In spite of this conviction, he was not able to refrain at times from a certain ironical aggressiveness which expressed itself by inventing cla.s.sic nicknames. The young wife of Ulysses, bending over her lace-making, was Penelope awaiting the return of her wandering husband.
Dona Cristina accepted this nickname because she knew vaguely that Penelope was a queen of good habits. But the day that the professor, by logical deduction, called Cinta"s son Telemachus, the grandmother protested.
"He is named Esteban after his grandfather.... Telemachus is nothing but a theatrical name."
On one of his voyages Ulysses took advantage of a four-hour stop in the port of Valencia to see his G.o.dfather. From time to time he had been receiving letters from the poet,--each one shorter and sadder,--written in a trembling script that announced his age and increasing infirmity.
Upon entering the office Ferragut felt just like the legendary sleepers who believe themselves awaking after a few hours of sleep when they have really been dozing for dozens of years. Everything there was still just as it was in his infancy:--the busts of the great poets on the top of the book-cases, the wreaths in their gla.s.s cases, the jewels and statuettes, prizes for successful poems--were still in their crystal cabinets or resting on the same pedestals; the books in their resplendent bindings formed their customary close battalions the length of the bookcases. But the whiteness of the busts had taken on the color of chocolate, the bronzes were reddened by oxidation, the gold had turned greenish, and the wreaths were losing their leaves. It seemed as though ashes might have rained down upon perpetuity.
The occupants of this spell-bound dwelling presented the same aspect of neglect and deterioration. Ulysses found the poet thin and yellow, with a long white beard, with one eye almost closed and the other very widely opened. Upon seeing the young officer, broad-chested, vigorous and bronzed, Labarta, who was huddled in a great arm chair, began to cry with a childish hiccough as though he were weeping over the misery of human illusions, over the brevity of a deceptive life that necessitates continual renovation.
Ferragut found even greater difficulty in recognizing the little and shrunken senora who was near the poet. Her flabby flesh was hanging from her skeleton like the ragged fringe of past splendor; her head was small; her face had the wrinkled surface of a winter apple or plum, or of all the fruits that shrink and wither when they lose their juices.
"Dona Pepa!..." The two old people were thee-ing and thou-ing each other with the tranquil non-morality of those that realize that they are very near to death, and forget the tremors and scruples of a life crumbling behind them.
The sailor shrewdly suspected that all this physical misery was the sad finale of an absurd, happy-go-lucky and childish dietary,--sweets serving as the basis of nutrition, great heavy rice dishes as a daily course, watermelons and cantaloupes filling in the s.p.a.ce between meals, topped with ices served in enormous gla.s.ses and sending out a perfume of honeyed snow.
The two told him, sighing, of their infirmities, which they thought incomprehensible, attributing them to the ignorance of the doctors. It was really the morbid wasting away that suddenly attacks people of the abundant, food-yielding countries. Their life was one continual stream of liquid sugar.... And yet Ferragut could easily guess the disobedience of the two old folks to the discipline of diet, their childish deceptions, their cunning in order to enjoy alone the fruits and syrups which were the enchantment of their existence.
The interview was a short one. The captain had to return to the port of Grao where his steamer was awaiting him, ready to weigh anchor for South America.
The poet wept again, kissing his G.o.d-son. He never would see again this Colossus who seemed to repel his weak embraces with the bellows of his respiration.
"Ulysses, my son!... Always think of Valencia.... Do for her all that you can.... Keep her ever in mind, always Valencia!"
He promised all that the poet wished without understanding exactly what it was that Valencia might expect from him, a simple sailor, wandering over all the seas. Labarta wished to accompany him to the door but he sank down in his seat, obedient to the affectionate despotism of his companion who was always fearing the greatest catastrophes for him.
Poor Dona Pepa!... Ferragut felt inclined to laugh and to weep at the same time upon receiving a kiss from, her withered mouth whose down had turned into pin points. It was the kiss of an old beauty who remembers the gallantry of a youthful lover, the kiss of a childless woman caressing the son she might have had.
