toward the first part of last century, upon one of the folds of sierra morena, stood a tavern called el ventorro de la sangre (bloody tavern). it was half way between pozo blanco and cordova, in a fertile little pasture near an olive orchard.
its name arose from a bloody encounter between the dragoons and guerillas in that spot at the time of the french intervention.
the tavern was situated on a small clearing that was always kept green. it was surrounded by tall prickly-pears, a ravine, and an olive orchard in which one could see ruins—vestiges of a fortress and a watch-tower. this land belonged to a village perched upon the most rugged and broken part of the mountain.... its name does not at present concern the story.
the tavern was neither very large, nor very spacious; it had neither the characteristics of a hostelry, nor even of a store. its front, which was six metres long, whitewashed, and pierced by a door and three windows, faced a bad horse-shoe road strewn with loose stones; its humble roof leaned toward the ground, and joined that of a shed which contained the stables, the manger, and the straw-loft.[83]
one passed through the entrance of the little tavern from whose lintel hung a bunch of sarment—which indicated, for your enlightenment, that in the house thus decorated wine was sold—and entered a miserable vestibule, which also served as a kitchen, a larder, and, at times, a dormitory.
during the years 1838 and ’39, the proprietor of el ventorro de la sangre was a man named el cartagenero, who, so evil tongues asserted, had been a licentiate—though not of philosophy—in a university with mayors for professors, and sticks for beadles. no one knew the truth—a clear indication that the tavern was not run badly; the man paid well, behaved himself as a man should, and was capable, if the occasion arose, of lending a hand to any of the neighbouring farmers.
el cartagenero demonstrated in his delightful and entertaining conversation, that he had travelled extensively, both by land and by sea; he knew the business of innkeeping—which has its secrets as well as anything else in the world; robbed very little; was hard-working, sensible, upright, and if need be, firm, generous, and brave.
el cartagenero was to all appearances a fugitive; and that very condition of his made him most reserved and taciturn, in no way a prier, and very little given to mixing himself in other people’s affairs.
when he had run the little tavern for six years, el cartagenero rented an oil-press; he then installed a tile-kiln, and by his activity and perseverance, was getting along splendidly, when one day, unfortunately for him, while he was loading a cart with bricks, he fell in such a way that he struck his head on the iron-shod wheel, and was instantly killed.[84]
from that very day, the tavern began to run down; la cartagenera did not care to continue the renting of the press, because, as she said, she could not attend to it; she abandoned the kiln for the same reason, and neglected the tavern for no pretext at all, though, if there was no pretext or motive, there was an explanation; and this was la cartagenera’s vice of drinking brandy, and the laziness and idleness of her daughters—two very sly and very slothful un-belled cows.
the elder of el cartagenero’s daughters made her arrangements with a swaggering rascal from cordova; and the other, not to be outdone by her sister, took for her good man, one of those country loafers—and what with the sweetheart of the former, and the friend of the other, and the brandy of the mother, the house began to run down hill.
the muleteers soon guessed what was up; they no longer found good wine there as before; nor a diligent person to prepare their meals and feed their animals; so now because the hosier had left the place swearing mad, again because the pedlar had quarrelled with them, all of their customers began to leave; and for a whole year no one dismounted at the tavern; and the mother and her daughters, with the two corresponding swains, passed the time insulting and growling at each other, stretched out in the sun in the summer, toasting sarment at the fire-place in the winter, and in all the seasons hurling bitter complaints against an adverse destiny.
after a year of this régime, there was nothing left in the house to eat, nor to drink, nor to sell—for they had sold everything including the doors—the family determined to get rid of the tavern. the girls’ two[85] friends came to cordova and opened up negotiations with all their acquaintances, and were about despairing of making a sale, when a farmer from these parts by the name of el mojoso, presented himself at the tavern. he was a clever, sensible chap, and the owner of a drove of five very astute little donkeys.
el mojoso entered into negotiations with the widow, and for less than nothing, became possessed of the establishment. el mojoso was very sagacious, and immediately comprehended the situation at the tavern; so he began to think about conducive methods of restoring the credit of the house. the first thing that occurred to him after he had been installed a few days, was to change its name, and he had a painter friend of his paint in huge letters upon the whitewashed wall above the door, this sign:
the cross-roads store
el mojoso had a wife and three children: one, employed as a miner in pueblo nuevo del terrible; and two girls, with whom and his wife he established himself in the store.
his wife, whom they called la temeraria, was a tall, strong, industrious, and determined matron. the daughters were splendid girls, but too refined to live in that deserted spot.
el mojoso himself was a tough sort of a chap, crazy about bulls, slangy, and somewhat of a boaster. as a man who had spent his childhood in the matadero district, which is the finest school of bull-fighting in the world, he knew how to differentiate the several tricks of the bull-ring.[86]
at first, el mojoso did not abandon his drove; the returns from the inn were very small, and it did not seem expedient to him to quit his carrying business. but instead of walking the streets of cordova, he devoted himself to going to and from the mountain villages carrying wheat to the mill, farming utensils to the farms, and doing a lot of errands and favours that were gaining him many friends in the neighbourhood.
