(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (2 page)

"And—and I'll miss the classes too, sir! But sir—please tell me one thing." I had been reading the plays of Sophocles that week, and for a moment thirst for information made me forget the urgency to be gone. "Why,
why
did all those troubles fall on poor Oedipus? None of it was his fault—he did not know that Laius was his father and Jocasta his mother—"

"Yerrah, dear boy, ye've read the classics with me now for three years and ye still expect
justice
in human affairs? Divil a bit will ye find in this world—justice is only guaranteed in the world to come! No, no," Redmond went on, shepherding me out the door, across the cloisters, and out into the street, "I'll walk with ye a step of the road and take my breakfast coffee in the Plaza Mayor; no, my child, the misfortunes that fell on poor King Oedipus were kin to those that have fallen on poor Spain. Whose fault? Nobody's, that we can see. Who could guess, when the English drove out Napoleon and kicked his brother Joseph off the Spanish throne, and brought back the rightful king, Ferdinand, that the man would turn into such a bloody tyrant?"

"Oh, sir, mind what you are saying, for God's sake!"

"Ne'er fret your head, boy. 'Tis early for the Gardai to be about."

Indeed the night was still black. The streets were empty. No Civil Guards were to be seen.

"'Deed and I sometimes think," went on Dr. Redmond, "that the ancient tales, such as that of Oedipus, were given us so that we may measure our own troubles against the ills of former times. That way, our own lot may not seem so bad."

"What can help Spain now, sir?"

"Time alone is the cure," he answered gravely. "No use expecting a sudden rescue, for there won't be one. Maybe in a hundred years ... Ye have English kin, have ye not?"

"Ay, sir, a grandfather living near Bath. But he is old, and out of his wits."

"If it were not for the Conde," he muttered, "I'd say, take ship for England, and live there where folk of liberal views may speak as loud as they please. But ye'd not want to leave your grandpa."

"
Indeed
I would not!"

"Well, God go with ye, my child.
Vaya con Dios!
" he added, breaking into Spanish—hitherto we had spoken English, to lessen the risk of being overheard. "Ye have been one of my brightest students—don't forget what ye have learned." He waved me a friendly good-bye as he turned into one of the cafés that lined the square, just beginning to open for business.

Back at my lodgings I found that Pedro had capably packed up my clothes and books, and had ready a pair of mules which stood waiting to take us on the first stage of our journey.

"Mules?" I said. "Was that the best you could do?"

"Now who's being high and mighty? These are a good pair, from la Mancha; they can outpace any of your high-stepping Arabs, and will take longer to tire. Also"—he glanced about the street—"mounted on a pair of mules, we wont attract such notice."

"Well: there's something to that."

I swung myself onto one of the long-eared beasts and Pedro, doing likewise, added with a grin, "Anyway, I seem to remember that you weren't too proud to leave home on a mule, once before."

Laughing, I kicked my mount into a swinging lope. It was true that, six years ago, at the age of twelve, I had run away from home, riding a canny, cross-grained mule from my grandfathers stable, who had been my faithful companion through various hair-raising adventures, and had saved my life at least twice.

"Everything you say is perfectly correct, Pedro. Did you manage to buy a keepsake for your aunt?"

"Got the old girl a bit of lace from a stall in the Calle de Zamora." He patted his saddlebag.

So we set out northwest, along the highway to Leon and Oviedo.

For a couple of hours we rode in silence. As Pedro had foretold, the mules went well, covering the ground at a smooth, steady amble, five leagues to the hour. By the time full day had dawned we were well away from Salamanca, in open country. Then Pedro's tongue was loosened, and he chattered with his usual vivacity, telling me all the news of Villaverde, my grandfather's household, the great fortified house, and the tiny town that clung to one side of it and was encircled by the same massive wall, high on the Picos de Ancares. Who had been married to whom, who was sick, who was well, he related, which horses had foaled, how my grandfather did these days, and my five aged great-aunts; no, only four of them now—Great-aunt Feliciana had been carried off by the croup at the age of ninety-four last month, leaving Natividad, Adoracion, Josefina, and Visitación. And Doña Mercedes, my grandmother, Pedro said, was now like a little child, had to have the simplest matters explained to her, and asked the same question five times in as many minutes.