"Poor unhappy Carmelo!... He no longer writes, he no longer reads....
Ay! what will ever become of me?..."
She always spoke of the poet"s failing powers with the commiseration of a strong and healthy person, and she became terrified when thinking of the years in which she might survive her lord. Taken up with caring for him, she never even glanced at herself.
A year afterward, on returning from the Philippines, the captain found a letter from his G.o.d-father awaiting him at Port Said. Dona Pepa had died, and Labarta, working off the tearful heaviness of his low spirits, bade her farewell in a long canticle. Ulysses ran his eyes over the enclosed newspaper clipping containing the last verses of the poet. The stanzas were in Castilian. A bad sign!... After that there could be no doubt that his end must be very near.
Ferragut never again had an opportunity to see his G.o.d-father, who died while he was on one of his trips. Upon disembarking at Barcelona, Dona Cristina handed him a letter written by the poet almost in his death-agony. "Valencia, my son! Always Valencia!" And after repeating this recommendation many times, he announced that he had made his G.o.d-son his heir.
The books, the statues, all the glorious souvenirs of the poet-laureate, came to Barcelona to adorn the sailor"s home. The little Telemachus amused himself pulling apart the old wreaths of the troubador, and tearing out the old prints from his volumes with the inconsequence of a lively child whose father is very far away and who knows that he is idolized by two indulgent ladies. Besides his trophies, the poet left Ulysses an old house in Valencia, some real estate and a certain amount in negotiable securities,--total, thirty thousand dollars.
The other guardian of his infancy, the vigorous _Triton_, seemed to be unaffected by the pa.s.sing of the years. Upon his return to Barcelona, Ferragut frequently found him installed in his home, in mute hostility to Dona Cristina, devoting to Cinta and her son a part of the affection that he had formerly lavished upon Ulysses alone.
He was very desirous that the little Esteban should know the home of his great grandparents.
"You will let me have him?... You know well enough," he coaxed, "that down in the _Marina_ men become as strong as though made of bronze.
Surely you will let me have him?..."
But he quailed before the indignant gesture of the suave Dona Cristina.
Entrust her grandson to the _Triton_, and let him awaken in him the love of maritime adventure, as he had done with Ulysses?... Behind me, thou blue devil!
The doctor used to wander around bewildered by the port of Barcelona.... Too much noisy bustle, too much movement! Walking proudly along by the side of Ulysses, he loved to recount to him the adventures of his life as a sailor and cosmopolitan vagabond. He considered his nephew the greatest of the Ferraguts, a true man of the sea like his ancestors but with the t.i.tle of captain;--an adventurous rover over all oceans, as he had been, but with a place on the bridge, invested with the absolute command that responsibility and danger confer. When Ulysses reembarked, the _Triton_ would take himself off to his own dominions.
"It will be next time, sure!" he would say in order to console himself for having to part with his nephew"s son; and after a few months had pa.s.sed by, he would reappear, each time larger, uglier, more tanned, with a silent smile which broke into words before Ulysses just as tempestuous clouds break forth in thunder claps.
Upon his return from a trip to the Black Sea, Dona Cristina announced to her son: "Your uncle has died."
The pious senora lamented as a Christian the departure of her brother-in-law, dedicating a part of her prayers to him; but she insisted with a certain cruelty in giving an account of his sad end, for she had never been able to pardon his fatal intervention in the destiny of Ulysses. He had died as he had lived,--in the sea, a victim, of his own rashness, without confession, just like any pagan.
Another legacy thus fell to Ferragut.... His uncle had gone out swimming one sunny, winter morning and had never come back. The old folks on the sh.o.r.e had their way of explaining how the accident had happened,--a fainting spell probably, a clash against the rocks. The _Dotor_ was still vigorous, but the years do not pa.s.s without leaving their footprints. Some believed that he must have had a struggle with a shark or some other of the carnivorous fish that abound in the Mediterranean waters. In vain the fishermen guided their skiffs through all the twisting entrances and exits of the waters around the promontory, exploring the gloomy caves and the lower depths of crystalline transparency. No one was ever able to find the _Triton"s_ body.
