Ramuntcho, the next morning, was wandering in the village, under a sun which had pierced the clouds of the night, a sun as radiant as that of yesterday. Careful in his dress, the ends of his mustache turned up, proud in his demeanor1, elegant, grave and handsome, he went at random2, to see and to be seen, a little childishness mingling3 with his seriousness, a little pleasure with his distress4. His mother had said to him:
“I am better, I assure you. To-day is Sunday; go, walk about I pray you—”
And passers-by turned their heads to look at him, whispered the news: “Franchita's son has returned home; he looks very well!”
A summer illusion persisted everywhere, with, however, the unfathomable melancholy5 of things tranquilly6 finishing. Under that impassible radiance of sunlight, the Pyrenean fields seemed dull, all their plants, all their grasses were as if collected in one knows not what resignation weary of living, what expectation of death.
The turns of the path, the houses, the least trees, all recalled hours of other times to Ramuntcho, hours wherein Gracieuse was mingled7. And then, at each reminiscence, at each step, engraved8 itself and hammered itself in his mind, under a new form, this verdict without recourse: “It is finished, you are alone forever, Gracieuse has been taken away from you and is in prison—” The rents in his heart, every accident in the path renewed and changed them. And, in the depth of his being, as a constant basis for his reflections, this other anxiety endured: his mother, his mother very ill, in mortal danger, perhaps—!
He met people who stopped him, with a kind and welcoming air, who talked to him in the dear Basque tongue—ever alert and sonorous9 despite its incalculable antiquity10; old Basque caps, old white heads, liked to talk of the ball-game to this fine player returned to his cradle. And then, at once, after the first words of greeting, smiles went out, in spite of this clear sun in this blue sky, and all were disturbed by the thought of Gracieuse in a veil and of Franchita dying.
A violent flush of blood went up to his face when he caught sight of Dolores, at a distance, going into her home. Very decrepit11, that one, and wearing a prostrate12 air! She had recognized him, for she turned quickly her obstinate13 and hard head, covered by a mourning mantilla. With a sentiment of pity at seeing her so undone14, he reflected that she had struck herself with the same blow, and that she would be alone now in her old age and at her death—
On the square, he met Marcos Iragola who informed him that he was married, like Florentino—and with the little friend of his childhood, he also.
“I did not have to serve in the army,” Iragola explained, “because we are Guipuzcoans, immigrants in France; so I could marry her earlier!”
He, twenty-one years old; she eighteen; without lands and without a penny, Marcos and Pilar, but joyfully15 associated all the same, like two sparrows building their nest. And the very young husband added laughingly:
“What would you? Father said: 'As long as you do not marry I warn you that I shall give you a little brother every year.' And he would have done it! There are already fourteen of us, all living—”
Oh, how simple and natural they are! How wise and humbly16 happy!—Ramuntcho quitted him with some haste, with a heart more bruised17 for having spoken to him, but wishing very sincerely that he should be happy in his improvident18, birdlike, little home.
Here and there, folks were seated in front of their doors, in that sort of atrium of branches which precedes all the houses of this country. And their vaults19 of plane-trees, cut in the Basque fashion, which in the summer are so impenetrable all open worked in this season, let fall on them sheafs of light. The sun flamed, somewhat destructive and sad, above those yellow leaves which were drying up—
And Ramuntcho, in his slow promenade20, felt more and more what intimate ties, singularly persistent21, would attach him always to this region of the earth, harsh and enclosed, even if he were there alone, abandoned, without friends, without a wife and without a mother—
Now, the high mass rings! And the vibrations22 of that bell impress him with a strange emotion that he did not expect. Formerly23, its familiar appeal was an appeal to joy and to pleasure—
He stops, he hesitates, in spite of his actual religious unbelief and in spite of his grudge24 against that church which has taken his betrothed25 away from him. The bell seems to invite him to-day in so special a manner, with so peaceful and caressing26 a voice: “Come, come; let yourself be rocked as your ancestors were; come, poor, desolate27 being, let yourself be caught by the lure28 which will make your tears fall without bitterness, and will help you to die—”
Undecided, resisting still, he walks, however, toward the church—when Arrochkoa appears!
Arrochkoa, whose catlike mustache has lengthened30 a great deal and whose feline31 expression is accentuated32, runs to him with extended hands, with an effusion that he did not expect, in an enthusiasm, perhaps sincere, for that ex-sergeant who has such a grand air, who wears the ribbon of a medal and whose adventures have made a stir in the land:
“Ah, my Ramuntcho, when did you arrive?—Oh, if I could have prevented—What do you think of my old, hardened mother and of all those church bigots?—Oh, I did not tell you: I have a son, since two months; a fine little fellow! We have so many things to say, my poor friend, so many things!—”
The bell rings, rings, fills the air more and more with its soft appeal, very grave and somewhat imposing33 also.
