A Wedding Trip

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

“Not much. I cured him of a wound—a rather serious one.”

“The wound that left that scar on his cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“An amateur one, and that by chance.” Artegui relapsed into silence, and Lucía did not venture to ask any more questions. The heat continued to increase. Although it was autumn the weather was suffocating, and the dust from the engine, diffused through the heated atmosphere, was stifling. The scenery grew wilder as they proceeded, the country growing more and more mountainous and rugged. Occasionally they entered a tunnel, and then the darkness, the rush of the train, the damp, underground air, penetrating into the compartment, mitigated to some extent the intense heat.

Lucía fanned herself with a newspaper, arranged for her by Artegui in the form of a shell; light, transparent drops of perspiration dotted her rosy neck, her temples, and her chin. From time to time she dried them with her handkerchief. The tresses of her hair, uncurled and damp, clung to her forehead. She loosened her stiff collar, took off her necktie, which was strangling her, and leaned back languidly in her corner. In order to soften the light in the compartment, Artegui drew the little curtains of the low windows, producing a vague and mysterious bluish atmosphere that gave the place the air of a submarine grotto, the noise of the train, not unlike the roar of the ocean, contributing to the illusion. Insensible to the heat, Artegui raised the curtain slightly and looked out at the landscape—the oak groves, the sierra, the deep valleys. Once he caught a glimpse of a picturesque train of pilgrims. The scene vanished quickly, but he had time to distinguish the forms of the pilgrims, their scapulars hanging around their necks, wending along the narrow road on foot or in wagons drawn by oxen, the men wearing the red or blue flat woolen cap of the country, the women with their heads covered with white handkerchiefs. The procession resembled the descent of the shepherds in the Christmas representation of the Adoration. The bright sunshine, falling full upon the figures of the pilgrims, bestowed upon them the crude tones of figures of painted clay. Artegui drew Lucía’s attention to the scene; she raised the curtain in her turn, leaned out of the window, and gazed at the spectacle until a bend of the road and a rapid movement of the train hid the picture from view. It seemed as if the tunnels took a malicious pleasure in shutting out from their sight the most beautiful views on the route. Did they catch sight of a smiling hill, a group of leafy trees, a pleasant meadow, lo! the train entered a tunnel and they remained motionless at the window, daring neither to speak nor move, as if they had suddenly entered a church. Lucía, now somewhat accustomed to the heat, looked with great interest at the various objects along the road. The tall match factories, with their white-washed walls and large painted signs, pleased her greatly, and at Hernani she clapped her hands with delight on catching a glimpse, to the left of the road, of a magnificent English park, with its gay flower knots contrasting with the green grass, and its stately coniferous trees, with their symmetrical pendant foliage. At Pasajes, after the wearisome monotony of the mountains, their eyes were at last refreshed with a view of the blue sea that stretched before them, its surface gently rippling while the vessels anchored in the bay swayed with a gentle motion, and a sea-breeze, pungent and salt, fluttered the silk curtains of the carriage, fanning the perspiring brows of the weary travelers. Lucía gazed in wonder at the ocean, which she had never seen before, and when the tunnel suddenly and without warning spread a black veil over the scene, she remained leaning on her elbows at the window, with dilated eyes and parted lips, lost in admiration.

As the hours went by, and they advanced on their journey, Artegui lost something of his statue-like coldness, and, growing by degrees more communicative, explained to Lucía the various views of this moving panorama. The young girl listened with that species of attention which is so delightful to a teacher—that of the pupil, enthusiastic and docile at the same time. Artegui, when he chose to speak, could be eloquent. He described the customs of the country; he related many particulars concerning the villages and the hamlets of which they caught glimpses on their way. Eyes fixed and observant, a countenance all attention, changing its expression at the narrator’s will, responded to his words. So that, when the train stopped at Irún, and they heard the first words spoken in a foreign tongue, Lucía exclaimed, as if with regret:

“What! Are we there already?”

“In France? Yes,” answered Artegui, “but we have still some distance to travel before reaching Bayonne. They examine the luggage here; this is the custom-house of Irún. They will not trouble us much, though; people coming from France to Spain are the victims of the custom-house officials, but no one supposes that those who travel from Spain to France carry contraband articles or new clothes——”

“But I carry new clothes!” exclaimed Lucía. “My wedding outfit. Do you see that big trunk that they have set there on the counter? That is mine, and that other is Miranda’s, and the hat-box——”