The ProjectGutenberg EBook of The Torrent, by Vicente Blasco Ibanez
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Author: Vicente Blasco Ibanez
Release Date: March 22, 2004 [EBook #11674]
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By VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ
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"Your friends are waiting for you at the Club. They saw you for a moment
only, this morning; they'll be wanting to hear all your stories about
Dona Bernarda fixed upon the young deputy a pair ofdeep, scrutinizing,
severely maternal eyes that recalled to Rafael all the roguish anxieties
"Are you going directly to the Club?..." she added. "Andres will be
starting too, right away."
Rafael, in reply, wished a blunt "good-afternoon" to his mother and don
Andres, who were still at table sipping their coffee,and strode out of
Finding himself on the broad, red-marble staircase in the silence of
that ancient mansion, of such princelymagnificence, he experienced the
sudden sense of comfort and wellbeing that a traveler feels onplunging
into a bath after a tedious journey.
Ever since hehadarrived, with the noisy reception at the station, the
hurrahs, the deafening music, handshakes here, crowding there, the
pushing and elbowing of more than a thousand people who had thronged
the streets of Alcira to get a close look at him, this was the first
moment he had found himself alone, his own master, able to do exactly as
he pleased, without needing to smile automatically in all directions and
welcome with demonstrations of affection persons whose faces he could
What a deep breathof relief he drew as he wentdown the deserted
staircase, which echoed his everyfootstep! How large and beautiful the
_patio_ was! How broad and lustrous the leaves of the plantains
flourishing in their green boxes! There he had spent the best years of
his childhood. Thelittle boys who in those days used to be hiding
behind the wide portal, waiting for a chance to play with the son of the
powerful don Ramon Brull, were now the grown men, the sinewy orchard
workers, who had been parading from the station to his house, waving
theirarms, and shouting _vivas_ for their deputy--Alcira's "favorite
This contrast between the past and present flattered Rafael's conceit,
though, in the background of his thoughts, the suspicion lurked that his
mother had beennot a littleinstrumental in the preparation of his
noisy reception, not to mention don Andres, and numerous other friends,
ever loyal to anyone connected with the greatness of the Brulls,
_caciques_--political bosses--and leading citizensof the district.
To enjoythese recollections of childhood and the pleasure of finding
himself once more at home, after several monthsin Madrid, he stood for
some time motionlessin the _patio_, looking up at the balconies of the
first story, then atthe attic windows--from which in mischievous years
gone by hehadmany a time withdrawn his head at the sound of his
mother's scolding voice--and lastly, at the veil of luminousblue
above--a patch of sky drenched in that Spanish sunlight which ripens the
oranges to clustersof flaming gold.
He thought he could still see his father--the imposing, solemn don
Ramon--sauntering about the _patio_, his hands behind his back,
answering in a few impressive words the questions flung at him by his
party adherents, who followed himabout with idolatrous eyes. If the old
mancould only have come back to life that morning to see how his son
hadbeen acclaimed by the entirecity!...
A barely perceptible soundlike the buzzing of two flies broke the deep
silence of the mansion. The deputy looked toward the onlybalcony window
that was open, though but slightly. His mother and don Andres were still
talking in the dining-room--and of him, as usual, without a doubt! And,
lest they should call him, and suddenly deprive him of his keen
enjoyment at being alone, he left the _patio_ and went out into the
It was only the month of March; but at two in the afternoon the air was
almost uncomfortably hot. Accustomed to the cold wind of Madrid and to
the winter rains, Rafael inhaled,with a sense of voluptuous pleasure,
the warm breeze that wafted the perfume of the blossoming orchards
through the narrow lanesof the ancient town.
