Segundo's heart thrilled with gratified vanity when Elvira recited shyly, in alternation with the verses of the popular and admired poets of the country, songs of the Swan, which had appeared in periodicals of Vigo or Orense. Segundo had never written in dialect, and yet Elvira had a book in which she pasted all the productions of the unknown Swan; Teresa, joining in the animated conversation with the best intentions in the word, betrayed her sister:
"She writes verses too. Come, child, recite something of your own. She has a copy-book full of things invented, composed by herself."
The poetess, after the indispensable excuses and denials, recited two or three little things, almost without poetic form, weak, sincere in the midst of their sentimental falseness—verses of the kind which reveal no artistic faculty, but which are the sure indication that the author or authoress feels an unsatisfied desire, longs for fame or for love, as the inarticulate cry of the infant expresses its hunger. Segundo twisted his mustache, Nieves lowered her eyes and played with the tassels of her fan, impatient and somewhat bored and nervous. This occurred two or three days after the arrival of Segundo who, in spite of all his attempts, had not yet been able to succeed in saying a word in private to Nieves.
"How uncultured these young ladies are!" said Señora de Comba to herself, while aloud she said, "How lovely, how tender! It sounds like some of Grilo's verses."
XVIII.
It was something different from poetry that formed the theme of conversation of the head of the house of Las Vides, the Gendays, and the arch-priest, installed on the balcony under the pretext of enjoying the moonlight, but in reality to discuss the important question of the vintage.
A fine crop! Yes, indeed, a fine crop! The grape had not a trace of oïdium; it was clean, full, and so ripe that it was as sticky to the touch as if it had been dipped in honey. There was not a doubt but that the new wine of this year was better than the old wine of last year. Last year's vintage was an absolute failure! Hail to-day, rain to-morrow! The grape with so much rain had burst before it was time to gather it, and had not an atom of pulp; the result was a wine that scarcely left a stain on the shirt-sleeves of the muleteers.
At the recollection of so great a calamity, Mendez pressed his thin lips together, and the arch-priest breathed hard. And the conversation continued, sustained by Primo Genday, who, with much verbosity, spitting and laughter, recounted details of harvests of twenty years before, declaring: