Ramón Del Valle-Inclán*

The Poor Wee Child

‘Thus was my ill-fated adventure …’

Macíasfn1

The oldest old lady in the village is walking hand-in-hand with her grandson along a bleak, deserted path flanked by green verges that seem to stand frozen in the dawn light. She is bent and breathless, giving advice to the boy, who is silently weeping.

‘Now that you’ll be earning your living, you must be humble, that’s God’s law.’

‘Yes, Señora.’

‘You must pray for those who help you and for the souls of those you have lost.’

‘Yes, Señora.’

‘If you ever go to the fiesta of San Gundián and have enough money, you must buy yourself a reed cape, because it’s always raining.’

‘Yes, Señora.’

And on they trudge, grandmother and grandson, on and on and on …

The very emptiness of the path makes those monotonous childish responses even sadder, as if he were taking a vow of humility, resignation and poverty when his life is only just beginning. The old lady plods painfully along in her wooden clogs, which clack-clack on the stones in the road, and she sighs beneath the apron that she’s wearing tied not about her waist but about her head. Her grandson is crying and shivering with cold in his ragged clothes. He’s a fair-skinned child, his cheeks scorched by the sun; his lank, pale hair, like corn silk, has been brutally shorn, like that of a serf from another age.

In the pallid dawn sky a few faint stars still shine. A fox fleeing the village runs across the path. The sound of dogs barking and cockerels crowing can be heard in the distance. Slowly the sun is beginning to gild the tops of the hills; the grass glitters with dew, new fledglings flutter timidly about in the branches, having left the nest for the first time; the streams laugh, the groves of trees murmur, and that sad, deserted path flanked by green verges stirs into rustic life. Flocks of sheep go clambering up the sides of the hills, women sing on their way back from the fountain. An old villager with a shock of white hair urges on his pair of oxen when they stop to nibble at the hedges; he’s an old patriarch with a very carrying voice.

‘Are you going to the Barbanzón market?’

‘No, we’re going to San Amedio, looking for a master for the boy.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Old enough to earn his own living. He turned nine in July.’

And on they trudge, grandmother and grandson, on and on and on …

Beneath the pleasant sun shining down on the hills, other villagers come and go. A lively, weather-beaten horse-dealer comes trotting past accompanied by the cheerful clinking of spurs and horseshoes; old peasant women from Cela and Lestrove are heading for the market carrying chickens, flax and rye. Down below, in the hollow, a boy is energetically shooing away the goats cavorting about on the rocks. Grandmother and grandson stand aside to let the archdeacon from Lestrove pass on his way to preach at a village feast day.

‘May God grant us all a good day, sir!’

The archdeacon reins in his mare, which had been trotting along at a gentle, pedantic pace.

‘Are you going to the market?’

‘What would poor people like us do at the market? No, we’re going to San Amedio to find a master for the boy.’

‘Does he already know his catechism?’

‘He does, sir. Being poor doesn’t mean you can’t be a Christian.’

And on they trudge, grandmother and grandson, on and on and on …

In the misty blue distance they can make out the cypresses growing around the chapel in San Amedio, dark and pensive, their shrivelled tops anointed by the golden morning light. In the village, all the doors stand wide open, and the hesitant white smoke rising up from the chimneys vanishes in the light, like a peace greeting. Grandmother and grandson reach the entrance to the chapel. A blind man is sitting by the door begging for alms and gazing up at the sky with eyes that resemble two pieces of whitish agate.

‘May the blessèd St Lucía preserve your dear eyes and give you health enough to earn your daily bread! May God bring you money both to give and to keep! Good health and good luck in the world! Such generous souls can’t possibly pass by without giving a poor man some charity!’

And the blind man holds out a dry, withered palm. Still holding her grandson by the hand, the old woman goes over to the man and murmurs sadly:

‘We are poor too, brother. I was told you were looking for a servant.’

‘They were quite right. The one I had before got his head cracked open at the fiesta in Santa Baya de Cela. He’s not been right since.’

‘I’ve brought you my grandson.’

‘Good.’

The blind man reaches out, feeling the air with his hands.

‘Come here, boy.’

The old woman gives the boy a gentle shove, and the boy trembles like a meek, cowardly sheep before that surly old man wrapped in a tattered soldier’s cape. The withered, importunate hand rests on the boy’s shoulders, then feels down his back and up and down his legs.

‘Are you sure you won’t get tired having to carry bags on your back?’

‘No, sir, I’m used to it.’

‘To fill them up you’ll have to knock on many doors. Do you know the streets of the villages well?’

‘When I don’t know, I’ll ask.’

‘And at fiestas, when I sing a song, you have to join in with the chorus. Can you do that?’

‘I can learn, sir.’

‘Being servant to a blind man is a very desirable job.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, now that you’re here, let’s go up to the manor house in Cela. The folk are more charitable up there. We won’t get anything in this wretched place.’

The blind man struggles awkwardly to his feet and rests his hand on the boy’s shoulder, while the boy gazes sadly out at the long road ahead, at the lush, green fields smiling in the morning peace, the scattered village houses, the distant mills, the vine trellises obscuring the front doors, and the blue mountains with their snow-capped peaks. By the roadside, a boy is bent over scything grass, while a cow with quivering pink udders grazes quietly nearby, dragging its halter behind it.

The blind man and the boy move slowly off, and the grandmother dabs at her tears and murmurs to herself:

‘Poor wee child! Nine years old and already earning his daily bread, thank God!’