats, ball-players of the future, who soon will precipitate155 themselves like a flight of birds, to pick up the ball every time when, thrown too high, it will go beyond the square and fall in the fields.
The game becomes gradually warmer as arms and legs are limbered, in an intoxication of movement and swiftness. Already Ramuntcho is acclaimed156. And the vicar also shall be one of the fine players of the day, strange to look upon with his leaps similar to those of a cat, and his athletic gestures, imprisoned158 in his priest's gown.
This is the rule of the game: when one of the champions of the two camps lets the ball fall, it is a point earned by the adverse159 camp,—and ordinarily the limit is sixty points. After each point, the titled crier chants with a full voice in his old time tongue: “The but has so much, the refil has so much, gentlemen!” (The but is the camp which played first, the refil is the camp opposed to the but.) And the crier's long clamor drags itself above the noise of the crowd, which approves or murmurs160.
On the square, the zone gilt161 and reddened by the sun diminishes, goes, devoured162 by the shade; more and more the great screen of the Gizune predominates over everything, seems to enclose in this little corner of the world at its feet, the very special life and the ardor of these mountaineers—who are the fragments of a people very mysteriously unique, without analogy among nations—The shade of night marches forward and invades in silence, soon it will be sovereign; in the distance only a few summits still lighted above so many darkened valleys, are of a violet luminous and pink.
Ramuntcho plays as, in his life, he had never played before; he is in one of those instants when one feels tempered by strength, light, weighing nothing, and when it is a pure joy to move, to extend one's arms, to leap. But Arrochkoa weakens, the vicar is fettered163 two or three times by his black cassock, and the adverse camp, at first distanced, little by little catches up, then, in presence of this game so valiantly164 disputed, clamor redoubles and caps fly in the air, thrown by enthusiastic hands.
Now the points are equal on both sides; the crier announces thirty for each one of the rival camps and he sings the old refrain which is of tradition immemorial in such cases: “Let bets come forward! Give drink to the judges and to the players.” It is the signal for an instant of rest, while wine shall be brought into the arena at the cost of the village. The players sit down, and Ramuntcho takes a place beside Gracieuse, who throws on his shoulders, wet with perspiration165, the waistcoat which she was keeping for him, Then he asks of his little friend to undo166 the thongs which hold the glove of wood, wicker and leather on his reddened arm. And he rests in the pride of his success, seeing only smiles of greeting on the faces of the girls at whom he looks. But he sees also, on the side opposed to the players' wall, on the side of the approaching darkness, the archaic assemblage of Basque houses, the little square of the village with its kalsomined porches and its old plane-trees, then the old, massive belfry of the church, and, higher than everything, dominating everything, crushing everything, the abrupt167 mass of the Gizune from which comes so much shade, from which descends168 on this distant village so hasty an impression of night—Truly it encloses too much, that mountain, it imprisons169, it impresses—And Ramuntcho, in his juvenile170 triumph, is troubled by the sentiment of this, by this furtive171 and vague attraction of other places so often mingled172 with his troubles and with his joys—
The game continues and his thoughts are lost in the physical intoxication of beginning the struggle again. From instant to instant, clack! the snap of the pelotas, their sharp noise against the glove which throws them or the wall which receives them, their same noise giving the notion of all the strength displayed—Clack! it will snap till the hour of twilight, the pelota, animated furiously by arms powerful and young. At times the players, with a terrible shock, stop it in its flight, with a shock that would break other muscles than theirs. Most often, sure of themselves, they let it quietly touch the soil, almost die: it seems as if they would never catch it: and clack! it goes off, however, caught just in time, thanks to a marvellous precision of the eye, and strikes the wall, ever with the rapidity of a bullet—When it wanders on the benches, on the mass of woolen caps and of pretty hair ornamented with silk kerchiefs, all the heads then, all the bodies, are lowered as if moved by the wind of its passage: for it must not be touched, it must not be stopped, as long as it is living and may still be caught; then, when it is really lost, dead, some one of the assistants does himself the honor to pick it up and throw it back to the players.
The night falls, falls, the last golden colors scatter with serene173 melancholy over the highest summits of the Basque country. In the deserted church, profound silence is established and antique images regard one another alone through the invasion of night—Oh! the sadness of ends of festivals, in very isolated174 villages, as soon as the sun sets—!
Meanwhile Ramuntcho is more and more the great conqueror175. And the plaudits, the cries, redouble his happy boldness; each time he makes a point the men, standing176 now on the old, graded, granite benches, acclaim157 him with southern fury.
The last point, the sixtieth—It is Ramuntcho's and he has won the game!
Then there is a sudden crumbling177 into the arena of all the Basque caps which ornamented the stone amphitheatre; they press around the players who have made themselves immovable, suddenly, in tired attitudes. And Ramuntcho unfastens the thongs of his glove in the middle of a crowd of expansive admirers; from all sides, brave and rude hands are stretched to grasp his or to strike his shoulder amicably178.
“Have you asked Gracieuse to dance with you this evening?” asks Arrochkoa, who in this instant would do anything for him.
“Good! I feared that mother—Oh! I would have arranged it, in any case; you may believe me.”
A robust old man with square shoulders, with square jaws180, with a beardless, monkish181 face, before whom all bowed with respect, comes also: it is Haramburu, a player of the olden time who was celebrated half a century ago in America for the game of rebot, and who earned a small fortune. Ramuntcho blushes with pleasure at the compliment of this old man, who is hard to please. And beyond, standing on the reddish benches, among the long grasses and the November scabwort, his little friend, whom a group of young girls follows, turns back to smile at him, to send to him with her hand a gentle adios in the Spanish fashion. He is a young god in this moment, Ramuntcho; people are proud to know him, to be among his friends, to get his waistcoat for him, to talk to him, to touch him.
Now, with the other pelotaris, he goes to the neighboring inn, to a room where are placed the clean clothes of all and where careful friends accompany them to rub their bodies, wet with perspiration.
And, a moment afterward182, elegant in a white shirt, his cap on the side, he comes out of the door, under the plane-trees shaped like vaults183, to enjoy again his success, see the people pass, continue to gather compliments and smiles.
The autumnal day has declined, it is evening at present. In the lukewarm air, bats glide184. The mountaineers of the surrounding villages depart one by one; a dozen carriages are harnessed, their lanterns are lighted, their bells ring and they disappear in the little shady paths of the valleys. In the middle of the limpid45 penumbra may be distinguished185 the women, the pretty girls seated on benches in front of the houses, under the vaults of the plane-trees; they are only clear forms, their Sunday costumes make white spots in the twilight, pink spots—and the pale blue spot which Ramuntcho looks at is the new gown of Gracieuse.—Above all, filling the sky, the gigantic Gizune, confused and sombre, is as if it were the centre and the source of the darkness, little by little scattered over all things. And at the church, suddenly the pious90 bells ring, recalling to distracted minds the enclosure where the graves are, the cypress trees around the belfry, and the entire grand mystery of the sky, of prayer, of inevitable death.
Oh! the sadness of ends of festivals in very isolated villages, when the sun ceases to illuminate186, and when it is autumn—
They know very well, these men who were so ardent a moment ago in the humble83 pleasures of the day, that in the cities there are other festivals more brilliant, more beautiful and less quickly ended; but this is something separate; it is the festival of the country, of their own country, and nothing can replace for them these furtive instants whereof they have thought for so many days in advance—Lovers who will depart toward the scattered houses flanking the Pyrenees, couples who to-morrow will begin over their monotonous187 and rude life, look at one another before separating, look at one another under the falling night, with regretful eyes that say: “Then, it is finished already? Then, that is all?—”
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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6
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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7
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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8
porticoes
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| n.柱廊，（有圆柱的）门廊( portico的名词复数 ) | |
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9
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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10
tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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11
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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12
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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13
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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15
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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16
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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17
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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18
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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19
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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20
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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21
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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22
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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23
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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24
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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26
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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27
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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28
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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29
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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30
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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31
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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32
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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33
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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34
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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35
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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36
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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37
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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38
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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39
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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40
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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41
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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42
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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43
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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44
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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46
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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47
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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48
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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49
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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50
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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51
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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52
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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53
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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54
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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55
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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56
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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57
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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58
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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59
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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61
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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62
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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63
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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64
penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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65
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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66
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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67
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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68
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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69
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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70
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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71
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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72
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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73
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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74
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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75
sonorous
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|
| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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76
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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77
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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78
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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79
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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80
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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81
fleeting
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|
| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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82
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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83
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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84
athletic
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|
| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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85
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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86
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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87
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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89
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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90
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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91
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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92
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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93
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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94
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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95
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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96
disapproving
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|
| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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97
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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98
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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99
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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100
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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101
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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102
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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103
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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104
mosques
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| 清真寺； 伊斯兰教寺院，清真寺； 清真寺，伊斯兰教寺院( mosque的名词复数 ) | |
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105
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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106
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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107
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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109
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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110
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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111
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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112
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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113
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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114
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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115
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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116
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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117
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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118
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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119
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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120
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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121
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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122
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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123
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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124
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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125
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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126
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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127
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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128
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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129
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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130
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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131
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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132
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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133
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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134
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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135
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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136
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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137
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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138
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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139
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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140
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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142
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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143
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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144
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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145
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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146
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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147
lengthens
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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148
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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149
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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150
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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151
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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152
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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153
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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154
rebounds
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| 反弹球( rebound的名词复数 )； 回弹球； 抢断篮板球； 复兴 | |
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155
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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156
acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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157
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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158
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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160
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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161
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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162
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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163
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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165
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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166
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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167
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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168
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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169
imprisons
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的第三人称单数 ) | |
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170
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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171
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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172
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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173
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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174
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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175
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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176
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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177
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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178
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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179
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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180
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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181
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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182
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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183
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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184
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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185
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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186
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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187
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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