Once, years before, he had been in Italyon a Catholic pilgrimage,
entrusted by his mother to the care of a priest from Valencia, who would
not think of returning toSpain without paying a visit to don Carlos. A
memory of a Venetian _calle_ now came back to Rafael's mind as he
traversed the streets of old Alcira--shadowy, cramped, sunk deep as
wells between rows of high houses. With allthe economy of a city built
on an island, Alcira rears its edifices higherandhigher as its
population grows, leaving just enough space free for the bare needs of
The streets were deserted. The noisy, orchard workers who had welcomed
Rafael had gone backto the fields again. All the idlers had fled to the
cafes, and as the deputywalked smartly by in front of these, warm waves
of air came out upon himthrough the windows, with the clatter of poker
chips, the noise of billiard balls, and the uproar of heated argument.
Rafael reached the Suburban Bridge, one of the two means of egressfrom
the Old City.The Jucar was combing its muddy, reddish waters on the
piles of the ancient structure. A number of row-boats, made fast to the
houses on the shore, were tugging at their moorings. Rafael recognized
among them the fine craft that he had once used for lonely trips on the
river. It lay there quite forgotten, gradually shedding its coat of
white paint out in the weather.
Then he looked at the bridge itself; the Gothic-arched gate, a relic of
the old fortifications; the battlements of yellowish, chipped rock,
which looked as if all the rats of the riverhadcome at night to nibble
at them;then two niches with a collection of mutilated, dust-laden
images--San Bernardo, patron Saint of Alcira,andhis estimable sisters.
Dear old San Bernardo, _alias_ Prince Hamete,son of the Moorish king
of Carlet, converted to Christ by the mystic poesyof the Christian
cult,--and still wearing in his mangled forehead the nail of martyrdom!
As Rafael walked past the rude, disfigured statue he thought of all the
stories his mother, an uncompromising clerical and a woman of credulous
faith, had told him of the patron of Alcira, particularly the legend of
the enmity and struggle between San Vicente and San Bernardo, an
ingenuous fancyof popular superstition.
Saint Vincent, who was an eloquent preacherarrived at Alcira on one of
his tours, and stopped at a blacksmith's shop near the bridge to gethis
donkey shod. When the work was done the horseshoer asked for the usual
price for his labor; but San Vicente, accustomed to living on the bounty
of the faithful, waxedindignant, and looking at the Jucar, exclaimed,
"Some day folks will say: 'This is where Alcira used to be'."
"Not while Bernardo is here!" the statue of San Bernardo remarked from
And there thestatue of thesaint still stood, likean eternal sentinel,
watching over the Jucar to exorcise the curse of the rancorous Saint
Vincent! To be sure the river would rise and overflow its banks every
year, reaching to the very feet of San Bernardo sometimes, and coming
within an ace of pulling the wily saint downfrom his perch. It is also
true that every five orsix years the flood would shake houses loose
from theirfoundations, destroy good farmland, drown people, and commit
other horrible depredations--all in obedience to the curse of Valencia's
patron; but the saint of Alcira was the better man of the two for all
of that!And, if you didn't believe it,there the city was, still
planted firmly on its feet andquite unscathed, except for a scratch
here and there from times when the rains were exceptionally heavy and
the waters came down from Cuenca in a great roaring torrent!
With a smile and a nodto the powerful saint, as to an old friend of
childhood, Rafael crossed the bridge and entered the _arrabal_, the "New
City," ample, roomy, unobstructed, as if the close-packed houses of the
island, to get elbow-room and a breath of air, had stampededin a flock
to the other bank ofthe river, scattering hither and thither in the
hilarious disorder of children let loose from school.
The deputy paused at the head of the street on which his club was
located. Even from there he could hear the talking and laughing of the
many members, who had gathered in much greater number thanusual because
of his arrival. What would he be in for down there? A speech, probably!
A speech on local politics! Or, if not a speech, idle talk about the
orangecrop, or cock-fighting. He would be expected to tell them what
kind of a man the Premier was--and then spend the afternoon analyzing
the character of every minister! Then don Andres would be there, that
boresome Mentor who, at the instance of Rafael's mother, would never let
him out of sight for a moment. Bah! The Club could wait!Hewould have
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