!BA;
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MARE NOSTRUM
 
 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 (OUR SEA) 
 
 & Jgobel 
 
 BY 
 
 VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE," 
 
 "THE SHADOW OF THE CATHEDRAL," "BLOOD 
 
 AND SAND," "LA BODEGA," ETC. 
 
 AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE SPANISH BY 
 CHARLOTTE BREWSTER JORDAN 
 
 TRANSLATOR OF "THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE*' 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 COPYRIGHT, 
 BY E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Firit printing August, 1919 
 
 Second printing. . . .August, 1919 
 
 Third printing Auguit, 1919 
 
 Fourth printing Augutt, 1919 
 
 Fifth printing Auguit, 1919 
 
 Sixth printing Augutt, 1919 
 
 Seventh printing. . . .August, 1919 
 
 Eighth printing Auguit, 1919 
 
 Ninth printing Auguit, 1919 
 
 Tenth printing August, 1919 
 
 Eleventh printing. . . .Augutt, 1919 
 
 Twelfth printing Augutt, 1919 
 
 Thirteenth printing. .August, 1919 
 Fourteenth printing . . August, 1919 
 Fifteenth printing . . .August, 1919 
 Sixteenth printing . . .August, 1919 
 Seventeenth printing . August, 1919 
 Eighteenth printing. .August, 1919 
 Nineteenth printing . .August, 1919 
 Twentieth printing. .August, 1919 
 Twenty-first printing. August, 1919 
 Twenty-second printing. Aug., 1919 
 Twenty-third printing. .Aug., 1919 
 Twenty-fourth printing. Aug., 1919 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 (THAPMB PACK 
 
 I CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT ..... i 
 
 II MATER AMPHITRITE ....... 23 
 
 III PATER OCEANUS ........ 58 
 
 IV FREYA ........... 88 
 
 V THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES ..... 154 
 
 VI THE WILES OF CIRCE ....... 191 
 
 VII THE SIN OF ULYSSES ....... 244 
 
 VIII THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS ..... 304 
 
 IX THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES . . .328 
 
 X IN BARCELONA ......... 377 
 
 XI "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" . . .427 
 
 XII AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE I .... 478 
 
 G93455
 
 MARE NOSTRUM
 
 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FFRRAGUT 
 
 His first gallantries were with an empress. He was 
 ten years old, and the empress six hundred. 
 
 His father, Don Esteban Ferragut third quota of the 
 College of Notaries had always had a great admiration 
 for the things of the past. He lived near the cathedral, 
 and on Sundays and holy days, instead of following 
 the faithful to witness the pompous ceremonials pre- 
 sided over by the cardinal-archbishop, used to betake 
 himself with his wife and son to hear mass in San Juan 
 del Hospital, a little church sparsely attended the rest 
 of the week. 
 
 The notary, who had read Walter Scott in his youth, 
 used to gaze on the old and turreted walls surrounding 
 the church, and feel something of the bard's thrills about 
 his own, his native land. The Middle Ages was the pe- 
 riod in which he would have liked to have lived. And 
 as he trod the flagging of the Hospitalarios, good Don 
 Esteban, little, chubby, and near-sighted, used to feel 
 within him the soul of a hero born too late. The other 
 churches, huge and rich, appeared to him with their 
 blaze of gleaming gold, their alabaster convolutions and 
 their jasper columns, mere monuments of insipid vul- 
 garity. This one had been erected by the Knights of
 
 2 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Saint John, who, united with the Templars, had aided 
 King James in the conquest of Valencia. 
 
 Upon crossing the covered passageway leading from 
 the street to the inner court, he was accustomed to salute 
 the Virgin of the Conquest, an image of rough stone in 
 faded colors and dull gold, seated on a bench, brought 
 thither by the knights of the military order. Some sour 
 orange trees spread their branching verdure over the 
 walls of the church, a blackened, rough stone edifice 
 perforated with long, narrow, window-like niches now 
 closed with mud plaster. From the salient buttresses 
 of its reinforcements jutted forth, in the highest parts, 
 great fabled monsters of weather-beaten, crumbling 
 stone. 
 
 In its only nave was now left very little of this roman- 
 tic exterior. The baroque taste of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury had hidden the Gothic arch under another semi- 
 circular one, besides covering the walls with a coat of 
 whitewash. But the medieval reredos, the nobiliary 
 coats of arms, and the tombs of the Knights of Saint 
 John with their Gothic inscriptions still survived the pro- 
 fane restoration, and that in itself was enough to keep 
 up the notary's enthusiasm. 
 
 Moreover the quality of the faithful who attended 
 its services had to be taken into consideration. They 
 were few but select, always the same. Some of them 
 would drop into their places, gouty and relaxed, .sup- 
 ported by an old servant wearing a shabby lace mantilla 
 as though she were the housekeeper. Others would re- 
 main standing during the service holding up proudly 
 their emaciated heads that presented the profile of a 
 fighting cock, and crossing upon the breast their gloved 
 hands, always in black wool in the winter and in thread 
 in the summer time. Ferragut knew all their names, 
 having read them in the Trova-s of Mosen Febrer, a
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FEKRAGUT 3 
 
 metrical composition in Provencal, about the warriors 
 that came to the neighborhood of Valencia from Aragon, 
 Catalunia, the South of France, England and remote Ger- 
 many. 
 
 At the conclusion of the mass, the imposing person- 
 ages would nod their heads, saluting the faithful nearest 
 them. "Good day !" To these, rt was as if the sun had 
 just arisen: the hours before did not count. And the 
 notary with meek voice would enlarge his response: 
 "Good day, Senor Marquis !" "Good day, Senor Baron !" 
 Although his relations never went beyond this salutation, 
 Ferragut used to feel toward these noble personages the 
 sympathy that the customers have for an establishment, 
 looking upon them with affectionate eyes for many years 
 without presuming to exchange more than a greeting with 
 them. 
 
 His son Ulysses was exceedingly bored as he followed 
 the monotonous incidents of the chanted mass in the 
 darkened, almost deserted, church. The rays of the sun, 
 oblique beams of gold that filtered in from above, illumi- 
 nating the spirals of dust, flies and moths, made him 
 think in a homesick way of t?:e lush green of the orchard, 
 the white spots of the hamlets, the black smoke cokirnns 
 of the harbor filled with steamships, and the triple file of 
 bluish convexities crowned with froth that were dis- 
 charging their contends with a sonorous surge upon the 
 bronze-colored beach. 
 
 When the embroidered mantles of the three priests 
 ceased to gleam before the high alfar, and another priest 
 in black and white appeared in the pulprt, Ulysses would 
 turn his glance toward a side chapel. The sermon 
 always represented for him a half hour of somnolence, 
 peopled with his own lively imaginings. The frrst thing 
 that his eyes used to see in the chapel of Santa Barbara 
 was a chest nafled to the wall high above him, a sepulcher
 
 4 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of painted wood with no other adornment than the in- 
 scription : "Aqui yace Dona Constanza Augusta, Emper- 
 atrls de Grecia," Here lies Constance Augusta, Empress 
 of Greece. 
 
 The name of Greece always had the power of exciting 
 the little fellow's imagination. His godfather, the lawyer 
 Labarta, poet-laureate, could not repeat this name without 
 a lively thrill passing across his grizzled beard and a 
 new light in his eyes. Sometimes the mysterious power 
 of such a name evoked a new mystery and a more in- 
 tense interest, Byzantium. How could that august lady, 
 sovereign of remote countries of magnificence and vision, 
 have come to leave her remains in a murky chapel of Va- 
 lencia within a great chest like those that treasured the 
 remnants of old trumpery in the garrets of the no- 
 tary? . . . 
 
 One day after mass Don Esteban had rapidly recounted 
 her history to his little son. She was the daughter of 
 Frederick the Second of Suabia, a Hohenstaufen, an 
 emperor of Germany who esteemed still more his crown 
 of Sicily. In the palaces of Palermo, veritable en- 
 chanted bowers of Oriental gardens, he had led the life 
 both of pagan and savant, surrounded by poets and men 
 of science (Jews, Mahometans and Christians), by Ori- 
 ental dancers, alchemists, and ferocious Saracen Guards. 
 He legislated as did the jurisconsults of ancient Rome, 
 at the same time writing the first verses in Italian. His 
 life was one continual combat with the Popes who hurled 
 upon him excommunication upon excommunication. For 
 the sake of peace he had become a crusader and set forth 
 upon the conquest of Jerusalem. But Saladin, another 
 philosopher of the same class, hac? soon come to an 
 agreement with his Christian colleague. The position of 
 a little city surrounded with untilled land and an empty 
 scpulcher was really not worth the trouble of decapitating
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 5 
 
 mankind through the centuries. The Saracen monarch, 
 therefore, graciously delivered Jerusalem over to him, 
 and the Pope again excommunicated Frederick for having 
 conquered the Holy Land without bloodshed. 
 
 "He was a great man," Don Esteban used to murmur. 
 "It must be admitted that he was a great man. . . ." 
 
 He would say this timidly, regretting that his enthusi- 
 asm for that remote epoch should oblige him to make 
 this concession to an enemy of the Church. He shud- 
 dered to think of those sacrilegious books that nobody 
 had seen, but whose paternity Rome was accustomed to 
 attribute to this Sicilian Emperor especially Los Tres 
 Impostores (The Three Imposters), in which Frederick 
 measured Moses, Jesus and Mahomet, by the same 
 standard. This royal author was, moreover, the most 
 ancient journalist of history, the first that in the full 
 thirteenth century had dared to appeal to the judgment 
 of public opinion in his manifestoes against Rome. 
 
 His daughter had married an Emperor of Byzantium, 
 Juan Dukas Vatatzes, the famous "Vatacio," when he was 
 fifty and she fourteen. She was a natural daughter soon 
 legitimized like almost all his progeny, a product of his 
 free harem, in which were mingled Saracen beauties and 
 Italian marchionesses. And the poor young girl married 
 to "Vatacio the heretic," by a father in need of political 
 alliances had lived long years in the Orient as a basilisa 
 or empress, arrayed in garments of stiff embroidery rep- 
 resenting scenes from the holy books, shod with buskins 
 laced with purple which bore on their soles eagles of gold, 
 the highest symbol of the majesty of Rome. 
 
 At first she had reigned in Nicaea, refuge of the Greek 
 Emperors while Constantinople was in the power of the 
 Crusaders, founders of a Latin dynasty; then, when 
 Vatacio died, the audacious Miguel Paleologo recon- 
 quered Constantinople, and the imperial widow found
 
 6 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 herself courted by this victorious adventurer. For many 
 years she resisted his pretensions, finally manceuvering 
 that her brother Manfred should return her to her own 
 country, where she arrived just in time to receive news 
 of her brother's death in battle, and to follow the flight 
 of her sister-in-law and nephews. They all took refuge 
 in a castle defended by Saracens in the service of Fred- 
 erick, the only ones faithful to his memory. 
 
 The castle fell into the power of the warriors of the 
 Church, and Manfred's wife was conducted to a prison 
 where her life was. shortly after extinguished. .Obscur- 
 ity swallowed up the last remnants of the family accursed 
 by Rome. Death was always hovering around the basil- 
 isa. They all perished her brother Manfred, her half- 
 brother, the poetic and lamented Encio, hero of so many 
 songs, and her nephew, the knightly Coradino, who was 
 to die later on under the axe of the executioner upon at- 
 tempting the defense of his rights. As the Oriental em- 
 press did not represent any danger for the dynasty of 
 Anjou, the conquerer let her follow out her destiny, as 
 lonely and forsaken as a Shakesperian Princess. 
 
 As the widow of the late Emperor she was supposed to 
 have a rental of three thousand besantes of fine gold. But 
 this remote rental never arrived, and almost as a pauper 
 she embarked with her niece, Constanza, in a ship going 
 toward the perfumed shores of the Gulf of Valencia, 
 where she entered the convent of Santa Barbara. In the 
 poverty of this recently founded convent, the poor Em- 
 press lived until the following century, recalling the ad- 
 ventures of her melancholy destiny and seeing in imagina- 
 tion the palace of golden mosaics on Lake Nicaea, the gar- 
 dens where "Vatacio" had wished to die under a purple 
 tent, the gigantic walls of Constantinople, and the arches 
 of Saint Sophia, with its hieratic galaxies of saints and 
 crowned monarchs.
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 7 
 
 From all her journeys and glittering fortunes she had 
 preserved but one thing a stone the sole baggage that 
 accompanied her upon disembarking on the shore of Va- 
 lencia. It was a fragment from Nicodemia that had mi- 
 raculously sent forth water for the baptism of Santa Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 The notary used to point out this rough, sacred stone 
 inlaid in a baptismal font of Holy Water. Without ceas- 
 ing to admire these historic bits of knowledge, Ulysses, 
 nevertheless, used to receive them with a certain ingrati- 
 tude. 
 
 "My godfather could explain things to me in a better 
 Way. . . . My godfather knows more." 
 
 When surveying the chapel of Santa Barbara during 
 the Mass, he used always to turn his eyes away from the 
 funeral chest. The thought of those bones turned to 
 dust filled him with repugnance. That Dona Constanza 
 did not exist for him. The one who was interesting to 
 him was the other one, a little further on who was 
 painted in a small picture. Dona Constanza had had 
 leprosy an infirmity that in * those days was not 
 permitted to Empresses so Santa Barbara had miracu- 
 lously cured her devotee. In order to perpetuate this 
 event, Santa Barbara was depicted on the canvas as a 
 lady dressed in a full skirt and slashed sleeves, and at 
 her feet was the basitisa in the dress of a Valencian peas- 
 ant arrayed in great jewels. In vain Don Esteban af- 
 firmed that this picture had been painted centuries after 
 the death of the Empress. The child's imagination vaulted 
 disdainfully over such difficulties. Just as she appeared 
 on the canvas, Dona Constanza must have been flaxen- 
 haired, with great black eyes, exceedingly handsome and 
 a little inclined to stoutness, perhaps, as was becoming 
 to a woman accustomed to trailing robes of state and
 
 8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 who had consented to disguise herself as a country- 
 woman, merely because of her piety. 
 
 The ima^e of the Empress obsessed his childish 
 thoughts. At night when he felt afraid in bed, im- 
 pressed by the enormousness of the room that served 
 as his sleeping chamber, it was enough for him to recall 
 the sovereign of Byzantium to make him forget imme- 
 diately his disquietude and the thousand queer noises in 
 the old building. "Dona Constanza!" . . . And he 
 would go off to sleep cuddling the pillow, as though it 
 <vere the head of the basilisa, his closed eyes continuing 
 to see the black eyes of the regal Sefiora, maternal and 
 affectionate. 
 
 All womankind, on coming near him, took on some- 
 thing of that other one who had been sleeping for the 
 past six centuries in the upper part of the chapel wall. 
 When his mother, sweet and pallid Dona Cristina, 
 would stop her fancy work for an instant to give him a 
 kiss, he always saw in her smile something of the Em- 
 press. When Visenteta, a maid from the country a 
 brunette, with eyes like blackberries, rosy-cheeked and 
 soft-skinned would help him to undress, or awaken 
 him to take him to school, Ulysses would always throw 
 his arms around her as though enchanted by the perfume 
 of her vigorous and chaste vitality. "Visenteta ! . . . Oh, 
 Visenteta! . . ." And he was thinking of Dona Con- 
 stanza; Empresses must be just that fragrant. . . . 
 Just like that must be the texture of their skin! . . . 
 And mysterious and incomprehensible thrills would pass 
 over his body like light exhalations, bubbling up from 
 the slime that is sleeping in the depths of all infancy 
 and coming to the surface during adolescence. 
 
 His father guessed in part this imaginary life upon 
 seeing his pet plays and readings.
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 9 
 
 "Ah, comedian! . . . Ah, play-actor! . . . you are 
 like your godfather." 
 
 He used to say this with an ambiguous smile in which 
 were equally mingled his contempt for useless idealism 
 and his respect for the artist a respect similar to the 
 veneration that the Arabs feel for the demented, believ- 
 ing their insanity to be a gift from God. 
 
 Dona Cristina was very anxious that this only son, as 
 spoiled and coddled as though he were a Crown Prince, 
 should become a priest. To see him intone his first Mass ! 
 . . . Then a canon; then a prelate! Who knew if per- 
 haps when she was no longer living, other women might 
 not admire him when preceded by a cross of gold, trail- 
 ing the red state robe of a cardinal-archbishop, and sur- 
 rounded by a robed staff envying the mother who had 
 given birth to this ecclesiastical magnate ! . . . 
 
 In order to guide the inclinations of her son she had 
 installed a chapel in one of the empty rooms of the great 
 old house. Ulysses' school companions on free after- 
 noons would hasten thither, doubly attracted by the en- 
 chantment of "playing priest" and by the generous re- 
 freshment that Dona Cristina used to prepare for all 
 the parish clergy. 
 
 This solemnity would begin with the furious pealing 
 of some bells hanging over the parlor door, causing the 
 notary's clients, seated in the vestibule waiting for the 
 papers that the clerks were just scribbling off at full 
 speed, to raise their heads in astonishment. The metallic 
 uproar rocked the edifice whose corners had seemed so 
 full of silence, and even disturbed the calm of the street 
 through which a carriage only occasionally passed. 
 
 While some of his chums were lighting the candles on 
 the shrines and unfolding the sacred altar cloths of beau- 
 tiful lace work made by Doiia Cristina, the son and his 
 more intimate friends were arraying themselves before
 
 io MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the faithful, covering themselves with surplices and gold- 
 worked vestments and putting wonderful caps on their 
 heads. The mother, who was peeping from behind one 
 of the doors, had to make a great effort not to rush in 
 and devour Ulysses with kisses. With what grace he was 
 imitating the mannerisms and genuflections of the chief 
 priest! . . . 
 
 Up to this point all went perfectly. The three officiat- 
 ing near the pyramid of lights were singing at the top of 
 their lungs, and the chorus of the faithful were respond- 
 ing from the end of the room with tremors of impatience. 
 Suddenly surged forth Protest, Schism and Heresy. 
 Those at the altar had already done more than enough. 
 They must now give up their chasubles to those who were 
 looking on in order that they, in their turn, might exer- 
 cise the sacred ministry. That was what they had agreed 
 upon. But the clergy resisted with the haughtiness and 
 majesty of acquired right, and impious hands began pull- 
 ing off the garb of the saints, profaning them and even 
 tearing them. Yells, kicks, images and wax candles on 
 the floor! . . . Scandal and abominations as though the 
 Anti-Christ were already born! . . . The prudence of 
 Ulysses put an end to the struggle : "What if we should 
 go up in the porche to play ? . . ." 
 
 The porche was the immense garret of the great old 
 nouse, so all accepted the plan with enthusiasm. Church 
 was over ! And like a flock of birds they went flying up 
 the stairs over the landings of multi-colored tiles with 
 their chipped glaze, disclosing the red brick underneath. 
 The Valencian potters of the eighteenth century had 
 adorned these tiles with Berber and Christian galleys, 
 birds from nearby Albufera, white-wigged hunters offer- 
 ing flowers to a peasant girl, fruits of all kinds, and spir- 
 ited horsemen on steeds that were half the size of their
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT n 
 
 Bodies parading before houses and trees that scarcely 
 reached to the knees of their prancing coursers. 
 
 The noisy group spread themselves over the upper 
 floor as in the most terrible invasions of history. Cats 
 and mice fled together to the far-away corners. The ter- 
 rified birds sped like arrows through the skylights of the 
 roof. 
 
 The poor notary! . . . He had never returned empty-r 
 handed when called outside of the city by the confidence 
 of the rich fanners, incapable of believing in any other 
 legal science than his. That was the time when the an- 
 tique dealers had not yet discovered rich Valencia, where 
 the common people dressed in silks for centuries, and 
 furniture, clothing and pottery seemed always to be im- 
 pregnated with the light of steady sunshine and with the 
 blue of an always clear atmosphere. 
 
 Don Esteban, who believed himself obliged to be an 
 antiquarian by virtue of his membership in various local 
 societies, was continually filling up his house with me- 
 mentoes of the past picked up in the villages, or that 
 his clients freely gave him. He was not able to find wall 
 space enough for the pictures, nor room in his salons 
 for the furniture. Therefore, the latest acquisitions were 
 provisionally taking their way to the pbrche to await 
 definite installation. Years afterward, when he should 
 retire from his profession, he might be able to construct 
 a medieval castle the most medieval possible on the 
 coasts of the Marina; near to the village where he had 
 been born, he would put each object in a place appro- 
 priate to its importance. 
 
 Whatever the notary deposited in the rooms of the first 
 floor would soon make its appearance in the garret as 
 mysteriously as though it had acquired feet; for Doiia 
 Cristina and her servants, obliged to live in a continual 
 struggle with the dust and cobwebs of an edifice that was
 
 12 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 slowly dropping to pieces, were beginning to feel a fero- 
 cious hatred of everything old. 
 
 Up here on the top floor, discords and battles because 
 of lack of things to dress up in, were not possible among 
 the boys. They had only to sink their hands into any 
 one of the great old chests, pulsing with the dull gnawing 
 of the wood-borers, whose iron fretwork, pierced like 
 lace, was dropping away from its supports. Some of the 
 youngsters, brandishing short, small swords with hilts of 
 mother-of-pearl, or long blades such as the Cid carried, 
 vvnuld then wrap themselves in mantles of crimson silk 
 darkened by ages. Others would throw over their shoul- 
 ders damask counterpanes of priceless old brocade, peas- 
 ant skirts with great flowers of gold, farthingales of rich- 
 ly woven texture that crackled like paper. 
 
 When they grew tired of imitating comedians with 
 noisy clashing of spades and death-blows, Ulysses and 
 the other active lads would propose the game of "Bandits 
 and Bailiffs." But thieves could not go clad in such rich 
 cloths; their attire ought to be inconspicuous. And so 
 they overturned some mountains of dull-colored stuffs 
 that appeared like mere sacking in whose dull woven 
 designs could be dimly discerned legs, arms, heads, and 
 branching sprays of metallic green. 
 
 Don Esteban had found these fragments already torn 
 by the farmers into covers for their large earthen jars of 
 oil or into blankets for the work-mules. They were bits 
 of tapestry copied from cartoons of Titian and Rubens 
 which the notary was keeping only out of historic re- 
 spect. Tapestry then, like all things that are plentiful, 
 had no special merit. The old-clothes dealers of Valencia 
 had in their storehouses dozens of the same kind of rem- 
 nants and when the festival of Corpus Christi ap- 
 proached they used them to cover the natural barricades
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 13 
 
 formed by the ground, instead of building new ones in 
 the street followed by the processions. 
 
 At other times, Ulysses repeated the same game under 
 the name of "Indians and Conquerors." He had found 
 in the mountains of books stored away by his father, a 
 volume that related in double columns, with abundant 
 wood cuts, the navigations of Columbus, the wars of 
 Hernando Cortez, and the exploits of Pizarro. 
 
 This book cast a glamor over the rest of his existence. 
 Many times afterwards, when a man, he found this image 
 latent in the background of his likes and desires. He 
 really had read few of its paragraphs, but what interested 
 him most were the engravings in his estimation more 
 worthy of admiration than all the pictures in the garret. 
 
 With the point of his long sword he would trace on the 
 ground, just as Pizarro had done before his discouraged 
 companions, ready on the Island of Gallo to desist from 
 the conquest: "Let every good Castilian pass this line. 
 . . ." And the good Castilians a dozen little scamps 
 with long capes and ancient swords whose hilts reached 
 up to their mouths would hasten to group themselves 
 around their chief, who was imitating the heroic gestures 
 of the conqueror. Then was heard the war-cry: "At 
 them! Down with the Indians!" 
 
 It was agreed that the Indians should flee and on that 
 account they were modestly clad in scraps of tapestry 
 and cock feathers on their head. But they fled treacher- 
 ously, and upon finding themselves upon varguenos, tables 
 and pyramids of chairs, they began to shy books at their 
 persecutors. Venerable leather volumes decorated with 
 dull gold, and folios of white parchment fell face down- 
 ward on the floor, their fastenings breaking apart and 
 spreading abroad a rain of printed or manuscript pages 
 and yellowing engravings as though tired of living, they 
 were letting their life-blood flow from their bodies.
 
 14 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The uproar of these wars of conquest brought Dona 
 Cristina to the rescue. She no longer cared to harbor 
 little imps who preferred the adventurous whoops of the 
 garret to the mystic delights of the abandoned chapel. 
 The Indians were most worthy of execration. In order 
 to make splendor of attire counterbalance the humility of 
 their role, they had slashed their sinful scissors into en- 
 tire tapestries, mutilating vestments so as to arrange upon 
 their breasts the head of a hero or goddess. 
 
 Finding himself without playfellows, Ulysses discov- 
 ered a new enchantment in the garret life. The silence 
 haunted by the creaking of wood and the scampering of 
 invisible animals, the inexplicable fall of a picture or of 
 some piled-up books, used to make him thrill with a sen- 
 sation of fear and nocturnal mystery, despite the rays of 
 sunlight that came filtering in through the skylights ; but 
 he began to enjoy this solitude when he found that he 
 could people it to his fancy. Real beings soon annoyed 
 him like the inopportune sounds that sometimes awoke 
 him from beautiful dreams. The garret was a world sev- 
 eral centuries old that now belonged entirely to him and 
 adjusted itself to all his fancies. 
 
 Seated in a trunk without a lid, he made it balance it- 
 self, imitating with his mouth the roarings of the tempest. 
 It was a caravel, a galleon, a ship such as he had seen in 
 the old books, its sails painted with lions and crucifixes, a 
 castle on the poop and a figure-head carved on the prow 
 that dipped down into the waves, only to reappear drip- 
 ping with foam. 
 
 The trunk, by dint of vigorous pushing, could be made 
 to reach the rugged coast at the corner of the old chest, 
 the triangular gulf made of two chests of drawers, and 
 the smooth beach formed by some bundles of clothes. And 
 the navigator, followed by a crew as numerous as it was 
 imaginary, would leap ashore, sword in hand, scaling
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 15 
 
 some mountains of books that were the Andes, and pierc- 
 ing various volumes with the tip of an old lance in order 
 to plant his standard there. Oh, why had he not been one 
 of the conquerors ? . . . 
 
 Fragments of a conversation between his god- 
 father and his father, who believed everything was al- 
 ready known regarding the surface of the earth, left him 
 unconvinced. Something must still be left for him to 
 discover ! He was the meeting point of two families of 
 sailors. His mother's brothers had ships on the coast 
 of Catalunia. His father's ancestors had been valorous 
 and obscure navigators, and there in the Marina was 
 his uncle, the doctor, a genuine man of the sea. 
 " AVhen he grew tired of these imaginative orgies, he 
 used to examine the portraits of different epochs stowed 
 away in the garret. He preferred those of the women 
 noble dames with short-cropped, curled hair bound by a 
 knot of ribbon on the temple, like those that Velazquez 
 loved to paint, and long faces of the century following, 
 with cherry-colored mouth, two patches on the cheeks, 
 and a tower of white hair. The memory of the Grecian 
 basilisa appeared to emanate from these paintings. All 
 the high-born dames seemed to have something in com- 
 mon with her. 
 
 Among the portraits of the men there was one of a 
 bishop that irritated him by its absurd childishness. He 
 appeared almost his own age, an adolescent bishop, with 
 imperious and aggressive eyes. These eyes used to in- 
 spire the sensitive lad with a certain terror, and he 
 therefore decided to have done with them. "Take that 1" 
 and he ran his sword through the old chipped picture, 
 making two gashes replace the challenging eyes. Then 
 he added a few gashes more for good measure. . . . 
 That same evening, his godfather having been invited to 
 supper, the notary spoke of a certain portrait acquired a
 
 16 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 few months before in the neighborhood of Jativa, a city 
 that he had always regarded with interest on account of 
 the Borgias having been born in one of its suburbs. The 
 two men were of the same opinion. That almost infantile 
 prelate could have been no other than Caesar Borgia, 
 made Archbishop of Valencia when sixteen years old by 
 his father, the Pope. On their first free day they would 
 examine the portrait with particular attention. . . . And 
 Ulysses, hanging his head, felt every mouthful sticking in 
 his throat. 
 
 For the fanciful lad, a pleasure even more intense and 
 substantial than his lonely games in the garret was a visit 
 to his godfather's home ; to his childish eyes, this godpar- 
 ent, the lawyer, Don Carmelo Labarta, was the personi- 
 fication of the ideal life, of glory, of poesy. The notary 
 was wont to speak of him with enthusiasm, yet pitying 
 him at the same time. 
 
 "That poor Don Carmelo! . . . The leading author- 
 ity of the age in civilian matters ! By applying himself 
 he might earn some money, but verses attracted him 
 more than lawsuits." 
 
 Ulysses used to enter his office with keen emotion. 
 Above rows of multicolored and gilded books that cov- 
 ered the walls, he saw some great plaster heads with tow- 
 ering foreheads and vacant eyes that seemed always to 
 be contemplating an immense nothingness. 
 
 The child could repeat their names like a fragment 
 from a choir book, from Homer to Victor Hugo. Then 
 his glance would seek another head equally glorious al- 
 though less white, with blonde and grizzled beard, rubi- 
 cund nose and bilious cheeks that in certain moments 
 scattered bits of scale. The sweet eyes of his godfather 
 yellowish eyes spotted with black dots used to receive 
 Ulysses with the doting affection of an aging, old bache- 
 lor who needs to invent a family. He it was who, ha.d
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 17 
 
 given him at the baptismal font the name which had 
 awakened so much admiration and ridicule among his 
 school companions; with the patience of an old grand- 
 sire narrating saintly stories to his descendants, he would 
 tell Ulysses over and over the adventures of the navi- 
 gating King of Ithaca for whom he had been named. 
 
 With no less devotion did the lad regard all the souve- 
 nirs of glory that adorned his house wreaths of golden 
 leaves, silver cups, nude marble statuettes, placques of 
 different metals upon plush backgrounds on which glis- 
 tened imperishably the name of the poet Labarta. All 
 this booty the tireless Knight of Letters had conquered 
 by means of his verse. 
 
 When the Floral Games were announced, the competi- 
 tors used to tremble lest it might occur to the great Don 
 Carmelo to hanker after some of the premiums. With 
 astonishing facility he used to carry off the natural flower 
 awarded for the heroic ode, the cup of gold for the 
 amorous romance, the pair of statues dedicated to the 
 most complete historical study, the marble bust for the 
 best legend in prose, and even the "art bronze" reward of 
 philological study. The other aspirants might try for the 
 left-overs. 
 
 Fortunately he had confined himself to local literature, 
 and his inspiration would not admit any other drapery 
 than that of Valencian verse. Next to Valencia and it& 
 past glories, Greece claimed his admiration. Once a year 
 Ulysses beheld him arrayed in his frock coat, his chest 
 starred with decorations and in his lapel the golden 
 cicada, badge of the poets of Provence. 
 
 Pie it was who was going to be celebrated in the fiesta 
 of Provencal literature, in which he always played the 
 principal role ; he was the prize bard, lecturer, or simple 
 idol to whom other poets were dedicating their eulogies 
 clerics given to rhyming, personifiers of religious images,
 
 18 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 silk-weavers who felt the vulgarity of their existence per- 
 turbed by the itchings of inspiration all the brotherhood 
 of popular bards of the ingenuous and domestic brand 
 who recalled the Meist&rsingers of the old German cities. 
 
 His godson always imagined him with a crown of laurel 
 on his brows just like those mysterious blind poets whose 
 portraits and busts ornamented the library. In real life 
 he saw perfectly well that his head had no such adorn- 
 ment, but reality lost its value before the firmness of his 
 conceptions. His godfather certainly must wear a wreath 
 when he was not present. Undoubtedly he was accus- 
 tomed to wear it as a house cap when by himself. 
 
 Another thing which he greatly admired about the 
 grand man was his extensive travels. He had lived in 
 distant Madrid the scene of almost all the novels read 
 by Ulysses and once upon a time he had crossed the 
 frontier, going courageously into a remote country called 
 the south of France, in order to visit another poet whom 
 he was accustomed to call "My friend, Mistral." And 
 the lad's imagination, hasty and illogical in its decisions, 
 used to envelop his godfather in a halo of historic in- 
 terest, similar to that of the conquerors. 
 
 At the stroke of the twelve o'clock chimes Labarta, 
 who never permitted any informality in table matters, 
 would become very impatient, cutting short the account 
 of his journeys and triumphs. 
 
 "Dona Pepa ! . . . We have a guest here." 
 
 Dona Pepa was the housekeeper, the great man's com- 
 panion who for the past fifteen years had been chained to 
 the chariot of his glory. The portieres would part and 
 through them would advance a huge bosom protruding 
 above an abdomen cruelly corseted. Afterwards, long 
 afterwards, would appear a white and radiant counte- 
 nance, a face like a full moon, and while her smile like a 
 night star was greeting the little Ulysses, the dorsal com-
 
 19 
 
 plement of her body kept on coming in forty carnal 
 years, fresh, exuberant, tremendous. 
 
 The notary and his wife always spoke of Dona Pepa 
 as of a familiar person, but the child never had seen her 
 in their home. Dona Cristina used to eulogize her care 
 of the poet but distantly and with no desire to make 
 her acquaintance while Don Esteban would make ex- 
 cuses for the great man. 
 
 "What can you expect! . . . He is an artist, and 
 artists are not able to live as God commands. All of 
 them, however dignified they may appear, are rather 
 carnal at heart What a pity! such an eminent lawyer! 
 , . . The money that he could make. . . .!" 
 
 His father's lamentations opened up new horizons to 
 the little fellow's suspicions. Suddenly he grasped the 
 prime motive force of our existence, hitherto only con- 
 jectttred and enveloped in mystery. His godfather had 
 relations with a woman ; he was enamored like the heroes 
 of the novels ! And the boy recalled many of his Valen- 
 cian poems, all rhapsodizing a lady sometimes singing 
 of her great beauty with the rapture and noble lassitude 
 of a recent possession ; at others complaining of her cold- 
 ness, begging of her that disposition of her soul without 
 which the gift of the body is as naught. 
 
 Ulysses imagined to himself a grand senora as beautiful 
 as Dona Constanza. At the very least, she must be a 
 Marchioness. His godfather certainly deserved that 
 much! And he also imagined to himself that their ren- 
 dezvous must be in the morning, in one of the straw- 
 berry gardens near the city, where his parents were accus- 
 tomed to take him for his breakfast chocolate after hear- 
 ing the first dawn service on the Sundays of April and 
 May. 
 
 Much later, when seated at his godfather's table, he 
 surprised the poet exchanging glances over his head with
 
 20 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the housekeeper, and began to suspect that possibly Dona 
 Pepa might be the inspiration of so much lachrymose and 
 enthusiastic verse. But his great loyalty rebelled before 
 such a supposition. No, no, it could not be possible ; as- 
 suredly there must be another ! 
 
 The notary, who for long years had been friendly with 
 Labarta, kept trying to direct him with his practical spirit, 
 like the boy who guides a blind man. A modest income 
 inherited from his parents was enough for the poet to 
 live upon. In vain his friend brought him cases that 
 represented enormous fees. The voluminous documents 
 would become covered with dust on his table and Don 
 Esteban would have to saddle himself with the dates in 
 order that the end of the legal procedures should not 
 slip by. 
 
 His son, Ulysses would be a very different sort of 
 man, thought the notary. In his mind's eye he could see 
 the lad as a great civilian jurist like his godfather, but 
 with a positive activity inherited from his father. For- 
 tune would enter through his doors on waves of stamped 
 paper. 
 
 Furthermore, he would also possess the notarial stu- 
 dio the dusty office with its ancient furniture and great 
 wardrobes, with its screen doors and green curtains, be- 
 hind which reposed the volumes of the protocol, covered 
 with yellowing calfskin with initials and numbers on 
 their backs. Don Esteban realized fully all that his study 
 represented. 
 
 "There is no orange grove," he would say in his ex- 
 pansive moments ; "there are no rice plantations that can 
 produce what this estate does. Here there are no frosts, 
 nor strong sea winds, nor inundations." 
 
 The clientele was certain people from the church, who 
 had the devotees back of them and considered Don Este- 
 ban as one of their class, and farmers, many rich farm-
 
 CAPTAIN ULYSSES FERRAGUT 21 
 
 ers. The families of the country folk, whenever they 
 heard any talk about smart men, always thought imme- 
 diately of the notary from Valencia. With religious ven- 
 eration they saw him adjust his spectacles in order to 
 read as an expert the bill of sale or dowry contract that 
 his amanuenses had just drawn up. It was written in 
 Castilian and for the better understanding of his listen- 
 ers he would read it, without the slightest hesitation, in 
 Valencian. What a man! . . . 
 
 Afterwards, while the contracting parties were signing 
 it, the notary raising the little glass window at the front, 
 would entertain the assembly with some local legends, 
 always decent, without any illusions to the sins of the 
 flesh, but always those in which the digestive organs fig- 
 ured with every degree of license. The clients would 
 roar with laughter, captivated by this funny eschatalogy, 
 and would haggle less in the matter of fees. Famous 
 Don Esteban ! . . . Just for the pleasure of hearing his 
 yarns they would have liked a legal paper drawn up every 
 month. 
 
 The future destiny of the notarial crown prince was 
 the object of many after-dinner conversations on the spe- 
 cial days when the poet was an invited guest. 
 
 "What do you want to be ?" Labarta asked his godson. 
 
 His mother's supplicating glance seemed desperately to 
 implore the little fellow: "Say Archbishop, my king." 
 For the good sefiora, her son could not make his debut 
 in any other way than in a church career. The notary 
 ihvays used to speak very positively from his own view- 
 point, without consulting the interested party. He would 
 be an eminent jurisconsult; thousands of dollars were 
 going to roll toward him as though they were pennies ; he 
 was going to figure in university solemnities in a cloak of 
 crimson satin and an academic cap announcing from its 
 multiple sides the tasseled glory of the doctorate. % The
 
 22 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 students in his lecture-room would listen to him most 
 respectfully. Who knew what the government of his 
 country might not have in store for him! . . . 
 
 Ulysses interrupted these images of future grandeur: 
 
 "I want to be a captain." 
 
 The poet approved. He felt the unreflective enthu- 
 siasm which all pacific and sedentary beings have for the 
 plume and the sword. At the mere sight of a uniform 
 his soul always thrilled with the amorous tenderness of a 
 child's nurse when she finds herself courted by a soldier. 
 
 "Fine!" said Labarta. "Captain of what? . . , Of ar- 
 tillery? . . . Of the staff? , , s 
 
 A pause. 
 
 "No ; captain of a ship." 
 
 Don Esteban looked up at the roof, raising his hands 
 in horror. He well knew who was guilty of this ridicU" 
 lous idea, the one who had put such absurd longings in 
 his son's head ! 
 
 And he was thinking of his brother, the retired doc- 
 tor, who was living in the paternal home over there in the 
 Marina: an excellent man, but a little crazy, whom the 
 people on the coast called the Dotor, and the poet La- 
 barta had nicknamed the Triton.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 
 
 WHEN the Triton occasionally appeared in Valencia, 
 thrifty Dona Cristina was obliged to modify the dietary 
 of her family. This man ate nothing but fish, and her 
 soul of an economical housewife worried greatly at the 
 thought of the extraordinarily high price that fish brings 
 in a port of exportation. 
 
 Life in that house, where everything always jogged 
 along so uniformly, was greatly upset by the presence of 
 the doctor. A little after daybreak, just when its in- 
 habitants were usually enjoying the dessert of their 
 night's sleep, hearing drowsily the rumble of the early 
 morning carts and the bell-ringing of the first Masses, 
 the house would reecho to the rude banging of doors and 
 heavy footsteps making the stairway creak. It was the 
 Triton rushing out on the street, incapable of remain- 
 ing between four walls after the first streak of light. 
 Following the currents of the early morning life, he 
 would reach the market, stopping before the flower 
 stands where were the most numerous gatherings of 
 women. 
 
