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Read Ebook: The city of the discreet by Baroja P O Fassett Jacob S Jacob Sloat Translator
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Ebook has 3750 lines and 85721 words, and 75 pages
I A conversation on the train 9
II O, oriental, romantic city! 25
V Noble and ancient ancestral homes! 54
VI Concerning an adventure of Quentin's in the neighbourhood of El Potro 65
X Don Gil finishes his story 114
XX Philosophers without realizing the fact 211
XXX Projects 305
THE CITY OF THE DISCREET
A CONVERSATION ON THE TRAIN
Quentin awoke, opened his eyes, looked about him, and exclaimed between his yawns:
The countryman listened to his explanations smiling mischievously, mumbling an occasional aside to himself in an undertone:
"What a simpleton."
Leaning against the shoulder of the Frenchman, dozed his wife--a faded woman with a freakish hat, ruddy cheeks, and large hands clutching a portfolio. The other persons were a bronze-coloured priest wrapped in a cloak, and two recently-married Andalusians who were whispering the sweetest of sweet nothings to each other.
"But haven't we reached Andalusia yet?" Quentin again inquired impatiently.
"Oh, yes!" replied the Frenchman. "The next station is Baeza."
"Baeza!--Impossible!"
Quentin arose, his hands thrust into his overcoat. The rain beat incessantly against the coach windows which were blurred by the moisture.
"I don't know my own country," he exclaimed aloud; and to see it better he opened the window and looked out.
The train was passing through a ruddy country spotted here and there with pools of rainwater. In the distance, small, low hills, shadowed by shrubs and thickets raised themselves into the cold, damp air.
"What weather!" he exclaimed in disgust, as he closed the window. "This is no land of mine!"
"Are you a Spaniard?" inquired the Frenchman.
"Yes, sir."
"I would have taken you for an Englishman."
"I have just left England, where I spent eight years."
"Are you from Andalusia?"
"From Cordova."
The Frenchman and his wife, who had awakened, studied Quentin. Surely his looks were not Spanish. Tall, stout, and clean-shaven, with a good complexion and brown hair, enveloped in a grey overcoat, and with a cap on his head; he looked like a young Englishman sent by his parents to tour the continent. He had a strong nose, thick lips, and the expression of a dignified and serious young man which a roguish, mischievous, and gipsy-like smile completely unmasked.
"My wife and I are going to Cordova," remarked the Frenchman as he pocketed his magazine.
Quentin bowed.
"It must be a most interesting city--is it not?"
"Indeed it is!"
"Charming women with silk dresses ... on the balconies all day."
"And with cigarettes in their mouths, eh?"
"No."
"Ah! Don't Spanish women smoke?"
"Much less than French women."
"French women do not smoke, sir," said the woman somewhat indignantly.
"Oh! I've seen them in Paris!" exclaimed Quentin. "But you won't see any of them smoking in Cordova. You French people don't know us. You believe that all we Spaniards are toreadors, but it is not so."
"Ah! No, no! Pardon me!" replied the Frenchman, "we are very well acquainted with Spain. There are two Spains: one, which is that of the South, is Th?ophile Gautier's; the other, which is that of Hernani, is Victor Hugo's. But perhaps you don't know that Hernani is a Spanish city?"
"Yes, I know the place," said Quentin with aplomb, though never in his life had he heard any one mention the name of the tiny Basque village.
"A great city."
"Indeed it is."
Having made this remark, Quentin lit a cigarette, passed his hand along the blurred windowpane until he had made it transparent, and began to hum to himself as he contemplated the landscape. The humid, rainy weather had saddened the deserted fields. As far as one could see there were no hamlets, no villages--only here and there a dark farmhouse in the distance.
They passed abandoned stations, crossed huge olive groves with trees planted in rows in great squares on the ruddy hillsides. The train approached a broad and muddy river.
"The Guadalquivir?" inquired the Frenchman.
"I don't know," replied Quentin absently. Then, doubtless, this confession of ignorance seemed ill-advised, for he looked at the river as if he expected it to tell him its name, and added: "It is a tributary of the Guadalquivir."
"Ah! And what is its name?"
"I don't remember. I don't believe it has any."
The rain increased in violence. The country was slowly being converted into a mudhole. The older leaves of the wet olive trees shone a dark brown; the new ones glistened like metal. As the train slackened its speed, the rain seemed to grow more intense. One could hear the patter of the drops on the roof of the coach, and the water slid along the windows in broad gleaming bands.
At one of the stations, three husky young men climbed into the coach. Each wore a shawl, a broad-brimmed hat, a black sash, and a huge silver chain across his vest. They never ceased for an instant talking about mills, horses, women, gambling, and bulls.
"Those gentlemen," asked the Frenchman in an undertone, as he leaned over to Quentin, "What are they--toreadors?"
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