Ferragut recalled the cortege of Aphrodite which the doctor had so often described to him on summer evenings, by the light of the far-away gleam of the lighthouse. Perhaps he had come upon that gay retinue of nereids, joining it forever!
This absurd supposition that Ulysses mentally formulated with a sad and incredulous smile, frequently recurred in the simple thoughts of many of the people of the _Marina_.
They refused to believe in his death. A wizard is never drowned. He must have found down below something very interesting and when he got tired of living in the green depths, he would probably some day come swimming back home.
No: the _Dotor_ had not died.
And for many years afterwards the women who were going along the coast at nightfall would quicken their steps, crossing themselves upon distinguishing on the dark waters a bit of wood or a bunch of sea weed.
They feared that suddenly would spring forth the _Triton_, bearded, dripping, spouting, returning from his excursion into the mysterious depths of the sea.
CHAPTER IV
FREYA
The name of Ulysses Ferragut began to be famous among the captains of the Spanish ports, although the nautical adventures of his early days contributed very little to this popularity. The most of them had encountered greater dangers, but they appreciated him because of the instinctive respect that energetic and simple men have for an intelligence which they consider superior to their own. Reading nothing except what pertained to their career, they used to speak with consternation of the numerous books that filled Ferragut"s stateroom, many of them upon matters which appeared to them most mysterious. Some even made inexact statements in order to enlarge the prestige of their comrade.
"He knows much.... He is a lawyer as well as a sailor."
Consideration of his fortune also contributed to the general appreciation. He was an important share-holder of the company by which he was employed. His companions loved to calculate with proud exaggeration the riches of his mother, piling it up into millions.
He met friends on every ship carrying the Spanish flag, whatever might be its home port or the nationality of its crews.
They all liked him:--the Basque captains, economical in words, rude and sparing in affectionate discourse; the Asturian and Galician captains, self-confident and spendthrift in strange contrast to their sobriety and avaricious character when ash.o.r.e; the Andalusian captains, reflecting in their witty talk white Cadiz and its luminous wines; the Valencian captains who talk of politics on the bridge, imagining that they are going to become the navy of a future republic; and the captains from Catalunia and Mallorca as thoroughly acquainted with business affairs as are their ship-owners. Whenever necessity obliged them to defend their rights, they immediately thought of Ulysses.
n.o.body could write as he could.
The old mates who had worked their way up from the lower ranks, men of the sea who had begun their career on coasting vessels and could only with great difficulty adjust their practical knowledge to the handling of books, used to speak of Ferragut with pride.
"They say that men of the sea are an uncultivated people.... Here they have _Don Luis_ who is one of us. They may ask him whatever they wish.... A real sage!"
The name of Ulysses always made them stammer. They believed it a nickname, and not wishing to show any lack of respect, they had finally transformed it into "Don Luis." For some of them, Ferragut"s only defect was his good luck. So far not a single boat of which he had had command had been lost. And every sailor constantly on the sea ought to have at least one of these misfortunes in his history in order to be a real captain. Only landlubbers never lose their boats.
When his mother died, Ulysses was very undecided about the future, not knowing whether to continue his sea life, or undertake something entirely different. His relatives at Barcelona, merchants quick to understand and appraise a fortune, added up what the notary and his wife had left him and put with that what Labarta and the doctor had contributed, until it amounted to a million pesetas.... And was a man with as much money as that to go on living like a poor captain dependent upon wages to maintain his family!...
His cousin, Joaquin Blanes, proprietor of a factory for knit goods, urged him repeatedly to follow his example. He ought to remain on sh.o.r.e and invest his capital in Catalan industry. Ulysses belonged to this country both on his mother"s side and because he was born in the neighboring land of Valencia. There was great need of men of fortune and energy to take part in the government. Blanes was entering local politics with the enthusiasm of a middle-cla.s.s man for novel adventure.