 The eyes of the women turned toward him instinc- 
 tively with an expression of interest and fear. Some 
 blushed as he passed by, imagining against their will 
 what an embrace from this hideous and restless Colos- 
 sus must be. 
 
 "He is capable of crushing a flea on his arm," the 
 sailors of his village used to boast when trying to empha- 
 
 23
 
 24 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 size the hardness of his biceps. His body lacked fat, and 
 under his swarthy skin bulged great, rigid and protrud- 
 ing muscles an Herculean texture from which had been 
 eliminated every element incapable of producing strength. 
 Labarta found in him a great resemblance to the marine 
 divinities. He was Neptune before his head had silvered, 
 or Poseidon as the primitive Greek poets had seen him 
 with hair black and curly, features tanned by the salt air, 
 and with a ringleted beard whose two spiral ends seemed 
 formed by the dripping of the water of the sea. The 
 nose somewhat flattened by a blow received in his youth, 
 and the little eyes, oblique and tenacious, gave to his 
 countenance an expression of Asiatic ferocity, but this 
 impression melted away when his mouth parted in a smile, 
 showing his even, glistening teeth, the teeth of a man 
 of the sea accustomed to live upon salt food. 
 
 During the first few days of his visit he would wander 
 through the streets wavering and bewildered. He was 
 afraid of the carriages; the patter of the passers-by on 
 the pavements annoyed him; he, who had seen the most 
 important ports of both hemispheres, complained of the 
 bustle in the capital of a province. Finally he would in- 
 stinctively take the road from the harbor in search of the 
 sea, his eternal friend, the first to salute him every morn- 
 ing upon opening the door of his own home down there 
 on the Marina. 
 
 On these excursions he would oftentimes be accom- 
 panied by his little nephew. The bustle on the docks, 
 (the creaking of the cranes, the dull rumble of the carts, 
 the deafening cries of the freighters), always had for 
 him a certain music reminiscent of his youth when he was 
 traveling as a doctor on a transatlantic steamer. 
 
 His eyes also received a caress from the past upon 
 taking in the panorama of the port steamers smoking, 
 sailboats with their canvas spread out in the sunlight,
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 25 
 
 bulwarks of orange crates, pyramids of onions, walls of 
 sacks of rice and compact rows of wine casks paunch to 
 paunch. And coming to meet the outgoing cargo were 
 long lines of unloaded goods being lined up as they ar- 
 rived hills of coal coming from England, sacks of cereal 
 from the Black Sea, dried codfish from Newfoundland 
 sounding like parchment skins as they thudded down 
 on the dock, impregnating the atmosphere with their 
 salty dust, and yellow lumber from Norway that still 
 held a perfume of the pine woods. 
 
 Oranges and onions fallen from the crates were rot- 
 ting in the sun, scattering their sweet and acrid juices. 
 The sparrows were hopping around the mountains of 
 wheat, flitting timidly away when hearing approaching 
 footsteps. Over the blue surface of the harbor waters 
 the sea gulls of the Mediterranean, small, fine and white 
 as doves, twined in and out in their interminable contra- 
 dances. 
 
 'The Triton went on enumerating to his nephew the 
 class and specialty of every kind of vessel; and upon 
 discovering that Ulysses was capable of confusing a 
 brigantine with a frigate, he would roar in scandalized 
 amazement. 
 
 "Heavens ! Then what in the devil do they teach you 
 in school ? . . ." 
 
 Upon passing near the citizens of Valencia seated on 
 the wharves, fishing rod in hand, he would shoot a glance 
 of commiseration toward their empty baskets. Over 
 there by his house on the coast, before the sun would 
 be up, he would already have covered the bottom of his 
 boat with enough to eat for a week. The misery of the 
 cities ! 
 
 Standing on the last points of the rocky ledge, his 
 glance would sweep the immense plain, describing to 
 his nephew the mysteries hidden beyond the horizon. At
 
 26 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 their left, beyond the blue mountains of Oropesa, which 
 bound the Valencian gulf, he could see in imagination 
 Barcelona, where he had numerous friends, Marseilles, 
 that prolongation of the Orient fastened on the European 
 coast, and Genoa with its terraced palaces on hills cov- 
 ered with gardens. Then his vision would lose itself 
 on the horizon stretching out in front of him. That was 
 the road of his happy youth. 
 
 Straight ahead in a direct line was Naples with its 
 smoking mountain, its music and its swarthy dancing girls 
 with hoop earrings; further on, the Isles of Greece; at 
 the foot of an Aquatic Street, Constantinople; and still 
 beyond, bordering the great liquid court of the Black 
 Sea, a series of ports where the Argonauts sunk in a 
 Seething mass of races, fondled by the felinism of slaves, 
 the voluptuosity of the Orientals, and the avarice of the 
 Jews were fast forgetting their origin. 
 
 At their right was Africa; the Egyptian ports with 
 their traditional corruption that at sunset was beginning 
 to tremble and steam like a fetid morass ; Alexandria in 
 whose low coffee houses were imitation Oriental dancers 
 with no more clothes than a pocket handkerchief, every 
 woman of a different nation and shrieking in chorus all 
 the languages of the earth. . . . 
 
 The doctor withdrew his eyes from the sea in order 
 to observe his flattened nose. He was recalling a night 
 of Egyptian heat increased by the fumes of whiskey; the 
 familiarity of the half-clad public women, the scuffle 
 with some ruddy Northern sailors, the encounter in the 
 dark which obliged him to flee with bleeding face to the 
 ship that, fortunately, was weighing anchor at dawn. 
 Like all Mediterranean men, he never went ashore with- 
 out wearing a dagger hidden on his person, and he had 
 to "sting" with it in order to make way for himself. 
 
 "What times those were!" said the Triton with more
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 27 
 
 regret and homesickness than remorse ; and then he would 
 add by way of excuse, "Ay, but then I was only twenty- 
 four years old !" 
 
 These memories made him turn his ieyes toward a huge 
 bluish bulk extending out into the sea and looking to 
 the casual spectator like a great barren island. It was 
 the promontory crowned by the Mongo, the great Fer- 
 rarian promontory of the ancient geographers, the fur- 
 thest-reaching point of the peninsula in the lower Med- 
 iterranean that closes the Gulf of Valencia on the south. 
 
 It had the form of a hand whose digits were moun- 
 tains, but lacked the thumb. The other four fingers ex- 
 tended out into the waves, forming the capes of San An- 
 tonio, San Martin, La Nao and Almoraira. In one of 
 their coves was the Triton's native village, and the home 
 of the Ferraguts hunters of black pirates in other days, 
 contrabandists at times in modern days, sailors in all ages, 
 appearing originally, perhaps, from those first wooden 
 horses that came leaping over the foam seething around 
 the promontory. 
 
 In that home in the Manna he wished to live and die, 
 with no further desire of seeing more lands, with that 
 sudden immovability that attacks the vagabonds of the 
 waves and makes them fix themselves upon a ledge of 
 the coast like a mollusk or bunch of seaweed. 
 
 Soon the Triton grew tired of these strolls to the har- 
 bor. The sea of Valencia was not a real sea for him. The 
 waters of the river and of the irrigation canals disturbed 
 him. When it rained in the mountains of Aragon, an 
 earthy liquid always discharged itself into the Gulf, tint- 
 ing the waves with flesh color and the foam with yellow. 
 Besides, it was impossible to indulge in his daily sport of 
 swimming. One winter morning, when he began to un- 
 dress himself on the beach, the crowd gathered around
 
 28 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 him as though attracted by a phenomenon. Even the fish 
 of the Gulf had to him an insufferable slimy taste. 
 
 "I'm going back home," he would finally say to the 
 notary and his wife. "I can't understand how; in the 
 world you are able to live here !" 
 
 In one of these retreats to the Marina he insisted upon 
 taking Ulysses home with him. The summer season was 
 beginning, the boy would be free from school for three 
 months, and the notary, who was not able to go far away 
 from the city, was going to pass the summer with his 
 family on the beach at Cabanal checkered by bad-smelling 
 irrigation canals near a forlorn sea. The little fellow was 
 looking very pale and weak on account of his studies and 
 hectoring. His uncle would make him as strong and 
 agile as a dolphin. And in spite of some very lively dis- 
 putes, he succeeded in snatching the child away from 
 Dona Cristina. 
 
 The first things that Ulysses admired upon entering 
 the doctor's home were the three frigates adorning the 
 ceiling of the dining-room three marvelous vessels in 
 which there was not lacking a single sail nor pulley rope, 
 nor anchor, and which might be made to sail over the sea 
 at a moment's notice. 
 
 They were the work of his grandfather Ferragut. 
 Wishing to release his two sons from the marine service 
 which had weighed upon the family for many centuries, 
 he had sent them to the University of Valencia m order 
 that they might become inland gentlemen. The older, 
 Esteban, had scarcely terminated his career before he 
 obtained a notaryship in Catalunia. The younger one, 
 Antonio, became a doctor so as not to thwart the old 
 man's wishes, but as soon as he acquired his degree he 
 offered his services to a transatlantic steamer. His father 
 had closed the door of the sea against him and he had 
 entered by the window.
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 29 
 
 And so, as Ferragut Senior began to grow old, he lived 
 completely alone. He used to look after his property a 
 few vineyards scattered along the coast in sight of his 
 home and was in frequent correspondence with his son, 
 the notary. From time to time there came a letter from 
 the younger one, his favorite, posted in remote countries 
 that the old Mediterranean seaman knew only by hear- 
 say. And during his long, dull hours in the shade of his 
 arbor facing the blue and luminous sea, he used to enter- 
 tain himself constructing these little models of boats. 
 They were all frigates of great tonnage and fearless sail. 
 Thus the old skipper would console himself for having 
 commanded during his lifetime only heavy and clumsy 
 merchant vessels like the ships of other centuries, in 
 which he used to carry wine from Cette or cargo pro- 
 hibited in Gibraltar and the coast of Africa. 
 
 Ulysses was not long in recognizing the rare popularity 
 enjoyed by his uncle, the doctor a popularity composed 
 of the most antagonistic elements. The people used to 
 smile in speaking of him as though he were a little 
 touched, yet they dared to indulge in these smiles only 
 when at a safe distance, for he inspired a certain terror 
 in all of them. At the same time they used to admire him 
 as a local celebrity, for he had traversed all seas, and 
 possessed, besides, a violent and tempestuous strength 
 which was the terror and pride of his neighbors. The 
 husky youths when testing the vigor of their fists, boxing 
 with crews of the English vessels that came there for 
 cargoes of raisins, used to evoke the doctor's name as a 
 consolation in case of defeat. "If only the Dotor could 
 have been here! . . . Half a dozen Englishmen are noth- 
 ing to him!" 
 
 There was no vigorous undertaking, however absurd 
 it might be, that they would not believe him capable of. 
 He used to inspire the faith of the miracle-working saints
 
 3Q MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 and audacious highway captains. On calm, sunshiny 
 winter mornings the people would often go running down 
 to the beach, looking anxiously over the lonely sea. The 
 veterans who were toasting themselves in the sun near 
 the overturned boats, on scanning the broad horizon, 
 would finally discern an almost imperceptible point, a 
 grain of sand dancing capriciously on the waves. 
 
 They would all break into shouts and conjectures. It 
 was a buoy, a piece of masthead, the drift from a distant 
 shipwreck. For the women it was somebody drowned, so 
 bloated that it was floating like a leather bottle, after hav- 
 ing been many days in the water. 
 
 Suddenly the same supposition would arise in every 
 perplexed mind. "I wonder if it could be the Dotor!" K 
 long silence. . . . The bit of wood was taking the form 
 of a head; the corpse was moving. Many could now 
 perceive the bubble of foam around his chest that was 
 advancing like the prow of a ship, and the vigorous 
 strokes of his arms. . . . Yes, it surely was the Dotor!" 
 . . . The old sea dogs loaned their telescopes to one an- 
 other in order to recognize his beard sunk in the water 
 and his face, contracted by his efforts or expanded by his 
 snortings. 
 
 And the Dotor was soon treading the dry beach, naked 
 and as serenely unashamed as a god, giving his hand to 
 the men, while the women shrieked, lifting their aprons 
 in front of one eye terrified, yet admiring the dripping 
 vision. 
 
 All the capes of the promontory challenged him to 
 double them, swimming like a dolphin; he felt impelled 
 to measure all the bays and coves with his arms, like a 
 proprietor who distrusts another's measurements and rec- 
 tifies them in order to affirm his right of possession. He 
 was a human bark who, with the keel of his breast, 
 cut the foam, whirling through the sunken rocks and
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 31 
 
 the pacific waters in whose depths sparkled fishes among 
 mother-of-pearl twigs and stars moving like flowers. 
 
 He used to seat himself to rest on the black rocks 
 with overskirts of seaweed that raised or lowered their 
 fringe at the caprice of the wave, awaiting the night and 
 the chance vessel that might come to dash against them 
 like a piece of bark. Like a marine reptile he had even 
 penetrated certain caves of the coast, drowsy and glacial 
 lakes illuminated by mysterious openings where the 
 atmosphere is black and the water transparent, where the 
 swimmer has a bust of ebony and legs of crystal. In 
 the course of these swimming expeditions he ate all the 
 living beings he encountered fastened to the rocks by 
 antennae and arms. The friction of the great, terrified 
 fish that fled, bumping against him with the violence of 
 a projectile, used to make him laugh. 
 
 In the night hours passed before his grandfather's 
 little ships, Ulysses used to hear the Triton speak of the 
 Peje Nicolao, a man-fish of the Straits of Messina men- 
 tioned by Cervantes and other authors, who lived in the 
 water maintaining himself by the donations from the 
 ships. His uncle must be some relative of this Peje Nico- 
 lao. At other times this uncle would mention a cer- 
 tain Greek who in order to see his lady-love swam the 
 Hellespont every night. And he, who used to know the 
 Dardanelles, was longing to return there as a simple pas- 
 senger merely that a poet named Lord Byron might not 
 be the only one to imitate the legendary crossing. 
 
 The books that he kept in his home, the nautical charts 
 fastened to the walls, the flasks and jars filled with the 
 animal and vegetable life of the sea, and more than all 
 this, his tastes which were so at variance with the cus- 
 toms of his neighbors, had given the Triton the repu- 
 tation of a mysterious sage, the fame of a wizard. 
 
 All those who were well and strong considered him
 
 32 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 crazy, but the moment that there was the slightest break 
 in their health they would share the same faith as the 
 poor women who oftentimes passed long hours in the 
 home of the Dolor, seeing his bark afar off and patiently 
 awaiting his return from the sea, in order to show him 
 the sick children they carried in their arms. He had an 
 advantage over all other doctors, as he made no charge 
 for his services ; better still, many sick people came away 
 from his house with money in their hands. 
 
 The Dotor was rich the richest man in the country- 
 side; a man who really did not know what to do with 
 his money. His maid-servant an old woman who had 
 known his father and served his mother used daily to 
 receive from his hands the fish provided for the two with 
 i regal generosity. The Triton, who had hoisted sail at 
 daybreak, used to disembark before eleven, and soon the 
 purpling lobster was crackling on the red coals, sending 
 forth delicious odors; the stew pot was bubbling away, 
 thickening its broth with the succulent fat of the sea-scor- 
 pion ; the oil in the frying pan was singing, browning the 
 flame-colored skin of the salmonettes; and the sea ur- 
 chins and the mussels opened hissing under his knife, 
 were emptying their still living pulp into the boiling stew 
 pan. Furthermore, a cow with full udders was mooing 
 in the yard, and dozens of chickens with innumerable 
 broods were cackling incessantly. 
 
 The flour kneaded and baked by his servant, and the 
 coffee thick as mud, was all that the Triton purchased 
 with his money. If he hunted for a bottle of brandy on 
 his return from a swim, it was only to use it in rubbing 
 himself down. 
 
 Money entered through his doors once a year, when 
 the girls of the vintage lined up among the trellises of 
 his vineyards, cutting the bunches of little, close fruit 
 and spreading them out to dry in some small sheds
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 33 
 
 called riurraus. Thus was produced the small raisin pre- 
 ferred by the English for the making of their puddings. 
 The sale was a sure thing, the boats always coming from 
 the north to get the fruit. And the Triton, upon finding 
 five or six thousand pesetas in his hand, would be greatly 
 perplexed, inwardly asking himself what a man was 
 ever going to do with so much money. 
 
 "All this is yours," he said, showing the house to his 
 nephew. 
 
 His also the boat, the books and the antique furni- 
 ture in whose drawers the money was so openly hid that 
 it invited attention. 
 
 In spite of seeing himself lord of all that surrounded 
 him, a rough and affectionate despotism, kept neverthe- 
 less, weighing the child down. He was very far from his 
 mother, that good lady who was always closing the 
 windows near him and never letting him go out with- 
 out tying his neckscarf around him with an accompani- 
 ment of kisses. 
 
 Just wfom he was sleeping soundest, believing that 
 the night would still be many hours longer, he would feel 
 himself awakened by a violent tugging at his leg. His 
 uncle could not touch him in any other way. "Get up, 
 cabin boy !" In vain he would protest with the profound 
 sleepiness of youth. . . . Was he, or was he not the 
 "ship's cat" of the bark of which his uncle was the cap- 
 tain and only crew ? . . . 
 
 His uncle's paws bared him to the blasts of salt air 
 that were entering through the windows. The sea was 
 dark and veiled by a light fog. The last stars were 
 sparkling with twinkles of surprise, ready to flee. A 
 crack began to appear on the leaden horizon, growing 
 redder and redder every minute, like a wound through 
 which the blood is flowing. The ship's cat was loaded up 
 with various empty baskets, the skipper marching before
 
 34 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 him like a warrior of tlie waves, carrying the oars on his 
 shoulders, his feet rapidly making hollows on the sand. 
 Behind him the village was beginning to awaken and, over 
 the dark waters, the sails of the fishermen, fleeing the 
 inner sea, were slipping past like ghostly shrouds. 
 
 Two vigorous strokes of the oar sent their boat out 
 from the little wharf of stones, and soon he was untying 
 the sails from the gunwales and preparing the ropes. 
 The unfurled canvas whistled and swelled in bellying 
 whiteness. "There we are ! Now for a run !" 
 
 The water was beginning to sing, slipping past both 
 sides of the prow. Between it and the edge of the sail 
 could be seen a bit of black sea, and coming little by 
 little over its line, a great red streak. The streak soon 
 became a helmet, then a hemisphere, then an Arabian arch 
 confined at the bottom, until finally it shot up out of the 
 liquid mass as though it were a bomb sending forth 
 flashes of flame. The ash-colored clouds became stained 
 with blood and the large rocks of the coast began to 
 sparkle like copper mirrors. As the last stars were 
 extinguished, a swarm of fire-colored fishes came trail- 
 ing along before the prow, forming a triangle with its 
 point in the horizon. The mist on the mountain tops 
 was taking on a rose color as though its whiteness were 
 reflecting a submarine eruption. "Bon dial" called the 
 doctor to Ulysses, who was occupied in warming his 
 hands stiffened by the wind. 
 
 And, moved with childlike joy by the dawn of a new 
 day, the Triton sent his bass voice booming across the 
 maritime silence, several times intoning sentimental melo- 
 dies that in his youth he had heard sung by a vaudeville 
 prima donna dressed as a ship's boy, at other times carol- 
 ing in Valencian the chanteys of the coast fishermen's 
 songs invented as they drew in their nets, in which most 
 shameless words were flung together on the chance of
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 35 
 
 making them rhyme. In certain windings of the coast the 
 sail would be lowered, leaving the boat with no other mo- 
 tion than a gentle rocking around its anchor rope. 
 
 Upon seeing the space which had been obscured by 
 the shadow of the boat's hulk, Ulysses found the bottom 
 of the sea so near that he almost believed that he could 
 touch it with the point of his oar. The rocks were like 
 glass. In their interstices and hollows the plants were 
 moving like living creatures, and the little animals had 
 the immovability of vegetables and stones. The boat 
 appeared to be floating in the air and athwart the liquid 
 atmosphere that wraps this abysmal world, the fish hooks 
 were dangling, and a swarm of fishes was swimming and 
 wriggling toward its encounter with death. 
 
 It was a sparkling effervescence of yellowing flames, 
 of bluish backs and rosy fins. Some came out from the 
 caves silvered and vibrant as lightning flashes of mer- 
 cury; others swam slowly, big-bellied, almost circular, 
 with a golden coat of mail. Along the slopes, the crus- 
 taceans came scrambling along on their double row of 
 claws attracted by this novelty that was changing the 
 mortal calm of the under-sea where all follow and de- 
 vour, only to be devoured in turn. Near the surface 
 floated the medusae, living parasols of an opaline white- 
 ness with circular borders of lilac or red bronze. Under 
 their gelatinous domes was the skein of filaments that 
 served them for locomotion, nutrition and reproduction. 
 
 The fishermen had only to pull in their lines and a new 
 prisoner would fall into their boat. Their baskets were 
 filling up so fast that the Triton and his nephew grew 
 tired of this easy fishing. . . . The sun was now near 
 the height of its curve, and every wavelet was carrying 
 away a bit of the golden band that divided the blue 
 immensity. The wood of the boat appeared to be on fire. 
 
 "We've earned our day's pay," said the Triton, looking
 
 36 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 at the sky and theft at the baskets. "Now let's clean up 
 a little bit." 
 
 And stripping off his clothing, he threw himself into 
 the sea. Ulysses saw him descend from the center of 
 the ring of foam opened by his body, and could gauge 
 by it the profundity of that fantastic world composed of 
 glassy rocks, animal plants and stone animals. As it 
 went down, the tawny body of the swimmer took on 
 the transparency of porcelain. It appeared of bluish 
 crystal a statue made of a Venetian mirror composition 
 that was going to break as soon as it touched the bottom. 
 
 Like a god he was passing through the deeps, snatching 
 plants out by the roots, pursuing with his hands the flashes 
 of vermilion and gold hidden in the cracks of the rocks. 
 Minutes would pass by ; he was going to stay down for- 
 ever; he would never come up again. And the boy was 
 beginning to think uneasily of the possibility of having 
 to guide the bark back to the coast all alone. Suddenly 
 the body of white crystal began taking on a greenish hue, 
 growing larger and larger, becoming dark and coppery, 
 until above the surface appeared the head of the swim- 
 mer, who, spouting and snorting, was holding up all 
 his submarine plunder to the little fellow. 
 
 "Now then, your turn!" he ordered ih an imperious 
 tone. 
 
 All attempts at resistance were useless. His uncle 
 either insulted him with the harshest kind of words or 
 coaxed him with promises of safety. He never knew 
 certainly whether he threw himself into the water or 
 whether a tug from the doctor jerked him from the boat. 
 The first surprise having passed, he had the impression 
 of remembering some long forgotten thing. He was 
 swimming instinctively, divining what he ought to do be- 
 fore his master told him. Within him was awakening the 
 ancestral experience of a race of sailors who had strug-
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 37 
 
 gled with the sea and, sometimes, had remained forever 
 in its bosom. 
 
 Recollection of what was existing beyond his feet sud- 
 denly made him lose his serenity, his lively imagination 
 making him shriek, 
 
 "Uncle! . . 1 Uncle!" 
 
 And he clutched convulsively at the hard island of 
 bearded and smiling muscles. His uncle came up im- 
 movable, as though his feet of stone were fastened to 
 the bottom of the ocean. He was like the nearby prom- 
 ontory that was darkening and chilling the water with 
 its ebony shadow. 
 
 Thus would slip by the mornings devoted to fishing and 
 swimming; then in the afternoons there were tramps 
 over the steep shores of the coast. 
 
 The Dotor knew the heights of the promontory as well 
 as its depths. Up the pathways of the wild goat they 
 clambered to its peaks in order to get a view of the Island 
 of Ibiza. At sunset the distant Balearic Islands appeared 
 like a rose-colored flame rising out of the waves. At 
 other times the cronies made trips along the water's edge, 
 and the Triton would show his nephew hidden caves into 
 which the Mediterranean was working its way with slow 
 undulations. These were like maritime roadsteads where 
 boats might anchor completely concealed from view. 
 There the galleys of the Berbers had often hidden, in 
 order to fall unexpectedly upon a nearby village. 
 
 In one of these caves, on a rocky pedestal, Ulysses 
 often saw a heap of bundles. 
 
 "Well, now, what of it!" expostulated the doctor. 
 "Every man must gain his living as best he can." 
 
 When they stumbled upon a solitary custom house offi- 
 cer resting upon his gun and looking out toward the sea, 
 the doctor would offer him a cigar and give him medical 
 advice if he were sick. "Poor men ! so badly paid !" . . .
 
 38 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 But his sympathies were always going out to the others 
 to the enemies of the law. He was the son of his sea, and 
 in the make-up of all Mediterranean heroes and sailors 
 there had always been something of the pirate or smug- 
 gler. The Phoenicians, who by their navigation spread 
 abroad the first works of civilization, instituted this serv- 
 ice, reaping their reward by filling their barks with stolen 
 women, rich merchandise of easy transportation. 
 
 Piracy and smuggling had formed the historic past of 
 all the villages that Ulysses was visiting, some huddled 
 in the shelter of the promontory crowned with a light- 
 house, others opening on the concavity of a bay dotted 
 with barren islands girdled with foam. The old churches 
 had turrets on their walls and loopholes in their doors 
 for shooting with culverins and blunderbusses. The 
 entire neighborhood used to take refuge in them when the 
 smoke columns from their watchmen would warn them 
 of the landing of pirates from Algiers. Following the 
 curvings of the promontory there was a dotted line of 
 reddish towers, each one accompanied by a smaller pair 
 for lookouts. This line extended along the south toward 
 the Straits of Gibraltar, and on its northern side reached 
 to France. 
 
 The doctor had seen their counterpart in all the 
 islands of the western Mediterranean, on the coasts of 
 Naples and in Sicily. They were the fortifications of a 
 thousand-year war, of a struggle ten centuries long be- 
 tween Moors and Christians for the domination of the 
 blue sea, a struggle of piracy in which the Mediterranean 
 men differentiated by religion, but identical at heart 
 had prolonged the adventures of the Odyssey down to the 
 beginnings of the nineteenth century. 
 
 Ferragut gradually became acquainted with many old 
 men of the village who in their youth had been slaves 
 in Algiers. On winter evenings the oldest of them were
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 39 
 
 still singing romances of captivity and speaking with 
 terror of the Berber brigantines. These thieves of the 
 sea must have had a pact with the devil, who notified 
 them of opportune occasions. If in a convent some beau- 
 tiful novices had just made their profession, the doors 
 would give away at midnight under the hatchet-blows of 
 the bearded demons who were advancing inland from 
 the galleys prepared to receive their cargo of feminine 
 freight. If a girl of the coast, celebrated for her beauty, 
 was going to be married, the infidels, lying in wait, would 
 surround the door of the church, shooting their blunder- 
 busses and knifing the unarmed men as they came out, in 
 order to carry away the women in their festal robes. 
 
 On all the coast, the pirates stood in awe only of the 
 navigators from the Marina, so fearless and warlike were 
 they. If their villages were ever attacked, it was because 
 their seafaring defenders were on the Mediterranean and, 
 in their turn, had gone to sack and burn some village on 
 the coast of Africa. 
 
 The Triton and his nephew used to eat their suppef 
 under the arbor in the long summer twilights. After the 
 cloth was removed Ulysses would manipulate his grand- 
 father's little frigates, learning the technical parts and 
 names of the different apparatus, and the management of 
 the sets of sails. Sometimes the two would stay out on 
 the rustic porch until a late hour gazing out over the 
 luminous sea sparkling under the splendor of the moon, 
 or streaked with a slender wake of starry light in the' 
 murky nights. 
 
 All that mankind had ever written or dreamed about 
 the Mediterranean, the doctor had in his library and 
 could repeat to his eager little listener. In Ferragut's 
 estimation the mare nostrum 1 was a species of blue beast, 
 
 1 "Mare No strum" (Our Sea), the classic name for the Medi 
 (erranean.
 
 40 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 powerful and of great intelligence a sacred animal like 
 the dragons and serpents that certain religions adored, be- 
 lieving them to be the source of life. The rivers that 
 threw themselves impetuously into its bosom in order 
 to renew it were few and scanty. The Rhone and the 
 Nile appeared to be pitiful little rivulets compared with 
 the river courses of other continents that empty into the 
 oceans. 
 
 Losing by evaporation three times more liquid than 
 the rivers bring to it, this sunburnt sea would soon have 
 been converted into a great salt desert were not the At- 
 lantic sending it a rapid current of renewal that was pre- 
 cipitated through the Straits of Gibraltar. Under this 
 superficial current existed still another, flowing in an 
 opposite direction, that returned a part of the Mediter- 
 ranean to the ocean, because the Mediterranean waters 
 were more salt and dense than those of the Atlantic. The 
 tide scarcely made itself felt on its strands. Its basin 
 was mined by subterranean fires that were always seek- 
 ing extraordinary outlets through Vesuvius and ytna, 
 and breathed continually through the mouth of Strom- 
 boli. Sometimes these Plutonic ebullitions would come 
 to the surface, making new islands rise up upon the 
 waters like tumors of lava. 
 
 In its bosom exist still double the quantity of animal 
 species that abound in other seas, although less numerous. 
 The tunny fish, playful lambs of the blue pasture lands, 
 were gamboling over its surface or passing in schools 
 under the furrows of the waves. Men were setting 
 netted traps for them along the coasts of Spain and 
 France, in Sardinia, the Straits of Messina and the waters 
 of the Adriatic. But this wholesale slaughter scarcely 
 lessened the compact, fishy squadrons. After wander- 
 ing through the windings of the Grecian Archipelago, 
 they passed the Dardanelles and the Bosphorus, stirring
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 4! 
 
 the two narrow passageways with the violence of their 
 invisible gallopade and making a turn at the bowl of the; 
 Black Sea, swimming back, decimated but impetuous, to 
 the depths of the Mediterranean. 
 
 Red coral was forming immovable groves on the sulx 
 strata of the Balearic Islands, and on the coasts of Naples 
 and Africa. Ambergris was constantly being found on 
 the steep shores of Sicily. Sponges were growing in 
 the tranquil waters in the shadow of the great rocks of 
 Mallorca and the Isles of Greece. Naked men without 
 any equipment whatever, holding their breath, were still 
 descending to the bottom as in primitive times, in order 
 to snatch these treasures away. 
 
 The doctor gave up his geographic descriptions to dis- 
 course on the history of his sea, which had indeed been 
 the history of civilization, and was more fascinating to 
 him. At first miserable and scanty tribes had wandered 
 along its coasts seeking their food from the crustaceans 
 drawn from the waves a life similar to that of the rudi- 
 mentary people that Ferragut had seen in the islands of 
 the Pacific. When stone saws had hollowed out the 
 trunka of trees and human arms had ventured to spread 
 the first rawhides to the forces of the atmosphere, the 
 coasts became rapidly populated. 
 
 Temples were constructed on the promontories, and 
 maritime cities the first nuclei of modern civilization- 
 came into existence. On this landlocked sea mankind had 
 Kirned the art of navigation. Every one looked at the 
 waves before looking at the sky. Over this blue highway 
 had arrived the miracles of life, and out of its depths 
 the gods were born. The Phoenicians Jews, become 
 navigators abandoned their cities in the depths of tne 
 Mediterranean sack, in order to spread the mysterious 
 knowledge of Egypt and the Asiatic monarchies all along
 
 42 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the shores of the interior sea. Afterwards the Greeks of 
 
 the maritime republics took their places. 
 
 In Ferragut's estimation the greatest honor to which 
 Athens could lay claim was that she had been a democracy 
 of sailors, her freemen serving their country as rowers 
 and all her famous men as great marine officials. 
 
 "Themistocles and Pericles," he added, "were admir- 
 als of fleets, and after commanding ships, governed their 
 country." 
 
 On that account Grecian civilization had spread itself 
 everywhere and had become immortal instead of lessen- 
 ing and disappearing without fruit as in the interior 
 lands. Then Rome, terrestrial Rome, in order to hold its 
 own against the superiority of the Semitic navigators of 
 Carthage, had to teach the management of the oar and 
 marine combat to the inhabitants of Latium, to their 
 legionaries with faces hardened by the chin straps of 
 their helmets, who did not know how to adjust their 
 world-dominating iron-shod feet to the slippery planks 
 of a vessel. 
 
 The divinities of mare nostrum always inspired a most: 
 loving devotion in the doctor. He knew that they had 
 not existed, but he, nevertheless, believed in them as 
 poetic phantasms of natural forces. 
 
 The ancient world only knew the immense ocean in 
 hypothesis, giving it the form of an aquatic girdle around 
 the earth. Oceanus was an old god with a long beard 
 and horned head who lived in a maritime cavern with 
 his wife, Tethys, and his three hundred daughters, the 
 Oceanides. No Argonaut had ever dared to come iff 
 contact with these mysterious divinities. Only the grave 
 JEschylus had dared to portray the Oceanides virgins 
 fresh and demure, weeping around the rock to whicH 
 Prometheus was bound. 
 
 Other more approachable deities were those of the
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 43 
 
 eternal sea on whose borders were founded the opulent 
 cities of the Syrian coast; the Egyptian cities that sent 
 sparks of their ritual civilization to Greece ; the Hellenic 
 cities, hearths of clear fire that had fused all knowledge, 
 giving it eternal form ; Rome, mistress of the world ; Car- 
 thage, famed for her audacious geographical discoveries, 
 and Marseilles, which had made western Europe share 
 in the civilization of the Greeks, scattering- it along the 
 lower coast from settlement to settlement, even to the, 
 Straits of Cadiz. 
 
 A brother of the Oceanides, the prudent Nereus, used 
 to reign in the depths of the Mediterranean. This son of 
 Oceanus had a blue beard, green eyes, and bunches of 
 sea rushes on his eyebrows and breast. His fifty daugh- 
 ters, the Nereids, bore his orders across the waves or 
 frolicked around the ships, splashing in the faces of the 
 rowers the foam tossed up by their arms. But the sons 
 of Father Time, on conquering the giant, had reappor- 
 tioned the world, determining its rulers by lot. Zeus re- 
 mained lord of the land, the obscure Hades, lord of the 
 underworld, reigned in the Plutonic abysses, and Posei- 
 don became master of the blue surfaces. 
 
 Nereus, the dispossessed monarch, fled to a cavern of 
 the Hellenic sea in order to live the calm existence of the 
 philosopher-counselor of mankind, and Poseidon in- 
 stalled himself in the mother-of-pearl palaces with his 
 white steeds tossing helmets of bronze and manes of 
 gold. 
 
 His amorous eyes were fixed on the fifty Mediterra- 
 nean princesses, the Nereids, who took their names from 
 the aspect of the waves the Blue, the Green, the Swift, 
 the Gentle. . . . "Nymphs of the green abysses with 
 faces fresh as a rosebud, fragrant virgins that took the 
 forms of all the monsters of the deep," sang the Orphic 
 hymn on the Grecian shore. And Poseidon singled out
 
 44 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 among them all the Nereid of the Foam, the white Am- 
 phitrite who refused to accept his love. 
 
 She knew about this new god. The coasts were peo- 
 pled with cyclops like Polyphemus, with frightful mon- 
 sters born of the union of Olympian goddesses and simple 
 mortals ; but an obliging dolphin came and went, carrying 
 messages between Poseidon and the Nereid, until, over- 
 whelmed by the eloquence of this restless rover of the 
 wave, Amphitrite agreed to become the wife of the god, 
 and the Mediterranean appeared to take on still greater 
 beauty. 
 
 She was the aurora that shows her rosy finger-tips 
 through the immense cleft between sky and sea, the 
 warm hour of midday that makes the waters drowsy 
 under its robe of restless gold, the bifurcated tongue 
 of foam that laps the two faces of the hissing prow, the 
 aroma-laden breeze that like a virgin's breath swells the 
 sail, the compassionate kiss that lulls the drowned to 
 rest, without wrath and without resistance, before sinking 
 forever into the fathomless abyss. 
 
 Her husband Poseidon on the Greek coast and Nep- 
 tune on the Latin on mounting his chariot, used to 
 awaken the tempest. The brazen-hoofed horses with 
 their stamping would paw up the huge waves and swal- 
 low up the ships. The tritons of his cortege would send 
 forth from their white shells the bellowing blasts that 
 snap off the masts like reeds. 
 
 O, mater Amphitrite! . . . and Ferragut would de- 
 scribe her as though she we're just passing before his 
 eyes. Sometimes when swimming around the promon- 
 tories, feeling himself enveloped like primitive man in 
 the blind forces of Nature, he used to believe that he saw 
 the white goddess issuing forth from the rocks with all 
 her smiling train after a rest in some marine cave. 
 
 A shell of pearl was her chariot and six dolphins bar-
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 45 
 
 nessed with purpling coral used to draw it along. The 
 tritons, her sons, handled the reins. The Naiads, their 
 sisters, lashed the sea with their scaly tails, lifting their 
 mermaid bodies wrapped in the magnificence of their 
 sea-green tresses between whose ringlets might be seen 
 their heaving bosoms. White seagulls, cooing like the 
 doves of Aphrodite, fluttered around their nude sea- 
 queen, serenely contemplating them from her movable 
 throne, crowned with pearls and phosphorescent stars 
 drawn from the depths of her dominion. White as the 
 cloud, white as the sail, white as the foam, entirely, daz- 
 zlingly white was her fair majesty except where a rosy 
 blush tinted the petal-like skin of her heels or her bosom. 
 
 The entire history of European man forty centuries 
 of wars, emigrations, and racial impact was due, ac- 
 cording to the doctor, to the desire of possessing this 
 harmoniously framed sea, of enjoying the transparency 
 of its atmosphere and the vivacity of its light. 
 
 The men from the North who needed the burning log 
 and alcoholic drink in order to defend their life from 
 the clutches of the cold, were always thinking of these 
 Mediterranean shores. All their warlike or pacific move- 
 ments were with intent to descend from the coasts of the 
 glacial seas to the beaches of the warm mare nostrum. 
 They were eager to gain possession of the country where 
 the sacred olive alternates its stiff old age with the joyous 
 vineyard ; where the pine rears its cupola and the cypress 
 erects its minaret. They longed to dream under the per- 
 fumed snow of the interminable orange groves; to be 
 masters of the sheltered valleys where the myrtle and the 
 jasmine spice the salty air ; where the aloe and the cactus 
 grow between the stones of extinct volcanoes ; where the 
 mountains of marble extend their white veins down even 
 into the depths of the sea and refract the African heat 
 emitted by the opposite coast.
 
 46 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The South had replied to the invasion from the North 
 with defensive wars that had extended even into the 
 center of Europe. And thus history had gone on repeat- 
 ing itself with the same flux and reflux of human waves 
 mankind struggling for thousands of years to gain or 
 hold the blue vault of Amphitrite. 
 
 The Mediterranean peoples were to Ferragut the aris- 
 tocracy of humanity. Its potent climate had tempered 
 mankind as in no other part of the planet, giving him a 
 dry and resilient power. Tanned and bronzed by the 
 profound absorption of the sun and the energy of the 
 atmosphere, its navigators were transmuted into pure 
 metal. The men from the North were stronger, but less 
 robust, less acclimitable than the Catalan sailor, the Pro- 
 vengal, the Genoese or the Greek. The sailors of the 
 Mediterranean made themselves at home in all parts of 
 the world. Upon their sea man had developed his high- 
 est energies. Ancient Greece had converted human flesh 
 into spiritual steel. 
 
 Exactly the same landscapes and races bordered the 
 two shores. The mountains and the flowers on both 
 shores were identical. The Catalan, the Provengal and 
 the South Italian were more like the inhabitants of the 
 African coast than their kindred who lived inland back 
 of them. This fraternity had shown itself instinctively 
 in the thousand-year war. The Berber pirates, the Geno- 
 ese sailors, the Spaniards, and the Knights of Malta used 
 implacably to behead each other on the decks of their 
 galleys and, upon becoming conquerors, would respect the 
 life of their prisoners, treating them like gentlemen. The 
 Admiral Barbarossa, eighty- four years of age, used to call 
 Doria, his eternal rival nearly ninety years old, "my 
 brother." The Grand Master of Malta clasped the hand 
 of the terrible Dragut upon finding him his captive. 
 