"Its hard on your grandfather," Pedro concluded. "But everybody else in the household finds it a change for the better. Such a Tartar she used to be! Now she's peaceable as a duckling, smiles and pats your head if you so much as pick up her fan."

Pity she wasn't like that fifteen years ago when I was a young child in her household, I thought; many was the beating she ordered for me then.

"So how do you like college, Felix?" Pedro asked. "Are you growing mighty learned? Are you going to be a great man of law? I reckon it's better than being rapped on the knuckles twenty times a day by old Father Tomás, eh?"

"Just about ten thousand times better. I like it very well. Though there's a deal to learn. The full course of study for a barrister takes thirteen years."

"
Thirteen years?
" Pedro turned to me a face of horror. "You're joking, Señor Felix!"

I shook my head. "It's true. But you have to be aged twenty-five before you can apply ... I'm just working for a bachelor's degree. I'd like to be a barrister, though. You have to swear to defend the poor for nothing—"

"You always were mad on finding out about things that are no use," Pedro said rather disparagingly. "Now I"—he thumped his chest—"I can only reckon if I can see the things right there in front of me. Or know they are in the barn: so many head of goats, so many tons of hay."

Pedro, I remembered, was lightning-quick at figures; calculation always had a great appeal for him. So I told him that, back in the fifteenth century, Cristoforo Colombo had traveled to Salamanca to ask the astronomers and mathematicians there for help in planning his voyage in search of the New World.

"Is that true?" he said, only half believing, and when I said yes he burst into ribald song:

Cristoforo Colombo
Es verdadero
Una grasa Señora
Se senta en mi sombrero!

Then he asked, "But you aren't studying
astronomy,
are you, Felix? That would be
really
useless!"

"No, only law. And some other things which I hope will come in useful." Like the plays of Sophocles, I thought, and fell silent, recalling, as I had many times, the day when it had been decided that I should attend the University at Salamanca.

I had been out on the grasslands, beyond the town wall, exercising a half-schooled Andalusian colt, when Pepe, one of the stable boys, came racing to tell me that Grandfather wanted me urgently. And indeed, as I cantered toward the arched gate in the wall, I saw the Conde come through it, pushed in his wheelchair by Manuel, his personal servant. There was a stretch of paved road outside the wall, and here they halted. My grandfather made urgent beckoning gestures, and motioned Manuel to go back inside, so I dismounted and tied my horse to a stanchion in the wall.

"What is it, Grandfather? Are you ill?"

Even from a distance I could see how white his face was. And, coming closer, that his mouth trembled and shook in a way that frightened me. For, as a rule, he was a man of iron self-control. He had a paper in his hands.

"No," he said. "I am not ill. But I have had terrible news."

I waited in silent suspense while he made several efforts to speak. At last he brought it out.

"They have killed Rafael Riego. The best man in Spain. Killed him like a dog."

"Oh, Grandfather—"

Riego was a Liberal leader, a man of great courage and nobility. In the wars against Napoleon, he had served with gallantry, and had been taken prisoner. Back home, when peace returned, he was elected to the Cortes, the Spanish parliament, and, in 1820, appointed its president. That same year, he proclaimed the validity of the Spanish Liberal constitution, which had been drawn up in 1812, while King Ferdinand was still a captive in the hands of the French.

But then, later in 1820, history repeated itself and French troops again invaded our country, for the other European nations refused to acknowledge a democratically elected Spanish government. Colonel Riego led the fighting against the French, and was captured at Malaga. The restored King Ferdinand, who had at first pretended to accept the Liberal constitution, now completely turned against it, and sided with the French, who supported him in all his tyrannical acts.

"Not only have they killed Riego," said my grandfather with white lips, "but they did it in the most shameful, degrading way. He was dragged along the streets of Madrid in a basket, at the tail of an ass. Imagine it! The president of the parliament—the man who could have saved Spain! Then he was hanged, drawn, and quartered like a—like a cutthroat! This country, I truly believe, is turning into a hell on earth."

There was no possible way to comfort my grandfather.

Riego, a neighbor, a man of Asturias, had been a close family friend. I know Grandfather felt his horrible end all the more keenly because, if he had not been prevented by his crippled state, he would have been Riego's active ally.

"What can we
do?
" I said. I was wild to make some demonstration—put up a placard—write a letter to the king—hit somebody.

I was only fourteen at that time.

But my grandfather said, "Nothing. There is nothing we can do. King Ferdinand is backed by the French—the 'hundred thousand sons of St. Louis.' If the Spanish people did rebel, I have no doubt that the Czar of Russia would send Cossacks into our country. We should be beaten into submission. The other kingdoms of Europe do not
want
Spain to become a free and liberal state.

"But Felix, it is for you that I fear. My political views are known. If I were to be carried off" to prison, they would take you too. Then who would care for your grandmother and your great-aunts? It is best that you leave Villaverde, my boy, and go away, at once, to college in England."

This, however, I flatly refused to do. My grandfather argued in vain.

"You have relations there—" This was true, for though my mother had been Spanish, my father was an English officer, killed in the French wars, and I had traveled to England to visit his family home. "You could go to Oxford or Cambridge University," my grandfather said.

"Those places are too far from Villaverde. Besides, I don't like England."

In the end, after much argument, I agreed to go to Salamanca. For I did, in truth, wish to learn. And my grandfather felt that if I was at least that far away from Villaverde, it could not be argued that I was under his influence. He begged me not to involve myself in politics while I was studying; and, as I loved him, I gave my promise, and kept it, though it went against the grain. Which was why Pedro had found me at home and studying, instead of out rioting with my comrades.

As it turned out, the authorities had
not
imprisoned Grandfather—perhaps because it was so plain that, in his severely crippled state, he could play no part in any uprising. But for several years he was under house arrest, forbidden even to go out of doors. That was in 1823. And I went off to Salamanca early next year and remained there for the following three years, often homesick and heartsick enough, but glad of the chance to acquire knowledge, for which I had a deep hunger.

If you can only discover the causes of things, I often thought, surely you can also discover their cure?

Now, despite my worry over Grandfather, I was deeply happy to be riding north again, back to Galicia. Among other reasons, because Galicia was a little nearer to France.

Five years had passed by since I had met "that French girl" referred to by Pedro. I had no reason to hope that I would ever see her again; yet still, how fervently I did hope! She and I had shared a strange adventure; we had each saved the other's life, several times over. And, as surely as spring follows winter, I felt certain that our fortunes were, in some way, knit together and that we must, some day, meet again. I felt about no other person in the whole world as I did about Juana—we had grown to know one another so well, had become in the end—though not at first—such good friends.

Sometimes—in periods of doubt or despondency—it did occur to me that by now, after five years, she would be greatly changed. As, I suppose, I was myself. She would be grown up, she would have become a young lady. But still, but still, how I longed to see her!

Twice, during the five-year period, I had written to her, the first time in care of a firm of lawyers, Auteuil Frères, at Bayonne, who had been in charge of the affairs of her uncle, Señor d'Echepara.

After long delay I had a reply from the lawyers.

Following the recent death of our esteemed client, Señor Leon d'Echepara, his niece and heiress Mademoiselle Juana Esparza has announced her intention of entering the Convent of Notre Dame de Douleur in Bayonne as a postulant, and instructed us to dispose of all her uncle's property. This was done and the resulting funds of 30,000 reales assigned, at her request, to the convent as her dower. Any communication to Mademoiselle Esparza (now'Sœur Félicitée) should now be addressed in care of Mère Madeleine, the Mother Superior of the Convent.

That, for a year and a half, had put a stop to my efforts to communicate with Juana. A novice! In a French convent! Now indeed she was really cut off from me.

But, at the end of that time, as my yearning to talk to her did not abate, I wrote another letter, addressed to the convent. Nothing of importance: asking how she did, describing the course of my own studies, recalling some of the events of our wild journey over the Pyrenees from France into Spain.