“You are not going there, I suppose?” asks Arrochkoa, pointing to the church.
“Well come then, let us go in here and taste the new cider of your country!—”
To the smugglers' cider mill, he brings him; both, near the open window, sit as formerly, looking outside;—and this place also, these old benches, these casks in a line in the back, these same images on the wall, are there to recall to Ramuntcho the delicious times of the past, the times that are finished.
The weather is adorably beautiful; the sky retains a rare limpidity34; through the air passes that special scent35 of falling seasons, scent of woods despoiled36, of dead leaves that the sun overheats on the soil. Now, after the absolute calm of the morning, rises a wind of autumn, a chill of November, announcing clearly, but with a melancholy almost charming, that the winter is near—a southern winter, it is true, a softened37 winter, hardly interrupting the life of the country. The gardens and all the old walls are still ornamented38 with roses—!
At first they talk of indifferent things while drinking their cider, of Ramuntcho's travels, of what happened in the country during his absence, of the marriages which occurred or were broken. And, to those two rebels who have fled from the church, all the sounds of the mass come during their talk, the sounds of the small bells and the sounds of the organ, the ancient songs that fill the high, sonorous nave—
At last, Arrochkoa returns to the burning subject:
“Oh, if you had been here it would not have occurred!—And even now, if she saw you—”
Ramuntcho looks at him then, trembling at what he imagines he understands:
“Even now?—What do you mean?”
“Oh, women—with them, does one ever know?—She cared a great deal for you and it was hard for her.—In these days there is no law to keep her there!—How little would I care if she broke her vows—”
Ramuntcho turns his head, lowers his eyes, says nothing, strikes the soil with his foot. And, in the silence, the impious thing which he had hardly dared to formulate39 to himself, seems to him little by little less chimerical40, attainable41, almost easy.—No, it is not impossible to regain42 her. And, if need be, doubtless, Arrochkoa, her own brother, would lend a hand. Oh, what a temptation and what a new disturbance43 in his mind—!
Drily he asks, “Where is she?—Far from here?”
“Far enough, yes. Over there, toward Navarre, five or six hours of a carriage drive. They have changed her convent twice. She lives at Amezqueta now, beyond the oak forests of Oyanzabal; the road is through Mendichoco; you know, we must have gone through it together one night with Itchoua.”
The high mass is ended.—Groups pass: women, pretty girls, elegant in demeanor, among whom Gracieuse is no more: many Basque caps lowered on sunburnt foreheads. And all these faces turn to look at the two cider drinkers at their window. The wind, that blows stronger, makes dance around their glasses large, dead, plane-tree leaves.
A woman, already old, casts at them, from under her black cloth mantilla, a sad and evil glance:
“Ah,” says Arrochkoa, “here is mother! And she looks at us crosswise.—She may flatter herself for her work!—She punished herself for she will end in solitude44 now.—Catherine—who is at Elsagarray's, you know—works by the day for her; otherwise, she would have nobody to talk to in the evening—”
A bass45 voice, behind them, interrupts them, with a Basque greeting, hollow like a sound in a cavern46, while a large and heavy hand rests on Ramuntcho's shoulder as if to take possession of him: Itchoua, Itchoua who has just finished chanting his liturgy47!—Not changed at all, this one; he has always his same ageless face, always his colorless mask which is at once that of a monk48 and that of a highwayman, and his same eyes, set in, hidden, absent. His mind also must have remained similar, his mind capable of impassible murder at the same time as devout49 fetichism.
“Ah,” he says, in a tone which wishes to be that of a good fellow, “you have returned to us, my Ramuntcho! Then we are going to work together, eh? Business is brisk with Spain now, you know, and arms are needed at the frontier. You are one of us, are you not?”
“Perhaps,” replies Ramuntcho. “We may talk of it—”
For several moments his departure for America has become a faint idea in his mind.—No!—He would rather stay in his native land, begin again his former life, reflect and wait obstinately50. Anyway, now that he knows where she is, that village of Amezqueta, at a distance of five or six hours from here, haunts him in a dangerous way, and he hugs all sorts of sacrilegious projects which, until to-day, he would never have dared hardly to conceive.
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1
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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3
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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7
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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8
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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9
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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10
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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11
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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12
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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13
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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14
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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15
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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16
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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17
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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18
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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19
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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20
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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22
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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23
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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25
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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26
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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27
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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28
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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29
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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30
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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32
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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33
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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34
limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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35
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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36
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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38
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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39
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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40
chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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41
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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42
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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43
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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44
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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45
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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46
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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47
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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48
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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49
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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50
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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