 The Mediterranean man, fixed on the shores that gave
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 47 
 
 him birth, was accustomed to accept all the changes of 
 history, as the mollusks fastened to the rocks endure the 
 tempests. For him the only important thing was not to 
 lose sight of his blue sea. The Spaniard used to pull an 
 oar on the Liburnian felucca, the Christian would join 
 the crews of the Saracen ships of the Middle Ages; 
 the subjects of Charles V would pass through the fortunes 
 of war from the galleys of the Cross to those of the Cres- 
 cent, and would end by becoming rulers of Algiers, rich 
 captains of the sea, or by making their names famous as 
 renegades. 
 
 In the eighth century the inhabitants of the Valencian 
 coast united with the Andalusian Moors to carry the war 
 to the ends of the Mediterranean and to the island of 
 Crete, taking possession of it and giving it the name of 
 Candia. This nest of pirates was the terror of Byzan- 
 tium, taking Salonica by assault and selling as slaves the 
 patricians and most important ladies of the realm. Years 
 afterwards, when dislodged from Candia, the Valencian 
 adventurers returned to their native shores and there es- 
 tablished a town in a fertile valley, giving it the name of 
 the distant island which was changed to Gandia. 
 
 Every type of human vigor had sprung from the Medi- 
 terranean race, fine, sharp and dry as flint, doing good 
 and evil on a large scale with the exaggeration of an ar- 
 dent character that discounts halfway measures and leaps 
 from duplicity to the greatest extremes of generosity. 
 Ulysses was the father of them all, a discreet and pru- 
 dent hero, yet at the same time complex and malicious. 
 So was old Cadmus with his Phoenician miter and curled 
 beard, a great old sea-wolf, scattering by means of his 
 various adventures the art of writing and the first notions 
 of commerce. 
 
 In one of the Mediterranean islands Hannibal was 
 born, and twenty centuries after, in another of them, the
 
 48 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 son of a lawyer without briefs embarked for France, with 
 no other outfit than his cadet's uniform, in order to make 
 famous his name of Napoleon. 
 
 Over the Mediterranean waves had sailed Roger de 
 Lauria, knight-errant of vast tracts of sea, who wished 
 to clothe even the fishes with the colors of Aragon. A 
 visionary of obscure origin named Columbus had recog- 
 nized as his country the republic of Genoa. A smuggler 
 from the coasts of Laguria came to be Messina, the 
 marshal beloved by Victory, and the last personage of 
 this stock of Mediterranean heroes associated with the 
 heroes of fabulous times was a sailor from Nice, simple 
 and romantic, a warrior called Garibaldi, an heroic tenor 
 of all seas and lands who cast over his century the re- 
 flection of his red shirt, repeating on the coast of Mar- 
 seilles the remote epic of the Argonauts. 
 
 Then Ferragut summed up the various defects of his 
 race. Some had been bandits and others saints, but none 
 mediocre. Their most audacious undertakings had much 
 about them that was prudent and practical. When they 
 devoted themselves to business they were at the same 
 time serving civilization. In them the hero and the trader 
 were so intermingled that it was impossible to discern 
 where one ended and the other began. They had been 
 pirates and cruel men, but the navigators from the foggy 
 seas when imitating the Mediterranean discoveries in 
 other continents had not shown themselves any more 
 gentle or loyal. 
 
 After these conversations, Ulysses felt greater esteem 
 for the old pottery and the shabby little figures that 
 adorned his uncle's bedroom. 
 
 They were objects vomited up by the sea, Grecian 
 amphoras wrested from the shells of mollusks after a 
 submarine interment centuries long. The deep waters 
 had embossed these petrified ornaments with strange ar-.
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 49 
 
 abesques that made one think of the art of another planet, 
 and, twined in with the pottery that had held the wine 
 and water of a shipwrecked Liburnian felucca, were bits 
 of rope hardened by limey deposit and flukes of anchors 
 whose metal was disintegrating into reddish scales. Va- 
 rious little statues corroded by the salt sea inspired in the 
 boy as much admiration as his grandfather's frigates. He 
 laughed and trembled before these Cdbvri coming from the 
 Phoenician or Carthaginian biremes, grotesque and ter- 
 rible gods that contracted their faces with grimaces of 
 lust and ferocity. 
 
 Some of these muscular and bearded marine divinities 
 bore a remote resemblance to his uncle. Ulysses had 
 overheard certain strange conversations among the fish- 
 ermen and had noticed, besides, the precipitation of 
 the women and their uneasy glances when they found 
 the doctor near them in a solitary part of the coast. 
 Only the presence of his nephew had made them recover 
 tranquillity and check their step. 
 
 At times the sea seemed to craze him with gusts of 
 amorous fury. He was Poseidon rising up unexpectedly 
 on the banks in order to surprise goddesses and mortals. 
 The women of the Marina ran away as terrified as those 
 Greek princesses on the painted vases when surprised, 
 washing their robes, by the apparition of a passionate tri- 
 ton. 
 
 Some nights at the hour when the lighthouses were 
 beginning to pierce the coming dusk with their fresh 
 shafts of light, he would become melancholy and, for- 
 getting the difference in their age, would talk with his 
 nephew as though he were a sailor companion. 
 
 He regretted never having married. . . . He might 
 have had a son by this time. He had known many 
 women of all colors white, red, yellow, and bronze but
 
 50 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 only once had he really been in love, very far away on 
 the other side of the planet, in the port of Valparaiso. 
 
 He could still see in imagination a certain graceful 
 Chilean maiden, wrapped in her great black veil like the 
 ladies of the Calderonian theater, showing only one of 
 her dark and liquid eyes, pale and slender, speaking in a 
 plaintive voice. 
 
 She enjoyed love-songs, always provided that they were 
 sung "with great sadness"; and Ferragut would devour 
 her with his eyes while she plucked the guitar, chanting 
 the song of Malek-Adhel and other romances about 
 "Roses, sighs and Moors of Granada," that from child- 
 hood the doctor had heard sung by the Berbers of his 
 country. The simple attempt at taking one of her hands 
 always provoked her modest resistance. . . . "That, then. 
 . . ." She was ready to marry him; she wished to see 
 Spain. . . . And the doctor might have fulfilled her 
 wishes had not a good soul informed him that in later 
 hours of the night, others were accustomed to come in 
 turns to hear her romantic solos. . . . Ah, these women ! 
 and then, on recalling the finale of his trans-oceanic idyl, 
 Ferragut would become reconciled to his celibacy. 
 
 Late in the Fall the notary had to go in person to 
 the Marina to make his brother give Ulysses up. The boy 
 held the same opinion as did his uncle. The very idea 
 of losing the winter fishing, the cold sunny morning, the 
 spectacle of the great tempests, just for the silly reason 
 that the Institute had commenced, and he must study for 
 his bachelor's degree ! . . . 
 
 The following year Dona Cristina tried to prevent the 
 Triton's carrying off her son, since he could learn noth- 
 ing but bad words and boastful bullying in the old home 
 of the Ferraguts. And trumping up the necessity of see- 
 ing her own family, she left the notary alone in Valencia,
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 51 
 
 going with her boy to spend the summer on the coast 
 of Catalunia near the French frontier. 
 
 This was Ulysses' first important journey. In Bar- 
 celona he became acquainted with his uncle, the rich and 
 talented financier of the Blanes family, one of his 
 mother's brothers, proprietor of a great hardware shop 
 situated in one of the damp, narrow and crowded streets 
 that ran into the Rambla. He soon came to know other 
 maternal uncles in a village near the Cape of Creus. 
 This promontory with its wild coasts reminded him of 
 that other one where the Triton lived. The first Hellenic 
 sailors had also founded a city here, and the sea had also 
 cast up amphoras, little statues and petrified bits of iron. 
 
 The Blanes family had gone much to sea. They loved 
 it as intensely as did the doctor, but with a cold and 
 silent love, appreciating it less for its beauty than for the 
 profits which it offered to the fortunate. Their trips had 
 been to America, in their own sailing vessels, importing 
 sugar from Havana and corn from Buenos Ayres. The 
 Mediterranean was for them only a port that they crossed 
 carelessly on departure and arrival. None of them knew; 
 the white Amphitrite even by name. 
 
 Moreover, they did not have the devil-may-care and 
 romantic appearance of the bachelor of the Marina, ready 
 to live in the water like an amphibian. They were gen- 
 tlemen of the coast who, having retired from the sea, 
 were entrusting their barks to captains who had been their 
 pilots, middle class citizens who never laid aside the 
 cravat and silk cap that were the symbols of their high 
 position in their natal town. 
 
 The gathering-place of the rich was the Athenaeum, a 
 society that in spite of its title offered no other reading 
 matter than two Catalunian periodicals. A large telescope 
 mounted on a tripod before the door used to fill the club 
 members with pride. For the uncles of Ulysses, it was
 
 52 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 enough merely to put one eyebrow to the glass to be able 
 to state immediately the class and nationality of the ship 
 that was slipping along over the distant horizon line. 
 These veterans of the sea were accustomed to speak only 
 of the freight cargoes, of the thousands and thousands 
 of dollars gained in other times with only one round trip, 
 and of the terrible rivalry of the steamship. 
 
 Ulysses kept hoping in vain that sometimes they would 
 allude to the Nereids and other poetic beings that the 
 Triton had conjured around his promontory. The Blanes 
 had never seen these extraordinary creatures. Their seas 
 contained fish only. They were cold, economical men of 
 few words, friends of order and social preferment. Their 
 nephew suspected that they had the courage of men of 
 the sea but without boasting or aggressiveness; their 
 heroism was that of traders capable of suffering all kinds 
 of adventures provided their stock ran no risks, but be- 
 coming wild beasts if any one attacked their riches. 
 
 The members of the Athenaeum were all old, the only 
 masculine beings in the village. Besides them there were 
 only the carbineers installed in the barracks and various 
 calkers making their mallets resound on the hull of a 
 schooner ordered by the Blanes brothers. 
 
 All the active men were on the sea. Some were sailing 
 to America as crew of the brigs and barks of the Catalu- 
 nian coast. The more timid and unfortunate ones were 
 always fishing. Others, more valiant and anxious for 
 ready money, had become smugglers on the French coast 
 whose shores began on the other side of the promon- 
 tory. 
 
 In the village there were only women, women of all 
 kinds: women seated before their doors, making lace 
 on great cylindrical pillows on their knees, along whose 
 length their bobbins wove strips of beautiful openwork, 
 or grouped on the street corners in front of the lonely sea
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 53 
 
 jwhere their men were, or speaking with an electric nerv- 
 ousness that oftentimes would break out suddenly in 
 noisy tempests. 
 
 Only the parish priest, whose fishing recreations and 
 official existence were embittered by their constant quar- 
 rels, understood the feminine irritability which embroiled 
 the village. Alone and having to live incessantly in such 
 close contact, the women had come to hate each other as 
 do passengers isolated on a boat for many months. Be- 
 sides, their husbands had accustomed them to the use of 
 coffee, the seaman's drink, and they tried to beguile their 
 tedium with strong cups of the thick liquid. 
 
 A common interest, nevertheless, united these women 
 miraculously when living alone. When the carbineers in- 
 spected the houses in search of contraband goods smug- 
 gled in by the men, the Amazons worked off their nervous 
 energy in hiding the illegal merchandise, making it pass 
 from one place of concealment to another with the cun- 
 ning of savages. 
 
 Whenever the government officers began to suspect that 
 certain packages had gone to hide themselves in the cem- 
 etery, they would find there only some empty graves, and 
 in the bottom of them a few cigars between skulls that 
 were mockingly stuck up in the ground. The chief of 
 the barracks did not dare to inspect the church, but he 
 looked contemptuously upon Mosen Jordi, the priest, as a 
 simpleton quite capable of permitting tobacco to be hfd- 
 den behind the altars in exchange for the privilege of 
 fishing in peace. 
 
 The rich people lived with their backs turned on the 
 village, contemplating the blue expanse upon which were 
 erected the wooden houses that represented all their for- 
 tune. In the summer-time the sight of the smooth and 
 brilliant Mediterranean made them recall the dangers of 
 the winter. They spoke with religious terror of the
 
 54 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 land breeze, the wind from the Pyrenees, the Tramon- 
 tana that oftentimes snatched edifices from their bases 
 and had overturned entire trains in the nearby station. 
 Furthermore, on the other side of the promontory began 
 the terrible Gulf of Lyons. Upon its surface, not more 
 than ninety yards in extent, the waters driven by the 
 strong sea winds often became so rough, and raised up 
 waves so high and so solid that upon clashing together 
 and finding no intermediate space upon which to fall, they 
 piled one upon another, forming regular towers. 
 
 This gulf was the most terrible of the Mediterranean. 
 The transatlantic liners returning from a good voyage to 
 the other hemisphere used here to tremble with a pre- 
 monition of danger and sometimes even turned back. 
 The captains who had just crossed the great Atlantic 
 would here furrow their brows with uneasiness. 
 
 From the door of the Athenaeum the experts used tc 
 point out the Latin sailboats that were about to double 
 the promontory. They were merchant vessels such as th* 
 elder Ferragut had commanded, embarkations from Va- 
 lencia that were bringing wine to Cette and fruits to 
 Marseilles. Upon seeing the blue surface of the Gulf 
 on the other side of the Cape with no other roughness 
 than that of a long and infinitely heavy swell, the Valen- 
 cians would exclaim happily : 
 
 "Let us cross quickly, while the lion sleeps." 
 
 Ulysses had one friend, the secretary of the city-hall, 
 and the only inhabitant that had any books in his house. 
 Treated by the rich with a certain contempt, the official 
 used to seek the boy's company because he was the only 
 creature who would listen to him attentively. 
 
 He adored the mare nostrum as much as Doctor Fer- 
 ragut, but his enthusiasm was not concerned with the 
 Phoenician and Egyptian ships whose keels had first 
 plowed these waves. He was equally indifferent to Gre-
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 55 
 
 cian and Carthaginian Triremes, Roman warships, and 
 the monstrous galleys of the Sicilian tyrants, palaces 
 moved by oars, with statues, fountains and gardens. That 
 which most interested him was the Mediterranean of the 
 Middle Ages, that of the kings of Aragon, the Catalunian 
 Sea. And the poor secretary would give long daily dis- 
 sertations about them in order to pique the local pride 
 of his juvenile listener. 
 
 One day after dilating at length on Roger de Lauria 
 and the Catalan navy, he wound up his tedious history 
 by telling the little fellow how Alfonso V, his brother the 
 King of Navarre, and all his cortege of magnates, had 
 remained prisoners of the Republic of Genoa, which, ter- 
 rified by the importance of its royal prey, had entrusted 
 the captives to the guard of the Duke of Milan. . . . But 
 the monarchs easily came to an understanding in order 
 to deceive the democratic governments, and the Milanese 
 sovereign released the King of Aragon with all his suite. 
 Thereupon he immediately blockaded Genoa with an 
 enormous fleet. The Provencal navy came promptly to 
 the relief of its neighbors, and the Aragonese King 
 forced the port of Marseilles, bearing away as trophy 
 the chains that closed its entrance. 
 
 Ulysses nodded affirmatively. The sailor king had de- 
 posited these chains in the cathedral of Valencia. His 
 godfather, the poet, had pointed them out to him in a 
 Gothic chapel, forming a garland of iron over the black 
 hewn stones. 
 
 The Catalan navy still continued to dominate the Medi- 
 terranean commercially, adding to its ancient vessels great 
 galleons, lighter galleys, caravels, cattle boats, and other 
 ships of the period. 
 
 "But Christopher Columbus," concluded the Catalan 
 sadly, "discovered the Indies, thereby giving a death blow 
 to the maritime riches of the Mediterranean. Besides,
 
 56 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Aragon and Castile became united and their life and 
 power were then concentrated in the center of the Pen- 
 insula, far from the sea." 
 
 Had Barcelona been the capital of Spain, Catalunia 
 would have preserved the Mediterranean domination. 
 Had Lisbon been the capital, the Spanish colonial realm 
 would have developed into something organic and solid 
 with a robust life. But what could you expect of a na- 
 tion which had stuck its head into a pillow of yellow 
 interior steppes, the furthest possible from the world's 
 highways, showing only its feet to the waves ! . . . 
 
 The Catalan would always end by speaking sadly of 
 the decadence of the Mediterranean marine. Everything 
 that was pleasing to his tastes made him hark back to the 
 good old time of the domination of the Mediterranean 
 by the Catalan marine. One day he offered Ulysses a 
 sweet and perfumed wine. 
 
 "It is Malvasian, the first stock the Almogavars brought 
 here from Greece." 
 
 Then he said in order to flatter the boy : 
 
 "It was a citizen of Valencia, Ramon Muntaner, who 
 wrote of the expeditions of the Catalans and Aragonese 
 against Constantinople." 
 
 The mere recollection of this novel-like adventure, tho 
 most unheard-of in history, used to fill him with enthusi- 
 asm, and, in passing, he paid highest tribute to the Almo- 
 gavar chronicler, a rude Homer in song, Ulysses and 
 Nestor in council, and Achilles in hard action. 
 
 Dona Cristina's impatience to rejoin her husband and 
 to return to the comforts of her well-regulated household 
 finally carried Ulysses away from this life by the coast. 
 
 For many years thereafter he saw no other sea than 
 the Gulf of Valencia. The notary, under various pre- 
 texts, contrived to prevent the doctor's again carrying 
 off his nephew ; and the Triton made his trips to Valencia
 
 MATER AMPHITRITE 57 
 
 less frequently, rebelling against all the inconveniences 
 and dangers of these terrestrial adventures. 
 
 And Labarta, when occupied with the future of Ulys- 
 ses, used to take on a certain air of a good-natured regent 
 charged with the guardianship of a little prince. The boy 
 appeared to belong to them more than to his own father; 
 his studies and his future destiny filled completely their 
 after-dinner conversations when the doctor was in town. 
 
 Don Esteban felt a certain satisfaction in annoying his 
 brother by eulogizing the sedentary and prosperous life. 
 
 Over there on the coasts of Catalunia lived his brothers- 
 in-law, the Blanes, genuine wolves of the sea. The doctor 
 would not be able to contradict that. Very well, then, 
 their sons were in Barcelona, some as business clerks, 
 others making a name for themselves in the office of 
 their rich uncle. They were all sailors' sons and yet 
 they had completely freed themselves from the sea. Their 
 business was entirely on terra firma. Only crazyheads 
 could think of ships and adventures. 
 
 The Triton used to smile humbly before such pointed 
 allusions, and exchange glances with his nephew. 
 
 A secret existed between the two. Ulysses, who was 
 finishing his studies for a bachelor's degree, was at the 
 same time taking the courses of pilotage at the institute. 
 Two years would be sufficient for the completion of these 
 latter studies. The uncle had provided the matriculation 
 fees and the books, besides recommending the boy tQ a 
 former sailor comrade.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PATER OCEANUS 
 
 WHEN Don Esteban died very suddenly, his eighteen- 
 year-old son was still studying in the university. 
 
 In his latter days the notary had begun to suspect that 
 Ulysses was not going to be the celebrated jurist that he 
 had dreamed. He had a, way of cutting classes in order 
 to pass the morning in the harbor, exercising with the 
 oars. If he entered the university, the beadles were on 
 their guard fearing his long-reaching hands: for he al- 
 ready fancied himself a sailor and liked to imitate the 
 men of the sea who, accustomed to contend with the ele- 
 ments, considered a quarrel with a man as a very slight 
 affair. Alternating violently between study and laziness, 
 he was laboriously approaching the end of his course 
 when neuralgia of the heart carried off the notary. 
 
 Upon coming out from the stupefaction of her grief, 
 Dona Cristina looked around her with aversion. Why 
 should she linger on in Valencia? Since she could no 
 longer be with the man who had brought her to this 
 country, she wanted to return to her own people. The 
 poet Labarta would look after her properties that were 
 not so valuable nor numerous as the income of the notary 
 had led them to suppose. Don Esteban had suffered great 
 losses in extravagant business speculations good-naturedly 
 accepted, but there was still left a fortune sufficient to 
 enable his wife to live as an independent widow among 
 her relatives in Barcelona. 
 
 In arranging her new existence, the poor lady en- 
 
 *8
 
 PATER OCEANUS 59 
 
 countered no opposition except the rebelliousness of 
 Ulysses. He refused to continue his college course and 
 he wished to go to sea, saying that for that reason he had 
 studied to become a pilot. In vain Dona Cristina en- 
 treated the aid of relatives and friends, excluding the 
 Triton, whose response she could easily guess. The rich 
 brother from Barcelona was brief and affirmative, ''But 
 wouldn't that bring him in the money ?" . . . The Blanes 
 of the coast showed a gloomy fatalism. It would be 
 useless to oppose the lad if he felt that to be his voca- 
 tion. The sea had a tight clutch upon those who followed 
 it, and there was no power on earth that could dissuade 
 him. On that account they W!KD were already old were 
 not listening to their sons who were trying to tempt them 
 with the convenience of life in the capital. They needed 
 to live near the coast in agreeable contact with the 
 dark and ponderous monster which had rocked them so 
 maternally when it might just as easily have dashed them 
 to pieces. 
 
 The only one who protested was Labarta. A sailor? 
 . . . that might be a very good thing, but a warlike 
 sailor, an official of the Royal Armada. And in his mind's 
 eye the poet could see his godson clad in all the splen- 
 dors of naval elegance, a blue jacket with gold buttons 
 for every day, and for holiday attire a coat trimmed with 
 galloon and red trappings, a pointed hat, a sword. . . . 
 
 Ulysses shrugged his shoulders before such grandeur. 
 He was too old now to enter the naval school. Besides 
 he wanted to sail over all oceans, and the officers of the 
 navy only had occasion to cruise from one port to another 
 like the people of the coast trade, or even passed years 
 seated in the cabinet of the naval executive. If he had 
 to grow old in an office, he would rather take up his 
 father's profession of notary. 
 
 After seeing Dona Cristina well established in Barce-
 
 60 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 lona, surrounded with a cortege of nephews fawning 
 upon the rich aunt from Valencia, her son embarked as 
 apprentice on a transatlantic boat which was making 
 regular trips to Cuba and the United States. Thus be- 
 gan the seafaring life of Ulysses Ferragut, which termi- 
 nated only with his death. 
 
 The pride of the family placed him on a luxurious 
 steamer, a mail-packet full of passengers, a floating hotel 
 on which the officials were something like the managers 
 of the Palace Hotel, while the real responsibility de- 
 volved upon the engineers, who were always going below, 
 and upon returning to the light, invariably remained mod- 
 estly in a second place, according to a hieratical law an- 
 terior to the progress of mechanics. 
 
 He crossed the ocean several times, as do those mak 
 ing a land journey at the full speed of an express train. 
 The august calm of the sea was lost in the throb of the 
 screws and in the deafening roar of the machinery. 
 However blue the sky might, be, it was always darkened 
 by the floating crepe band from the smokestacks. He 
 envied the leisurely sailboats that the liner was always 
 leaving behind. They were like reflective wayfarers 
 who saturate themselves with the country atmosphere and 
 commune deeply with its soul. The people of the steamer 
 lived like terrestrial travelers who sleepily survey from 
 the car-windows a succession of indefinite and dizzying 
 views streaked by telegraph wires. 
 
 When his novitiate was ended he became second mate 
 on a sailing vessel bound for Argentina for a cargo 
 of wheat. The slow day's run with little wind and 
 the long equatorial calms permitted him to penetrate a 
 little into the mysteries of the oceanic immensity, severe 
 and dark, that for ancient peoples had been "the night 
 of the abyss," "the sea of utter darkness," "the blue 
 dragon that daily swallows the sun."
 
 PATER OCEANUS 61 
 
 He rro longer regarded Father Ocean as the capacious 
 and tyrannical god of the poets. Everything in his depths 
 was working with a vital regularity, subject to the gen- 
 eral laws of existence. Even the tempests roared withia 
 prescribed and charted quadrangles. 
 
 The fresh trade-winds pushed the bark toward the 
 Southeast, maintaining a heavenly serenity in sky and 
 sea. Before the prow hissed the silken wings of flying 
 fish, spreading out in swarms, like little squadrons of 
 diminutive aeroplanes. 
 
 Over the masts and yards covered "vith canvas, the 
 albatross, eagles of the Atlantic desert, traced their 
 long, sweeping circles, flashing across the purest blue 
 their great, sail-like wings. From time to time the boat 
 would meet floating prairies, great fields of seaweed 
 dislodged from the Sargasso Sea. Enormous tortoises 
 drowsed in the midst of these clumps of gulf-weed, 
 serving as islands of repose to the seagulls perched on 
 their shells. Some of the seaweeds were green, nourished 
 by the luminous water of the surface; others had the 
 reddish color of the deep where enters only the deadly 
 chill of the last rays of the sun. Like fruits of the 
 oceanic prairies, there floated past close bunches of dark 
 grapes, leathery capsules filled with brackish water. 
 
 As they approached the equator, the breeze kept falling 
 and falling, and the atmosphere became suffocating in the 
 extreme. It was the zone of calms, the ocean of dark, 
 oily waters, in which boats remained for entire weeks 
 with sails limp, without the slightest breath rippling the 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Clouds the color of pit coal reflected the ship's slow 
 progress over the sea ; showers of rain like whipcord oc- 
 casionally lashed the deck, followed by a flaming sun that 
 was soon blotted out by a new downpour. These clouds, 
 pregnant with cataracts, this night descending upon the
 
 62 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 full daylight of the Atlantic, had been the terror of the 
 ancients, and yet, thanks to just such phenomena, the 
 sailors could pass from one hemisphere to another with- 
 out the light wounding them to death, or the sea scorching 
 them like a burning glass. The heat of the equator, rais- 
 ing up the water in steam, had formed a band of shade 
 around the earth. From other worlds it must appear like 
 a girdle of clouds almost similar to the sidereal rings. 
 
 In this gloomy, hot sea was the heart of the ocean, 
 the center of the circulatory life of the planet. The sky 
 was a regulator that, absorbing and returning, restored 
 the evaporation to equilibrium. From this place were 
 sent forth the rains and dews to all the rest of the 
 earth, modifying its temperatures favorably for the de- 
 velopment of animal and vegetable life. There were ex- 
 changed the exhalations of the two worlds; and, con- 
 verted into clouds, the water of the southern hemisphere 
 the hemisphere of the great seas with no other points 
 of relief than the triangular extremities of Africa and 
 America, and the humps of the oceanic archipelagoes 
 was always reinforcing the rills and rivers of the northeri? 
 hemisphere with its inhabited lands. 
 
 From this equatorial zone, the heart of the globe, come 
 forth two rivers of tepid water that heat the coasts of 
 the north. They are the two currents that issue from 
 the Gulf of Mexico and the Java Sea. Their enormous 
 liquid masses, fleeing ceaselessly from the equator, gov- 
 ern a vast assemblage of water from the poles that come? 
 to occupy their space, and these chilled and fresher cur' 
 rents are constantly precipitating themselves on the elec- 
 tric hearth of the equator that warms and salts them 
 anew, renewing with its systole and diastole the life 
 of the world. The ocean struggles vainly to condense 
 these two warm currents without ever succeeding in 
 mingling itself with them. They are torrents of a deep
 
 PATER OCEANUS 63 
 
 blue, almost black, that flow across the cold and green 
 waters. 
 
 The Atlantic current, upon reaching Newfoundland, 
 divides its arms, sending one of them to the North Pole. 
 With the other, weak and exhausted by its long jour- 
 ney, it modifies the temperature of the British Isles, 
 tempering refreshingly the coasts of Norway. The In- 
 dian current that the Japanese call, because of its color, 
 "the black river," circulates between the islands, main- 
 taining for a longer time than the other its prodigious 
 powers of creation and agitation which enable it to trail 
 over the planet an enormous tail of life. 
 
 Its center is the apogee of terrestrial energy in the 
 vegetable and animal creations, in monsters and in fish. 
 One of its arms, escaping toward the south, goes on form- 
 ing the mysterious world of the coral sea. In a space as 
 large as four continents, the polyps, strengthened by the 
 lukewarm water, are building up thousands of atolls, ring- 
 shaped islands, reefs and submarine pillars that, when 
 united together by the work of a thousand years, are 
 going to create a new land, an exchange continent in case 
 the human species should lose its present base in some 
 cataclysm of Nature. 
 
 The pulse of the blue god is the tides. The earth 
 turns towards the moon and the stars with a sympathetic 
 rotation like that of the flowers that turn towards the 
 sun. Its most movable part the fluid mass of the atmos- 
 phere dilates twice daily, swelling its cavities ; and this 
 atmospheric suction, the work of universal attraction, is 
 reflected in the tidal waters. Closed seas, like the Medi- 
 terranean, scarcely feel its effects, the tides stopping at 
 their door. But on the oceanic coast the marine pulsa- 
 tion vexes the army of the waves, hurrying them daily 
 to their assault of the steep cliffs, making them roar 
 with fury among the islands, promontories and straits,
 
 64 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 and impelling them to swallow up extensive lands which" 
 they return hours afterward. 
 
 This salty sea, like our body, that has a heart, a pulse 
 and a circulation of two different bloods incessantly re- 
 newed and transformed, becomes as furious as an or- 
 ganic creature when the horizontal currents of its interior 
 come to unite themselves with the vertical currents de- 
 scending from the atmosphere. The violent passage of 
 the winds, the crises of evaporation, and the obscure elec- 
 trical forces produce the tempests. ( 
 
 These are no more than cutaneous shudderings. The 
 storms, so deadly for mankind, merely contract the ma- 
 rine epidermis while the profound mass of its waters 
 remains in murky calm, fulfilling its great function of 
 nourishing and renewing life. Father Ocean completely 
 ignores the existence of the human insects that dare to 
 slip across his surface in microscopic cockle-shells. He 
 does not inform himself as to the incidents that may be 
 taking place upon the roof of his dwelling. His life con- 
 tinues on, balanced, calm, infinite, engendering millions 
 upon millions of beings in the thousandth part of a sec- 
 ond. 
 
 The majesty of the Atlantic on tropical nights ma'de 
 Ulysses forget the wrathful storms of its black days. In 
 the moonlight it was an immense plane of vivid silver, 
 streaked with serpentine shadows. Its soft doughlike 
 undulations, replete with microscopic life, illuminated the 
 nights. The infusoria, a-tremble with love, glowed with 
 a bluish phosphorescence. The sea was like luminous 
 milk. The foam breaking against the prow sparkled like 
 broken fragments of electric globes. 
 
 iWhen it was absolutely tranquil and the ship remained 
 immovable with drooping sail, the stars passing slowly 
 from one side of the mast to the other, the delicate me- 
 jdusae, that the slightest wave was able to crush, would
 
 PATER OCEANUS 65 
 
 come to the surface floating on the waters, around the 
 island of wood. There were thousands of these um- 
 brellas filing slowly by, green, blue, rose, with a vague 
 coloring similar to oil-lights, a Japanese procession seen 
 from above, that on one side was lost in the mystery 
 of the black waters and incessantly reappeared on the 
 other side. 
 
 The young pilot loved navigation in a sailing ship, the 
 struggle with the wind, the solitude of its calms. He 
 was far nearer the ocean here than on the bridge of a 
 transatlantic liner. The bark did not beat the sea into 
 such rabid foam. It slipped discreetly along as in the 
 maritime silence of the first millennium of the new-born 
 earth. The oceanic inhabitants approached it confidently 
 upon seeing it rolling like a mute and inoffensive whale. 
 
 In six years Ulysses changed his boat many times. 
 He had learned English, the universal language of the 
 blue dominions, and was refreshing himself with a study 
 of Maury's charts the sailors' Bible the patient work 
 of an obscure genius who first snatched from ocean and 
 atmosphere the secret of their laws. 
 
 Desirous of exploring new seas and new lands, he did 
 not stop in the usual travel zones or ports, and the 
 British, Norwegian, and North American captains re- 
 ceived cordially this good-mannered official so little ex- 
 acting as to salary. So Ulysses wandered over the 
 oceans as had the king of Ithaca over the Mediterranean, 
 guided by a fatality which impelled him with a rude push 
 far from his country every fime that he proposed to 
 return to it. The sight of a boat anchored near by and 
 ready to set sail for some distant port was a temptation 
 that invariably made him forget to return to Spain. 
 
 He traveled in filthy, old, happy-go-lucky sea-tramps, 
 in which the crews used to spread all the sails to the 
 Jempest, get drunk and fall asleep, confident that the
 
 66 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 devil, friend of the brave, would awaken them on the 
 following morning. He lived in white boats as silent 
 and scrupulously clean as a Dutch home, whose captains 
 were taking wife and children with them, and where 
 white-aproned stewardesses took care of the galley and 
 the cleaning of the floating hearthside, sharing the dan- 
 gers of the ruddy and tranquil sailors exempt from the 
 temptation that contact with women provokes. On Sun- 
 days, under the tropic sun or in the ash-colored light of 
 the northern heavens, the boatswain would read the Bible. 
 The men would listen thoughtfully with uncovered heads. 
 The women had dressed themselves in black with lace 
 headdress and mittened hands. 
 
 He went to Newfoundland to load codfish. There i& 
 where the warm current from the Gulf of Mexico meets 
 that from the Poles. In the meeting of these two marine 
 rivers the infinitesimal little beings that the gulf stream 
 drags thither die, suddenly frozen to death, and a rain 
 of minute corpses descends across the waters. The 
 cod gather there to gorge themselves on this manna which 
 is so abundant that a great part of it, freed from their 
 greedy jaws, drops to the bottom like a snowstorm of 
 lime. 
 
 In Iceland (the Ultima Thule of the ancients), they 
 showed Ulysses bits of wood that the equatorial current 
 had brought thither from the Antilles. On the coasts of 
 Norway, as he watched the herring during the spawning 
 season, he marveled at the formidable fertility of the sea. 
 
 From their refuge in the shadowy depths, these fish 
 mount to the surface moved by the message of the spring, 
 desirous of taking their part in the joy of the world. 
 They swim one against another, close, compact, forming 
 strata that subdivide and float out to sea. They look 
 like an island just coming to the surface, or a continent 
 beginning to sink. - In the narrow passages the shoals
 
 PATER OCEANUS 67 
 
 are so numerous that the waters become solidified, mak- 
 ing almost impossible the advance of a row boat. Their 
 number is beyond the possibilities of calculation, like 
 the sands and the stars. 
 
 Men and carnivorous fish fall upon them, opening great 
 furrows of destruction in their midst : but the breaches 
 are closed instantly and the living bank continues on 
 its way, growing denser every moment, as though defying 
 death. The more their enemies destroy them, the more 
 numerous they become. The thick and close columns 
 ceaselessly reproduce themselves en route. At sunrise the 
 waves are greasy and viscous, replete with life that is 
 fermenting rapidly. For a space of hundreds of leagues 
 the salt ocean around them is like milk. 
 
 The fecundity of these fishy masses was placing the 
 world in danger. Each individual could produce up to 
 seventy thousand eggs. In a few generations there would 
 be enough to fill the ocean, to make it solid, to make it 
 rot, extinguishing other beings, depopulating the globe. 
 . . . But death was charged with saving universal life. 
 The cetaceans bore down upon this living density and 
 with their insatiable mouths devoured the nourishment 
 by ton loads. Infinitely little fish seconded the efforts 
 of the marine giants, stuffing themselves with the eggs of 
 the herring. The most gluttonous fish, the cod and the 
 hake, pursued these prairies of meat, pushing them 
 toward the coasts and finally dispersing them. 
 
 The cod increases its species most prodigiously, sur- 
 feiting itself upon hake, until the world is again men- 
 aced. The ocean might be converted into a mass of 
 cod, for each one can produce as many as nine million 
 eggs. . . . Mankind might be overwhelmed under the 
 onslaught of the more fertile fishes, and the cod might 
 maintain immense fleets, creating, besides, colonies and 
 cities. Human generations might become exhausted
 
 68 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 without succeeding in conquering this monstrous repro- 
 duction. The great marine devourers, therefore, are 
 those that reestablish equilibrium and order. The stur- 
 geon, insatiable stomach, intervenes in the oceanic ban- 
 quet, relishing in the cod the concentrated substance of 
 armies of herring. But this oviparous devourer of such 
 great reproductive power would, in turn, continue the 
 world danger were it not that another monster as avid 
 in appetite as it is weak in procreation, intervenes and 
 cuts down with one blow, the ever-increasing fecundity of 
 the ocean. 
 
 The superior glutton is the shark, that mouth with 
 fins, that natatory intestine which swallows with equal in- 
 difference the dead and the living, flesh and wood, 
 cleanses the waters of life and leaves a desert behind its 
 wriggling tail; but this destroyer brings forth only one 
 shark that is born armed and ferocious ready from the 
 very first moment to continue the paternal exploits, like a 
 feudal heir. 
 
 Ferragut's wandering life as a pilot abounded in dra- 
 matic adventures, a few always standing out clearly 
 from his many confused recollections of exotic lands 
 and interminable seas. 
 
 In Glasgow he embarked as second mate on an old 
 sailing tramp that was bound for Chile, to unload coal in 
 Valparaiso and take on saltpeter in Iquique. The cross- 
 ing of the Atlantic was good, but upon leaving the Mal- 
 vina Islands the boat had to go out in the teeth of a tor- 
 rid, furious blast that closed the passage to the Pacific. 
 The Straits of Magellan are for ships that are able to 
 avail themselves at will of a propelling force. The sail- 
 boat needs a wide sea and a favorable wind in order to 
 double Cape Horn, the utmost point of the earth, the 
 place of interminable and gigantic tempests. 
 
 While summer was burning in the other hemisphere,
 
 PATER OCEANUS 69 
 
 the terrible southern winter came to meet the navigators. 
 The boat had to turn its course to the west, just as the 
 winds were blowing from the west, barring its route. 
 
 Eight weeks passed and it was still contending with 
 sea and tempest. The wind carried off a complete set 
 of sails. The wooden ship, somewhat strained by this 
 interminable struggle, commenced to leak, and the crew 
 had to work the hand-pumps night and day. Nobody 
 was able to sleep for many hours running. All were 
 sick from exhaustion. The rough voice and the oaths of 
 the captain could hardly maintain discipline. Some of 
 the seamen lay down wishing to die, and had to be roused 
 by blows. 
 
 Ulysses knew for the first time what waves really 
 were. He saw mountains of water, literally mountains, 
 pouring over the hull of the boat, their very immensity 
 making them form great slopes on both sides of it. 
 When the crest of one broke upon the vessel Ferragut 
 was able to realize the monstrous weight of salt water. 
 Neither stone nor iron had the brutal blow of this liquid 
 force that, upon breaking, fld in torrents or dashed up 
 in spray. They had to make openings in the bulwarks 
 in order to provide a vent for the crushing mass. 
 
 The southern day was a livid and foggy eclipse, re- 
 peating itself for weeks and weeks without the slightest 
 streak of clearing, as though the sun had departed from 
 the earth forever. Not a glimmer of white existed in this 
 tempestuous outline ; always gray, the sky, the foam, the 
 seagulls, the snows. . . . From time to time the leaden 
 veils of the tempest were torn asunder, leaving visible a 
 terrifying apparition. Once it was black mountains with 
 glacial winding sheets from the Straits of Beagle. And 
 the boat tacked, fleeing away from this narrow aquatic 
 passageway full of perilous ledges. Another time the 
 peaks of Diego Ramirez, the most extreme point of the
 
 70 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 (Cape, loomed up before the prow, and tHe bark again 
 tacked, fleeing from this cemetery of ships. The wind 
 shifting, then brought their first icebergs into view and 
 at the same time forced them to turn back on their 
 course in order not to be lost in the deserts of the South 
 Pole. 
 
 Ferragut came to believe that they would never double 
 the Cape, remaining forever in full tempest, like the ac- 
 cursed ship of the legend of the Flying Dutchman. The 
 captain, a regular savage of the sea, taciturn and super- 
 stitious, shook his fist at the promontory, cursing it as 
 an infernal divinity. He was convinced that they would 
 never succeed in doubling it until it should be propitiated 
 with a human offering. This Englishman appeared to 
 Ulysses like one of those Argonauts who used to placate 
 the wrath of the marine deities with sacrifices. 
 
