La Gaviota: A Spanish novel

by Fernán Caballero

The interior of the hull presented the uncheerful spectacle of the commencement of a sea voyage. The passengers, crowded together, were struggling with the fatigue of sea-sickness. Women were seen in extraordinary attitudes, with hair disordered, crinolines disarranged, hats crushed; the men pale, and in bad-humor; the children neglected and crying; the servants traversing the cabin with unsteady steps, carrying to their patients tea, coffee, and other imaginary remedies; while the ship, queen and mistress of the waters, without heeding the ills she occasioned, wrestled powerfully with the waves, triumphing over resistance, and pursuing the retreating billows.

The men who had escaped the common scourge were enabled to walk the deck, either by being so constituted as to withstand the ship’s motion, or by being accustomed to travel.

Among them was the governor of an English colony, a tall, fine-looking fellow, accompanied by two of his staff officers. There were several who wore their mackintoshes, thrusting their hands into their pockets; some had flushed countenances, others blue, or very pale, and, generally, all were discontented. In fine, that beautiful vessel seemed to be converted into a palace of discontent.

Among all the passengers was distinguished a youth, who appeared to be about twenty-four years of age; gallant, noble, and of ingenuous countenance, and whose handsome and affable face gave no signs of the slightest caprice. He was tall, and of gentlemanly manners; and in his deportment there was grace, and an admirable dignity. A head of black, curly hair adorned his fair and majestic forehead; the glances of his large, black eyes were placid and penetrating by turns. His lips were shaded by a light, black mustache; his bland smile indicated talent and vivacity; and in his noble person, in his actions, and in his gestures, there were evidences of the elevated class to which he belonged, with a soul freed from the least symptom of that disdainful air which many unjustly attribute to all kinds of superiority. He travelled for pleasure, and was essentially good; nevertheless, a virtuous sentiment of anger impelled him to launch out against the vices and extravagances of society. He often affirmed that he did not feel it to be his vocation to battle with windmills, like Don Quixote. He would much more agreeably consort with those who seek the good, with the same satisfaction and purity that the artless young damsel feels in gathering violets. His physiognomy, his grace, the freedom with which he muffled himself in his Spanish cloak, his insensibility to cold and to the general disquietude around him, established decidedly that he was Spanish.

He was walking backwards and forwards, observing at a glance the assemblage which, mosaic-like, chance had thrown together on those boards which constitute a large ship, and which, in smaller dimensions, would constitute a coffin. But there is not much to be observed in men who thus presented the appearance of those who are intoxicated, or in women whose appearance resembles that of a corpse.

Notwithstanding, he was much interested in the family of an English official, whose wife had been brought on board greatly indisposed, and who was immediately carried to her berth; the same was done with the nurse, and the father followed, with the infant boy in his arms; afterwards he led in three other little creatures, of two, three, and four years of age, enjoining upon them to remain silent, and not to move from thence. The poor children, although they felt inclined to cry, remained motionless and silent, like the angels which are represented in paintings at the feet of the Virgin. Little by little the beautiful bloom of their cheeks disappeared; their large eyes opened wide, and they remained mollified and stupid; and while no movement or expression of anger announced that they suffered, such was clearly denoted by the expression of their frightened and pallid countenances. No one noticed this silent torment, this amiable and sad resignation.

The Spaniard went to summon the steward, while that official was answering a young man, who, in German, and with expressive gestures, appeared to be imploring assistance in favor of some wretched victim of sea-sickness.

As the person of this young man did not indicate either elegance or distinction, as he spoke nothing but German, the steward turned his back, saying he did not understand him.

Then the German descended to his berth in the forecastle, and returned immediately, bringing a pillow, a quilt, and a heavy overcoat. With these auxiliaries he made up a kind of bed. He laid the children in it, and covered them with great care, and stretched himself on the deck beside them. But the sea-sick man had scarcely reclined, when a violent vomiting commenced, despite his efforts, and, in an instant, pillow, quilt, and great-coat were bespattered and ruined. The Spaniard then noticed the German, in whose physiognomy he saw a smile of benevolent satisfaction, which seemed to say, “Thank God, these little ones are cared for!”

He attempted a conversation with him in English, in French, and in Spanish, and received no other answer than a silent inclination of the head, and with but little grace, repeating this phrase: “Ich verstehe nicht” (I do not understand).