when he had no errands or favours to do, he carried stones to his house on his donkeys and piled them under the shed. after a year of this work, when he had gathered together the wherewithal, he got a mason from cordova, and under his direction, la temeraria and he and his daughters, and a youth whom they had hired as a servant, lengthened the house, raised it a story, tiled the roof, and whitewashed it.
el mojoso had to sell his donkeys to pay the costs—only keeping one. the muleteers were already resuming their old custom of stopping at the store.
during the first months, the wine was pure, and there was a pardillo and a claret such as had not been known in those parts for many years. little by little the store commenced to grow in fame; lively and genial folk met there; the wine grew worse, according to the opinion of the intelligent, but good wine was not lacking if the customer who asked for it had the means of paying without protest or objection three or four times its worth. during the slaughter season there was pork chine when they wanted it, and at other times of the year, pork sausage, blood pudding and other such delicacies.
el mojoso learned his new business very quickly. without doubt, he was a thief a nativitate. he watered[87] the wine and perjured himself by swearing that it was the only pure wine that was sold in the entire mountain district; he put pepper in the brandy; he cheated in grain and hay; tangled up the accounts, and—always came out ahead.
nearly every day he went to the city with his donkey under the pretext of shopping; but the truth is that his trips were to carry instructions and orders from a few timid men who went about the mountain, blunderbuss in hand, to some poor chaps in prison.
la temeraria knew how to help her husband. she was a quiet, hard-working woman as long as no one interfered with her; but if any one dared to fail her, she was a she-wolf, more vengeful than god. she had enough spirit to look upon robbing as a pardonable and permissible thing, and even to the extent of not considering it extraordinary for a man to bring down a militia-man and leave him on the ground chewing mud.
in fine, the husband and wife were the most artful ... innkeepers in these parts. at the cross-roads store, the traveller could spend the night in peace, whether he was an orderly person or had some little account to settle with the police; or whether he was a merchant or a horseman, he could be sure of being undisturbed. one day . . . .
“but tell me, my friend,” don gil asked quentin; “how does the beginning of the story strike you?”
“very well.”
“did you like the exposition?”
“i should say so! you are a master.”
“thanks!” exclaimed don gil, satisfied. “to your health, comrade.[88]”
“to yours.”
“now you’ll hear the good part.”
one rainy day in the month of february, just at dusk, there was gathered in the kitchen of the cross-roads store, a group of muleteers from the near-by village. some of them, imbued with a love of heat, were seated upon two long benches on either side of the hearth; others were seated upon chairs and stools of wicker and lambskin, further away from the fire.
by the light of the blackened lamp and the flame of the candle, the whole circumference of the kitchen, which was a large one, could be seen: its enormous mantel, its rafters twisted and blackened with smoke, the big stones in the floor, and the walls adorned with a collection of pot-covers, saucepans, wooden spoons, and coloured jars hung upon nails.
the muleteers were engaged in an animated conversation while they waited for the supper which la temeraria was at that moment preparing in two frying-pans full of pork chine and potatoes; el mojoso was filling the measure with barley which he took from a bin; then, pouring the grain into a leather sieve, he handed it to a youth who was going to and from the kitchen and the stable.
night had already fallen, and it was raining torrents, when repeated knocks sounded upon the door.
“who is it?” shouted el mojoso in a loud voice. “come in, whoever it is.”
this said, the host took a lantern, lit it with a brand from the fire, crossed the kitchen, and stood in the vestibule with the light held high to see who was coming in. the vestibule was as narrow as a corridor; it[89] had board walls, and upon them, hanging from wooden pot-hooks, could be seen several kinds of pack-saddles, panniers, headstalls, and other harness of leather, cloth, and esparto-grass. upon the slanting stone floor, several muleteers who had made their beds there were sleeping peacefully.
the knock on the door was repeated.
“come in!” said el mojoso.
the wooden half-door opened with a screech, and a man appeared on the threshold, wrapped in a jerez shawl which was drenched with water.
“is there lodging here?” the man asked.
“there’s good will,” answered the innkeeper. “did you come on horseback?”
“yes.”
“come in. i’ll take your horse to the stable. walk right in there.”
the man went to the kitchen.
“the peace of god be with you, gentlemen!” he said.
“may he keep you,” they all answered.
the recent arrival went in, took off his long, tasseled shawl, and sat down upon a grass-bottomed chair near the fire.
the innkeeper’s daughter, more out of curiosity than anything else, threw an armful of dry rose-wood upon the fire, which began to burn brilliantly, producing a large flame, and filling the kitchen with the odour of its incense.
by the light of the flames they could see that the recent arrival was a tall and strong young man of about twenty years, upon whose upper lip the down had not yet begun to appear. he looked like a gentleman of noble blood; he wore a short coat, knee breeches[90] fastened with silver buttons, buckled leggings, a blue sash, a coloured silk handkerchief about his neck, and a small, creased calañés. the hostess noticed that his shirt studs were made of diamonds.
“you have bad weather for travelling,” she said.
“bad it is,” replied the youth dryly, without removing his eyes from the fire.
the muleteers examined the young man in silence. el mojoso came back from the stable where he had taken the horse, brought in a half-filled sack on his back, and emptied it into the bin, weighed the barley in the measure, and asked the horseman:
“what shall i give the animal?”
“give him a good feed.”
“shall i give him two quarts?”
“yes.”
el mojoso went out with the measure in one hand and the lantern in the other.
“this chap,” he murmured into his cloak, “is a rich youngster who has been in some escapade in cordova. his horse is out there with an embossed saddle. the boy will pay well.”
el mojoso was a man who knew his profession. convinced of the character of the young man, he returned to the kitchen with a broader smile than usual, and said:
“what would your worship like for supper?”
“anything.”
“and would you like a bed?”
“have you one?”
“sí, señor.”
“good: then i shall sleep in a bed.”
“very well; they’ll get it ready for you directly.”
the hostess took one of the large frying-pans from[91] the fire and emptied its contents into a dish which she placed upon a low table.
the muleteers prepared themselves for the meal. la temeraria took one of the blackened lamps from the grime of the mantel-piece, lit it, and seeing that it did not give a very good light, took a hairpin from her hair, stuck it into the wick to trim and ventilate it, and this done, fastened it with a wooden peg to a beam that stuck out of the wall.
“bring wine, mojoso,” she then said to her husband.
the innkeeper passed behind a counter which he had at the right of the kitchen door, and filled two bottles from a wine-skin; then, from another skin, using great care lest he spill the wine, he filled a small andújar jar. one of the large bottles he placed upon the table about which the muleteers had seated themselves as they chatted and waited for their supper to be prepared.
la temeraria placed a tripod over the fire, and presently the older daughter of the house entered with a large lamp.
“the room is ready, father,” she murmured.
turning to the youth, the innkeeper said:
“you may go up now, if you wish.”
the young man arose and followed the landlord, who lighted his way. they went into the vestibule, and, one behind the other, climbed up a steep stairway to a granary. the wind blew strongly through the cracks in the roof; by the flickering lamp-light they could see piles of walnuts and acorns upon the floor, and large gourds hanging in rows. el mojoso pushed open a white door of freshly-painted wood, entered a room with an alcove attached, placed the lamp upon the table, and after trimming it by all the rules of the art, said:[92]
“supper will be served to you directly. if you need anything, call;” and he shut the door as he went out.
the youth listened to the innkeeper’s footsteps in the attic, and when he found himself alone, drew two pistols from his sash, entered the alcove, and hid them on the bed under the pillow; he inspected the door, and found that it was solid with a strong lock; next he opened the window, and a gust of cold air made the flame of the lamp flicker violently. he looked out.
“this doubtless looks out upon the other side of the road,” he said to himself.
he closed the outside shutter and paced back and forth, waiting for his supper. the room was narrow and low and whitewashed, with blue rafters in the ceiling, and an alcove at one end occupied by a bed covered with a red quilt. pushed against the wall was a mahogany bureau with a carmen virgin in a glass case; opposite the bureau was a straw couch with a mahogany frame. there was a round table in the middle of the room upon whose coarse top were two plates, a glass, and the lamp. upon the walls were several rough engravings and a gun.
the young man showed signs of impatience, listening attentively to the slightest distant noises. tired of pacing to and fro, he sat upon the couch and thoughtfully contemplated the rafters in the ceiling.
a half hour had elapsed since el mojoso’s departure, when there came a shy knock at the door. the youth was so preoccupied that he heard nothing until the third or fourth knock, and a voice saying:
“may i come in?”
“come!”
the door opened and a girl entered—the landlor[93]d’s second daughter—with a dish in one hand, and an andújar jar in the other.
the youth was astounded at seeing such a pretty maid, and completely upset by the sight.
“what is it?” he asked.
“your supper.”
“ah! you are the landlord’s daughter?”
“sí, señor,” she replied with a smile.
the girl set the dish upon the table, and he sat down without taking his eyes off her. she made a tremendous impression upon him. the child was truly charming; she had black, almond-shaped eyes, a pale complexion, and in her hair, which was cleverly done up and as black and lustrous as the elytra of some insects, was a red flower.
“what is your name, my dear, if i may ask?” said he.
“fuensanta,” she replied . . . .
“ah! her name was fuensanta!” exclaimed quentin involuntarily.
“yes. it’s a very common name in these parts. why does it surprise you?”
“nothing, nothing: proceed....”
“well, i shall.”
the youth sighed, and as his admiration had doubtless not taken away his appetite, he attacked the slices prepared by la temeraria with his fork, and after several drinks from the jar, he succeeded in emptying it, and doing away with the portions of the savoury country food.[94]
the little girl returned directly to his room to bring the traveller his dessert, and they talked.
he asked her if she had a sweetheart, and she said she hadn’t; he asked her if she would like to have him, and she answered that gentlemen could not very well love poor girls who lived in taverns, and then they talked for a long time.
the next day, the young horseman left the tavern to proceed on his journey, and el mojoso went down to cordova to his business . . . . . .
“and who was that young man?” asked quentin.
“wait, comrade. everything in its time. how do you like the way i tell it, eh?”
“you certainly are a past master.”
“well, now comes the best part of it. you’ll see....[95]”