 One night one of the crew was washed overboard and 
 lost; the following day a man fell from the topmast, 
 that no one might think salvation impossible. And as 
 though the Southern Demon had only been awaiting this ! 
 tribute, the gale from the west ceased, the bark no 
 longer had the impassable barrier of a hostile sea before 
 its prow, and was able to enter the Pacific, anchoring 
 twelve days later in Valparaiso. 
 
 Ulysses appreciated now the agreeable memory that 
 this port always leaves in the memory of sailors. It 
 was a resting-place after the struggle of doubling the 
 cape; it was the joy of existence, after having felt the, 
 blast of death; it was life again in the cafes and in the 
 pleasure houses, eating and drinking until surfeited, with' 
 the stomach still suffering from the salty food and the 
 skin still smarting from boils due to the sea-life. 
 
 His admiring gaze followed the graceful step of the 
 women veiled in black who reminded him of his uncle,
 
 PATER OCEANUS 71 
 
 the doctor. In the nights of the remolienda?- his glance 
 was many times distracted from the dark-hued and youth- 
 ful beauties dancing the Zamacueca 2 in the middle of 
 the room, to the matrons swathed in black veils, who 
 were playing the harp and piano, accompanying the dance 
 with languishing songs which interested him greatly. 
 Perhaps one of these sentimental, bearded ladies might 
 have been his aunt. 
 
 While his ship finished loading its cargo in Iquique, 
 he came in contact with the crowd of workers from 
 the saltpeter works, "broken-down" 3 Chileans, labor- 
 ing men from all countries, who did not know how to 
 spend {heir day's wages in the monotony of these new 
 settlements. Their intoxication diverted itself with most 
 mistaken magnificence. Some would let the wine run from 
 an entire cask just to fill a single glass. Others used the 
 bottles of champagne lined up on the shelves of the cafes 
 as a target for their revolvers, paying cash for all that 
 they broke. 
 
 From this trip Ferragut gained a feeling of pride and 
 confidence that made him scornful of every danger. 
 Afterwards he encountered the tornadoes of the Asiatic 
 seas, those horrible circular tempests that in the northern 
 hemisphere revolve from right to left, and in the south 
 from left to right rapid incidents of a few hours or 
 days at the most. He had doubled Cape Horn in mid- 
 winter after a struggle against the elements that had 
 lasted two months. He had been able to run all risks; 
 the ocean had exhausted for him all its surprises. . . . 
 And yet, nevertheless, the worst of his adventures oc- 
 curred in a calm sea. 
 
 He had been at sea seven years and was thinking of 
 
 1 Remolienda, a popular gathering or festival in Chile. 
 ' Zamacueca, the national dance of Chile. 
 *"Rotos ckilenos," originally a term of contempt is now a com- 
 plimentary by-name.
 
 72 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 returning once more to Spain when, in Hamburg, he 
 accepted the post of first mate of a swift-sailing ship that 
 was setting out for Cameroon and German East Africa. 
 A Norwegian sailor tried to dissuade him from this 
 trip. It was an old ship, and they had insured it for 
 four times its value. The captain was in league with the 
 proprietor, who had been bankrupt many times. . . . And 
 just because this voyage was so irrational, Ulysses has- 
 tened to embark. For him, prudence was merely a vul- 
 garity, and obstacles and dangers but tempted more ir- 
 resistibly his reckless daring. 
 
 One evening in the latitude of Portugal, when they 
 were far from the regular route of navigation, a column 
 of smoke and flames suddenly swept the deck, breaking 
 through the hatchways and devouring the sails. While 
 Ferragut at the head of a band of negroes was trying 
 to get control of the fire, the captain and the German 
 crew were escaping from the ship in two prepared life- 
 boats. Ferragut felt sure that the fugitives were laughing 
 at seeing him run about the deck that was beginning to 
 warp and send up fire through all its cracks. 
 
 Without ever knowing exactly how, he found himself 
 in a boat with some negroes and different objects piled 
 together with the precipitation of flight, a half-empty 
 barrel of biscuits and another that contained only water. 
 
 They rowed all one night, having behind them as their 
 unlucky star the burning boat that was sending its blood- 
 red gleams across the water. At daybreak they noted 
 on the sun's disk some light, black, wavy lines. It was 
 land. . . . but so far away ! 
 
 For two days they wandered over the moving crests 
 and gloomy valleys of the blue desert. Several times 
 Ferragut collapsed in mortal lethargy, with his feet in 
 the water filling the bottom of the boat. The birds of 
 the sea were tracing spirals around this floating hearse,
 
 PATER OCEAtfUS 73 
 
 following it with vigorous strokes of the wing, and 
 uttering croakings of death. The waves raised them- 
 selves slowly and sluggishly over the boat's edge as 
 though wishing to contemplate with their sea-green 
 eyes this medley of white and dark bodies. The ship- 
 wrecked men rowed with nervous desperation ; then they 
 Jay down inert, recognizing the uselessness of their ef- 
 forts, lost in the great immensity. 
 
 The mate, drowsing on the hard stern, finally smiled 
 with closed eyes. It was all a bad dream. He was sure 
 of awaking in his bed surrounded with the familiar com- 
 forts of his stateroom. And when he opened his eyes, 
 the harsh reality made him break forth into desperate 
 orders, which the Africans obeyed as mechanically as 
 though they were still sleeping. 
 
 "I do not want to die! ... I ought not to die!" as- 
 serted his inner monitor in a brazen tone. 
 
 They shouted and made unavailing signals to distant 
 boats that disappeared from the great watery expanse 
 without ever seeing them. Two negroes died of the cold. 
 Their corpses floated many hours near the boat as if un- 
 able to separate themselves from it. Then they were 
 drawn under by an invisible tugging, and some triangular 
 fins passed over the water's surface, cutting it like knives 
 at the same time that its depths were darkened by swift, 
 ebony shadows. 
 
 When at last they approached land, Ferragut realized 
 that death was nearer here than on the high sea. The 
 coast rose up before them like an immense wall. Seen 
 from the boat it appeared to cover half the sky. The 
 long oceanic undulation became a ravenous wave upon 
 encountering the outer bulwarks of these barren islands, 
 breaking in the depths of their caves, and forming cas- 
 cades of foam that rolled around them from top to bot-
 
 74 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 torn, raising up furious columns of spray with the report 
 of a cannonade. 
 
 An irresistible hand grasped the keel, making the land- 
 ing a vertical one. Ferragut shot out like a projectile, 
 falling in the foaming whirlpools and having the impres- 
 sion, as he sank, that men and casks together were rolling 
 and raining into the sea. 
 
 He saw bubbling streaks of white and black hulks. 
 He felt himself impelled by contradictory forces. Some 
 dragged at his head and others at his feet in different 
 directions, making him revolve like the hands of a clock. 
 Even his thoughts were working double. "It is useless to 
 resist," Discouragement was murmuring in his brain, 
 while his other half was affirming desperately, "I do not 
 want to die ! . . . I must not die !" 
 
 Thus he lived through a few seconds that seemed to 
 him like hours. He felt the brute force of hidden fric- 
 tion, then a blow in the abdomen that arrested his course 
 between the two waters, and grasping at the irregularities 
 of a projecting rock, he raised his head and was able to 
 breathe. The wave was retreating, but another again 
 overwhelmed him, detaching him from the point with 
 its foamy churning, making him leave in the stony crev- 
 ices bits of the skin of his hands, his breast, and his 
 knees. 
 
 The oceanic suction seemed dragging him down in spite 
 of his desperate strokes. "It's no use ! I'm going to die," 
 half of his mind was saying and at the same time his 
 other mental hemisphere was reviewing with lightning 
 synthesis his entire life. He saw the bearded face of 
 the Triton in this supreme instant. He saw the poet 
 Labarta just as when he was recounting to his godson 
 the adventures of the old Ulysses, and his shipwrecked 
 struggle with the rocky peaks and waves. 
 
 Again the marine dilatation tossed him against a rock,
 
 PATER OCEANUS 75 
 
 and again he anchored himself to it with an instinctive 
 clutch of his hands. But before this wave retired it 
 hurled him desperately upon another ledge, the refluent 
 water passing back below him. Thus he struggled a long 
 time, clinging to the rocks when the sea overwhelmed 
 him, and crawling along upon the jutting points whenever 
 the retiring water permitted. 
 
 Finding himself upon a projecting point of the coast, 
 free at last from the suction of the waves, his energy 
 suddenly disappeared. The water that dripped from his 
 body was red, each time more red, spreading itself in 
 rivulets over the greenish irregularities of the rock. He 
 felt intense pain as though all his organism had lost the 
 protection of its covering, his raw flesh remaining ex- 
 posed to the air. 
 
 He wished to get somewhere, but over his head the 
 coast was rearing its stark bulk, a concave and inac- 
 cessible wall. It would be impossible to get away from 
 this spot. He had saved himself from the sea only to 
 die stationed in front of it. His corpse would never float 
 to an inhabited shore. The only ones that were going 
 to know of his death were the enormous crabs scrambling 
 over the rocky points, seeking their nourishment in the 
 surge ; the sea gulls were letting themselves drop vertically 
 with extended wings from the heights of the steep-sloped 
 shore. Even the smallest crustaceans had the advantage 
 of him. 
 
 Suddenly he felt all his weakness, all his misery, 
 while his blood continued crimsoning the little lakes 
 among the rocks. Closing his eyes to die, he saw in the 
 darkness a pale face, hands that were deftly weaving 
 delicate laces, and before night should descend forever 
 upon his eyelids, he moaned a childish cry: 
 
 "Mama! . . . Mama! . . ." 
 
 Three months afterward upon arriving at Barcelona,
 
 76 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 he found his mother just as he had seen her during his 
 death-agony on the Portuguese coast. . . . Some fisher- 
 men had picked him up just as his life was ebbing away. 
 During his stay in the hospital he wrote many times in 
 a light and confident tone to Dona Cristina, pretending 
 that he was detained by important business in Lisbon. 
 
 Upon seeing him enter his home, the good lady dropped 
 her eternal lace-work, turned pale and greeted him with 
 tremulous hands and troubled eyes. She must have 
 known the truth ; and if she did not know it, her moth- 
 erly instinct told her when she saw Ulysses convalescent, 
 emaciated, hovering between courageous effort and physi- 
 cal breakdown, just like the brave who come out of the 
 torture chamber. 
 
 "Oh, my son! . . . How much longer! . . ." 
 
 It was time that he should bring to an end his madness 
 for adventure, his crazy desire for attempting the im- 
 possible, and encountering the most absurd dangers. If 
 he wished to follow the sea, very well. But let it be in 
 respectable vessels in the service of a great company, 
 following a career of regular promotion, and not wander- 
 ing capriciously over all seas, associated with the inter- 
 national lawlessness that the ports offer for the reinforce- 
 ment of crews. Remaining quietly at home would be 
 best of all. Oh, what happiness if he would but stay 
 with his mother! . . . 
 
 And Ulysses, to the astonishment of Dona Cristina, 
 decided to do so. The good senora was not alone. A 
 niece was living with her as though she were her daugh- 
 ter. The sailor had only to go down in the depths of 
 his memory to recall a little tot of a girl four years old, 
 creeping and frolicking on the shore while he, with the 
 gravity of a man, had been listening to the old secretary 
 of the town, as he related the past grandeurs of the Cata- 
 lunian navy. '
 
 PATER OCEANUS 77 
 
 She was the daughter of a Blanes (the only poor one 
 in the family) who had commanded his relatives' ships, 
 and had died of yellow fever in a Central American port. 
 Ferragut had difficulty in reconciling the little creature 
 crawling over the sand with this same slender, olive- 
 colored girl wearing her mass of hair like a helmet of 
 ebony, with two little spirals escaping over the ears. Her 
 eyes appeared to have the changing tints of the sea, some- 
 times black and others blue, or green and deep where the 
 light of the sun was reflected like a point of gold. 
 
 He was attracted by her simplicity and by the timid 
 grace of her words and smile. She was an irresistible 
 novelty for this world-rover who had only known coppery 
 maidens with bestial roars of laughter, yellowish Asiatics 
 with feline gestures, or Europeans from the great ports 
 who, at the first words, beg for drink, and sing upon the 
 knees of the one who is treating, wearing his cap as a 
 testimony of love. 
 
 Cinta, that was her name, appeared to have known him 
 all his life. He had been the object of her conversations 
 with Dona Cristina when they spent monotonous hours 
 together weaving lace, as was the village custom. Pass- 
 ing her room, Ulysses noticed there some of his own 
 portraits at the time when he was a simple apprentice 
 aboard a transatlantic liner. Cinta had doubtless taken 
 them from her aunt's room, for she had been admiring 
 this adventurous cousin long before knowing him. One 
 evening the sailor told the two women how he had been 
 rescued on the coast of Portugal. The mother listened 
 with averted glance, and with trembling hands moving 
 the bobbins of her lace. Suddenly there was an outcry. 
 It was Cinta who could not listen any longer, and 
 Ulysses felt flattered by her tears, her convulsive la- 
 ments, her eyes widened with an expression of terror. 
 
 Ferragut's mother had been greatly concerned regard-
 
 78 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ing the future of this poor niece. Her only salvation was 
 matrimony, and the good senora had focused her glances 
 upon a certain relative a little over forty who needed this 
 young girl to enliven his life of mature bachelorhood. He 
 was the wise one of the family. Dona Cristina used to 
 admire him because he was not able to read without the 
 aid of glasses, and because he interlarded his conversa- 
 tion with Latin, just like the clergy. He was teaching 
 Latin and rhetoric in the Institute of Manresa and spoke 
 of being transferred some day to Barcelona, glorious 
 end of an illustrious career. Every week he escaped to 
 the capital in order to make long visits to the notary's 
 widow. 
 
 "He doesn't come on my account," said the good sen- 
 ora, "who would bother about an old woman like me? 
 ... I tell you that he is in love with Cinta, and it will 
 be good luck for the child to marry a man so wise, so 
 serious. . . ." 
 
 As he listened to his mother's matrimonial schemes, 
 Ulysses began to wonder which of a professor of rhet- 
 oric's bones a sailor might break without incurring too 
 much responsibility. 
 
 One day Cinta was looking all over the house for a 
 dark, worn-out thimble that she had been using for 
 many years. Suddenly she ceased her search, blushed and 
 dropped her eyes. Her glance had met an evasive look 
 on her cousin's face. He had it. In Ulysses' room might 
 be seen ribbons, skeins of silk, an old fan all deposited 
 in books and papers by the same mysterious reflex that 
 had drawn his portraits from his mother's to his cousin's 
 room. 
 
 The sailor now liked to remain at home passing long 
 hours meditating with his elbows on the table, but at the 
 same time attentive to the rustling of light steps that 
 could be heard from time to time in the near-by hallway.
 
 PATER OCEANUS 79 
 
 He knew about everything, spherical and rectangular 
 trigonometry, cosmography, the laws of the winds and 
 the tempest, the latest oceanographic discoveries but 
 who could teach him the approved form of addressing a 
 maiden without frightening her? . . . Where the deuce 
 could a body learn the art of proposing to a shy girl ? . . . 
 
 For him, doubts were never very long nor painful af- 
 fairs. Forward march ! Let every one get out of such 
 matters as best he could. And one evening when Cinta 
 was going from the parlor to her aunt's bedroom in order 
 to bring her a devotional book, she collided with Ulysses 
 in the passageway. 
 
 If she had not known him, she might have trembled 
 for her existence. She felt herself grasped by a pair 
 of powerful hands that lifted her up from the floor. Then 
 an avid mouth stamped upon hers two aggressive kisses. 
 "Take that and that !" . . . Ferragut repented on seeing 
 his cousin trembling against the wall, as pale as death, 
 her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "I have hurt you. I am a brute. ... a brute !" 
 
 He almost fell on his knees, imploring her pardon; he 
 clenched his fists as if he were going to strike himself, 
 punishing himself for his audacity. But she would not 
 let him continue. . . . "No, No! . . ." And while she 
 was moaning this protest, her arms were forming a ring 
 around Ulysses' neck. Her head drooped toward his, 
 seeking the shelter of his shoulder. A little mouth united 
 itself modestly to that of the sailor, and at the same time 
 his beard was moistened with a shower of tears. 
 
 And they said no more about it. 
 
 When, weeks afterward, Dona Cristina heard her son's 
 petition, her first movement was one of protest. A 
 mother listens with benevolent appreciation to any re- 
 quest for the hand of her daughter, but she is ambitious 
 and exacting where her son is concerned. She had
 
 8o MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 dreamed of something so much more brilliant; but her 
 indecision was short. That timid girl was perhaps the 
 best companion for Ulysses, after all. Furthermore the 
 child was well suited to be the wife of a man of the 
 sea, having seen its life from her infancy. . . . Good-by 
 Professor ! 
 
 They were married. Soon afterwards Ferragut, who 
 was not able to lead an inactive life, returned to the sea, 
 but as first officer of a transatlantic steamer that made 
 regular trips to South America. To him this seemed like 
 being employed in a floating office, visiting the same ports 
 and invariably repeating the same duties. His mother 
 was extremely proud to see him in uniform. Cinta fixed 
 her gaze on the almanac as the wife of a clerk fixes it on 
 the clock. She had the certainty that when three months 
 should have passed by she would see him reappear, com- 
 ing from the other side of the world laden down with 
 exotic gifts, just as a husband who returns from the of- 
 fice \vith a bouquet bought in the street. 
 
 Upon his return from his first two voyages, she went 
 to meet him on the wharf, her eager glance searching for 
 his blue coat and his cap with its band of gold among the 
 transatlantic passengers fluttering about the decks, re- 
 joicing at their arrival in Europe. 
 
 On the following trip, Dona Cristina obliged her to 
 remain at home, fearing that the excitement and the 
 crowds at the harbor might affect her approaching ma- 
 ternity. After that on each of his return trips Ferragut 
 saw a new son, although always the same one; first it 
 was a bundle of batiste and lace carried by a showily-uni- 
 formed nurse; then by the time he was captain of the 
 transatlantic liner, a little cherub in short skirts, chubby- 
 cheeked, with a round head covered with a silky down, 
 holding out its little arms to him ; finally a boy who was 
 beginning to go to school and at sight of his father would
 
 PATER OCEANUS 81 
 
 grasp his hard right hand, admiring him with his great 
 eyes, as though he saw in his person the concentrated per- 
 fection of all the forces of the universe. 
 
 Don Pedro, the professor, continued visiting the house 
 of Dona Cristina, although with less assiduity. He had 
 the resigned and coldly wrathful attitude of the man who 
 believes that he has arrived too late and is convinced 
 that his bad luck was merely the result of his careless- 
 ness. ... If he had only spoken before ! His masculine 
 self-importance never permitted him to doubt that the 
 young girl would have accepted him jubilantly. 
 
 In spite of this conviction, he was not able to refrain 
 at times from a certain ironical aggressiveness which ex- 
 pressed itself by inventing classic nicknames. The young 
 wife of Ulysses, bending over her lace-making, was Pe- 
 nelope awaiting the return of her wandering husband. 
 
 Dona Cristina accepted this nickname because she knew 
 vaguely that Penelope was a queen of good habits. But 
 the day that the professor, by logical deduction, called 
 Cinta's son Telemachus, the grandmother protested. 
 
 "He is named Esteban after his grandfather. . . . 
 Telemachus is nothing but a theatrical name." 
 
 On one of his voyages Ulysses took advantage of a 
 four-hour stop in the port of Valencia to see his god- 
 father. From time to time he had been receiving letters 
 from the poet, each one shorter and sadder, written 
 in a trembling script that announced his age and increas- 
 ing infirmity. 
 
 Upon entering the office Ferragut felt just like the leg- 
 endary sleepers who believe themselves awaking after 
 a few hours of sleep when they have really been dozing 
 for dozens of years. Everything there was still just as it 
 was in his infancy : the busts of the great poets on the 
 top of the book-cases, the wreaths in their glass cases, the 
 jewels and statuettes, prizes for successful poems
 
 82 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 were still in their crystal cabinets or resting on the same 
 pedestals ; the books in their resplendent bindings formed 
 their customary close battalions the length of the book- 
 cases But the whiteness of the busts had taken on the 
 color of chocolate, the bronzes were reddened by oxida- 
 tion, the gold had turned greenish, and the wreaths were 
 losing their leaves. It seemed as though ashes might have 
 rained down upon perpetuity. 
 
 The occupants of this spell-bound dwelling presented 
 the same aspect of neglect and deterioration. Ulysses 
 found the poet thin and yellow, with a long white beard, 
 with one eye almost closed and the other very widely 
 opened. Upon seeing the young officer, broad-chested, 
 vigorous and bronzed, Labarta, who was huddled in 
 a great arm chair, began to cry with a childish hiccough 
 as though he were weeping over the misery of human 
 illusions, over the brevity of a deceptive life that necessi- 
 tates continual renovation. 
 
 Ferragut found even greater difficulty in recognizing 
 the little and shrunken senora who was near the poet. 
 Her flabby flesh was hanging from her skeleton like the 
 ragged fringe of past splendor; her head was small; her 
 face had the wrinkled surface of a winter apple or 
 plum, or of all the fruits that shrink and wither when 
 they lose their juices. "Dona Pepa ! . . ." The two old 
 people were thee-ing and thou-ing each other with the 
 tranquil non-morality of those that realize that they are 
 very near to death, and forget the tremors and scruples 
 of a life crumbling behind them. 
 
 The sailor shrewdly suspected that all this physical 
 misery was the sad finale of an absurd, happy-go-lucky 
 and childish dietary, sweets serving as the basis of nu- 
 trition, great heavy rice dishes as a daily course, water- 
 melons and cantaloupes filling in the space between meals,
 
 PATER OCEANUS 83 
 
 topped with ices served in enormous glasses and sending 
 out a perfume of honeyed snow. 
 
 The two told him, sighing, of their infirmities, which 
 they thought incomprehensible, attributing them to the 
 ignorance of the doctors. It was really the morbid wast- 
 ing away that suddenly attacks people of the abundant, 
 food-yielding countries. Their life was one continual 
 stream of liquid sugar. . . . And yet Ferragut could 
 easily guess the disobedience of the two old folks to the 
 discipline of diet, their childish deceptions, their cun- 
 ning in order to enjoy alone the fruits and syrups which 
 were the enchantment of their existence. 
 
 The interview was a short one. The captain had to 
 return to the port of Grao where his steamer was await- 
 ing him, ready to weigh anchor for South America. 
 
 The poet wept again, kissing his god-son. He never 
 would see again this Colossus who seemed to repel his 
 weak embraces with the bellows of his respiration. 
 
 "Ulysses, my son ! . . . Always think of Valencia. . . * 
 Do for her all that you can. . . . Keep her ever in mind, 
 Always Valencia!" - 
 
 He promised all that the poet wished without under- 
 Standing exactly what it was that Valencia might ex- 
 pect from him, a simple sailor, wandering over all the 
 seas. Labarta wished to accompany him to the door but 
 he sank down in his seat, obedient to the affectionate 
 (despotism of his companion who was always fearing the 
 greatest catastrophes for him. 
 
 Poor Dona Pepa ! . . . Ferragut felt inclined to laugh 
 and to weep at the same time upon receiving a kiss from 
 her withered mouth whose down had turned into pin 
 points. It was the kiss of an old beauty who remem- 
 bers the gallantry of a youthful lover, the kiss of a child- 
 less woman caressing the son she might have had. 
 
 "Poor unhappy Carmelo! . . . He no longer yrrites,
 
 84 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 he no longer reads. . . . Ay ! what will ever become of 
 me? . . ." 
 
 She always spoke of the poet's failing powers with 
 the commiseration of a strong and healthy person, and 
 she became terrified when thinking of the years in which 
 she might survive her lord. Taken up with caring for 
 him, she never even glanced at herself. 
 
 A year afterward, on returning from the Philippines, 
 the captain found a letter from his god-father awaiting 
 him at Port Said. Dona Pepa had died, and Labarta, 
 working off the tearful heaviness of his low spirits, bade 
 her farewell in a long canticle. Ulysses ran his eyes 
 over the enclosed newspaper clipping containing the last 
 verses of the poet. The stanzas were in Castilian. A 
 bad sign! . . . After that there could be no doubt that 
 his end must be very near. 
 
 Ferragut never again had an opportunity to see his 
 god-father, who died while he was on one of his trips. 
 Upon disembarking at Barcelona, Dona Cristina handed 
 him a letter written by the poet almost in his death-agony. 
 "Valencia, my son! Always Valencia!" And after re- 
 peating this recommendation many times, he announced 
 that he had made his god-son his heir. 
 
 The books, the statues, all the glorious souvenirs of 
 the poet-laureate, came to Barcelona to adorn the sail- 
 or's home. The little Telemachus amused himself pull- 
 ing apart the old wreaths of the troubador, and tear- 
 ing out the old prints from his volumes with the in- 
 consequence of a lively child whose father is very far 
 away and who knows that he is idolized by two indulgent 
 ladies. Besides his trophies, the poet left Ulysses an old 
 house in Valencia, some real estate and a certain amount 
 in negotiable securities, total, thirty thousand dollars. 
 
 The other guardian of his infancy, the vigorous Triton, 
 seemed to be unaffected by the passing of the years. 4
 
 PATER OCEANUS 85 
 
 Upon his return to Barcelona, Ferragut frequently found 
 him installed in his home, in mute hostility to Dona Cris- 
 tina, devoting to Cinta and her son a part of the affec- 
 tion that he had formerly lavished upon Ulysses alone. 
 
 He was very desirous that the little Esteban should 
 know the home of his great grandparents. 
 
 "You will let me have him? . . . You know well 
 enough," he coaxed, "that down in the Marina men be- 
 come as strong as though made of bronze. Surely you 
 will let me have him? . . ." 
 
 But he quailed before the indignant gesture of the 
 suave Dona Cristina. Entrust her grandson to the 
 Triton, and let him awaken in him the love of maritime 
 adventure, as he had done with Ulysses? . . . Behind 
 me, thou blue devil! 
 
 The doctor used to wander around bewildered by 
 the port of Barcelona. . . . Too much noisy bustle, too 
 much movement ! Walking proudly along by the side of 
 Ulysses, he loved to recount to him the adventures of 
 his life as a sailor and cosmopolitan vagabond. He con- 
 sidered his nephew the greatest of the Ferraguts, a true 
 man of the sea like his ancestors but with the title of 
 captain; an adventurous rover over all oceans, as he 
 had been, but with a place on the bridge, invested with 
 the absolute command that responsibility and danger con- 
 fer. When Ulysses reembarked, the Triton would take 
 himself off to his own dominions. 
 
 "It will be next time, sure!" he would say in order 
 to console himself for having to part with his nephew's 
 son; and after a few months had passed by, he would 
 reappear, each time larger, uglier, more tanned, with 
 a silent smile which broke into words before Ulysses 
 just as tempestuous clouds break forth in thunder claps. 
 
 Upon his return from a trip to the Black Sea, Dona 
 Cristina announced to her son : "Your uncle has died."
 
 86 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The pious senora lamented as a Christian the departure 
 of her brother-in-law, dedicating a part of her prayers 
 to him; but she insisted with a certain cruelty in giving 
 an account of his sad end, for she had never been able 
 to pardon his fatal intervention in the destiny of Ulys- 
 ses. He had died as he had lived, in the sea, a victim 
 of his own rashness, without confession, just like any 
 pagan. 
 
 Another legacy thus fell to Ferragut. . . . His uncle 
 had gone out swimming one sunny, winter morning and 
 had never come back. The old folks on the shore had 
 their way of explaining how the accident had happened, 
 a fainting spell probably, a clash against the rocks. The 
 Dotor was still vigorous, but the years do not pass with- 
 out leaving their footprints. Some believed that he 
 must have had a struggle with a shark or some other of 
 the carnivorous fish that abound in the Mediterranean 
 waters. In vain the fishermen guided their skiffs through 
 all the twisting entrances and exits of the waters around 
 the promontory, exploring the gloomy caves and the 
 lower depths of crystalline transparency. No one was 
 ever able to find the Triton's body. 
 
 Ferragut recalled the cortege of Aphrodite which the 
 doctor had so often described to him on summer eve- 
 ings, by the light of the far-away gleam of the light- 
 house. Perhaps he had come upon that gay retinue of 
 nereids, joining it forever ! 
 
 This absurd supposition that Ulysses mentally for- 
 mulated with a sad and incredulous smile, frequently re- 
 curred in the simple thoughts of many of the people of 
 the Marina. 
 
 They refused to believe in his death. A wizard is 
 never drowned. He must have found down below some- 
 thing very interesting and when he got tired of living
 
 PATER OCEANUS 87 
 
 in the green depths, he would probably some day come 
 swimming back home. 
 
 No : the Dot or had not died. 
 
 And for many years afterwards the women who were 
 going along the coast at nightfall would quicken their 
 steps, crossing themselves upon distinguishing on the 
 dark waters a bit of wood or a bunch of sea weed. They 
 feared that suddenly would spring forth the Triton, 
 bearded, dripping, spouting, returning from his excur- 
 sion into the mysterious depths of the sea.
 
 CHAPTER IV] 
 
 FREYA 
 
 THE name of Ulysses Ferragut began to be famous 
 among the captains of the Spanish ports, although the 
 nautical adventures of his early days contributed very 
 little to this popularity. The most of them had encoun- 
 tered greater dangers, but they appreciated him because 
 of the instinctive respect that energetic and simple men 
 have for an intelligence which they consider superior 
 to their own. Reading nothing except what pertained to 
 their career, they, used to speak with consternation of 
 the numerous books that filled Ferragut's stateroom, 
 many of them upon matters which appeared to them most 
 mysterious. Some even made inexact statements in order 
 to enlarge the prestige of their comrade. 
 
 "He knows much. . . . He is a lawyer as well as a 
 sailor.'* 
 
 Consideration of his fortune also contributed to the 
 general appreciation. He was an important share-holder 
 of the company by which he was employed. His com- 
 panions loved to calculate with proud exaggeration the 
 riches of his mother, piling it up into millions 
 
 He met friends on every ship carrying the Spanish 
 flag, whatever might be its home port or the nationality 
 of its crews. 
 
 They all liked him: the Basque captains, economical 
 in words, rude and sparing in affectionate discourse ; the 
 Asturian and Galician captains, self-confident and spend- 
 thrift in strange contrast to their sobriety and avaricious 
 
 81
 
 FREYA 89 
 
 character when ashore; the Andalusian captains, reflect- 
 ing in their witty talk white Cadiz and its luminous wines ; 
 the Valencian captains who talk of politics on the bridge, 
 imagining that they are going to become the navy of a 
 future republic; and the captains from Catalunia and 
 Mallorca as thoroughly acquainted with business affairs 
 as are their ship-owners. Whenever necessity obliged 
 them to defend their rights, they immediately thought of 
 Ulysses. Nobody could write as he could. 
 
 The old mates who had worked their way up from 
 the lower ranks, men of the sea who had begun their 
 career on coasting vessels and could only with great 
 difficulty adjust their practical knowledge to the hand- 
 ling of books, used to speak of Ferragut with pride. 
 
 "They say that men of the sea are an uncultivated 
 people. . . . Here they have Don Luis who is one of us. 
 They may ask him whatever they wish. ... A real 
 sage!" 
 
 The name of Ulysses always made them stammer. 
 They believed it a nickname, and not wishing to show 
 any lack of respect, they had finally transformed it into 
 "Don Luis." For some of them, Ferragut's only defect 
 was his good luck. So far not a single boat of which 
 he had had command had been lost. And every sailor 
 constantly on the sea ought to have at least one of these 
 misfortunes in his history in order to be a real captain. 
 Only landlubbers never lose their boats. 
 
 When his mother died, Ulysses was jVery undecided 
 about the future, not knowing whether to* continue his 
 sea life, or undertake something entirely different. His 
 relatives at Barcelona, merchants quick to understand and 
 appraise a fortune, added up what the notary and his 
 wife had left him and put with that what Labarta and 
 the doctor had contributed, until it amounted to a mil- 
 lion pesetas. . . . And was a man with as much money
 
 90 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 as that to go on living like a poor captain dependent upon 
 wages to maintain his family ! . . 
 
 His cousin, Joaquin Blanes, proprietor of a factory for 
 knit goods, urged him repeatedly to follow his example. 
 He ought to remain on shore and invest his capital in 
 Catalan industry. Ulysses belonged to this country both 
 on his mother's side and because he was born in the 
 neighboring land of Valencia. There was great need of 
 men of fortune and energy to take part in the govern- 
 ment. Blanes was entering local politics with the enthusi- 
 asm of a middle-class man for novel adventure. 
 
 Cinta never said a word to influence her husband. She 
 was the daughter of a sailor and had accepted the life 
 of a sailor's wife. Furthermore, she looked upon mat- 
 rimony in the light of the old familiar traditions: 
 the woman absolute mistress of the interior of the 
 home, but trusting outside affairs to the will of the 
 lord, the warrior, the head of the hearth, without per- 
 mitting herself opinions or objections to their acts. 
 
 It was Ulysses, therefore, who decided to abandon 
 the seafaring life. Worked upon by the suggestions of 
 his cousins, it needed only a little dispute with one of the 
 directors of the shipping firm to make him hand in his 
 resignation, and refuse to reconsider it, although urged 
 by the protests and entreaties of the other stockholders. 
 
 In the first months of his existence ashore, he was 
 amazed at the desperate immovability of everything. 
 The world was made up of revolting rigidity and solidity. 
 He felt almost nauseated at seeing all his possessions 
 remain just where he left them, without the slightest fluc- 
 tuation, or the least bit of casual caprice. 
 
 In the mornings upon opening his eyes, he at first ex- 
 perienced the sweet sensation of irresponsible liberty. 
 Nothing affected the fate of that house. The lives of 
 those that were sleeping on the other floors above and be-
 
 FREYA 911 
 
 low him had not been entrusted to his vigilance. . . . But 
 in a few days he began to feel that there was something 
 lacking, something which had been one of the greatest 
 satisfactions of his existence, the sensation of power^ 
 the enjoyment of command. 
 
 Two maids were now always hastening to him with a 
 frightened air at the sound of his voice, or the ringing of 
 his bell. That was all that was left to him who had com- 
 manded dozens of men of such ugliness of temper that 
 they struck terror to all beholders when they went ashore 
 in the ports. Nobody consulted him now, while on the sea 
 everybody was seeking his counsel and many times had 
 to interrupt his sleep. The house could go on without 
 his making the rounds daily from the cellars to the roof, 
 overseeing even the slightest spigot. The women who 
 cleaned it in the mornings with their brooms were always 
 obliging him to flee from his oGce. He was not permitted 
 to make any comment nor could he extend a gold-striped 
 arm as when he used to scold the barefooted, bare- 
 breasted deck-swabbers, insisting that the deck should 
 be as clean as the saloon. He felt himself belittled, laid 
 to one side. He thought of Hercules dressed as a woman 
 and spinning wool. His love of family life had made 
 him renounce that of a powerful man. 
 
 Only the considerate treatment of his wife, who sur- 
 rounded him with assiduous care as though wishing to 
 compensate for their long separations, made the situation 
 bearable. Furthermore, his conscience was enjoying a 
 certain satisfaction in being a land-father, taking much 
 interest in the life of his son who was beginning to 
 prepare to enter the institute, looking over his books, and 
 aiding him in understanding the notes. 
 
 But even these pleasures were not of long duration. 
 The family gatherings in his home or at his relatives' 1 
 bored him unspeakably; so did the conversations with
 
 92 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 his cousins and nephews about profits and business deals, 
 or about the defects of centralized tyranny. According 
 to them, all the calamities of heaven and earth were 
 coming from Madrid. The governor of the province was 
 the "Consul of Spain." 
 
 These merchants interrupted their criticisms only to 
 listen in religious silence to Wagner's music banged out 
 on the piano by the girls of the family. A friend with 
 a tenor voice used to sing Lohengrin in Catalan. Enthu- 
 siasm made the most excitable roar, "the hymn ! . . . the 
 hymn!" It was not possible to misunderstand. For 
 them there was only one hymn in existence, and in a 
 trilling undertone they would accompany the liturgic 
 music of Los Segadores (The Reapers). 1 
 
 Ulysses used to recall with homesickness his life as 
 commander of a transatlantic liner, a wide, universal life 
 of incessant and varied horizons, and cosmopolitan 
 crowds. He could see himself detained on deck by 
 groups of elegant maidens who would beg him for new 
 dances in the coming week. His footsteps were sur- 
 rounded with white fluttering skirts, veils that waved 
 like colored clouds, laughter and trills, Spanish chatter 
 that appeared set to music : all the frolicsome jargon of 
 a cage of tropical birds. 
 
 Ex-presidents of the South American republics, gen- 
 erals or doctors who were going to Europe to rest, used 
 to relate to him on the bridge, with Napoleonic gravity, 
 the principal events in their history. The business men 
 starting out for America confided to him their stupendous 
 plans : rivers turned from their courses, railroads built 
 across the virgin forests, monstrous electric forces ex- 
 tracted from huge waterfalls varying in breadth, cities 
 vomited from the desert in a few weeks, all the marvels of 
 
 *The revolutionary song of Catalunia, originated by a band 
 of reapers in the seventeenth century.
 
 FREYA 93 
 
 an adolescent world that desires to realize whatever its 
 youthful imagination may conceive. He was the demi- 
 urge of this little floating world: he disposed of joy 
 and love as the spirit moved him. 
 
 In the scorching evenings around the equator, it was 
 enough for him to give an order to rouse things and 
 beings from their brutish drowsiness. "Let the music 
 begin, and refreshments be served." And in a few mo- 
 ments dancers would be revolving the whole length of 
 the deck, and smiling lips and eyes would become bril- 
 liantly alight with illusion and desire. Behind him, his 
 praises were always being sounded. The matrons found 
 him very distinguished. "It is plain to be seen that he 
 is an exceptional person." Stewards and crew circulated 
 exaggerated accounts of his riches and his studies. Some 
 young girls sailing for Europe with imaginations seething 
 with romance were very much aghast to learn that the 
 hero was married and had a son. The solitary ladies 
 stretched out on a chaise-longue, book in hand, upon see- 
 ing him would arrange the corolla of their petticoats, 
 hiding their legs with so much precipitation that it always 
 left them more uncovered; then fixing upon him a lan- 
 guishing glance, they would begin a dialogue always in 
 the same way. 
 
 "How is it that any one so young as you has already 
 become a captain? . . ." 
 
 Ah, the misery of it ! ... He who had gallantly passed 
 many years cruising from one extreme of the Atlantic to 
 the other with a rich, gay, perfumed world, at times re- 
 sisting feminine caprice through mere prudence, yielding 
 at others with the secrecy of a discreet sailor, now found 
 himself with no other admirers than the mediocre tribe 
 of the Blanes, with no other hallucinations than those 
 which his cousin the manufacturer might suggest, when
 
 94 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 waxing enthusiastic because the great apostles of politics 
 were taking a certain interest in the captain. 
 
 Every morning, on awaking, his taste now received a 
 rude shock. The first thing that he contemplated was a 
 room "without personality," a dwelling that was not char- 
 acteristic of him in any way, arranged by the maids with 
 excessive cleanliness and a lack of logic that was con- 
 stantly changing the situation of his things. 
 
 He recalled with longing his compact and well-ordered 
 stateroom where there was not a piece of furniture that 
 could escape his glance nor a drawer whose contents 
 he did not know down to the slightest detail. His body 
 was accustomed to slip without embarrassment through 
 the spaces of his cabin furnishings. He had adapted 
 himself to all incoming and outgoing angles just as the 
 body of the mollusk adapts itself to the winding curves 
 of its shells. The cabin seemed formed by the secretions 
 of his being. It was a covering, a sheath, that went with 
 him from one extreme of the ocean to the other, heating 
 itself with the high temperature of the tropics, or becom- 
 ing as cosy as an Esquimo hut on approaching the polar 
 seas. 
 
 His love for it was somewhat like that which the friar 
 has for his cell; but this cell was a secular one, and 
 entering it after a tempestuous night on the bridge, or a 
 trip ashore in most Curious and foreign ports, he found 
 it always the same, with his papers and books untouched 
 on the table, his clothes hanging from their hooks, his 
 photographs fixed on the walls. The daily spectacle of 
 seas and lands was always changing the temperature, the 
 course of the stars, and the people that one week were 
 bundled up in winter greatcoats, and were clad in white 
 the week after, hunting the heavens for the new stars 
 of another hemisphere. . . Yet his cozy little stateroom 
 was always the same, as though it were the corner of a
 
 , , FREYA 95 
 
 planet apart, unaffected by the variations of this world. 
 
 Upon awaking in it, he found himself every morning 
 enwrapped in a greenish and bland atmosphere as though 
 he might have been sleeping in the bottom of an en- 
 chanted lake. The sun traced over the whiteness of his 
 ceiling and sheets a restless network of gold whose 
 meshes constantly succeeded each other. This was the 
 reflection of the invisible water. When his ship was 
 immovable in the ports, there always came in through 
 his window the whirling noise of the cranes, the cries 
 of the stevedores and the voices of those who were in the 
 neighboring vessels. On the high sea the cool and murmur- 
 ing silence of immensity used to fill his sleeping room. A 
 wind of infinite purity that came perhaps from the other 
 side of the planet slipping past thousands of leagues, 
 over. the salty deserts without touching a single bit of 
 corruption would come stealing into Ferragut's throat 
 like an effervescent wine. His chest always expanded to 
 the impulses of this life-giving draught as his eyes roved 
 over the sparkling, luminous blue of the horizon. 
 
 Here in his home, the first thing that he saw through 
 the window upon awaking was a Catalunian edifice, rich 
 and monstrous, like the palaces that the hypnotist evolves 
 in his dreams, an amalgamation of Persian flowers, 
 Gothic columns, trunks of trees, with quadrupeds, rep- 
 tiles and snails among the cement foliage. The paving 
 wafted up to him through its drains the fetidity of sewers 
 dry for lack of water; the balconies shed the dust of 
 shaken rugs; the absurd palace appropriated, with the 
 insolence of the new-rich, all the heaven and sun that 
 used to Delong to Ferragut. 
 
 One night he surprised his relatives by informing them 
 that he was about to return to the sea. Cinta assented 
 to this resolution in painful silence, as though she had 
 foreseen it long before. It was something inevitable and
 
 96 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 fatal that she must accept. The manufacturer, Blanes, 
 stammered with astonishment. Return to his life of ad- 
 ventures, when the great gentlemen of the district were 
 becoming interested in his personality! . . . Perhaps in 
 the next elections they might have made him a member 
 of the municipal council! 
 
 Ferragut laughed at his cousin's simplicity. He want- 
 ed to command a vessel again, but one of his own, with- 
 out being obliged to consider the restrictions of the ship 
 owners. He could permit himself this luxury. It would 
 be like an enormous yacht, ready to set forth according 
 to his tastes and convenience, yet at the same time bring- 
 ing him in untold profits. Perhaps his son might in time 
 become director of a maritime company, this first ship 
 laying the foundation of an enormous fleet in the years 
 to come. 
 
 He knew every port in the world, every highway of 
 traffic, and he would be able to find the places where, 
 lacking transportation facilities, they paid the highest 
 freight rates. Until now he had been a salaried man, 
 brave and care-free. He was going to begin an absolutely 
 independent life as a speculator of the sea. 
 
 Two months afterwards he wrote from England say- 
 ing that he had bought the Fingal, a mail packet of three 
 thousand tons that had made trips twice a week between 
 London and a port of Scotland. 
 
 Ulysses appeared highly delighted with the cheapness 
 of his acquisition. The Fingal had been the property 
 of a Scotch captain who, in spite of his long illness, had 
 never wished to give up command, dying aboard his ves- 
 sel. His heirs, inland men tired by their long wait, were 
 anxious to get rid of it at any price. 
 
 When the new proprietor entered the aft saloon sur- 
 rounded with staterooms, the only habitable place in the 
 Ship, memories of the dead came forth to meet him. On
 
 FREYA 97 
 
 the wall-panels were painted the heroes of the Scotch 
 Iliad, the bard Ossian with his harp, Malvina with the 
 round arms and waving golden tresses, the undaunted 
 warriors with their winged helmets and protruding bi- 
 ceps, exchanging gashes on their shields while awaking 
 the echoes of the green lochs. 
 
 A deep and spongy arm chair opened its arms before 
 a stove. There the owner of the ship had passed his last 
 years, sick at heart and with swollen legs, directing from 
 his seat a course that was repeated every week across 
 the foggy winter waves tossing bits of ice snatched from 
 the icebergs. Near the stove was a piano and upon 
 its top an orderly collection of musical scores yellowed 
 by time, La Sonnawibuld, Lucia, Romances of Tosti, 
 Neapolitan songs, breezy and graceful melodies that the 
 old chords of the instrument sent forth with the fragile 
 and crystalline tinkling of an old music box. The poor 
 old captain with sick heart and legs of stone had always 
 turned to the sea of light for distraction. It was music 
 that made appear in the foggy heavens the peaks of 
 Sorrento covered with orange and lemon trees, and the 
 coast of Sicily, perfumed by its flaming flora. 
 
 Ferragut manned his boat with friendly people. His 
 first mate was a pilot who had begun his career in a fish- 
 ing smack. He came from the same village as Ulysses' 
 ancestors, and he remembered the Dot or with respect and 
 admiration. He had known this new captain when he 
 was a little fellow and used to go fishing with his uncle. 
 In those days Toni was already a sailor on a coast-trad- 
 ing vessel, and his superiority in years had then justified 
 his using the familiar thee and thou when talking with 
 the lad Ulysses. 
 
 Finding himself now under his orders, he wished to 
 change his mode of address, but the captain would not 
 permit it. Perhaps he and Toni were distant relatives,
 
 98 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 all those living in that village of the Marina had become 
 related through long centuries of isolated existence and 
 common danger. The entire crew, from the first engineer 
 to the lowest seaman, showed an equal familiarity in this 
 respect. Some were from the same land as the captain, 
 others had been sailing a long time under his orders. 
 
 As shipowner, Ulysses now underwent numberless ex- 
 periences whose existence he had never before suspected. 
 He went through the anguishing transformation of the 
 actor who becomes a theatrical manager, of the author 
 who branches out into publishing, of the engineer with 
 a hobby for odd inventions who becomes the proprietor 
 of a factory. His romantic love for the sea and its ad- 
 ventures was now overshadowed by the price and con- 
 sumption of coal, by the maddening competition that low- 
 ered freight rates, and by the search for new ports with 
 fast and remunerative freight. 
 
 The Fingal which had been rebaptized by its new pro- 
 prietor with the name of Mare Nostrum, in memory of 
 his uncle, turned out to be a dubious purchase in spite of 
 its low price. As a navigator Ulysses had been most en- 
 thusiastic upon beholding its high and sharp prow dis- 
 posed to confront the worst seas, the slenderness of the 
 swift craft, its machinery, excessively powerful for a 
 freight steamer, all the conditions that had made it a 
 mail packet for so many years. It consumed too much 
 fuel to be a profitable investment as a transport of mer- 
 chandise. The captain during his navigation could now 
 think only of the ravenous appetite of the boilers. It 
 always seemed to him that the Mare Nostrum was speed- 
 ing along with excess steam. 
 
 "Half speed!" he would shout down the tube to his 
 first engineer. 
 
 But in spite of this and many other precautions, the 
 expense for fuel was enormously disproportioned to the
 
 FREYA 99- 
 
 tonnage of the vessel. The boat was eating up all the 
 profits. Its speed was insignificant compared with that 
 of a transatlantic steamer, though absurd compared 
 with that of the merchant vessels of great hulls and little 
 machinery that were going around soliciting cargo at any 
 price, from all points. n 
 
 A slave of the superiority of his vessel and in con- 
 tinual struggle with it, Ferragut had to make great ef- 
 forts in order to continue sailing without actual heavy 
 loss. All the waters of the planet now saw the Mare. 
 Nostrum specializing in the rarest kind of transportation. 
 Thanks to this expedient, the Spanish flag waved in ports 
 that had never seen it before. 
 
 Under this banner, he made trips through the solitary 
 seas of Syria and Asia Minor, skirting coasts where the 
 novelty of a ship with a smoke stack made the people of 
 the Arabian villages run together in crowds. He dis- 
 embarked in Phoenician and Greek ports choked up with 
 sand that had left only a few huts at the foot of moun- 
 tains of ruins, and where columns of marble were still 
 sticking up like trunks of lopped-off palm trees. He 
 anchored near to the terrible breakers of the western 
 coast of Africa under a sun which scorched the deck, in 
 order to take on board india-rubber, ostrich feathers, and 
 elephants' tusks, brought out in long pirogues by negro 
 oarsmen, from a river filled with crocodiles and hippo- 
 potamuses, and bordered by groups of huts with straw 
 cones for roofs. 
 
 When there were no more of these extraordinary voy- 
 ages, the Mare Nostrum turned its course towards South 
 America, resigning itself to competition in rates with the 
 English and Scandinavians who are the muleteers of the 
 ocean. His tonnage and draught permitted him to sail up 
 the great rivers of North America, even reaching the 
 cities of the remote interior where rows of factory chim-
 
 ioo MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 neys smoked on the border of a fresh-water lake con- 
 verted into a port. 
 
 He sailed up the ruddy Parana to Rosario and Co- 
 lastine, in order to load Argentine wheat; he anchored 
 in the amber waters of Uruguay opposite Paysandu and 
 Fray Ventos, taking on board hides destined to Europe 
 and salt for the Antilles. From the Pacific he sailed up 
 the Guayas bordered with an equatorial vegetation, in 
 search of cocoa from Guayaquil. His prow cut the infi- 
 nite sheet of the Amazon, dislodging gigantic tree- 
 trunks dragged down by the inundations of the virgin 
 forest in order to anchor opposite Para or Manaos, 
 taking on cargoes of tobacco and coffee. He even car- 
 ried from Germany implements of war for the revolution- 
 ists of a little republic. 
 
 These trips that in other times would have awakened 
 Ferragut's enthusiasm now resulted disastrously. After 
 having paid all expenses and lived with maddening econ- 
 omy, there was scarcely anything left for the owner. 
 Each time the freight boats were more numerous and 
 the transportation rates cheaper. Ulysses with his ele- 
 gant Mare Nostrum could not compete with the southern 
 captains, drunken and taciturn, eager to accept freight 
 at any price in order to fill their miserable transports 
 crawling across the ocean at the speed of a tortoise. 
 
 "I can do no more," he said sadly to his mate. "I shall 
 simply ruin my son. If anybody will buy the Mare 
 Nostrum, I'm going to sell it." 
 
 On one of his fruitless expeditions, just when he was 
 most discouraged, some unexpected news changed the 
 situation for him. They had just arrived at Teneriffe 
 with maize and bales of dry alfalfa from Argentina. 
 
 When Toni returned aboard after having cleared the 
 vessel, he shouted in Valencian, the language of intimacy, 
 "War, Che!"
 
 FREYA 101 
 
 Ulysses, who was pacing the bridge, received the news 
 with indifference. "War ? . . . What war is that ? . . ." 
 But upon learning that Germany and Austria had be- 
 gun hostilities with France and Russia, and that Eng- 
 land was just intervening in behalf of Belgium, the cap- 
 tain began quickly to calculate the political consequences 
 of this conflagration. He could see nothing else. 
 
 Toni, less disinterested, spoke of the future of the 
 vessel. . . . Their misery was at last at an end ! Freight- 
 age at thirteen shillings a ton was going to be henceforth 
 but a disgraceful memory. They would no longer have 
 to plead for freight from port to port as though beg- 
 ging alms. Now they were on the point of achieving im- 
 portance, and were going to find themselves solicited by 
 consignors and disdainful merchants. The Mare Nostrum 
 was going to be worth its weight in gold. 
 
 Such predictions, though Ferragut refused to accept 
 them, began to be fulfilled in a very short time. Ships 
 on the ocean routes suddenly became very scarce. Some 
 of them were taking refuge in the nearest neutral ports, 
 fearing the enemy's cruisers. The greater part were mo- 
 bilized by their governments for the enormous trans- 
 portation of material that modern war exacts. The Ger- 
 man corsairs, craftily taking advantage of the situation, 
 were increasing with their captures the panic of the mer- 
 chant marine. 
 
 The price of freight leaped from thirteen shillings a 
 ton to fifty, then to seventy, and a few days later to a 
 hundred. It couldn't climb any further, according to 
 Captain Ferragut. 
 
 "It will climb higher yet," affirmed the first officer with 
 cruel joy. "We shall see tonnage at a hundred and fifty, 
 at two hundred. . . . We are going to become rich ! . . ." 
 
 And Toni always used the plural in speaking of the 
 future riches without its ever occurring to him to ask his!
 
 102 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 captain a penny more than the forty-five dollars that he 
 was receiving each month. Ferragut's fortune and that 
 of the ship, he invariahly looked upon as his own, con- 
 sidering himself lucky if he was not out of tobacco, 
 and could send his entire wages home to his wife and 
 children living down there in the Marina. 
 
 His ambition was that of all modest sailors to buy a 
 plot of land and become an agriculturist in his old age. 
 The Basque pilots used to dream of prairies and apple 
 orchards, a little cottage on a peak and many cows. He 
 pictured to himself a vineyard on the coast, a little white 
 dwelling with an arbor under whose shade he could 
 smoke his pipe while all his family, children and grand' 
 children, were spreading out the harvest of raisins on the 
 frame-hurdles. 
 
 A familiar admiration like that of an ancient squire for 
 his paladin, or of an old subaltern for a superior officer, 
 bound him to Ferragut. The books that filled the cap- 
 tain's stateroom recalled his agonies upon being examined 
 in Cartagena for his license as a pilot. The grave gen- 
 tlemen of the tribunal had made him turn pale and stut- 
 ter like a child before the logarithms and formulas of 
 trigonometry. But just let them consult him on prac- 
 tical matters and his skill as master of a bark habituatad 
 to all the dangers of the sea, and he would reply with the 
 self-possession of a sage! 
 
 In the most difficult perils, days of storm and sin- 
 ister shoals in the neighborhood of the treacherous coasts, 
 Ferragut could decide to rest only when Toni replaced 
 him on the bridge. With him, he had no fear that, 
 through carelessness, a wave would sweep across the deck 
 and stop the machinery, or that an invisible ledge would 
 drive its stony point into the vitals of the vessel. He held 
 the helm to the course indicated. Silent and immovable 
 he stood, as though sleeping on his feet ; but at the right
 
 FREYA 103 
 
 moment he always uttered the brief word of command. 
 
 He was very skinny, with the dried up leanness of the 
 bronzed Mediterranean. The salt wind more than his 
 years had tanned his face, wrinkling it with deep crev- 
 ices. A capricious coloring had darkened the depths of 
 these cracks while the part exposed to the sun appeared 
 washed several shades lighter. His short stiff beard ex- 
 tended over all the furrows and crests of his skin. Fur- 
 thermore, he had hair in his ears, hair in the nasal pas- 
 sages, coarse and vibrating growths, ready to tremble 
 in moments of wrath or admiration. . . . But this ugli- 
 ness disappeared under the light of his little eyes with 
 pupils between green and olive color, mild eyes with a 
 canine expression of resignation, when the captain made 
 fun of his beliefs. 
 
 Toni was a "man of ideas." Ferragut only knew of 
 his having four or five, but they were hard, crystallized, 
 tenacious, like the mollusks that stick to the rocks and 
 eventually become a part of the stony excrescence. He 
 had acquired them in twenty-five years of Mediterranean 
 coast service by reading all the periodicals of lyric radi- 
 calism that were thrust upon him on entering the har- 
 bors. Furthermore, at the end of every journey was 
 Marseilles ; and in one of its little side alleys was a red 
 room adorned with symbolic columns where sailors of all 
 races and tongues met together, fraternally understanding 
 each other by means of mysterious signs and ritual words. 
 
 Whenever Toni entered a South American port after a 
 long absence, he particularly admired the rapid progress 
 of the new villages, enormous wharves constructed 
 within the year, interminable streets that were not in ex- 
 istence on his former voyage, shady and elegant parks, 
 replacing old, dried-up lakes. 
 
 "That's only natural," he would affirm roundly. "With 
 good reason they are republics!" I
 
 104 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Upon entering the Spanish ports, the slightest devi- 
 ation in the docking, a discussion with the official em- 
 ployees, the lack of space for a good anchorage would 
 make him smile with bitterness. "Unfortunate country! 
 . . . Everything here is the work of the altar and the 
 throne!" 
 
 In the Thames, and before the docks of Hamburg, 
 Captain Ferragut would chaff his subordinate. 
 
 "There's no republic here, Tonil . . . But, neverthe- 
 less this is rather worth while." 
 
 But Toni never gave in. He would contract his hairy 
 visage, making a mental effort to formulate his vague 
 ideas, clothing them with words. In the very background 
 of these grandeurs existed the confirmation of the idea 
 he was so vainly trying to express. Finally he admitted 
 himself checkmated, but not convinced. 
 
 "I don't know how to explain it; I haven't the words 
 for it ... but . . . it's the people who are doing all 
 this." 
 
 Upon receiving in Teneriffe the news of war, he 
 summed up all his doctrines with the terseness of a victor. 
 
 "In Europe there are too many kings. ... If all the 
 nations could be republics! . . . This calamity just had 
 to come!" 
 
 And this time Ferragut did not venture to ridicule 
 the single-mindedness of his second. 
 
 All the people of the Mare Nostrum showed great en- 
 thusiasm over the new; business aspect of things. The 
 seamen who in former voyages were taciturn, as though 
 foreseeing the ruin or exhaustion of their captain, were 
 now working as eagerly as though they were going to 
 participate in the profits. 
 
 In the forward mess room many of them set them- 
 selves to work on commercial calculations. The first 
 trip of the war would be equal to ten of their former;
 
 FREYA 105 
 
 ones) the second, perhaps, might bring in the profit of 
 twenty. And recalling their former bad business ven- 
 jtures, they rejoiced for Ferragut, with the same disin- 
 terestedness as the first officer. The engineers were no 
 longer called to the captain's cabin in order to contrive 
 new economies in fuel. They had to take advantage of 
 the time and opportunity; and the Mare Nostrum was 
 now going at full steam, making fourteen knots an hour, 
 like a passenger vessel, stopping only when its course 
 was blocked at the entrance of the Mediterranean by an 
 English destroyer, sending out an officer to make sure 
 that they were not carrying on board enemy passengers. 
 
 Abundance reigned equally between bridge and fore- 
 castle where were the sailors' quarters and the galley, 
 the space respected by every one on the boat as the incon- 
 testable realm of Uncle Caragol. 
 
 This old man, nicknamed "Caracol" (snail), another 
 old friend of Ferragut's, was the ship's cook, and, al- 
 though he did not dare to talk as familiarly to the captain 
 as in former times, the tone of his voice made it under- 
 stood that mentally he was continuing to use the old, 
 affectionate form. He had known Ulysses when he used 
 to run away from the classrooms to row in the har- 
 bor and, on account of the bad state of his eyes, he 
 had finally retired from the navigation of coast vessels, 
 descending to be a simple bargeman. His gravity and 
 corpulence had something almost priestly in character. 
 He was the obese type of Mediterranean with a little 
 head, voluminous neck and triple chin, seated on the stern 
 of his fishing skiff like a Roman patrician on the throne of 
 his trireme. 
 
 His culinary talent suffered eclipse whenever rice did 
 not figure as the fundamental basis of his compositions. 
 All that this food could give of itself, he knew perfectly. 
 In the tropical ports, the crews surfeited with bananas,
 
 io6 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 pineapples, and alligator-pears, would greet with en- 
 thusiasm the apparition of a great frying pan of rice 
 with cod and potatoes, or a casserole of rice from the 
 oven with its golden crust perforated by the ruddy 
 faces of garbanzos and points of black sausage. At other 
 times, under the leaden-colored sky of the northern seas, 
 the cook made them recall their distant native land by 
 giving them the monastic rice dish with beet roots, or but- 
 tery rice with turnips and beans. 
 
 On Sundays and the fiestas of the Valencian saints 
 who for Uncle Caragol were the first in heaven, San 
 Vicente Mdrtir, San Vicente Ferrer, La Virgin de los 
 Desamparados and the Cristo del Grao would appear 
 the smoking paella, a vast, circular dish of rice upon 
 whose surface of white, swollen grains were lying bits of 
 various fowls. The cook loved to surprise his following 
 by distributing rotund, raw onions, with the whiteness of 
 marble and an acrid surprise that brought tears to the 
 eyes. They were a princely gift maintained in secret. 
 One had only to break them with one blow and their 
 sticky juices would gush forth and lose themselves in the 
 palate like crisp mouthfuls of a sweet and spicy bread, 
 alternating with knifefuls of rice. The boat was at 
 times near Brazil in sight of Fernando de Norofia, yet 
 even while viewing the conical huts of the negroes in- 
 stalled on an island under an equatorial sun, the crews 
 could almost believe thanks to Uncle Caragol's magic 
 that they were eating in a cabin of the farmland of Va- 
 lencia, as they passed from hand to hand the long-spouted 
 jug filled with strong wine from Liria. 
 
 When they anchored in ports where fish was abundant, 
 he achieved the great work of cooking a rice abanda. 
 The cabin boys would bring to the captain's table the pot 
 in which was boiled the rich sea food mixed with lob- 
 sters, mussels, and every kind of shell-fish available, but
 
 FREYA 107 
 
 the chef invariably reserved for himself the honor of 
 offering the accompanying great platter with its pyramid 
 of rice, every grain golden and distinct. 
 
 Boiled apart (abanda) each grain was full of the suc- 
 culent broth of the stew-pot. It was a rice dish that con- 
 tained within it the concentration of all the sustenance 
 of the sea. As though he were performing a liturgical 
 ceremony, the chef would go around delivering half a 
 lemon to each one of those seated at the table. The rice 
 should only be eaten after moistening it with this per- 
 fumed dew which called to mind the image of an oriental 
 garden. Only the unfortunate beings who lived inland 
 were ignorant of this exquisite confection, calling any 
 mess of rice a Valencian rice dish. 
 
 Ulysses would humor the cook's notions, carrying the 
 first spoonful to his mouth with a questioning glance. . . . 
 Then he would smile, giving himself up to gastric in- 
 toxication. "Magnificent, Uncle Caragol!" His good 
 humor made him affirm that only the gods should be 
 nourished with rice abanda in their abodes on Mount 
 Olympus. He had read that in books. And Caragol, 
 divining great praise in all this, would gravely reply, 
 "That is so, my captain." Toni and the other officers by 
 this time would be chewing away with heads down, only 
 interrupting their feast to regret that the old Ganymede 
 should have skimped them when measuring the ambrosia. 
 
 In his estimation, oil was as precious as rice. In the 
 time of their money-losing navigation, when the captain 
 was making special efforts at economy, Caragol used to 
 keep an especially sharp eye on the great oil bottles in his 
 galley, for he suspected that the cabin boys and the 
 young seamen appropriated it to dress their hair when 
 they wanted to play the dandy, using the oil as a pomade. 
 Every head that put itself within reach of his disturbed 
 glance he grasped between his arms, raising it to his
 
 io8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 nose. The slightest perfume of olive oil would arouse his 
 wrath. "Ah, you thief !" . . . And down would fall his 
 enormous hand, soft and heavy as a fencing gauntlet. 
 
 Ulysses believed him quite capable of climbing the 
 bridge, and declaring that navigation could not go on be- 
 cause of his having exhausted the leathern bottles of 
 amethyst-colored liquid proceeding from the Sierra de 
 Espadan. 
 
 In the ports, his short-sighted eyes recognized imme- 
 diately the nationality of the boats anchored on both sides 
 of the Mare Nostrum. His nose would sniff the air 
 sadly. "Nothing! . . ." They were unsavory barks, 
 barks from the North that prepared their dinner with 
 lard or butter, Protestant barks, perhaps. 
 
 Sometimes he would sneak along the gunwale, follow- 
 ing an intoxicating trail until he planted himself in front 
 of the galley of the neighboring boat, breathing in its rich 
 perfume. "Hello, brothers!" Impossible to fool him, 
 they were probably Spaniards and, if not, they were 
 from Genoa or Naples, in short, were compatriots ac- 
 customed to live and eat in all latitudes just as though 
 they were in their own little inland sea. Soon they 
 would begin a speech in the Mediterranean idiom, a 
 mixture of Spanish, Provengal and Italian, invented by 
 the hybrid peoples of the African coast from Egypt to 
 Morocco. Sometimes they would send each other pres- 
 ents, like those that are exchanged between tribes, 
 fruits from distant countries. At other times, suddenly 
 inimical, without knowing why, they would shake their 
 fists over the railing, yelling insults at each other in 
 which, between every two or three words, would appear 
 the names of the Virgin and her holy Son. 
 
 This was the signal for Uncle Caragol, religious soul, 
 to return in haughty silence to his galley. Toni, the 
 mate, used to make fun of his devout enthusiasm. On
 
 FREYA 109 
 
 the other hand, the foremast hands, materialistic and 
 gluttonous, used to listen to him with deference, because 
 he was the one who doled out the wine and the choicest 
 tid-bits. The old man used to speak to them of the 
 Cristo del Grao, whose pictures occupied the most promi- 
 nent site in the kitchen, and they would all listen as to 
 a new tale, to the story of the arrival by sea of the 
 sacred image, mounted upon a ladder in a boat that had 
 dissolved in smoke after discharging its miraculous cargo. 
 
 This had been when the Grao was no more than a 
 group of huts far from the walls of Valencia and threat- 
 ened by the raids of the Moorish pirates. For many 
 years Caragol, barefooted, had carried this sacred ladder 
 on his shoulder on the day of the fiesta. Now other 
 men of the sea were enjoying such honor and he, old 
 and half-blind, would be waiting among the public for 
 the procession to pass in order that he might throw 
 himself upon the enormous relic, touching his clothes 
 to the wood. 
 
 All his outer garments were sanctified by this contact. 
 In reality they weren't very many, since he usually 
 strolled about the boat very lightly clad, with the im- 
 modesty of a man who sees poorly and considers him- 
 self above human preoccupations. 
 
 A shirt with the tail always floating, and a pair of 
 pantaloons of dirty cotton or yellow flannel, according 
 to the season, constituted his entire outfit. The bosom 
 of the shirt was open on all occasions, leaving visible 
 a thatch of white hair. The pantaloons were fastened 
 together with a single button. A palm leaf hat always 
 covered his head even when he was working among 
 his cooking pots. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum could not be shipwrecked nor 
 suffer any harm while it carried him aboard. In the 
 days of tempest, when waves were sweeping the deck
 
 no MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 from prow to poop, and the sailors were treading warily, 
 fearing that a heavy sea might carry them overboard, 
 Caragol would stick his head out through the door of 
 the galley, scorning a- danger which he could not see. 
 
 The great water-spouts would pass over him, even 
 putting out his fires, but only increasing his faith. 
 "Courage, boys! Courage, lads!" The Cristo del Grao 
 had special charge of them and nothing bad could happen 
 to the ship. . . . Some of the seamen were silent, while 
 others said this and that about the image without arous- 
 ing the indignation of the old devotee. God, who sends 
 dangers to the men of the sea, knows that their bad words 
 lack malice. 
 
 His religiosity extended to the very deeps. He did 
 not wish to say anything about the ocean fish, for they 
 inspired him with the same indifference as those cold 
 and unperfumed boats that were ignorant of olive oil, 
 and all that was cooked with "pomade." They must be 
 heretics. 
 
 He was better acquainted with the fish of the Mediter- 
 ranean and even came to believe that they must be good 
 Catholics, since in their own way they proclaimed the 
 glory of God. Standing near the taffrail on torrid even- 
 ings in the tropics, he would recount, in honor of the 
 inhabitants of his distant sea, the portentous miracle 
 which had taken place in the glen of Alboraya. 
 
 A priest was one day fording on horseback the mouth 
 of a river in order to carry the eucharist to a dying 
 person, when his beast stumbled and the ciborium, fall- 
 ing open, the Hosts fell out and were carried off by the 
 current. From that time on, mysterious lights glowed 
 every night on the water, and at sunrise a swarm of 
 little fishes would come to range themselves opposite 
 the glen, their heads emerging from the water, in order, 
 to show the Host which each one of them was carrying
 
 FREYA in 
 
 in his mouth. In vain the fishermen wished to take 
 them away from them. They fled to the inland sea with 
 their treasures. Only when the clergy, with cross erect 
 and with the same priest, fell on their knees in the glen 
 did they decide to approach ; and one after the other de- 
 posited his Host in the ciborium, retiring then from 
 wave to wave, gracefully waggling their little tails. 
 
 In spite of the vague hope for a jug of choice wine 
 that was animating most of his hearers, a murmur of in- 
 credulity always arose at the end of this tale. The de- 
 vout Caragol then became as wrathful and foul-mouthed 
 as a prophet of old when he considered his faith in dan- 
 ger. "Who was that son of a flea? . . Who was that 
 son of a flea daring to doubt what I myself have" 
 seen? . ." And what he had seen was the fiesta of the 
 Pelxet that was celebrated every year, simply listening to 
 most learned men discoursing about the miracle in a com- 
 memorative chapel built on the banks of the glen. 
 
 This prodigy of the little fishes was almost always 
 followed with what he called the miracle of the Peixbt, 
 endeavoring with the weight of such a marvelous fish 
 tale to crush the doubts of the impious. 
 
 The galley of Alphonso V of Aragon (the only sailor 
 king of Spain), upon coming out of the Gulf of Naples, 
 once struck a hidden rock near the island of Capri which 
 took away a side of the ship without making it leak; and 
 the vessel continued on with all sails spread, carrying 
 the king, the ladies of his court, and the retinue of mail- 
 clad barons. Twenty days afterward they arrived at 
 Valencia safe and sound like all sailors who in moments 
 of danger ask aid of the Virgcn del Puig. Upon inspect- 
 ing the hull of the galley, the master calkers beheld a 
 monstrous fish detach itself from its bottom with the 
 tranquillity of an upright person who has fulfilled his 
 duty. It was a dolphin sent by the most holy Senora in
 
 ii2 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 order that his side might stop up the open breach. And 
 thus, like a plug, it had sailed from Naples to Valencia 
 without allowing a drop of water to pass in. 
 
 The chef would not admit any criticisms nor protests. 
 This miracle was undeniable. He had seen it with his 
 own eyes, and they were good. He had seen it in an 
 ancient picture in the monastery of Puig, everything 
 appearing on the tablet with the realism of truth, the 
 galley, the king, the peixot and the Virgin above giving 
 the order. 
 
 At this juncture the breeze would flap the narrator's 
 shirt tail, disclosing his abdomen divided into hemispheres 
 by the tyranny of its only pantaloon button. 
 
 "Uncle Caragol, look out !" warned a teasing voice. 
 
 The holy man would smile with the seraphic calm 
 of one who sees beyond the pomps and vanities of ex- 
 istence," and would begin the relation of a new miracle. 
 
 Ferragut used to attribute his cook's periods of ex- 
 altation to the lightness of his clothing in all weathers. 
 Within him was burning a fire incessantly renewed. 
 On foggy days he would climb to the bridge with some 
 glasses of a smoking drink that he used to call calentets. 
 Nothing better for men that had to pass long hours 
 in the inclement weather in motionless vigilance! It 
 was coffee mixed with rum, but in unequal proportions, 
 having more alcohol than black liquid. Toni would drink 
 rapidly all the glasses offered. The captain would re- 
 fuse them, asking for clear coffee. 
 
 His sobriety was that of the ancient sailor, the 
 sobriety of Father Ulysses who used to mix wine with 
 water in all his libations. The divinities of the old sea 
 did not love alcoholic drinks. The white Amphitrite and 
 the Nereids only accepted on their altars the fruits of 
 the earth, sacrifices of doves, libations of milk. Perhaps 
 because of this the seafaring men of the Mediterranean,
 
 FREYA 
 
 following an hereditary tendency, looked upon intoxica- 
 tion as the vilest of degradations. Even those who were 
 not temperate avoided getting frankly drunk like the sail- 
 ors of other seas, dissimulating the strength of their al- 
 coholic beverage with coffee and sugar. 
 
 Caragol was the understudy charged with drinking 
 all which the captain refused, together with certain 
 others which he dedicated to himself in the mystery 
 of the galley. On warm days he manufactured refres- 
 quets, and these refreshments were enormous glasses, 
 half of water and half of rum upon a great bed of 
 sugar, a mixture that made one pass like a lightning 
 flash, without any gradations, from vulgar serenity to 
 most angelic intoxication. 
 
 The captain would scold him upon seeing his in- 
 flamed and reddened eyes. He was going to make 
 himself blind. . . . But the guilty one was not moved 
 by this threat. He had to celebrate the prosperity of 
 the vessel in his own way. And of this prosperity the 
 most interesting thing for him was his ability to use 
 oil and brandy lavishly without any fear of recrimina- 
 tions when the accounts were settled. Cristo del Grao! 
 . . . would that the war would last forever! . . . 
 
 The Mare Nostrum's third voyage from South Amer- 
 ica to Europe came suddenly to an end in Naples, where 
 they were unloading wheat and hides. A collision at the 
 entrance of the port, with an English hospital ship that 
 was going to the Dardanelles, injured her stem, carrying 
 away a part of the screw. 
 
 Toni roared with impatience upon learning that they 
 would have to remain r^arly a month in enforced idle- 
 ness. Italy had not yet intervened in the war, but her 
 defensive precautions were monopolizing all naval indus- 
 triee. It was not possible to make the repairs sooner, 
 although Ferragut well knew what this loss of time
 
 ii4 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 would represent in his business. Valuable freight was 
 waiting for him in Marseilles and Barcelona, but, wish- 
 ing to tranquillize himself and to pacify his mate, he 
 would say repeatedly: 
 
 "England will indemnify us. ... The English are 
 just." 
 
 And in order to soothe his impatience he went ashore. 
 
 Compared with other celebrated Italian cities, Naples 
 did not appear to him of much importance. Its true 
 beauty was its immense gulf between hills of orange trees 
 and pines, with a second frame of mountains one of 
 which outlined upon the azure heavens its eternal crest 
 of volcanic vapors. 
 
 The town did not abound in famous edifices. The 
 monarchs of Naples had generally been foreigners who 
 had resided far away and had governed through their 
 delegates. The best streets, the palaces, the monumental 
 fountain, had come from the Spanish viceroys. A sov- 
 ereign of mixed origin, Charles the III, Castilian by birth 
 and Neapolitan at heart, had done the most for the city. 
 His building enthusiasm had embellished the ancient 
 districts with works similar to those that he erected years 
 afterward, upon occupying the throne of Spain. 
 
 After admiring the Grecian statuary in the museum, 
 and the excavated objects that revealed the intimate life 
 of the ancients, Ulysses threaded the tortuous and often 
 gloomy arteries of the popular districts. 
 
 There were streets clinging to the slopes forming 
 landings flanked with narrow and very high houses. 
 Every vacant space had its H'-onies, and from every 
 railing to its opposite were extended lines spread with 
 clothes of different colors, hung out to dry. Neapolitan 
 fertility made these little alleys seethe with people. 
 Around the open-air kitchens there crowded patrons,
 
 FREYA 115 
 
 eating, while standing, their boiled macaroni or bits of 
 meat. 
 
 The hucksters were hawking their goods with melodi- 
 ous, song-like cries, and cords to which little baskets 
 were fastened were lowered down to them from bal- 
 conies. The bargaining and purchases reached from the 
 depth of the street gutters to the top of the seventh 
 floor, but the flocks of goats climbed the winding steps 
 with their customary agility in order to be milked at the 
 various stair landings. 
 
 The wharves of the Marinela attracted the captain 
 because of the local color of this Mediterranean port. 
 Italian unity had torn down and reconstructed much of 
 it, but there still remained standing various rows of little 
 Jow-roofed houses with white or pink fagades, green 
 doors, and lower floors further forward than the upper 
 ones, serving as props for galleries with wooden balus- 
 trades. Everything there that was not of brick was of 
 clumsy carpentry resembling the work of ship calkers. 
 Iron did not exist in these terrestrial constructions sug- 
 gestive of the sailboat whose rooms were as dark as 
 staterooms. Through the windows could be seen great 
 conch-shells upon the chests of drawers, harsh and child- 
 ish oil paintings representing frigates, and multi-colored 
 shells from distant seas. 
 
 These dwellings repeated themselves in all the ports 
 of the Mediterranean just as though they were the work 
 of the same hand. As a child, Ferragut had seen them 
 in the Grao of Valencia and continually ran across them 
 in Barcelona, in the suburbs of Marseilles, in old Nice, 
 in the ports of the western islands, and in the sections 
 of the African coast occupied by Maltese and Sicilians. 
 
 Over the town, lined up along the Marinela, the church- 
 es of Naples reared their domes and towers with glazed 
 roofs, green and yellow, which appeared more like pin-
 
 ii6 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 nacles of Oriental baths than the roofs of Christian tem- 
 ples. 
 
 The barefooted lazzarone with his red cap no longer 
 existed, but the crowd, clad like the workmen of all 
 ports still gathered around the daubed poster that 
 represented a crime, a miracle or a prodigious specific, 
 listening in silence to the harangue of the narrator or 
 charlatan. The old popular comedians were declaiming 
 with heroic gesticulations the epic octavos of Tasso, and 
 harps and violins were sounding accompaniments to 
 the latest melody that Naples had made fashionable 
 throughout the entire world. The stands of the oyster- 
 men constantly sent forth an organic perfume from the 
 spent wave, and all around them empty shells scattered 
 their disks of pearly lime over the mud. 
 
 Near to the ancient Captaincy of the port, the palace 
 of Charles III, blue and white, with an image of the 
 immaculate conception, were assembled the unloading 
 trucks, whose teams still preserved their ancient hybrid 
 originality. In some instances the shafts were occupied 
 by a white ox, sleek with enormous and widely branching 
 horns, an animal similar to those that used to figure in 
 the religious ceremonies of the ancients. At his right 
 would be hooked a horse, at his left, a great raw-boned 
 mule, and this triple and discordant team appeared in 
 all the carts, standing immovable before the ships the 
 length of the docks, or dragging their heavy wheels up 
 the slopes leading to the upper city. 
 
 In a few days the captain grew tired of Naples and its 
 bustle. In the cafes of the Street of Toledo and the 
 Gallery of Humbert I, he had to defend himself from 
 some noisy youths with low-cut vests, butterfly neckties 
 and little felt hats perched upon their manes, who, in 
 low voices, proposed to him unheard-of spectacles or- 
 ganized for the diversion of foreigners.
 
 FREYA 117 
 
 He had also seen enough of the paintings and domestic 
 objects excavated from the ancient cities. The lewdness 
 of the secret cabinets finally irritated him. It appeared 
 to him the reverse of recreation to contemplate so many 
 childish fantasies of sculpture and painting having the 
 antique symbol of masculinity as its principal motif. 
 
 One morning he boarded a train and, after skirting the 
 smoking mountain of Vesuvius, passing between rose- 
 colored villages surrounded with vineyards, he stopped 
 at the station of Pompeii. 
 
 From the funereal solitudes of hotels and restaurants, 
 the guides came forth like a suddenly awakened swarm 
 of wasps, lamenting that the war had cut off the tourist 
 trade. Perhaps he would be the only one who would 
 come that day. tf Signor, at your service, at any price 
 whatever! . . ." But the sailor continued on alone. 
 Always, in recalling Pompeii, he had wished to see it 
 again alone, absolutely alone, so as to get a more direct 
 impression of the ancient life. 
 
 His first view of it had been seventeen years ago when, 
 as a mate of a Catalan sailing vessel anchored in the 
 port of Naples, he had taken advantage of the cheapness 
 of Sunday rates and had seen everything as one of a 
 crowd that was pushing and treading on everybody's 
 feet so as to listen to the nearest guide. 
 
 At the head of the expedition had been a priest, 
 young and elegant, a Roman Monsignor, clad in silk, and 
 with him two showy foreign women, who were always 
 climbing up in the highest places, raising their skirts 
 rather high for fear of the star lizards that were writhing 
 in and out of the ruins. Ferragut, in humble admira- 
 tion, always remained below, glimpsing the country from 
 behind their legs. "Ay! Twenty-two years! . . ." 
 Afterwards when he heard Pompeii spoken of, it always 
 evoked in his memory several strata of images. "Very
 
 Ii8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 beautiful! Very interesting!" And in his mind's eye 
 he saw again the palaces and temples, but as a secondary 
 consideration, like a shrouded background, while in the 
 forefront were four magnificent legs standing forth, a 
 human colonnade of slender shafts swathed in transpar- 
 ent black silk. 
 
 The solitude so long desired for his second visit was 
 now aggressively in evidence. In this deserted, dead 
 city there were to-day no other sounds than the whir- 
 ring of insect wings over the plants beginning to clothe 
 themselves with springtime verdure, and the invisible 
 scampering of reptiles under the layers of ivy. 
 
 At the gate of Herculaneum, the guardian of the little 
 museum left Ferragut to examine in peace the excava- 
 tions of the various corpses, petrified Pompeiians of 
 plaster still in the attitudes of terror in which death 
 had surprised them. He did not abandon his post in 
 order to trouble the captain with his explanations; he 
 scarcely raised his eyes from the newspaper that he 
 had before him. The news from Rome, the intrigues 
 of the German diplomats, the possibility that Italy might 
 enter the war, were absorbing his entire attention. 
 
 Afterwards on the solitary streets the sailor found 
 everywhere the same preoccupation. His footsteps re- 
 sounded in the sunlight as though treading the depths of 
 the hollow tombs. The moment he stopped, silence again 
 enveloped him, "A silence of two thousand years," 
 thought Ferragut to himself, and in the midst of this 
 primeval silence sounded far-away voices in the violence 
 of a sharp discussion. They were the guardians and 
 the employees of the excavations who, lacking work, 
 were gesticulating and insulting each other in these 
 strongholds twenty centuries old so profoundly isolated 
 from patriotic enthusiasm or fear of the horrors of war. 
 
 Ferragut, map in hand, passed among these groups
 
 FREYA 
 
 without annoyance from insistent guides. For two hours 
 he fancied himself an inhabitant of ancient Pompeii who 
 had remained alone in the city on a holiday devoted to 
 the rural divinities. His glance could reach to the very 
 end of the straight streets without encountering persons 
 or things recalling modern times. 
 
 Pompeii appeared to him smaller than ever in this 
 solitude, an intersection of narrow roads with high 
 sidewalks paved with polygonal blocks of blue lava. In 
 its interstices Spring was forming green grass plots 
 dotted with flowers. Carriages, of whose owners not 
 even the dust was left, had with their deep wheels 
 opened up ridges in the pavement more than a thousand 
 years ago. In every crossway was a public fountain 
 with a grotesque mask which had spouted water through 
 its mouth. 
 
 Certain red letters on the walls were announcements 
 of elections to be held in the beginning of that era, 
 candidates for sedile or duumvir who were recommended 
 to the Pompeiian voters. Some doors showed above, 
 the phallus for conjuring the evil eyes ; others, a pair of 
 serpents intertwined, emblem of family life. In the 
 corners of the alleyways, a Latin verse engraved on the 
 walls asked the passerby to observe the laws of sanita- 
 tion, and there still could be seen on the stuccoed walls 
 caricatures and scribbling, handiwork of the little street 
 gamins of Caesar's day. 
 
 The houses were lightly constructed upon floors 
 cracked by minor earthquakes before the arrival of the 
 final catastrophe. The lower floors were of bricks or 
 concrete and the others, of wood, had been devoured by 
 the volcanic fire, only the stairways remaining. 
 
 In this gracious city of amiable and easy-going life, 
 more Greek than Roman, all the lower floors of the ple- 
 beian houses had been occupied by petty traders. They
 
 120 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 were shops with doors the same size as the establish- 
 ment, four-sided caves like the Arabian zocos whose fur- 
 thermost corners were visible to the buyer stopping in 
 the street. Many still had their stone counters and 
 their; large earthen jars for the sale of wine and oil. 
 The private dwellings had no facades, and their outer 
 walls were smooth and unapproachable, but with an 
 interior court providing the surrounding chambers with 
 light as in the palaces of the Orient. The doors were 
 merely half-doors of escape, parts of larger ones. All 
 life was concentrated around the interior, the central 
 patio, rich and magnificent, adorned with fish ponds, 
 statues and flower-bordered beds. 
 
 Marble was rare. The columns constructed of bricks 
 were covered with a stucco that offered a fine surface 
 for painting. Pompeii had been a polychrome city. All 
 the columns, red or yellow, had capitals of divers colors. 
 The center of the walls was generally occupied with a 
 little picture, usually erotic, painted on black varnished 
 walls varied with red and amber hues. On the friezes 
 were processions of cupids and tritons, between rustic 
 and maritime emblems. 
 
 Tired of his excursion through the dead city, Ferragut 
 seated himself on a stone bench among the ruins of the 
 temple, and looked over the map spread out on his 
 knees, enjoying the titles with which the most interesting 
 constructions had been designated because of a mosaic 
 or a painting, Villa of Diomedes, the House of Melea- 
 ger, of the wounded Adonis, of the Labryinth, of the 
 Faun, of the Black Wall. The names of the streets were 
 not less interesting: The Road of the Hot Baths, the 
 Road of the Tombs, the Road of Abundance, the Road 
 of the Theaters. 
 
 The sound of footsteps made the sailor raise his head. 
 Two ladies were passing, preceded by a guide. One was
 
 FREYA 121 
 
 tall, with a firm tread. They were wearing face-veils 
 and still another larger veil crossing behind and coming 
 over the arms like a shawl. Ferragut surmised a great 
 difference in the ages of the two. The stout one was 
 moving along with an assumed gravity. Her step was 
 quick, but with a certain authority she planted on the 
 ground her large feet, loosely shod and with low heels. 
 The younger one, taller and more slender, tripping on- 
 wards with little steps like a bird that only knows how 
 to fly, was teetering along on high heels. 
 
 The two looked uneasily at this man appearing so un- 
 expectedly among the ruins. They had the preoccupied 
 and timorous air of those going to a forbidden place or 
 meditating a bad action. Their first movement was an 
 impulse to go back, but the guide continued on his way 
 so imperturbably that they followed on. 
 
 Ferragut smiled. He knew where they were going. 
 The little cross street of the Lupanares was near. The 
 guard would open a door, remaining on watch with 
 dramatic anxiety as though he were endangering his 
 job by this favor in exchange for a tip. And the two 
 ladies were about to see some tarnished, clumsy paintings 
 showing nothing new or original in the world, nude, 
 yellowish figures, just alike at first glance with no other 
 novelty than an exaggerated emphasis on sex distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Ulysses abandoned his bench, 
 for his eyes had tired of the severe monotony of the 
 ruins. In the street of the Hot Baths (Thermae}, he 
 again visited the house of the tragic poet. Then he ad- 
 mired that of Pansa, the largest and most luxurious in 
 the city. This Pansa had undoubtedly been the most 
 pretentious citizen of Pompeii. His dwelling occupied 
 an entire block. The xystus, or garden, adjoining the 
 house had been laid out like a Grecian landscape with
 
 122 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 cypresses and laurels between squares of roses and vio- 
 lets. 
 
 Following along the exterior wall of the garden, Fer- 
 ragut again met the two ladies. They were looking at 
 the flowers across the bars of the door. The younger 
 one was expressing in English her admiration for some 
 roses that were flinging their royal color around the 
 pedestal of an old faun. 
 
 Ulysses felt an irresistible desire to show off in a gal- 
 lant and intrepid fashion. He wished to pay the two 
 foreign ladies some theatrical homage. He felt that 
 necessity of attracting attention in some gay and dashing 
 ;way that characterizes Spaniards far from home. 
 
 With the agility of a mast-climber, he leaped the gar- 
 den wall in one bound. The two ladies gave a cry of 
 surprise, as though they had witnessed some impossible 
 maneuver. This audacity appeared to upset the ideas 
 of the older one, accustomed to life in disciplined towns 
 that rigidly respect every established prohibition. Her 
 first movement was of flight, so as not to be mixed up 
 in the escapade of this stranger. But after a few steps 
 she paused. The younger one was smiling, looking at 
 the wall, and as the captain reappeared upon it she 
 almost clapped with enthusiasm as though applauding a 
 dangerous acrobatic feat. 
 
 Believing them to be English, the sailor spoke in that 
 language when presenting to them the two roses that he 
 carried in his hand. They were merely flowers, like all 
 others, grown in a land like other lands, but the frame 
 of the thousand-year-old wall, the propinquity of the 
 alcoves and drinking shops of a house built by Pansa in 
 the time of the first Caesars, gave them the interest of 
 roses two thousand years old, miraculously preserved. 
 
 The largest and most luxuriant he gave to the young 
 .woman, and she accepted it smilingly as her natural
 
 FREYA 123 
 
 right. Her companion as soon as she acknowledged the 
 gift, appeared impatient to get away from the stranger. 
 "Thanks! . . . Thanks!" And she pushed along the 
 other one, who had not yet finished smiling, the two 
 going hurriedly away. A corner adorned with a foun- 
 tain soon hid their steps. 
 
 When Ulysses, after a light lunch in the restaurant 
 of Diomedes, came running to the station, the train was 
 just about to start. He was planning to see Salerno, 
 celebrated in the Middle Ages for its physicians and navi- 
 gators, and then the ruined temples of Psestum. As he 
 climbed into the nearest coach, he fancied that he spied 
 the veils of the two ladies vanishing behind a little door 
 that was just closing. 
 
 In the station of Salerno he again caught sight of 
 them in a distant hack disappearing in a neighboring 
 street, and during the afternoon he frequently ran across 
 them as travelers will in a small city. They met one 
 another in the harbor, so fatally threatened with bars of 
 moving sand ; they saw each other in the gardens border- 
 ing the sea, near the monument of Carlo Pisacana, the 
 romantic duke of San Juan, a precursor of Garibaldi, 
 who died in extreme youth for the liberty of Italy. 
 
 The young woman smiled whenever she met him. Her 
 companion passed on with a casual glance, trying to 
 ignore his presence. 
 
 At night they saw more of each other, as they were 
 stopping at the same hotel, a lodging house like all those 
 in the small ports with excellent meals and dirty rooms. 
 They had adjoining tables, and after a coldly acknowl- 
 edged greeting, Ferragut had a good look at the two 
 ladies who were speaking very little and in a low tone,, 
 fearing to be overheard by their neighbor. 
 
 Upon looking at the older one without her veils, he 
 found his original impression confirmed. In other times,
 
 124 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 perhaps, she might have destroyed the peace of male 
 admirers, but she could now continue her hostile and dis- 
 tant attitude with impunity. The captain was not at all 
 affected by it. 
 
 She must have been over forty. Her excessive flesh 
 still had a certain freshness, the result of hygienic care 
 and gymnastic exercise. On the other hand, her white 
 complexion showed underneath it a yellowish subcutane- 
 ous, granular condition that looked as though made up of 
 particles of bran. Upon her ancient switch, reddish in 
 tone, were piled artificial curls hiding bald spots and 
 gray hairs. Her green pupils, when freed from their 
 near-sighted glasses, had the tranquil opacity of ox-eyes; 
 but the minute these gold-mounted crystals were placed 
 between her and the outer world, the two glaucous drops 
 took on a sharpness which fairly perforated persons and 
 objects. At other times they appeared a glacial and 
 haughty void, like the circle that a sword traces. 
 
 The young woman was less intractable. She ap- 
 peared to be smiling out of the corners of her eyes, 
 while her back was half turned to Ferragut, acknowl- 
 edging his mute and scrutinizing admiration. She had 
 her hair loosely arranged like a woman who is not 
 afraid of naturalness in her coiffure, and lets her waving 
 locks peep out under her hat in all their original will- 
 fulness. 
 
 She was a dainty ash-blonde with a high color in 
 striking contrast to her general delicacy of tone. Her 
 great, almond-shaped, black eyes appeared like those of 
 an Oriental dancer, and were yet further prolonged by 
 skillful retouching of shadows that augmented the seduc- 
 tive contrast with her dull gold hair. 
 
 The whiteness of her skin became very evident when 
 her arm showed outside her sleeve and at the opening 
 of her low-necked dress. But this whiteness was now.
 
 FREYA 125 
 
 temporarily effaced by a ruddy mask. Her vigorous 
 beauty had been fearlessly exposed to the sun and the 
 breath of the sea, and a scarlet triangle emphasized the 
 sweet curve of her bosom, accentuating the low cut of 
 her gown. Upon her sunburned throat a necklace of 
 pearls hung in moonlight drops. Further up, in a face 
 tanned by the inclemency of the weather, the mouth 
 parted its two scarlet, bow-shaped lips with an audacious 
 and serene smile, showing the reflection of her strong 
 and handsome teeth. 
 
 Ferragut reviewed his past without finding a single 
 woman that could be exactly compared with her. The 
 distant perfume of her person and her genteel elegance 
 reminded him of certain dubious ladies who were always 
 traveling alone when he was captain of the transatlantic 
 liners. But these acquaintances had been so rapid and 
 were so far away ! . . . Never in his history as a world- 
 rover had he had the good luck to chance upon a woman 
 just like this one. 
 
 Again exchanging glances with her, he felt that throb 
 in the heart and flash in the brain which accompany 
 a lightning-like and unexpected discovery. . . . He had 
 known that woman: he could not recall where he had 
 seen her, but he was sure that he must have known 
 her. 
 
 Her face told his memory nothing, but those eyes had 
 exchanged glances with his on other occasions. In vain 
 he reflected, concentrating his thoughts. . . . And the 
 queer thing about it all was that, by some mysterious 
 perception, he became absolutely certain that she was 
 doing the same thing at the very same moment. She 
 also had recognized him, and was evidently making great 
 effort to give him a name and place in her memory. 
 He had only to notice the frequency with which she 
 turned her eyes toward him and her new smile, more
 
 126 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 confident and spontaneous, such as she would give to an 
 old friend. 
 
 Had her dragon not been present, they would have 
 talked together enthusiastically, instinctively, like two 
 restless, curious beings wishing to clear up the mys- 
 tery; but the gold-rimmed glasses were always gleaming 
 authoritatively and inimically, coming between the two. 
 Several times the fat lady spoke in a language that 
 reached Ferragut confusedly and which was not Eng- 
 lish, and their dinner was hardly finished before they 
 disappeared just as they had done in the streets of Pom- 
 peii, the older one evidently influencing the other with 
 her iron will. 
 
 The following morning they all met again in a first- 
 class coach in the station of Salerno. Undoubtedly they 
 had the same destination. As Ferragut began to greet 
 them, the hostile dame deigned to return his salutation, 
 looking then at her companion with a questioning expres- 
 sion. The sailor guessed that during the night they had 
 been discussing him while he, under the same roof, had 
 been struggling uselessly, before falling asleep, to con- 
 centrate his recollections. 
 
 He never knew with certainty just how the conversa- 
 tion began. He found himself suddenly talking in Eng- 
 lish with the younger one, just as on the preceding 
 morning. She, with the audacity that quickly makes 
 the best of a dubious situation, asked him if he was a 
 sailor. And upon receiving an affirmative response, she 
 then asked if he was Spanish. 
 
 "Yes, Spanish." 
 
 Ferragut's answer was followed by a triumphant 
 glance toward the chaperone, who seemed to relax a lit- 
 tle and lose her hostile attitude. And for the first time 
 she smiled upon the captain with her mouth of bluish-
 
 FREYA 
 
 rose color, her white skin sprinkled withi yellow, and her 
 glasses of phosphorescent splendor. 
 
 Meanwhile, the young woman was talking on and on, 
 verifying her extraordinary powers of memory. 
 
 She had traveled all over the world without forgetting 
 a single one of the places which she had seen. She 
 was able to repeat the titles of the eighty great hotels 
 in which those who make the world's circuit may stay. 
 Upon meeting with an old traveling companion, she al- 
 ways recognized his face immediately, no matter how 
 short a time she had seen him, and oftentimes she could 
 even recall his name. This last was what she had been 
 puzzling over, wrinkling her brows with the mental ef- 
 fort. 
 
 "You are a captain? . . . Your name is? . . ." 
 
 And she smiled suddenly as her doubts came to ati 
 end. 
 
 "Your name is," she said positively, "Captain Ulysses 
 Ferragut." 
 
 In long and agreeable silence she relished the sailor's 
 astonishment. Then, as though she pitied his stupefac- 
 tion, she made further explanations. She had made a 
 trip from Buenos Ayres to Barcelona in a steamship 
 which he had commanded. 
 
 "That was six years ago," she added. "No; seven 
 years ago." 
 
 Ferragut, who had been the first to suspect a former 
 acquaintance, could not recall this woman's name and 
 place among the innumerable passengers that filled his 
 memory. He thought, nevertheless, that he must lie for 
 gallantry's sake, insisting that he remembered her well. 
 
 "No, Captain; you do not remember me. I was ac- 
 companied by my husband and you never looked at me. 
 ... All your attentions on that trip were devoted to a 
 very handsome widow from Brazil."
 
 128 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 She said this in Spanish, a smooth, sing-song Spanish 
 learned in South America, to which her foreign accent 
 contributed a certain childish charm. Then she added 
 coquettishly : 
 
 "I know you, Captain. Always the same ! . . . That 
 affair of the rose at Pompeii was very well done. ... It 
 was just like you." 
 
 The grave lady of the glasses, finding herself for- 
 gotten, and unable to understand a word of the new 
 language employed in the conversation, now spoke aloud, 
 rolling her eyes in her enthusiasm. 
 
 "Oh, Spain! . . ." she said in English. "The land 
 of knightly gentlemen. . . . Cervantes . . . Lope! . . . 
 The Cid! . . ." 
 
 She stopped hunting for more celebrities. Suddenly 
 she seized the sailor's arm, exclaiming as energetically as 
 though she had just made a discovery through the little 
 door of the coach. "Calderon de la Barca I" Ferragut 
 saluted her. "Yes, Senora." After that the younger 
 woman thought that it was necessary to present her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Doctor Fedelmann. ... A very wise woman dis- 
 tinguished in philology and literature." 
 
 After clasping the doctor's hand, Ferragut indiscreetly 
 set himself to work to gather information. 
 
 "The Senora is German?" he said in Spanish to the 
 younger one. 
 
 The gold-rimmed spectacles appeared to guess the 
 question and shot a restless gleam at her companion. 
 
 "No," she replied. "My friend is a Russian, or rather 
 a Pole." 
 
 "And you, are you Polish, too?" continued the sailor. 
 
 "No, I am Italian." 
 
 In spite of the assurance with which she said this, 
 Ferragut felt tempted to exclaim, "You little liar!"
 
 FREYA 129 
 
 Then, as he gazed upon the full, black, audacious eyes 
 fixed upon him, he began to doubt. . . . Perhaps she 
 was telling the truth. 
 
 Again he found himself interrupted by the wordiness 
 of the doctor. She was now speaking in French, repeat- 
 ing her eulogies on Ferragut's country. She could read 
 Castilian in the classic works, but she would not venture 
 to speak it. "Ah, Spain! Country of noble tradi- 
 tions. . . ." And then, seeking to relieve these eulogies 
 by some strong contrast, she twisted her face into a 
 wrathful expression. 
 
 The train was running along the coast, having on one 
 side the blue desert of the Gulf of Salerno, and on the 
 other the red and green mountains dotted with white 
 villages and hamlets. The doctor took it all in with 
 her gleaming glasses. 
 
 "A country of bandits," she said, clenching her fists. 
 "Country of mandolin-twangers, without honor and 
 without gratitude ! . . ." 
 
 The girl laughed at this outburst with that hilarity 
 of light-heartedness in which no impressions are durable, 
 considering as of no importance anything which does 
 not bear directly upon its own egoism. 
 
 From a few words that the two ladies let fall, Ulysses 
 inferred that they had been living in Rome and had 
 only been in Naples a short time, perhaps against their 
 will. The younger one was well acquainted with the 
 country, and her companion was taking advantage of 
 this enforced journey in order to see what she had so 
 many times admired in books. 
 
 The three alighted in the station of Battipaglia in 
 order to take the train for Paestum. It was a rather 
 long wait, and the sailor invited them to go into the 
 restaurant, a little wooden shanty impregnated with the 
 double odor of resin and wine.
 
 130 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 This shack reminded both Ferragut and the young 
 woman of the houses improvised on the South American 
 deserts ; and again they began to speak of their oceanic 
 voyage. She finally consented to satisfy the captain's 
 curiosity. 
 
 "My husband was a professor, a scholar like the doc- 
 tor. . . . We were a year in Patagonia, making scientific 
 explorations." 
 
 She had made the dangerous journey through an 
 ocean of desert plains that had spread themselves out 
 before them as the expedition advanced; she had slept 
 in ranch houses whose roofs shed bloodthirsty insects; 
 she had traveled on horseback through whirlwinds of 
 sand that had shaken her from the saddle ; she had suf- 
 fered the tortures of hunger and thirst when losing the 
 way, and she had passed nights in intemperate weather 
 with no other bed than her poncho and the trappings 
 of the horses. Thus they had explored those lakes of the 
 Andes between Argentina and Chile that guard in their 
 pure and untouched desert solitude the mystery of the 
 earliest days of creation. 
 
 Rovers over these virgin lands, shepherds and bandits, 
 used to talk of glimpses of gigantic animals at nightfall 
 on the shores of the lakes devouring entire meadows 
 with one gulp; and the doctor, like many other sages, 
 had believed in the possibility of finding a surviving pre- 
 historic animal, a beast of the monstrous herds anterior 
 to the coming of man, still dwelling in this unexplored 
 section of the planet. 
 
 They saw skeletons dozens of yards long in the foot- 
 hills of the Cordilleras so frequently agitated by volcanic 
 cataclysms. In the neighborhood of the lakes the guides 
 pointed out to them the hides of devoured herds, and 
 enormous mountains of dried material that appeared to 
 have been deposited by some monster. But no matter
 
 FREYA 13* 
 
 how far they penetrated into the solitude, they were 
 always unable to find any living descendant of prehistoric 
 fauna. 
 
 The sailor listened absent-mindedly, thinking of some- 
 thing else that was quickening his curiosity. 
 
 "And you, what is your name?" he said suddenly. 
 
 The two women laughed at this question, amusing be- 
 cause so unexpected. 
 
 "Call me Freya. It is a Wagnerian name. It means 
 the earth, and at the same time liberty. . . . Do you like 
 Wagner?" 
 
 And before he could reply she added in Spanish, with 
 a Creole accent and flashing eyes : 
 
 "Call me, if you wish, 'the merry widow.' The poor 
 doctor died as soon as we returned to Europe." 
 
 The three had to run to catch the train ready to start 
 for Paestum. The landscape was changing on both sides 
 of the way, as now they were crossing over marshy por- 
 tions of land. On the soft meadows flocks of buffaloes, 
 rude animals that appeared carved out in hatchet strokes, 
 were wading and grazing. 
 
 The doctor spoke of Paestum, the ancient Poseidonia, 
 the city ,of Neptune, founded by the Greeks of Sybaris 
 six centures before Christ. 
 
 Commercial prosperity once dominated the entire coast. 
 The gulf of Salerno was called by the Romans the Gulf 
 of Paestum. And this city with mountains like those 
 of Athens had suddenly become extinguished without be- 
 ing swallowed up by the sea, and with no volcano to cover 
 it with ashes. 
 
 Fever, the miasma of the fens, had been the deadly 
 lava for this Pompeii. The poisonous air had caused 
 the inhabitants to flee, and the few who insisted upon 
 living within the shadow of the ancient temples had had 
 to escape from the Saracen invasions, founding in the
 
 132 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 neighboring mountains a new country the humble town 
 of Capaccio Vecchio. Then the Norman kings, fore- 
 runners of Frederick II (the father of Doiia Constanza, 
 the empress beloved by Ferragut), had plundered the 
 entire deserted city, carrying off with them its columns 
 and sculpture. 
 
 All the medieval constructions of the kingdom of 
 Naples were the spoils of Paestum. The doctor recalled 
 the cathedral of Salerno, seen the afternoon before, 
 where Hildebrand, the most tenacious and ambitious of 
 the popes, was buried. Its columns, its sarcophagi, its 
 bas-reliefs had come from this Grecian city, forgotten for 
 centuries and centuries and only in modern times thanks 
 to the antiquarians and artists recovering its fame. 
 
 In the station of Paestum, the wife of the only employee 
 looked curiously at this group arriving after the war had 
 blocked off the trail of tourists. 
 
 Freya spoke to her, interested in her malarial and re- 
 signed aspect. They were yet in good time. The spring 
 sun was warming up these lowlands just as in midsum- 
 mer, but she was still able to resist it. Later, during the 
 summer, the guards of the ruins and the workmen in the 
 excavations would have to flee to their homes in the 
 mountains, handing the country over to the reptiles and 
 insects of the marshy fields. 
 
 The lodging keeper and his wife in the little station 
 were the only evidences of humankind still able to exist 
 in this solitude, trembling with fever, trying to endure 
 the corrupt air, the poisonous sting of the mosquito, and 
 the solar fire that was sucking from the mud the vapors 
 of death. Every two years this humble stopping place 
 through which passed the lucky ones of the earth, the 
 millionaires of two hemispheres, beautiful and curious 
 dames, rulers of nations, and great artists, was obliged 
 to change its station-master.
 
 FREYA 133 
 
 The three tourists passed near the remains of an 
 aqueduct and an antique pavement. Then they went 
 through the Porto, della Sirena, an entrance arch into a 
 forgotten quarter of the city, and continued along a road 
 bordered on one side by marshy lands of exuberant vege- 
 tation and on the other by the long mud wall of a grange, 
 through whose mortar were sticking out fragments of 
 stones or columns. On turning the last corner, the im- 
 posing spectacle of the dead city, still surviving in the 
 magnificent proportions of its temples, presented itself to 
 view. 
 
 There were three of these temples, and their colonnades 
 stood forth like mast heads of ships becalmed in a sea 
 of verdure. The doctor, guide-book in hand, was point- 
 ing them out with masterly authority that was Nep- 
 tune's, that Ceres', and that was called the Basilica with- 
 out any special reason. 
 
 Their grandeur, their solidity, their elegance made the 
 edifices of Rome sink into insignificance. Athens alone 
 could compare the monuments of her Acropolis with 
 these temples of the most severe Doric style. That of 
 Neptune had well preserved its lofty and massive col- 
 umns, as close together as the trees of a nursery, enor- 
 mous trunks of stone that still sustained the high entab- 
 lature, the jutting cornice and the two triangular walls 
 of its faqades. The stone had taken on the mellow color 
 of the cloudless countries where the sun toasts readily 
 and the rain does not deposit a grimy coating. 
 
 The doctor recalled the departed beauties and the old 
 covering of these colossal skeletons, the fine and com- 
 pact coating of stucco which had closed the pores of the 
 stone, giving it a superficial smoothness like marble, the 
 vivid colors of its flutings and walls making the antique 
 city a mass of polychrome monuments. This gay decora- 
 tfon had become volatilized through the centuries and its
 
 134 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 colors, borne away by the wind, had fallen like a rain 
 of dust upon a land in ruins. 
 
 Following an old guard, they climbed the blue, tiled 
 steps of the temple of Neptune. Above, within four rows 
 of columns, was the real sanctuary, the cella. Their 
 footsteps on the tiled flags, separated by deep cracks 
 filled with grass, awoke all the animal world that was 
 drowsing there in the sun. 
 
 These actual inhabitants of the city, enormous liz- 
 ards with green backs covered with black warts, ran 
 in all directions. In their flight they scurried blindly over 
 the feet of the visitors. The doctor raised her skirts in 
 order to avoid them, at the same time breaking into 
 nervous laughter to hide her terror. 
 
 Suddenly Freya gave a cry, pointing to the base of 
 the ancient altar. An ebony-hued snake, his sides dotted 
 with red spots, was slowly and solemnly uncoiling his 
 tircles upon the stones. The sailor raised his cane, but 
 before he could strike he felt his arm grasped by two 
 nervous hands. Freya was throwing herself upon him 
 with a pallid face and eyes dilated with fear and entreaty. 
 
 "No, Captain! . . . Leave it alone!" 
 
 Ulysses thrilled upon feeling the contact of her firm, 
 curving bosom and noting her respiration, her warm 
 breath charged with distant perfume. It would have 
 suited him if she had remained in this position a long 
 time, but Freya freed herself in order to advance toward 
 the reptile, coaxing it and holding out her hands to it as 
 though she were trying to caress a domestic animal. 
 The black tail of the serpent was just slipping away and 
 disappearing between two square tiles. The doctor who 
 had fled down the steps at this apparition, by her repeated 
 calls, obliged Freya also to descend. 
 
 The captain's aggressive attitude awoke in his com- 
 panion a nervous animosity. She believed she knew this
 
 FREYA 135 
 
 reptile. It was undoubtedly the divinity of the dead 
 temple that had changed its form in order to live among 
 the ruins. This serpent must be twenty centuries old. If 
 it had not been for Ferragut she would have been able 
 to have taken it up in her hands. . . . She would have 
 spoken to it. ... She was accustomed to converse with 
 others. . . . 
 
 Ulysses was about to express his doubts rudely as 
 to the mental equilibrium of the exasperated widow when 
 the doctor interrupted them. She was contemplating the 
 swampy plains of acanthus and ferns trembling under the 
 shrill chirping of the cicadas, and this spectacle of green 
 desolation made her recall the roses of Paestum of which 
 the poets of ancient Rome had sung. She even recited 
 some Latin verses, translating them to her hearers so as 
 to make them understand that the rose bushes of this 
 land used to bloom twice a year. Freya smoothed out 
 her brow and began to smile again. She forgot her 
 recent ill humor and expressed a great longing for one 
 of the marvelous rose bushes : and at this caprice of child- 
 ish vehemence, Ferragut spoke to the custodian with 
 authority. He had to have at once a rose bush from 
 Psestum, cost what it might. 
 
 The old fellow made a bored gesture. Everybody 
 asked the same thing, and he who belonged to that 
 country had never seen a rose of Psestum. . . . Some- 
 times, just in order to satisfy the whim of tourists, he 
 would bring rose bushes from Capaccio Vecchio and 
 other mountain villages, rose bushes just like others 
 with no difference except in price. . . . But he didn't 
 wish to take advantage of anybody. He was sad and 
 greatly troubled over the possibility of war. 
 
 "I have eight sons," he said to the doctor, because she 
 seemed to be the most suitable one to receive his conn-
 
 136 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 dences. "If they mobilize the army, six of them will 
 leave me." 
 
 And he added with resignation : 
 
 "That's the way it ought to be if we would end forever, 
 in one blow, our eternal enmity with the Goth. My sons 
 will battle against them, just as my father fought." 
 
 The doctor stalked haughtily away, and then said in 
 a low voice to her companions that the old guard was an 
 imbecile. 
 
 They wandered for two hours through the ancient dis- 
 trict of the city, exploring the network of its streets, 
 the ruins of the amphitheater and the Porto, Aurea which 
 opened upon a road flanked with tombs. By the Porta di 
 Mare they climbed to the walls, ramparts of great lime- 
 stone blocks, extending a distance of five kilometers. 
 The sea, which from the lowlands had looked like a 
 narrow blue band, now appeared immense and luminous, 
 a solitary sea with a feather-like crest of smoke, with- 
 out a sail, given completely over to the sea-gulls. 
 
 The doctor walked stiffly ahead of them, still ill- 
 humored about the guide's remark and consulting the 
 pages of her guide book. Behind her Ulysses came close 
 up to Freya, recalling their former contact. 
 
 He thought that it would be an easy matter now to 
 get possession of this capricious and free-mannered 
 woman. "Sure thing, Captain!" The rapid triumphs 
 that he had always had in his journeys assured him that 
 there was not the slightest doubt of success. It was 
 enough for him to see the widow's smile, her passionate 
 eyes, and the little tricks of malicious coquetry with which 
 she responded to his gallant advances. "Forward, sea- 
 wolf !" . . . He took her hand while she was speaking 
 of the beauty of the solitary sea, and the hand yielded 
 without protest to his caressing fingers. The doctor 
 was far away and, sighing hypocritically, he encircled
 
 FREYA 137 
 
 Freya's waist with his other arm while he inclined his 
 head upon her open throat as though he were going to 
 kiss her pearls. 
 
 In spite of his strength, he found himself energetically 
 repulsed and saw Freya freed from his arms, two steps 
 away, looking upon him with hostile eyes that he had 
 not noticed before. 
 
 "None of your child's play, Captain! ... It is useless 
 with me. . . . You are just wasting time." 
 
 And she said no more. Her stiffness and her silence 
 during the rest of the walk made the sailor understand 
 the enormity of his mistake. In vain he tried to keep 
 beside the widow. She always maneuvered that the doc- 
 tor should come between the two. 
 
 Upon returning to the station they took refuge from 
 the heat in a little waiting room with dusty velvet divans. 
 In order to beguile the time while waiting for the train, 
 Freya took from her handbag a gold cigarette-case and 
 the light smoke of Egyptian tobacco charged with opium 
 whirled among the shafts of sunlight from the partly- 
 opened windows. 
 
 Ferragut, who had gone out in order to ascertain the 
 exact hour of the arrival of the train, on returning 
 stopped near the door, amazed at the animation with 
 which the two ladies were speaking in a new language. 
 Recollections of Hamburg and Bremen came surging up 
 in his memory. His companions were talking German 
 with the ease of a familiar idiom. At sight of the sailor, 
 they instantly continued their conversation in English. 
 
 Wishing to take part in the dialogue, he asked Freya 
 how many languages she spoke. 
 
 "Very few, no more than eight. The doctor, per- 
 haps, knows twenty. She knows the languages of pco* 
 pie who passed away many centuries ago. 
 
 And the young woman said this with gravity, without
 
 138 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 looking at him, as though she had lost forever that smile 
 of a light woman which had so deceived Ferragut. 
 
 In the train she became more like a human being, even 
 losing her offended manner. They were soon going to 
 separate. The doctor grew less and less approachable 
 as the cars rolled towards Salerno. It was the chilliness 
 that appears among companions of a day, when the hour; 
 of separation approaches and each one draws into him- 
 self, not to be seen any more. 
 
 Words fell flat, like bits of ice, without finding any 
 echo in their fall. At each turn of the wheel, the im- 
 posing lady became more reserved and silent. Every- 
 thing had been said. They, too, were going to remain 
 in Salerno in order to take a carriage-trip along the gulf. 
 They were going to Amalfi and would pass the night on 
 the Alpine peak of Ravello, a medieval city where Wag- 
 ner had passed the last months of his life, before dying 
 in Venice. Then, passing over to the Gulf of Naples, 
 they would rest in Sorrento and perhaps might go to the 
 island of Capri. 
 
 Ulysses wished to say that his line of march was ex- 
 actly the same, but he was afraid of the doctor. Fur- 
 thermore, their trip was to be in a vehicle which they 
 had already rented and they would not offer him a seat. 
 
 Freya appeared to surmise his sadness and wished to 
 console him. 
 
 "It is a short trip. No more than three days. . . . 
 Soon we shall be in Naples." 
 
 The farewell in Salerno was brief. The doctor was 
 careful not to mention their stopping-place. For her, 
 the friendship was ending then and there. 
 
 "It is probable that we shall run across each other 
 again," she said laconically. "It is only the mountains 
 that never meet." 
 
 Her young companion was more explicit, mentioning
 
 FREYA 139 
 
 the hotel on the shores of S. Lucia in which she lodged. 
 
 Standing by the step of the carriage, he saw them 
 take their departure, just as he had seen them appear 
 in a street of Pompeii. The doctor was lost behind a 
 screen of glass, talking with the coachman who had come 
 to meet them. Freya, before disappearing, turned to 
 give him a faint smile and then raised her gloved hand 
 with a stiff forefinger, threatening him just as though he 
 Were a mischievous and bold child. 
 
 Finding himself alone in the compartment that was 
 carrying toward Naples the traces and perfumes of 
 the absent one, Ulysses felt as downcast as though he 
 were returning from a burial, as if he had just lost one 
 of the props of his life. 
 
 His appearance on board the Mare Nostrum was re- 
 garded as a calamity. He was capricious and intractable, 
 complaining of Toni and the other two officials because 
 they were not hastening repairs on the vessel. In the 
 same breath he said it would be better not to hurry things 
 too much, so that the job would be better done. Even 
 Caragol was the victim of his bad humor which flamed 
 forth in the form of cruel sermons against those addicted 
 to the poison of alcohol. 
 
 "When men need to be cheered up, they have to have 
 something better than wine. That which brings greater 
 ecstasy than drink ... is woman, Uncle Caragol. Don't 
 forget this counsel !" 
 
 Through mere force of habit the cook replied, "That 
 is so, my captain. . . ." But down in his heart he was 
 pitying the ignorance of those men who concentrate all 
 their happiness on the whims and grimaces of this most 
 frivolous of toys. 
 
 Two days afterwards those on board drew a long 
 breath when they saw the captain taken ashore. The 
 ship was moored in a very uncomfortable place, neat
 
 140 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 some that were discharging coal, with the stern shored 
 up so that the screw of the steamer might be repaired. 
 The workmen were replacing the damaged and broken 
 plates with ceaseless hammering. Since they would un- 
 doubtedly have to wait nearly a month, it would be much 
 more convenient for the owner to go to a hotel; so he 
 sent his baggage to the Albergo Partenop-e, on the an- 
 cient shore of S. Lucia, the very one that Freya had 
 mentioned. 
 
 Upon installing himself in an upper room, with a view 
 of the blue circle of the gulf framed by the outlines of 
 the balcony, Ferragut's first move was to change a bill 
 for five liras into coppers, preparatory to asking vari- 
 ous questions. The jaundiced and mustached steward 
 listened to him attentively with the complacency of a go- 
 between, and at last was able to formulate a complete 
 personality with all its data. The lady for whom he was 
 inquiring was the Signora Talberg. She was at present 
 away on an excursion, but she might return at any mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Ulysses passed an entire day with the tranquillity of 
 one who awaits at a sure place, gazing at the gulf from, 
 the balcony. Below him was the Castello dell' Ovo con- 
 nected with the land by a bridge. 
 
 The bcrsaglieri were occupying their ancient castle, 
 work of the viceroy, Pedro of Toledo. Many turrets of 
 dark rose color were crowded together upon this narrow, 
 egg-shaped island, where, in other days, the pusillani- 
 mous Spanish garrison was locked in the fortress for the 
 purpose of aiming bombards and culverins at the Nea- 
 politans when they no longer wished to pay taxes and 
 imposts. Its walls had been raised upon the ruins of 
 another castle in which Frederick II had guarded his 
 treasures, and whose chapel Giotto had painted. And 
 the medieval castle of which only the memory now re-
 
 FREYA 141 
 
 mained had, in its turn, been erected upon the remnants 
 of the Palace of Lucullus, who had located the center of 
 his celebrated gardens in this little island, then called 
 Megaris. 
 
 The cornets of the bersaglieri rejoiced the captain like 
 the announcement of a triumphal entry. "She's going 
 to come! She's going to come at any moment! . . ." 
 And he would look across the double mountain of the 
 island of Capri, black in the distance, closing the gulf 
 like a promontory, and the coast of Sorrento as rectilinear 
 as a wall. "There she is. . . ." Then he would lovingly 
 follow the course of the little steamboats plowing across 
 the immense blue surface, opening a triangle of foam. 
 In some of these Freya must be coming. 
 
 The first day was golden and full of hope. The sun 
 was sparkling in a cloudless sky, and the gulf was foam- 
 ing with bubbles of light under an atmosphere so calm 
 that not the slightest zephyr was rippling its surface. 
 The smoke plume of Vesuvius was upright and slender, 
 expanding upon the horizon like a pine tree of white 
 vapor. At the foot of the balcony the strolling musicians 
 kept succeeding each other from time to time, singing 
 voluptuous barcarolles and love serenades. . . . And 
 she did not come ! 
 
 The second day was silvery and desperate. There was 
 fog on the gulf; the sun was no more than a reddish 
 disk such as one sees in the northern countries; the 
 mountains were clothed with lead ; the clouds were hiding 
 the cone of the volcano; the sea appeared to be made 
 of tin, and a chilly wind was distending sails, skirts, and 
 overcoats, making the people scurry along the promenade 
 and the shore. The musicians continued their singing but 
 with melancholy sighs in the shelter of a corner, to keep 
 out of the furious blasts from the sea. "To die. . . To
 
 142 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 die for thee !" a baritone voice groaned between the harps 
 and violins. And she came ! 
 
 Upon learning from the waiter that the signora Tal- 
 berg was in her room on the floor below, Ulysses thrilled 
 with restlessness. What would she say upon finding him 
 installed in her hotel? . . . 
 
 The luncheon hour was at hand, and he impatiently 
 awaited the usual signals before going down to the din- 
 ing room. First an explosion would be heard behind the 
 albergo making the walls and roofs tremble, swelling out 
 into the immensity of the gulf. That was the midday 
 cannonade from the high castle of S. Elmo. Then cor- 
 nets from the Castello dell' Ovo would respond with their 
 joyous call to the smoking olla, and up the stairway of 
 the hotel would come the beating of the Chinese gong, 
 announcing that luncheon was served. 
 
 Ulysses went down to take his place at table, looking 
 in vain at the other guests who had preceded him. Freya 
 perhaps was going to come in with the delay of a traveler 
 who has just arrived and has been occupied in freshening 
 her toilet. 
 
 He lunched badly, looking continually at a great glass 
 doorway decorated with pictures of boats, fishes, and 
 sea gulls, and every time its polychromatic leaves parted, 
 his food seemed to stick in his throat. Finally came the 
 end of the lunch, and he slowly sipped his coffee. She 
 did not appear. 
 
 On returning to his room, he sent the whiskered 
 steward in search of news. . . . The signora had not 
 lunched in the hotel ; the signora had gone out while he 
 was in the dining-room. Surely she would show herself 
 in the evening. 
 
 At dinner time he had the same unpleasant experience, 
 believing that Freya was going to appear every time that 
 an unknown hand or a vague silhouette of a woman
 
 FREYA 143 
 
 pushed the door open from the other side of the opaque 
 glass. 
 
 He strolled up and down the vestibule a long time, 
 chewing rabidly on a cigar, and finally decided to accost 
 the porter, an astute brunette whose blue lapels em- 
 broidered with keys of gold were peeping over the edge 
 of his writing desk, taking in everything, informing him- 
 self of everything, while he appeared to be asleep. 
 
 The approach of Ulysses made him spring up as though 
 he heard the rustling of paper money. His information 
 was very precise. The signora Talberg very seldom ate 
 at the hotel. She had some friends who were occupying 
 a furnished flat 'in the district of Chiaja, with whom she 
 usually passed almost the entire day. Sometimes she did 
 not even return to sleep. . . . And he again sat down, his 
 hand closing tightly upon the bill which his imagination 
 had foreseen. 
 
 After a bad night Ulysses arose, resolved to await the 
 widow at the entrance to the hotel. He took his break- 
 fast at a little table in the vestibule, read "the newspaper, 
 had to go to the door in order to avoid the morning 
 cleaning, pursued by the dust of brooms and shaken 
 rugs. And once there, he pretended to take great inter- 
 est in the wandering musicians, who dedicated their love 
 songs and serenades to him, rolling up the whites of their 
 eyes upon presenting their hats for coins. 
 
 Some one came to keep him company. It was the 
 porter who now appeared very familiar and confidential, 
 as though since the preceding night a firm friendship, 
 based upon their secret, had sprung up between the two. 
 
 He spoke of the beauties of the country, counseling the 
 Spaniard to take divers excursions. ... A smile, an 
 encouraging word from Ferragut, and He would have 
 immediately proposed other recreations whose announce- 
 ment appeared to be fluttering around his lips. But the
 
 144 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sailor repelled all such amiability, glowering with dis- 
 pleasure. This vulgar fellow was going to spoil with his 
 presence the longed-for meeting. Perhaps he was hang- 
 ing around just to see and to know. . . . And taking ad- 
 vantage of one of his brief absences, Ulysses went off 
 down the long Via Partenope, following the parapet that 
 extends along the coast, pretending to be interested in 
 everything that he met, but without losing sight of the 
 door of the hotel. 
 
 He stopped before the oystermen's stands, examining 
 the valves of pearly shells piled up on the shelves, the 
 baskets of oysters from Fusaro and the enormous conch- 
 shells in whose hollow throats, according to the peddlers, 
 the distant roll of the sea was echoing like a haunting 
 memory. One by one he looked at all the motor launches, 
 the little regatta skiffs, the fishing barks, and the coast 
 schooners anchored in the quiet harbor of the island 
 dell' Ovo. He stood a long time quietly watching the 
 gentle waves that were combing their foam on the rocks 
 of the dikes under the horizontal fishing rods of various 
 fishermen. 
 
 Suddenly he saw Freya following the avenue beside 
 the houses. She recognized him at once and this dis- 
 covery made her stop near a street-opening, hesitating 
 whether to continue on or to flee toward the interior of 
 Naples. Then she came over to the seaside pavement, ap- 
 proaching Ferragut with a placid smile, greeting him 
 afar off, like a friend whose presence is only to be ex- 
 pected. 
 
 Such assurance rather disconcerted the captain. They 
 shook hands and she asked him calmly what he was 
 doing there looking at the waves, and if the repairs of 
 his boat were progressing satisfactorily. 
 
 "But admit that my presence has surprised you !"
 
 FREYA 145 
 
 said Ulysses, rather irritated by this tranquillity. "Con- 
 fess that you were not expecting to find me here." 
 
 Freya repeated her smiles with an expression of sweet 
 compassion. 
 
 "It is natural that I should find you here. You are 
 in your district, within sight of a hotel. . . . We are 
 neighbors." 
 
 In order more thoroughly to amuse herself with the 
 captain's astonishment, she made a long pause. Then 
 she added: 
 
 "I saw your name on the list of arrivals yesterday, on 
 my return to the hotel. I always look them over. It 
 pleases me to know who my neighbors are." 
 
 "And for that reason you did not come down to the 
 dining-room? . . ." 
 
 Ulysses asked this question hoping that she would re- 
 spond negatively. She could not answer it in any other 
 way, if only for good manners' sake. 
 
 "Yes, for that reason," Freya replied simply. "I 
 guessed that you were waiting to meet me and I did not 
 wish to go into the dining-room. ... I give you fair 
 warning that I shall always do the same." 
 
 Ulysses uttered an "Ah!" of amazement. . . . No 
 woman had ever spoken to him with such frankness. 
 
 "Neither has your presence here surprised me," she 
 continued. "I was expecting it. I know the innocent 
 wiles of you men. 'Since he did not find me in the hotel, 
 he will wait for me to-day in the street,' I said to myself, 
 upon arising this morning. . . . Before coming out, I 
 was following your footsteps from the window of my 
 room. . . ." 
 
 Ferragut looked at her in surprise and dismay. What 
 a woman ! . . . 
 
 "I might have escaped through any cross street while 
 your back was turned. I saw you before you saw me.
 
 146 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 . . . But these false situations stretching along indef- 
 initely are distasteful to me. It is better to speak the 
 entire truth face to face. . . . And therefore I have come 
 to meet you. . . ." 
 
 Instinct made him turn his head toward the hotel. 
 The porter was standing at the entrance looking out 
 over the sea, but with his eyes undoubtedly turned toward 
 them. 
 
 "Let us go on," said Freya. "Accompany me a little 
 ways. We shall talk together and then you can leave 
 me. . . . Perhaps we shall separate greater friends than 
 ever." 
 
 They strolled in silence all the length of the Via Par- 
 tenope until they reached the gardens along the beach 
 of Chiaja, losing sight of the hotel. Ferragut wished to 
 renew the conversation, but could not begin it. He 
 feared to appear ridiculous. This woman was making 
 him timid. 
 
 Looking at her with admiring eyes, he noted the 
 great changes that had been made in the adornment of her 
 person. She was no longer clad in the dark tailor-made 
 in which he had first seen her. She was wearing a blue 
 and white silk gown with a handsome fur over her 
 shoulders and a cluster of purple heron feathers on top 
 of her wide hat. 
 
 The black hand-bag that had always accompanied her 
 on her journeys had been replaced by a gold-meshed one 
 of showy richness, Australian gold of a greenish tone 
 like an overlay of Florentine bronze. In her ears were 
 two great, thick emeralds, and on her fingers a half 
 dozen diamonds whose facets twinkled in the sunlight. 
 The pearl necklace was still on her neck peeping out 
 through the V-shaped opening of her gown. It was the 
 magnificent toilet of a rich actress who puts everything 
 on herself, of one so enamored with jewels that she
 
 FREYA 147 
 
 is not able to live without their contact, adorning herself 
 with them the minute she is out of bed, regardless of the 
 hour and the rules of good taste. 
 
 But Ferragut did not take into consideration the un- 
 suitableness of all this luxury. Everything about her 
 appeared to him admirable. 
 
 Without knowing just how, he began to talk. He was 
 astonished at hearing his own voice, saying always the 
 same thing in different words. His thoughts were inco- 
 herent, but they were all clustered around an incessantly 
 repeated statement, his love, his immense love for 
 Freya. 
 
 And Freya continued marching on in silence with a 
 compassionate expression in her eyes and in the corners 
 of her mouth. It pleased her pride as a woman to con- 
 template this strong man stuttering in childish confusion. 
 At the same time she grew impatient at the monotony 
 of his words. 
 
 "Don't say any more, Captain," she finally interrupted. 
 "I can guess all that you are going to say, and I've heard 
 many times what you have said, You do not sleep 
 you do not eat you do not live because of me. Your 
 existence is impossible if I do not love you. A little 
 more conversation and you will threaten me with shoot- 
 ing yourself, if I am not yours. . . . Same old song! 
 They all say the same thing. There are no creatures 
 with less originality than you men when you wish some- 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 They were in one of the avenues of the promenade. 
 Through the palm trees and glossy magnolias the lumi- 
 nous gulf could be seen on one side, and on the other 
 the handsome edifices of the beach of Chiaja. Some 
 ragged urchins kept running around them and following 
 them, until they took refuge in an ornamental little white 
 temple at the end of the avenue.
 
 148 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Very well, then, enamored sea-wolf," continued 
 Freya; "you need not sleep, you need not eat, you may 
 kill yourself if the fancy strikes you ; but I am not able 
 to love you ; I shall never love you. You may give up 
 all hope; life is not mere diversion and I have other 
 more serious occupations that absorb all my time." 
 
 In spite of the playful smile with which she accom- 
 panied these words, Ferragut surmised a very firm will. 
 
 "Then," he said in despair, "it will all be useless ? . . . 
 Even though I make the greatest sacrifices? . . . Even 
 though I give proofs of love greater than you have ever 
 known? . . ." 
 
 "All useless," she replied roundly, without a sign of a 
 smile. 
 
 They paused before the ornamental little temple-shaped 
 building, with its dome supported by white columns and 
 a railing around it. The bust of Virgil adorned the cen- 
 ter, an enormous head of somewhat feminine beauty. 
 
 The poet had died in Naples in "Sweet Parthenope," 
 on his return from Greece and his body, turned to dust, 
 was perhaps mingled with the soil of this garden. The 
 Neapolitan people of the Middle Ages had attributed to 
 him all kinds of wonderful things, even transforming the 
 poet into a powerful magician. The wizard Virgil in one 
 night had constructed the Castello dell' Ovo, placing it 
 with his own hands upon a great egg (Ovo) that was 
 floating in the sea. He also had opened with his magic 
 blasts the tunnel of Posilipo near which are a vineyard 
 and a tomb visited for centuries as the last resting place 
 of the poet. Little scamps, playing around the railing, 
 used to hurl papers and stones inside the temple. The 
 white head of the powerful sorcerer attracted them and 
 at the same time filled them with admiration and fear. 
 
 "Thus far and no further," ordered Freya. "You will 
 continue on your way. I am going to the high part of
 
 FREYA 149 
 
 Chiaja. . . . But before separating as good friends, you 
 are going to give me your word not to follow me, not 
 to importune me with your amorous attentions, not to 
 mix yourself in my life." 
 
 Ulysses did not reply, hanging his head in genuine 
 dismay. To his disillusion was added the sting of 
 wounded pride. He who had imagined such very dif- 
 ferent things when they should see each other again to- 
 gether, alone! . . . 
 
 Freya pitied his sadness. 
 
 "Don't be a baby! . . . This will soon pass. Think 
 of your business affairs, and of your family waiting 
 for you over there in Spain. . . . Besides, the world is 
 full of women; I'm not the only one." 
 
 But Ferragut interrupted her. "Yes, she was the only 
 one! . . . The only one! . . ." And he said it with a 
 conviction that awakened another one of her compassion- 
 ate smiles. 
 
 This man's tenacity was beginning to irritate her. 
 
 "Captain, I know your type very well. You are an 
 egoist, like all other men. Your boat is tied up in the 
 harbor because of an accident; you've got to remain 
 ashore a month ; you meet on one of your trips a woman 
 who is idiot enough to admit that she remembers meet- 
 ing you at other times, and you say to yourself, Magnifi- 
 cent occasion to while away agreeably a tedious period 
 of waiting! . . .' If I should yield to your desire, 
 within a few weeks, as soon as your boat was ready, the 
 hero of my love, the knight of my dreams, would betake 
 himself to the sea, saying as a parting salute: 'Adieu, 
 simpleton !' " 
 
 Ulysses protested with energy. No : he wished that his 
 boat might never be repaired. He was computing with 
 agony the days that remained. If it were necessary, he 
 would abandon it, remaining forever in Naples.
 
 ISO MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "And what have I to do in Naples?" interrupted 
 Freya. "I am a mere bird of passage here, just as you 
 are. We knew each other on the seas of another hemi- 
 sphere, and we have just happened to run across each 
 other here in Italy. Next time, if we ever meet again, 
 it will be in Japan or Canada or the Cape. . . . Go on 
 your way, you enamored old shark, and let me go mine. 
 Imagine to yourself that we are two boats that have 
 met when becalmed, have signaled each other, have ex- 
 changed greetings, have wished each other good luck, 
 and afterwards have continued on our way, perhaps 
 never to see each other again." 
 
 Ferragut shook his head negatively. Such a thing 
 could not be, he could not resign himself to losing sight 
 of her forever. 
 
 "These men!" she continued, each time a little more 
 irritated. "You all imagine that things must be arranged 
 entirely according to your caprices. 'Because I desire 
 thee, thou must be mine. . . .' And what if I don't want 
 to? ... And if I don't feel any necessity of being 
 loved? ... If I wish only to live in liberty, with no 
 other love than that which I feel for myself ? . . ." 
 
 She considered it a great misfortune to be a woman. 
 She always envied men for their independence. They 
 could hold themselves aloof, abstaining from the passions 
 that waste life, without anybody's coming to importune 
 them in their retreat. They were at liberty to go wher- 
 ever they wanted to, to travel the wide world over, 
 without leaving behind their footsteps a wake of solici- 
 tors. 
 
 "You appear to me, Captain, a very charming man. 
 The other day I was delighted to meet you; it was an 
 apparition from the past; I saw in you the joy of my 
 youth that is beginning to fade away, and the melancholy 
 of certain recollections. . . . And nevertheless, I am
 
 FREYA 151 
 
 going to end by hating you. Do you hear me, you tedious 
 old Argonaut? ... I shall loathe you because you will 
 not be a mere friend; because you know only how to 
 talk everlastingly about the same thing; because you are 
 a person out of a novel, a Latin, very interesting, per- 
 haps, to other women, but insufferable to me." 
 
 Her face contracted with a gesture of scorn and pity. 
 "Ah, those Latins ! . . ." 
 
 "They're all the same, Spaniards, Italians, French- 
 men. . . . They were born for the same thing. They 
 hardly meet an attractive woman but they believe that 
 they are evading their obligations if they do not beg for 
 her love and what comes afterward. . . . Cannot a man 
 and woman simply be friends? Couldn't you be just a 
 good comrade and treat me as a companion ?" 
 
 Ferragut protested energetically. No; no, he couldn't. 
 He loved her and, after being repelled with such cruelty, 
 his love would simply go on increasing. He was sure of 
 that. 
 
 A nervous tremor made Freya's voice sharp and cut- 
 ting, and her eyes took on a dangerous gleam. She 
 looked at her companion as though he were an enemy 
 whose death she longed for. 
 
 "Very well, then, if you must know it. I abominate 
 all men ; I abominate them, because I know them so well. 
 I would like the death of all of them, of every one ! . . . 
 The evil that they have wrought in my life! ... I would 
 like to be immensely beautiful, the handsomest woman on 
 earth, and to possess the intellect of all the sages con- 
 centrated in my brain, to be rich and to be a queen, in 
 order that all the men of the world, crazy with desire, 
 would come to prostrate themselves before me. . . . And 
 I would lift up my feet with their iron heels, and I 
 would go trampling over them, crushing their heads . . . 
 so ... and so . . and so! . . ."
 
 152 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 She struck the sands of the garden with the soles of 
 her little shoes. An hysterical sneer distorted her mouth. 
 
 "Perhaps I might make an exception of you. . . . You 
 who, with all your braggart arrogance, are, after all, out- 
 right and simple-hearted. I believe you capable of assur- 
 ing a woman of all kinds of love-lies . . . believing them 
 yourself most of all. But the others! . . . Ay, the 
 others! . . . How I hate them! . . ." 
 
 She looked over toward the palace of the Aquarium, 
 glistening white between the colonnade of trees. 
 
 "I would like to be," she continued pensively, "one of 
 those animals of the sea that can cut with their 
 claws, that have arms like scissors, saws, pincers . . . 
 that devour their own kind, and absorb everything around 
 them." 
 
 Then she looked at the branch of a tree from which 
 were hanging several silver threads, sustaining insects 
 with active tentacles. 
 
 "I would like to be a spider, an enormous spider, that 
 all men might be drawn to my web as irresistibly as flies. 
 With what satisfaction would I crunch them between 
 my claws ! How I would fasten my mouth against their 
 hearts ! . . . And I would suck them. ... I would suck 
 them until there wasn't a drop of blood left, tossing away 
 then their empty carcasses ! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses began to wonder if he had fallen in love with 
 a crazy woman. His disquietude, his surprise and ques- 
 tioning eyes gradually restored Freya's serenity. 
 
 She passed one hand across her forehead, as though 
 awakening from a nightmare and wishing to banish re- 
 membrance with this gesture. Her glance became 
 calmer. 
 
 "Good-by, Ferragut; do not make me talk any more. 
 You will soon doubt my reason. . . . You are doing so 
 already. We shall be friends, just friends and nothing
 
 FREYA 153 
 
 more. It is useless to think of anything else. ... Do 
 not follow me. . . . We shall see each other. ... I shall 
 hunt you up. . . . Good-by ! . . . Good-by !" 
 
 And although Ferragut felt tempted to follow her, 
 he remained motionless, seeing her hurry rapidly away, 
 as though fleeing from the words that she had just let 
 fall before the little temple of the poet.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 ITHE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 
 
 IN spite of her promise, Freya made no effort to meet 
 the sailor. "We shall see each other. ... I shall hunt 
 you up." But it was Ferragut who did the hunting, sta- 
 tioning himself around the hotel. 
 
 "How crazy I was the other morning! ... I wonder 
 what you could have thought of me !" she said the first 
 time that she spoke to him again. 
 
 Not every day did Ulysses have the pleasure of a con- 
 versation which invariably developed from the Via Par- 
 tenope to Virgil's monument. The most of the mornings 
 he used to wait in vain opposite the oyster stands, listen- 
 ing to the musicians who were bombarding the closed 
 windows of the hotel with their sentimental romances and 
 mandolins. Freya would not appear. 
 
 His impatience usually dragged Ulysses back to the 
 hotel in order to beg information of the porter. Ani- 
 mated by the hope of a new bill, the flunkey would go to 
 the telephone and inquire of the servants on the upper 
 floor. And then with a sad and obsequious smile, as 
 though lamenting his own words : "The signora is not in. 
 The signora has passed the night outside of the albergo." 
 And Ferragut would go away furious. 
 
 Sometimes he would go to see how the repairs were 
 getting on in his boat, an excellent pretext for venting 
 his wrath on somebody. On other mornings he would go 
 to the garden of the beach of Chiaja, to the very same 
 places through which he had strolled with Freya. He
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 155 
 
 was always looking for her to appear from one moment 
 to another. Everything 'round about suggested some re- 
 minder of her. Trees and benches, pavements and elec- 
 tric lights knew her perfectly because of having formed 
 a part of her regular walk. 
 
 Becoming convinced that he was waiting in vain, a 
 last hope made him glance toward the white building of 
 the Aquarium. Freya had frequently mentioned it. She 
 was accustomed to amuse herself, oftentimes passing en- 
 tire hours there, contemplating the life of the inhabi- 
 tants of the sea. And Ferragut blinked involuntarily 
 as he passed rapidly from the garden boiling under the 
 sun into the shadow of the damp galleries with no other 
 illumination than that of the daylight which penetrated 
 to the interior of the Aquarium, a light that, seen 
 through the water and the glass, took on a mysterious 
 tone, the green and diffused tint of the subsea depths. 
 
 This visit enabled him to kill time more placidly. 
 There came to his mind old readings confirmed now by 
 direct vision. He was not the kind of sailor that sails 
 along regardless of what exists under his keel. He 
 wanted to know the mysteries of the immense blue palace 
 over whose roof he was usually navigating, devoting him- 
 self to the study of oceanography, the most recent of 
 sciences. 
 
 Upon taking his first sfeps in the Aquarium, he imme- 
 diately pictured the marine depths which exploration had 
 divided and charted so unequally. Near the shores, in 
 the zone called "the littoral" where the rivers empty, the 
 materials of nourishment were accumulated by the im- 
 pulse of the tides and currents, and there flourished sub- 
 aquatic vegetation. This was the zone of the great fish 
 and reached down to within two hundred fathoms of the 
 bottom, a depth to which the sun's rays never penetrate.
 
 156 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Beyond that there was no light; plant life disappeared 
 and with it the herbivorous animals. 
 
 The submarine grade, a gentle one down to this 
 point, now becomes very steep, descending rapidly to 
 the oceanic abysses, that immense mass of water (al- 
 most the entire ocean), without light, without waves, 
 without tides, without currents, without oscillations of 
 temperature, which is called the "abyssal" zone. 
 
 In the littoral, the waters, healthfully agitated, vary 
 in saltiness according to the proximity of the rivers. The 
 rocks and deeps are covered with a vegetation which is 
 green near the surface, becoming darker and darker, even 
 turning to a dark red and brassy yellow as it gets further 
 from the light. In this oceanic paradise of nutritive and 
 luminous waters charged with bacteria and microscopic 
 nourishment, life is developed in exuberance. In spite 
 of the continual traps of the fishermen, the marine herds 
 keep themselves intact because of their infinite powers 
 of reproduction. 
 
 The fauna of the abyssal depths where the lack of 
 light makes all vegetation impossible, is largely carnivor- 
 ous, the weak inhabitants usually devouring the residuum 
 and dead animals that come down from the surface. The 
 strong ones, in their turn, nourish themselves on the con- 
 centrated sustenance of the little cannibals. 
 
 The bottom of the ocean, a monotonous desert of mud 
 and sand, the accumulated sediment of hundreds of cen- 
 turies, has occasional oases of strange vegetation. These 
 grove-like growths spring up like spots of light just where 
 the meeting of the surface currents rain down a manna 
 of diminutive dead bodies. The twisted limestone 
 plants, hard as stone, are really not plants at all, but 
 animals. Their leaves are simply inert and treacherous 
 tentacles which contract very suddenly, and their flowers,
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 157 
 
 avid mouths, which bend over their prey, and suck it in 
 through their gluttonous openings. 
 
 A fantastic light streaks this world of darkness with 
 multicolored shafts, animal light produced by living or- 
 ganisms. In the lowest abysses sightless creatures are 
 very scarce, contrary to the common opinion, which im- 
 agines that almost all of them lack eyes because of their 
 distance from the sun. The filaments of the carnivorous 
 trees are garlands of lamps ; the eyes of the hunting ani- 
 mals, electric globes ; the insignificant bacteria, light-pro- 
 ducing little glands all of which open or close with phos- 
 phorescent switches according to the necessity of the 
 moment, sometimes in order to persecute and devour, 
 and at others in order to keep themselves hidden in the 
 shadows. 
 
 The animal-plants, motionless as stars, surround their 
 ferocious mouths with a circle of flashing lights, and 
 immediately their diminutive prey feel themselves as ir- 
 resistibly drawn toward them as do the moths that fly 
 toward the lamp, and the birds of the sea that beat 
 against the lighthouse. 
 
 None of the lights of the earth can compare with 
 those of this abyssal world. All artificial fires pale before 
 the varieties of its organic brilliance. 
 
 The living branches of polyps, the eyes of the animals, 
 even the mud sown with brilliant points, emit phosphoric 
 shafts like sparks whose splendors incessantly vanish and 
 reappear. And these lights pass through many grada- 
 tions of colors : violet, purple, orange, blue, and espe- 
 cially green. On perceiving a victim nearby, the gigantic 
 cuttle-fishes become illuminated like livid suns, moving 
 their arms with death-dealing strokes. 
 
 All the abyssal beings have their organs of sight enor- 
 mously developed in order to catch even the weakest 
 rays of light. Many have enormous, protruding eyes.
 
 258 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Others have them detached from the body at the end of 
 two cylindrical tentacles like telescopes. 
 
 Those that are blind and do not throw out any ra- 
 diance are compensated for this inferiority by the de- 
 velopment of the tactile organs. Their antennae and 
 swimming organs are immeasurably prolonged in the 
 darkness. The filaments of their body, long hairs rich 
 in nerve terminals, can distinguish instantaneously the 
 appetizing prey, or the enemy lying in wait. 
 
 The abyssal deeps have two floors or roofs. In the 
 highest, is the so-called neritic zone, the oceanic sur- 
 face, diaphanous and luminous, far from any coast. Next 
 is seen the pelagic zone, much deeper, in which reside 
 the fishes of incessant motion, capable of living without 
 reposing on the bottom. 
 
 The corpses of the neritic animals and of those that 
 swim between the two waters are the direct or indirect 
 sustenance of the abyssal fauna. These beings with weak 
 dental equipment and sluggish speed, badly armed for 
 the conquest of living prey, nourish themselves with the 
 dropping of this rain of alimentary material. The great 
 swimmers, supplied with formidable mandibles and im- 
 mense and elastic stomachs, prefer the fortunes of war, 
 the pursuit of living prey, and devour, as the carnivor- 
 ous devour the herbivorous on land, all the little feeders 
 on debris and plancton. This word of recent scientific 
 invention presented to Captain Ferragut's mind the most 
 humble and interesting of the oceanic inhabitants. The 
 plancton is the life that floats in loose clusters or forming 
 cloud-like groups across the neritic surface, even de- 
 scending to the abyssal depths. 
 
 Wherever the plancton goes, there is living animation, 
 grouping itself in closely packed colonies. The purest 
 and most translucent salt water shows under certain 
 luminous rays a multitude of little bodies as restless as
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 159 
 
 the dust motes that dance in shafts of sunlight. These 
 transparent beings mingled with microscopic algae and 
 embryonic mucosities are the plancton. In its dense mass, 
 scarcely visible to the human eye, float the siphonoforas, 
 garlands of entities united by a transparent thread as 
 fragile, delicate and luminous as Bohemian crystal. Other 
 equally subtle organisms have the form of little glass 
 torpedoes. The sum of all the albuminous materials 
 floating on the sea are condensed in these nutrient clouds 
 to which are added the secretions of living animals, the 
 remnants of cadavers, the bodies brought down by the 
 rivers, and the nourishing fragments from the meadows 
 of algae. 
 
 When the plancton, either by chance or following some 
 mysterious attraction, accumulates on some determined 
 point of the shore, the waters boil with fishes of an as- 
 tonishing fertility. The seaside towns increase in num- 
 ber, the sea is filled with sails, the tables are more opu- 
 lent, industries are established, factories are opened and 
 money circulates along the coast, attracted thither from 
 the interior by the commerce in fresh and dried fish. 
 
 If the plancton capriciously withdraws itself, floating 
 toward another shore, the marine herds emigrate behind 
 these living meadows, and the blue plain remains as 
 empty as a desert accursed. The fleets of fishing boats 
 are placed high and dry on the beach, the shops are 
 closed, the stewpot is no longer steaming, the horses of 
 the gendarmerie charge against protesting and famine* 
 stricken crowds, the Opposition howls in the Chambers, 
 and the newspapers make the Government responsible 
 for everything. 
 
 This animal and vegetable dust nourishes the mosfi 
 numerous species which, in their turn, serve as pas- 
 ture for the great swimmers armed with teeth. 
 
 The whales, most bulky of all the oceanic inhabitants,
 
 160 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 close this destructive cycle, since they devour each other 
 in order to live. The Pacific giant, without teeth, sup- 
 plies his organism with planet on alone, absorbing it by 
 the ton; that imperceptible and crystalline manna nour- 
 ishes his body (looking like an overturned belfry), and 
 makes purple, fatty rivers of warm blood circulate under 
 its oily skin. 
 
 The transparency of the beings in the plane ton recalled 
 to Ferragut's memory the marvelous colorings of the 
 inhabitants of the sea, adjusted exactly to their needs 
 of preservation. The species that live on the surface 
 have, as a general rule, a blue back and silver belly. In 
 this way it is possible for them to escape the sight of 
 their enemies ; seen from the shadows of the depths, they 
 are confounded with the white and luminous color of the 
 surface. The sardines that swim in shoals are able 
 to pass unnoticed, thanks to their backs blue as the water, 
 thus escaping the fish and the birds which are hunting 
 them. 
 
 Living in the abysses where the light never pene- 
 trates, the pelagic animals are not obliged to be trans- 
 parent or blue like the neritic beings on the surface. 
 Some are opaque and colorless, others, bronzed and 
 black; most of them are clad in somber hues, whose 
 splendor is the despair of the artist's brush, incapable 
 of imitating them. A magnificent red seems to be the 
 base of this color scheme, fading gradually to pale pink, 
 violet, amber, even losing itself in the milky iris of the 
 pearls and in the opalescence of the mother-of-pearl of 
 the mollusks. The eyes of certain fish placed at the end 
 of jaw bones separated from the body, sparkle like 
 diamonds in the ends of a double pin. The protruding 
 glands, the warts, the curving backs, take on the colorings 
 of jewelry. 
 
 But the precious stones of earth are dead minerals
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 161 
 
 that need rays of light in order to emit the slightest 
 flash. The animated gems of the ocean fishes and 
 corals sparkle with their own colors that are a reflex of 
 their vitality. Their green, their rose color, their intense 
 yellow, their metallic iridescence, all their liquid tints are 
 eternally glazed by a moist varnish which cannot exist in 
 the atmospheric world. 
 
 Some of these beings are capable of a marvelous power 
 of mimicry that makes them identify themselves with 
 inanimate objects, or in a few moments run through 
 every gamut of color. Some of great nervous activity, 
 make themselves absolutely immovable and contract, fill- 
 ing themselves with wrinkles, taking on the dark tone 
 of the rocks. Others in moments of irritation or amor- 
 ous fever, cover themselves with streaks of light and 
 tremulous spots, different colored clouds passing over 
 their epidermis with every thrill. The cuttlefish and 
 ink fish, upon perceiving that they are pursued, enwrap 
 themselves in a cloud of invisibility, just as did the en- 
 chanters of old in the books of chivalry, darkening the 
 water with the ink stored in their glands. 
 
 Ferragut continued to pass slowly along the Aquarium 
 between the two rows of vertical tanks, stone cases 
 with thick glass that permitted full view of the interior. 
 The clear and shining walls that received the fire of the 
 sun through their upper part, spread a green reflection 
 over the shadows of the corridors. As they made the 
 rounds, the visitors took on a livid paleness, as though 
 they were marching through a submarine defile. 
 
 The tranquil water within the tanks was scarcely vis- 
 ible. Behind the thick glass there appeared to exist only 
 a marvelous atmosphere, an air of dreamland in which 
 drifted up and down various floating beings of many 
 colors. The bubbles of their respiration was the only 
 thing that announced the presence of the liquid. In the
 
 162 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 upper part of these aquatic cages, the luminous atmos- 
 phere vibrated under a continual spray of transparent 
 dust, the sea water with air injected into it that was 
 renewing the conditions of existence for these guests of 
 the Aquarium. 
 
 Seeing these revivifying streams, the captain admired 
 the nourishing force of the blue water upon which he 
 had passed almost all his life. 
 
 Earth lost its pride when compared with the aquatic 
 immensity. In the ocean had appeared the first mani- 
 festations of life, continuing then its evolutionary cycle 
 over the mountains which had also come up from its 
 depths. If the earth was the mother of man, the sea 
 was his grandmother. 
 
 The number of terrestrial animals is most insignificant 
 compared with the maritime ones. Upon the earth's 
 surface (much smaller than the ocean) the beings occupy 
 only the surface of the soil, and an atmospheric can- 
 opy of a certain number of meters. The birds and in- 
 sects seldom go beyond this in their flights. In the sea, 
 the animals are dispersed over all its levels, through 
 many miles of depth multiplied by thousands and thou- 
 sands of longitudinal leagues. Infinite quantities of 
 creatures, whose number it is impossible to calculate, 
 swim incessantly in all the strata of its waters. Land is 
 a surface, a plane ; the sea is a volume. 
 
 The immense aquatic mass, three times more salty 
 than at the beginning of the planet, because of a millen- 
 narian evaporation that has diminished the liquid without 
 absorbing its components, retains mixed with its chlo- 
 rides, copper, nickel, iron, zinc, lead, and even gold, from 
 the metallic veins that planetary upheaval deposits upon 
 the oceanic bottom; compared with this mass, the veins 
 of mountains with their golden sands deposited by the 
 rivers are but insignificant tentacles.
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 163 
 
 Silver also is dissolved in its waters. Ferragut knew 
 by certain calculations that with the silver floating in 
 the ocean could be erected pyramids more enormous than 
 those in Egypt. 
 
 The men who once had thought of exploiting these 
 mineral riches had given up the visionary idea because 
 the minerals were too diluted and it would be impossible 
 to make use of them. The oceanic beings know better 
 how to recognize their presence, letting them filter 
 through their bodies for the renovation and coloration of 
 their organs. The copper accumulates in their blood ; the 
 gold and silver are discovered in the texture of the ani- 
 mal-plants; the phosphorus is absorbed by the sponges; 
 the lead and the zinc by species of algae. 
 
 Every oceanic creature is able to extract from the 
 water the residuum from certain metals dissolved into 
 particles so incalculably tiny that no chemical process 
 could ever capture them. The carbonates of lime de- 
 posited by the rivers or dragged from the coast serve 
 innumerable species for the construction of their cover- 
 ings, skeletons, and spiral shells. The corals, filtering 
 the water across their flabby and mucous bodies, solidify 
 their hard skeletons so that they may finally be converted 
 into habitable islands. 
 
 The beings of disconcerting diversity that were float- 
 ing, diving, or wiggling around Ferragut were no more 
 than oceanic water. The fish were water made into' 
 flesh; the slimy, mucilaginous animals were water in a 
 gelatinous state; the crustaceans and the polypi were 
 water turned to stone. 
 
 In one of the tanks he saw a landscape which appeared 
 like that of another planet, grandiose yet at the same 
 time reduced, like a woods seen in a diorama. It was a 
 palm grove, surging up between the rocks, but the rocks 
 jvere only pebbles, and the palm trees, annelides of
 
 164 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the sea, were simply worms holding themselves in up- 
 right immovability. 
 
 They kept their ringed bodies within a leathern tube 
 that formed their protective case, and from this rec- 
 tilinear, marble-colored trunk sent forth, like a spout 
 of branches, the constantly moving tentacles which served 
 them as organs for breathing and eating. 
 
 Endowed with rare sensitiveness, it was enough for 
 a cloud to pass before the sun to make them shrink 
 quickly within these tubes, deprived of their showy capi- 
 tals, like beheaded palm trees. Then, slowly and pru- 
 dently the animated pincers would come protruding again 
 through the opening of their cylindrical scabbards, float- 
 ing in the water with anxious hope. All these trees and 
 flower-animals developed a mechanical voracity when- 
 ever a microscopic victim fell under the power of their 
 tentacles ; then the soft clusters of branches would con- 
 tract, close, drawing in their prey, and the worm, with- 
 drawing into the lowest part of the slender tower se- 
 creted by himself, would digest his conquest. 
 
 The other tanks then attracted the attention of the 
 sailor. 
 
 Slipping over the stones, introducing themselves into 
 their caverns, drowsing, half buried in the sand, all 
 the varied and tumultuous species of crustaceans were 
 moving their cutting and tentacular grinders and making 
 their Japanese armor gleam : some of their frames were 
 red almost black as though guarding the dry blood 
 of a remote combat; others were of a scarlet freshness 
 as though reflecting the first fires of the flaming dawn. 
 
 The largest of the lobsters (the homard, the sover- 
 eign of the tables of the rich) was resting upon the 
 scissors of its front claws, as powerful as an arm, or a 
 double battle-axe. The spiny lobster was leaping with 
 agility over the peaks, by means of the hooks on its
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 165 
 
 claws, its weapons of war and nutrition. Its nearest 
 relative, the cricket of the sea, a dull and heavy animal, 
 was sulking in the corners covered with mire and with 
 sea weed, in an immovability that made it easily con- 
 founded with the stones. Around these giants, like a 
 democracy accustomed to endure from time to time the 
 attack of the strong, crayfish and shrimps were swim- 
 ming in shoals. Their movements were free and grace- 
 ful, and their sensitiveness so acute that the slightest 
 agitation made them start, taking tremendous springs. 
 
 Ulysses kept thinking of the slavery that Nature had 
 imposed upon these animals, giving them their beautiful, 
 defensive envelopment. 
 
 They were bora armored and their development 
 obliged them repeatedly to change their form of arms. 
 They sloughed their skins like reptiles, but on account 
 of their cylindrical shape were able to perform this 
 operation with the facility of a leg that abandons its 
 stocking. When it begins to crack, the crustaceans have 
 to withdraw from out their cuirass the multiple mechan- 
 ism of their members and appendages, claws, antennae 
 and the great pincers, a slow and dangerous operation 
 in which many perish, lacerated by their own efforts. 
 Then, naked and disarmed, they have to wait until a 
 new skin forms that in time is also converted into a 
 coat of mail, all this in the midst of a hostile environ- 
 ment, surrounded with greedy beasts, large and small, 
 attracted by their rich flesh, and with no other defense 
 than that of keeping themselves in hiding. 
 
 Among the swarm of small crustaceans moving around 
 on the sandy bottom, hunting, eating, or fighting with a 
 ferocious entanglement of claws, the onlookers always 
 search for a bizarre and extravagant little creature, the 
 paguro, nicknamed "Bernard, the Hermit." It is a snail
 
 166 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 that advances upright as a tower, upon crab claws, yet 
 having as a crown the long hair of a sea-anemone. 
 
 This comical apparition is composed of three distinct 
 animals one upon the other or, rather, of two living 
 beings carrying a bier between them. The paguro crab 
 is born with the lower part of his case unprotected, a 
 most excellent tid-bit, tender and savory for hungry 
 fishes. The necessity for defending himself makes him 
 seek a snail shell in order to protect the weak part of 
 his organism. If he encounters an empty dwelling of 
 this class, he appropriates it. If not, he eats the inhabi- 
 tant, introducing his posterior armed with two hooked 
 claws into its mother-of-pearl refuge. 
 
 But these defensive precautions are not sufficient for 
 the weak paguro. In order to live he needs rather to put 
 himself on the offensive, to inspire respect in devouring 
 monsters, especially in the octopi that are seeking as 
 prey his trunk and hairy claws, exposed to locomotion 
 outside his tower. 
 
 In course of time a sea-anemone comes along and 
 attaches itself to the calcareous peak, the number often 
 amounting to five or six, although there is no bodily rela- 
 tion between the paguro and the organisms on top. They 
 are simply partners with a reciprocal interest. The ani- 
 mal-plants sting like nettles; all the monsters without a 
 shell flee from the poison of their tingling organs, and 
 the fragments of their hair burns like pins of fire. In 
 this manner the humble paguro, carrying upon his back 
 his tower crowned with formidable batteries, inspires 
 terror in the gigantic beasts of the deep. The anemones 
 on their part are grateful to him for being thus able to 
 pass incessantly from one side to the other, coming in 
 contact with every class of animals. In this way, they 
 can eat with greater facility than their sisters fixed on 
 the rocks; for they do not have to wait, as the others
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 167 
 
 must, until food drifts casually to their tentacles. Be- 
 sides this, there is always floating on top some of the 
 remains of the booty that the crafty crab in his wander- 
 ing impunity has gathered below. 
 
 Ferragut, on passing from one tank to the other, men- 
 tally established the gradation of the fauna from the 
 primitive protoplast to the perfect organism. 
 
 The sponges of the Mediterranean swam as soon as 
 they were born, when they were like pin-heads, with 
 vibratory movements. Then they remained immov- 
 able, the water filtering through the cracks and crannies 
 of their texture, protecting their delicate flesh with a 
 bristling of spikes, sharp limestone needles with which 
 they pierced the passing fishes and rendered them im- 
 movable, availing themselves of the nourishment of 
 their putrefying remains. 
 
 The nettles of the sea spread out their stinging threads 
 by the thousands, discharging a venom that stupefies 
 the victim and makes him fall into their corolla. With 
 unlimited voracity, and fastened to the rocks, they over- 
 power fish much larger than they, and at the first hint 
 of danger shrink together in such a way that it is very 
 difficult to see them. The sea-plumes lie flabby and dark 
 as dead animals, until absorbing water, they suddenly 
 rear themselves up, transparent and full of leaves. Thus 
 they go from one side to the other, with the lightness of 
 a feather, or, burrowing in the sand, send forth a phos- 
 phoric glow. The belles of the sea, the elegant Medusae, 
 open out the floating circle of their fragile beauty. They 
 are transparent fungi, open umbrellas of glass that ad- 
 vance by means of their contractions. From the inner 
 center of their dome hangs a tube equally transparent 
 and gelatinous, the mouth of the animal. Long fila- 
 ments depend from the edges of their circular forms,
 
 i68 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sensitive tentacles that at the same time maintain their 
 floating equilibrium. 
 
 These fragile beings, that appear to belong to an 
 enchanted fauna, white as rock crystal with soft bor- 
 ders of rose color or violet, sting like nettles and defend 
 themselves by their fiery touch. Some subtle and color- 
 less parasols were living here in the tank under the pro- 
 tection of a second enclosure of crystal, and their mucous 
 mistiness scarcely showed itself within this bell-shaped 
 glass except as a pale line of blue vapor. 
 
 Below these transparent and ethereal forms that burn 
 whatever they touch, venturing to capture prey much 
 larger than themselves, were grouped as in gardens the 
 so-called "flower of blood," the red coral, and especially 
 the star-fish, forming with their corolla an orange-col- 
 ored ring. 
 
 The captain had seen these stony vegetations, like sub- 
 merged groves, in the depths of the Dead Sea and also in 
 the southern seas. He had sailed over them under the 
 illusion that through the bluish depths of the ocean were 
 circulating broad rivers of blood. 
 
 The oseznos (bear-cubs) and the star-fish were slowly 
 waving the forms that had given rise to their names, 
 secreting poisons in order to paralyze their victims, con* 
 tracting themselves until they formed a ball of lances 
 that grasped their prey in a deadly embrace or cut it 
 with the bony knives of their radiating body. The iris 
 of the sea balanced themselves on end, moving their 
 members as though they were petals. 
 
 Upon the fine sandy depths or attached to the rocks, 
 the mollusks lived in the protection of their shells. 
 
 The necessity of giving themselves up to sleep with 
 relative security, without fear of the general rapacity 
 which is the oceanic law, is a matter of concern to all 
 of these marine beings, making them constructive and
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 169 
 
 inventive, The crustaceans live within their shells or 
 take advantage of ready-made refuges of limestone, ex- 
 pelling their former owners; the animal-plants exhale 
 toxins ; the planctonlc beings, transparent and gelatinous, 
 burn like a crystal exposed to fire; some organisms ap- 
 parently weak and flabby, have in their tails the force 
 of a carpenter's bit, perforating the rock sufficiently 
 to create a cavern of refuge in its hard interior. . . . 
 And the timid mollusks, trembling and succulent pulp, 
 have fabricated for their protection the strong shields 
 of their valves, two concave walls that on opening 
 form their door, and on closing, their house. 
 
 A bit of flesh protrudes outside these shells, like a 
 white tongue. In some it takes the form of a sole, and 
 serves as a foot, the mollusk marching with his dwell- 
 ing upon the back of this unique support. In others it is 
 a swimmer, and the shell, opening and shutting its valves 
 like a propelling mouth, ascends in a straight line to the 
 surface, falling afterwards with the two shields closed. 
 
 These herbivorous fresh-water animals live by drink- 
 ing in the light, feeling the necessity of the surface 
 waters or the shallow depths with their limpid glades 
 and this light, spreading over the white interior of their 
 dwelling, decorates it with all the fleeting colors of the 
 iris, giving to the limestone the mysterious shimmer of 
 mother-of-pearl. 
 
 Ulysses admired the odd forms of their winding 
 passageways. They were like the palaces of the Orient, 
 dark and forbidding on the outside, glistening within 
 like a lake of pearl. Some received their terrestrial 
 names because of the special form of their shell the 
 rabbit, the helmet, triton's horn, the cask, the Mediter- 
 ranean parasol. 
 
 They were grazing with bucolic tranquillity on the 
 maritime v rjasture lands, contemplated from afar by the
 
 i;o MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 mussels, the oysters, and other bi-valves, attached to the 
 rocks by a hard and horny hank of silk that enwrapped 
 their enclosures. Some of these shells, called hams, 
 clams of great size, with valves in the form of a club, 
 had fixed themselves upright in the mire, giving the ap- 
 pearance of a submerged Celtic camp, with a succession 
 of obelisks swallowed up by the depths of the sea. 
 
 The one called the date-shell can, assisted by its 
 liquid acid, pierce the hardest stone with its cylindrical 
 gimlet. The columns of Hellenic temples, submerged 
 in the Gulf of Naples and brought to light by an earth- 
 quake, are bored from one end to the other by this 
 diminutive perforator. 
 
 Cries of surprise and nervous laughter suddenly 
 reached Ferragut. They came from that part of the 
 Aquarium where the fish tanks were. In the corridor 
 was a little trough of water and at the bottom a kind of 
 rag, flabby and gray, with black rings on the back. This 
 animal always attracted the immediate curiosity of the 
 visitors. Everybody would ask for it. 
 
 Groups of countrymen, city families preceded by their 
 offspring, pairs of soldiers, all might be seen consulting 
 before it and experimenting, advancing their hands over 
 the trough with a certain hesitation. Finally they would 
 touch the living rag at the bottom, the gelatinous flesh 
 of the fish-torpedo, receiving a series of electric shocks 
 which quickly made them loosen their prey, laughing and 
 raising the other hand to their jerking arms. 
 
 Ulysses on reaching the fish tanks had the sensation 
 of a traveler who, after having lived among inferior 
 humanity, encounters beings that are almost of his own 
 race. 
 
 There was the oceanic aristocracy, the fish free as 
 the sea, swift, undulating and slippery, like the waves. 
 They all had accompanied him for many years, appear-
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 171 
 
 ing in the transparencies opened by the prow of his 
 vessel. 
 
 They were vigorous and therefore had no neck, the 
 most fragile and delicate portion of terrestrial organ- 
 ism, making them more like the bull, the elephant and 
 all the battering animals. They needed to be light, 
 and in order to be so had dispensed with the rigid and 
 hard shell of the crustacean that prevents motion, pre- 
 ferring the coat of mail covered with scales, which ex- 
 pands and contracts, yields to the blow but is not in- 
 jured. They wished to be free, and their body, like 
 that of the ancient wrestlers, was covered with a slippery 
 oil, the oceanic mucus that becomes volatilized at the 
 slightest pressure. 
 
 The freest animals on earth cannot be compared 
 with them. The birds need to perch and to rest during 
 their sleep, but the fish continue floating around and 
 moving from place to place while asleep. The entire 
 world belongs to them. Wherever there is a mass of 
 water, ocean, river or lake, in whatever altitude or 
 latitude, a mountain peak lost in the clouds, a valley 
 boiling like a whirlpool, a sparkling and tropical sea 
 with a forest of colors in its bosoms, or a polar sea 
 encrusted with ice and people, with sea-lions and white 
 bears, there the fish always appears. 
 
 The public of the Aquarium, seeing the flat heads of 
 the swimming animals near the glass, would scream 
 and wave their arms as though they could be seen by 
 the fishy eyes of stupid fixity. Then they would experi- 
 ence a certain dismay upon perceiving that the fish 
 continued their course with indifference. 
 
 Ferragut smiled before this deception. The crystal 
 that separated the water from the atmosphere had the 
 density of millions of leagues, an insuperable obstacle
 
 172 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 interposed between two worlds that do not know each 
 other. 
 
 The sailor recalled the imperfect vision of the ocean 
 inhabitants. In spite of their bulging and movable eyes 
 that enable them to see before and behind them, their 
 vistial power extends but a short distance. The splen- 
 dors with which Nature clothes the butterfly cannot be 
 appreciated by them. Absolutely color-blind, they can 
 appreciate only the difference between light and dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Complete silence accompanies their incomplete vision. 
 All the aquatic animals are deaf, or rather they com- 
 pletely lack the organs of hearing, because they are 
 unnecessary to them. Atmospheric agitations, thunder- 
 bolts and hurricanes do not penetrate the water. Only 
 the cracking shell of certain crabs and the dolorous 
 moaning near the surface of certain fishes, called snor- 
 ers, alter this silence. 
 
 Since the ocean lacks acoustic waves, their inhabitants 
 have never needed to form the organs that transform 
 them into sound. They feel impetuously the primal ne- 
 cessities of animal life, hunger and love. They suffer 
 madly the cruelty of sickness and pain; among them- 
 selves they fight to the death for a meal or a mate. 
 But all in absolute silence, without the howl of triumph 
 or agony with which terrestrial animals accompany the 
 same manifestations of their existence. 
 
 Their principal sense is that of smell, as is that of sight 
 in the bird. In the twilight world of the ocean, streaked 
 with phosphorescent and deceptive splendors, the big 
 fish trust only to their sense of smell and at times to 
 that of touch. 
 
 Sometimes buried in the mud, they will ascend hun- 
 dreds of yards, attracted by the odor of the fish that 
 are swimming on the surface. This prodigious faculty
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 173 
 
 renders useless, in part, the colors in which the timid 
 species clothe themselves in order to confound themselves 
 with lights or shadows. The greatest flesh-eaters see 
 badly, but they scrape the bottom with a divining touch 
 and scent their prey at astonishing distances. 
 
 Only the Mediterranean fishes, especially those of 
 the Gulf of Naples, were living in the tanks of this 
 Aquarium. Some were lacking, the dolphin, of nervous 
 movement, and the tunny, so impetuous in its career. 
 The captain smiled upon thinking of the mischievous 
 pranks of these ungovernable guests whose presence had 
 been declined. 
 
 The voracious shark (cabeza de olio), the persecuting 
 wolf of the Mediterranean herds, was not here either. 
 In his place were swimming other animals of the same 
 species, whitish and long, with great fins, with eyes al- 
 ways open for lack of movable eyelids, and a mouth split 
 like a half-moon, under the head at the beginning of the 
 stomach. 
 
 Ferragut sought on the bottom of the tanks the fishes 
 of the deep, flattened animals that pass the greater part 
 of their time sunk in the sand under a coverlet of algae. 
 The dark uranoscopo, with its eyes almost united on 
 the peak of its enormous head and its body in the form 
 of a club, leaves visible only a long thread coming from 
 its lower jaw, waving it in all directions in order to at- 
 tract its prey. Believing it a worm, the victims usually 
 chase the moving bait until pounced upon by the teeth 
 of the hunter who then springs from his bed, floats 
 around for a few moments, and falls heavily to the bot- 
 tom, opening a new pit with his pectoral, shovel-shaped 
 swimming bladders. 
 
 The toad fish, the most hideous animal of the Med- 
 iterranean, goes hunting in the same way. Three-fourths 
 of his flattened body is made up of head, mostly mouth,
 
 174 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 armed with hooks and curved knives. Guided by his 
 yellowish eyes fixed on top, he waves his pointed little 
 beard, cut like leaves, and a pair of dorsal appendages 
 like, feathers. This false bait attracts the unwary ones 
 and soon the cavernous mandibles close upon them. 
 
 The plane fishes swim quickly over these monsters of 
 the mire, that are always horizontally flat resting upon 
 their bellies, whilst the flatness of the soles and others 
 of the same species is vertical. The two sides of the 
 bodies of the soles, compressed laterally, have different 
 colorings. In this way, when lying down, they are able 
 to merge themselves at the same time with the light of 
 the surface and the shadow of the bottom, thus getting 
 rid of their persecutors. 
 
 All the infinite varieties of the Mediterranean fauna 
 were moving in the other tanks. 
 
 There passed by the greenish plates of glass the gilt- 
 heads, the cackerels, and the sea roaches, clad in vivid 
 silver with bands of gold on their sides. There also 
 flashed past the purple of the salmonoids, the brilliant 
 majesty of the gold fish, the bluish belly of the sea 
 bream, the striped back of the sheep's head, the trumpet- 
 mouthed marine sun-fish, the immovable sneer of the 
 so-called "joker," the dorsal pinnacle of the peacock- 
 fish which appears made of feathers, the restless and 
 deeply bifurcated tail of the horse mackerel, the flut- 
 tering of the mullet with its triple wings, the grotesque 
 rotundity of the boar-fish and the pig-fish, the dark 
 smoothness of the sting-ray, floating like a fringe, the 
 long snout of the woodcock-fish, the slenderness of the 
 haddock, agile and swift as a torpedo, the red gurnard 
 all thorns, the angel of the sea with its fleshy wings, 
 the gudgeon, bristling with swimming angularities, the 
 notary, red and white, with black bands similar to the 
 flourishes on signatures, the modest esmarrido, the little
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 175 
 
 sand fish, the superb turbot almost round with fan tail 
 and a swimming fringe spotted with circles, and the 
 gloomy conger-eel whose skin is as bluish black as that 
 of the ravens. 
 
 Hidden between two rocks like the hunting crus- 
 taceans was the rascaza, the scorpion of the Valencian 
 sea that Ferragut had known in his childhood, the ani- 
 mal beloved by his uncle, the Triton, because of its sub- 
 stantial flesh which thickened the seamen's soup, the 
 precious component sought by Uncle Caragol for the 
 broth of his succulent rice dishes. The enormous head 
 had a pair of eyes entirely red. Its great swimming 
 bladders stung venomously. The heavy body with its 
 dark bands and stripes was covered with singular ap- 
 pendages in the form of leaves and could easily take 
 the color of the deep where, in the semi-obscurity, it 
 looked like a stone covered with plants. With this 
 mimicry it was accustomed to escape its enemies and 
 could better detect its prey. 
 
 A gloomy creature, in Ferragut's opinion like a beadle 
 of the Holy Office, was parading through the upper part 
 of the tanks, passing from glass to glass, reflected like a 
 double animal when it approached the surface. It was 
 the ray-fish with a flat head, ferocious eyes, and thong- 
 like tail, moving the black mantle of its fleshy wings 
 with a deliberation that rippled the edges. 
 
 From the sandy bottom was struggling forth a convex 
 shield that, when floating, showed its lower face smooth 
 and yellow. The four wrinkled paws and the serpent- 
 like head of the turtle were emerging from its cuirass 
 of tortoise-shell. The little sea horses, slender and grace- 
 ful as chess-pieces, were rising and descending in the 
 bluish environment, wiggling their tails and twisting 
 themselves in the form of interrogation points. 
 
 When the captain approached the end of the four
 
 176 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 galleries of the Aquarium without Having seen more 
 than the maritime animals behind the glistening glasses 
 and a few uninteresting people in the greenish semi-light, 
 he felt all the discouragement of a day lost. 
 
 "She won't come now! . . ." 
 
 In passing from this damp, cellar-like atmosphere to 
 the sunlit garden, the report of the midday gun struck 
 him like an atmospheric blow. Lunch hour! . . . And 
 surely Freya was not going to lunch in the hotel ! 
 
 During the afternoon his footsteps strayed instinctively 
 toward the hill streets of the district of Chiaja. All 
 old buildings of manorial aspect invariably attracted his 
 attention. These were great, reddish houses of the 
 time of the Spanish viceroys, or palaces of the reign of 
 Charles III. Their broad staircases were adorned with 
 polychrome busts brought from the first excavations in 
 Herculaneum and Pompeii. 
 
 Ulysses had faint hopes of running across the widow 
 while passing in front of one of these mansions, now 
 rented in floors and displaying little metal door-plates 
 indicative of office and warehouse. In one of these un- 
 doubtedly must be living the family that was so friendly 
 to Freya. 
 
 Then, noticing the whiteness of the showy construc- 
 tions rising up around the old districts, he became dubi- 
 ous. The doctor would dwell only in a modern and 
 hygienic edifice. But not daring to ask questions, he 
 passed on, fearing to be seen from a window. 
 
 Finally he gave it up. Chiaja had many streets and 
 he was wandering aimlessly, since the concierge of the 
 hotel had not been able to give him any precise direc- 
 tions. The signora Talberg was evidently bent on out- 
 witting all his finesse, trying to keep from him the ad- 
 dress of her friends. 
 
 The following morning the captain took up his usual
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 177 
 
 watch in the promenade near the white Virgil. It was 
 all in vain. After ten o'clock he again wandered into 
 the Aquarium, animated by a vague hope, 
 
 "Perhaps she may come to-day. . . ." 
 
 With the superstition of the enamored and all those 
 who wait, he kept hunting certain places preferred by 
 the widow, believing that in this way he would attract 
 her from her distant preoccupation, obliging her to come 
 to him. 
 
 The tanks of the molluscas had always been espe- 
 cially interesting to her. He recalled that Freya had 
 several times spoken to him of this section. 
 
 Among its aquatic cases she always preferred the one 
 marked number fifteen, the exclusive dominion of the 
 polypi (cuttlefish). A vague presentiment warned him 
 that something very important in his life was going to 
 be unrolled in that particular spot. Whenever Freya 
 visited the Aquarium, it was to see these repulsive and 
 gluttonous animals eat. There was nothing to do but 
 to await her before this cavern of horrors. 
 
 And while she was making her way thither, the cap- 
 tain had to amuse himself like any landlubber, con- 
 templating the ferocious chase and laborious digestion of 
 these monsters. 
 
 He had seen them much larger in the deep-sea fishing 
 grounds; but by curtailing his imaginative powers he 
 could pretend that the blue sheet of the tank was the 
 entire mass of the ocean the rough bits of stone on 
 the bottom its submarine mountains, and by contracting 
 his own personality, he could reduce himself to the same 
 scale as the little victims that were falling under the 
 devouring tentacles. In this manner he could fancy of 
 gigantic dimensions these cuttlefish of the Aquarium, 
 just as the monstrous oceanic octopi must be that, 
 thousands of yards down, were illuminating the gloom
 
 178 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of the waters with the greenish star of their phosphor- 
 escent nuclei. 
 
 From prehistoric times the men of the sea had known 
 this great, ropy beast of the abysses. The geographers' 
 of antiquity used to speak of it, giving the measurement 
 of its terrible arms. 
 
 Pliny used to recount the destruction accomplished 
 by a gigantic octopus in the vivarium of the Mediter- 
 ranean. When some sailors succeeded in killing it they 
 carried it to the epicure, Lucullus, the head as big as 
 a barrel, and some of its tentacles so huge that one per- 
 son could hardly reach around them. The chroniclers 
 of the Middle Ages had also spoken of the gigantic cut- 
 tlefish that on more than one occasion had, with its 
 serpentine arms, snatched men from the decks of the 
 ships. 
 
 The Scandinavian navigators, who had never en- 
 countered it in their fjords, nicknamed it the kraken, 
 exaggerating its proportions and even converting it 
 into a fabulous being. If it came to the surface, they 
 confounded it with an island; if it remained between 
 the two waters, the captains, on making their soundings, 
 became confused in their calculations, finding the depth 
 less than that marked on their charts. In such cases 
 they had to escape before the kraken should awake and 
 sink the vessel as though it were a fragile skiff among 
 its whirlpools of foam. 
 
 During many long years Science had laughed at the 
 gigantic polypus and at the sea serpent, another pre- 
 historic animal many times encountered, supposing them 
 to be merely the inventions of an imaginative sailor, 
 stories of the forecastle made up to pass the night-watch. 
 Wise men can only believe what they can study directly 
 and then catalogue in their museums. . . . 
 
 And Ferragut laughed in his turn at poor Science,
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 179 
 
 ignorant and defenseless before the mysterious immen- 
 sity of the ocean, and having scarcely achieved the meas- 
 urement of its great depth. The apparatus of the diver 
 could go down but a few meters; their only instrument 
 of exploration was the metal diving-bell, less important 
 than a spider-web thread that might try to explore the 
 earth by floating across its atmosphere. 
 
 The great cuttlefish living in the tremendous depths 
 do not deign to come to the surface in order to become 
 acquainted with mankind. Sickness and oceanic war are 
 the only agents that from time to time announce their 
 existence in a casual way, as they float over the waves 
 with members relaxed, snatched at by the iron jaws 
 of the flesh-eating fish. The great danger for them is 
 that a chance current might place this plunder of the 
 immense marine desert before the prow of a slow-going 
 sailboat. 
 
 A corvette of the French navy once encountered near 
 the Canary Isles a complete specimen of one of these 
 monsters floating upon the sea, sick or wounded. The 
 officials sketched its form and noted its phosphorescence 
 and changes of color, but after a two-hour struggle with 
 its indomitable force and its slippery mucosity con- 
 stantly escaping the pressure of blows and harpoons, they 
 had to let it slip back into the ocean. 
 
 It was the Prince of Monaco, supreme pontiff of 
 oceanographic science, who established forever the ex- 
 istence of the fabulous kraken. In one of his intelligent 
 excursions across oceanic solitudes he fished up an arm 
 of a cuttlefish eight yards long. Furthermore the 
 stomachs of sharks, upon being opened, had revealed 
 to him the gigantic fragments of the adversary. 
 
 Short and terrible battles used to agitate the black and 
 phosphorescent water, thousands of fathoms from the 
 surface, with whirlwinds of death.
 
 i8o MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The shark would descend, attracted by the appetizing 
 prospect of a boneless animal, all flesh and weighing 
 several tons. He would make his hostile invasion in 
 all haste so as not to be obliged to endure for a long 
 time the formidable pressure of the abyss. The strug- 
 gle between the two ferocious warriors disputing oceanic 
 dominion was usually brief, and deadly, the mandible 
 battling with the sucker; the solid and cutting equip- 
 ment of teeth with the phosphorescent mucosity inces- 
 santly slipping by and opposing the blow of the de- 
 molishing head like a battering ram, with the lashing 
 blow of tentacles thicker and heavier than an elephant's 
 trunk. Sometimes the shark would remain down for- 
 ever, enmeshed in a skein of soft snakes absorbing it 
 with gluttonous deliberation; at other times it would 
 come to the surface with its skin bristling with black 
 tumors, open mouths and slashes big as plates, but 
 with its stomach full of gelatinous meat. 
 
 These cuttlefish in the Aquarium were nothing more 
 than the seaside inhabitants of the Mediterranean coast, 
 poor relations of the gigantic octopus that lighten the 
 black gloom of the oceanic night with their bluish gleam 
 of burned-out planets. But in spite of their relative 
 smallness, they are animated by the same destructive in- 
 iquity as the others. They are rabid stomachs that cleanse 
 the waters of all animal life, digesting it in a vacuum of 
 death. Even the bacteria and infusoria appear to flee 
 from the liquid that envelops these ferocious solitudes. 
 
 Ferragut passed many mornings contemplating their 
 treacherous immovability, followed by deadly unfoldings 
 the moment that their prey came down into the tank. 
 He began to hate these monsters for no other reason 
 than because they were so interesting to Freya. Their 
 stupid cruelty appeared to him but a reflex of that in- 
 comprehensible woman's character that was
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 181 
 
 him by fleeing from him and yet, at the same time, by 
 her smiles and her signals, was sending out a wireless in 
 order to keep him prisoner. 
 
 Masculine wrath convulsed the sailor after each futile 
 daily trip in pursuit of her invisible personality. 
 
 "She's just doing it to lead me on ! . . ." he exclaimed. 
 "It's got to come to an end! I won't stand any more 
 bull-baiting. . . . I'll just show her that I'm able to live 
 without her!" 
 
 He swore not to seek her any more. It was an agree- 
 able diversion for the weeks that he had to spend in 
 Naples, but why keep it up when she was fatiguing 
 him in such an insufferable way? . . . 
 
 "All is ended," he said again, clenching his hands. 
 
 And the following day he was waiting outside of the 
 hotel just as on other days. Then he would go for his 
 customary stroll, afterwards entering the Aquarium in 
 the same, old hope of seeing her before the tanks of the 
 cuttlefish. 
 
 He finally met her there one morning, about midday. 
 He had been over to his boat and on returning entered, 
 through force of habit, sure that at this hour he would 
 find nobody but the employees feeding the fishes. 
 
 His dazzled eyes were affected with almost instantane- 
 ous blindness before becoming accustomed to the shad- 
 ows of the greenish galleries. . . . And when the first 
 images began to be vaguely outlined on his retina, 
 he stepped hastily backward, so great was his sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ! He couldn't believe it and raised his hand to his eyes 
 as though wishing to clarify his vision with an energetic 
 rubbing. Was that really Freya? . . . Yes, it was she, 
 dressed in white, leaning on the bar of iron that sep- 
 arated the tanks from the public, looking fixedly at the 
 glass which covered the rocky cavern like a transparent
 
 182 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 door. She had just opened her hand-bag, giving some 
 coins to the guardian who was disappearing at the end 
 of the gallery. 
 
 "Oh, is that you?" she said, on seeing Ferragut, 
 without any surprise, as if she had left him but a short 
 time before. 
 
 Then she explained her presence at this late hour. 
 She had not visited the Aquarium for a long time. The 
 tank of cuttlefish was to her like a cage of tropical 
 birds, full of colors and cries that enlivened the solitude 
 of a melancholy matron. 
 
 She always adored the monsters living on the other 
 side of these crystals, and before going to lunch she had 
 felt an irresistible desire to see them. She feared that 
 the guard had not been taking good care of them during 
 her absence. 
 
 "Just see how beautiful they are ! . . ." 
 
 And she pointed to a tank that appeared empty. 
 Neither in its quiet still waters nor on the floor of the 
 oily sand could be seen the slightest animal motion. 
 Ferragut followed the direction of her eyes and after 
 long contemplation discovered there three occupants. 
 With the amazing mimicry of their species, they had 
 changed themselves to appear like minerals. Only a 
 pair of expert eyes would have been able to discover 
 them, heaped together, each one huddled in a crack of 
 the rocks, voluntarily raising his smooth skin into stone- 
 like protuberances and ridges. Their faculty of chang- 
 ing color permitted them to take on that of their hard 
 base and, disguised in this way like three rocky excres- 
 cences, they were treacherously awaiting the passing of 
 their victim, just as though they were in the open sea. 
 
 "Soon we shall see them in all their majesty," con- 
 tinued Freya as though she were speaking of something 
 belonging to her. "The guardian is going to feed them.
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 183 
 
 . . . Poor things ! Nobody pays any attention to them ; 
 everybody detests them. To me they owe whatever they 
 get between meals." 
 
 As if scenting the proximity of food, one of the three 
 stones suddenly shuddered with a polychromatic chill. 
 Its elastic covering began swelling. There passed over its 
 surface stripes of color, reddish clouds changing from 
 crimson to green, circular spots that became inflated in 
 the swelling, forming tremulous excrescences. Between 
 two cracks there appeared a yellowish eye of ferocious 
 and stupid fixity; a darkened and malignant globe like 
 that of serpents, was now looking toward the crystal as 
 though seeing far beyond that diamond wall. 
 
 "They know me!" exclaimed Freya joyously. "I'm 
 sure that they know me ! . . ." 
 
 And she enumerated the clever traits of these monsters 
 to whom she attributed great intelligence. They were 
 the ones that, like astute builders, had dappled the stones 
 piled up on the bottom, forming bulwarks in whose 
 shelter they had disguised themselves in order to pounce 
 upon their victims. In the sea, when wishing to sur- 
 prise a meaty, toothsome oyster, they waited in hiding 
 until the two valves should open to feed upon the water 
 and the light, and had often introduced a pebble between 
 the shells and then inserted their tentacles in the 
 crevice. 
 
 Their love of liberty was another thing which aroused 
 Freya's enthusiasm. If they should have to endure more 
 than a year of enclosure in the Aquarium, they would 
 become sick with sadness and would gnaw their claws 
 until they killed themselves. 
 
 "Ah, the charming and vigorous bandits!" she con- 
 tinued in hysterical enthusiasm. "I adore them. I 
 should like to have them in my home, as they have
 
 184 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 gold-fishes in a globe, to feed them every hour, to see 
 how they \v juld devour. . . ." 
 
 Ferragut felt a recurrence of the same uneasiness 
 that he had experienced one morning in the temple of 
 Virgil. 
 
 "She's crazy !" he said to himself. 
 
 But in spite of her craziness, he greatly enjoyed the 
 faint perfume that exhaled through the opening at her 
 throat. 
 
 He no longer saw the silent world that, sparkling with 
 color, was swimming or paddling behind the crystal. 
 She was now the only creature who existed for him. 
 And he listened to her voice as though it were distant 
 music as it continued explaining briefly all the particu- 
 lars about those stones that were really animals, about 
 those globes that, on distending themselves, showed their 
 organs and again hid themselves tinder a gelatinous suc- 
 cession of waves. 
 
 They were a sac, a pocket, an elastic mask, in whose 
 interior existed only water or air. Between their arm- 
 pits was their mouth, armed with long jaw bones, like 
 a parrot's beak. When breathing, a crack of their skin 
 would open and close alternately. From one of their 
 sides came forth a tube in the form of a tunnel that 
 swallowed equally the respirable water and drew it 
 through both entrances into its branching cavity. Their 
 multiple arms, fitted out with cupping glasses, functioned 
 like high-pressure apparatus for grasping and holding 
 prey, for paddling and for running. 
 
 The glassy eye of one of the monsters appearing and 
 disappearing among its soft folds, stirred Freya's mem- 
 ories. She began speaking in a low tone as if to her- 
 rclf, without paying any attention to Ferragut who was 
 perplexed at the incoherence of her words. The appear-
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 185 
 
 lfcc"e of this octopus brought to her mind "the eye of 
 0ie morning." 
 
 " The sailor asked : "What is the 'eye of the morning* ?" 
 . . . And he again told himself that Freya was crazy 
 when he learned that this was the name of a tame ser- 
 pent, a reptile of checkered sides that she wore as neck- 
 lace or bracelet over there in her home in the island 
 of Java, an island where groves exhaled an irresistible 
 perfume, covered in the sunlight with trembling arid 
 monstrous flowers like animals, peopled at night with 
 phosphorescent stars that leaped from tree to tree. 
 
 "I used to dance naked, with a transparent veil tied 
 around my hips and another floating from my head. . . . 
 I would dance for hours and hours, just like a Brahman 
 priestess before the image of the terrible Siva, and the 
 'eye of the morning' would follow my dances with ele- 
 gant undulations. ... I believe in the divine Siva. Don't 
 you know who Siva is ? . . ." 
 
 Ferragut uttered an impatient aside to the gloomy 
 god. What he wanted to know was the reason that had 
 taken her to Java, the paradisiacal and mysterious island. 
 
 "My husband was a Dutch commandant," she said. 
 "We were married in Amsterdam and I followed him 
 to Asia." 
 
 Ulysses protested at this piece of news. Had not her 
 husband been a great student? . . . Had he not taken 
 her to the Andes in search of prehistoric beasts? . . . 
 
 Freya hesitated a moment in order to be sure, but her 
 doubts were short. 
 
 "So he was," she said as a matter of course. "Thai 
 professor was my second husband. I have been married 
 twice." 
 
 The captain had not time to express his surprise. Over 
 the top of the tank, on the crystalline surface silvered 
 by the sun, passed a human shadow. It was thes silhou-
 
 186 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ette of the keeper. Down below, the three shapeless 
 bags began to move. Freya was trembling with emotion 
 like an enthusiastic and impatient spectator. 
 
 Something fell into the water, descending little by little, 
 a bit of dead sardine that was scattering filaments of 
 meat and yellow scales. An odd community interest 
 appeared to exist among these monsters: only the one 
 nearest the prey bestirred himself to eat. Perhaps they 
 voluntarily took turns ; perhaps their glance only reached 
 a little beyond their tentacles. 
 
 The one nearest to the glass suddenly unfolded it- 
 self with the violence of a spring escaping from an ex- 
 plosive projectile. He gave a bound, remaining fastened 
 to the ground by one of his radiants, and raised the others 
 like a bundle of reptiles. Suddenly he converted himself 
 into a monstrous star, filling almost the entire glassy 
 tank, swollen with rage, and coloring his outer covering 
 with green, blue, and red. 
 
 His tentacles clutched the miserable prey, doubling it 
 inward in order to bear it to his mouth. The beast 
 then contracted, and flattened himself out so as to rest 
 on the ground. His armed feet disappeared and there 
 only remained visible a trembling bag through which was 
 passing like a succession of waves, from one extreme to 
 the other, the digestive swollen mass which became a 
 bubbling, mucous pulpiness in a dye-pot that colored and 
 discolored itself with contortions of assimilative fury; 
 from time to time the agglomeration showed its stupid 
 and ferocious eyes. 
 
 New victims continued falling down through the wa- 
 ters and other monsters leaped in their turn, spreading 
 out their stars, then shrinking together in order to grind 
 their prey in their entrails with the assimilation of a 
 tiger. 
 
 Freya gazed upon this horrifying digestive process
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 187 
 
 with thrills of rapture. Ulysses felt her resting instinct- 
 ively upon him with a contact growing more intimate 
 every moment. From shoulder to ankle the captain could 
 see the sweet reliefs of her soft flesh whose warmth 
 made itself perceptible through her clothing and filled 
 him with nervous tremors. 
 
 Frequently she turned her eyes away from the cruel 
 spectacle, glancing at him quickly with an odd ex- 
 pression. Her pupils appeared enlarged, and the whites 
 of her eyes had a wateriness of morbid reflection. Fer- 
 ragut felt that thus the insane must look in their great 
 crises. 
 
 She was speaking between her teeth, with emotional 
 pauses, admiring the ferocity of the cuttlefish, griev- 
 ing that she did not possess their vigor and their cruelty. 
 
 "If I could only be like them! ... To be able to go 
 through the streets . . . through the world, stretching 
 out my talons ! . . . To devour ! ... to devour ! They 
 would struggle uselessly to free themselves from the 
 winding of my tentacles. ... To absorb them ! ... To 
 eat them ! ... To cause them to disappear ! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses beheld her as on that first day near the temple 
 of the poet, possessed with a fierce wrath against men, 
 longing extravagantly for their extermination 
 
 Their digestion finished, the polypi had begun to swim 
 around, and were now horizontal skeins, fluting the tank 
 with elegance. They appeared like torpedo boats with a 
 conical prow, dragging along the heavy, thick and long 
 hair of their tentacles. Their excited appetite made them 
 glide through the water in all directions, seeking new 
 victims. 
 
 Freya protested. The guard had only brought them 
 dead bodies. What she wanted was the struggle, the 
 sacrifice, the death. The bits of sardine were a meal
 
 i88 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 without substance for these bandits that had zest only 
 for food seasoned with assassination. 
 
 As though the pulps had understood her complaints, 
 they had fallen on the sandy bottom, flaccid, inert, 
 breathing through their funnels. 
 
 A little crab began to descend at the end of a thread 
 desperately moving its claws. 
 
 Freya pressed still closer to Ulysses, excited at the 
 thought of the approaching spectacle. One of the bags, 
 transformed into a star, suddenly leaped forward. Its 
 arms writhed like serpents seeking the recent arrival. In 
 vain the guard pulled the thread up, wishing to prolong 
 the chase. The tentacles clamped their irresistible open- 
 ings upon the body of the victim, pulling upon the line 
 with such force that it broke, the octopus falling on the 
 bottom with his prey. 
 
 Freya clapped her hands in applause. 
 
 "Bravo I . . ." She was exceedingly pale, though a 
 feverish heat was coursing through her body. 
 
 She leaned toward the crystal in order to see better 
 the devouring activity of that pyramidal stomach which 
 had on its sharp point a diminutive parrot head with 
 two ferocious eyes and around its base the twisted skeins 
 of its arms full of projecting disks. With these it pressed 
 the crab against its mouth, injecting under its shell the 
 venomous output of its salivary glands, paralyzing thus 
 every movement of existence. Then it swallowed its 
 prey slowly with the deglutition of a boa constrictor. 
 
 "How beautiful it is !" she said. 
 
 The other beasts also seized their live victims, paralyzed 
 and devoured them, moving their flabby bodies in order 
 to permit the passage of their swelling nutritive waves 
 and clouds of various colors. 
 
 Then the guard tossed in a crab, but one without any 
 string whatever. Freya screamed with enthusiasm.
 
 THE AQUARIUM OF NAPLES 189 
 
 This was the kind of hunt that takes place in the 
 ferocious mystery of the sea, a race with death, a 
 destruction preceded with emotional agony and hazards. 
 The poor crustac*i% divining its danger, was swimming 
 towards the rocks hoping to take refuge in the nearest 
 crevice. A polypus came up behind it, whilst the others 
 continued their digestion. 
 
 "It's escaping! . . . It's escaping!" cried Freya, pal- 
 pitating with interest. 
 
 The crab scrambled through the stones, sheltering it- 
 self in their windings. The polypus was no longer swim- 
 ming; it was running like a terrestrial ^animal, climbing 
 over the rocks by its armed extremities, which were now 
 serving as apparatus of locomotion. It was the struggle 
 of a tiger with a mouse. When the crab had half of its 
 body already hidden within the green lichens of a hole, 
 one of the heavy serpents fell upon its back clutching it 
 with the irresistible suction of his air-holes, and causing 
 it to disappear within his skein of tentacles. 
 
 "Ah !" sighed Freya, throwing herself back as though 
 she were going to faint on Ulysses' breast. 
 
 He shuddered, feeling that a serpentine band of tremu- 
 lous pressure had encircled his body. The acts of that 
 unbalanced creature were fraying his nerves. 
 
 He felt as though a monster of the same class as those 
 in the tank but rnuch larger a gigantic octopus from 
 the oceanic depths must have slipped treacherously be- 
 hind him and was clutching him in one of its tentacles. 
 He could feel the pressure of its feelers around his waist, 
 growing closer and more ferocious. 
 
 Freya was holding him captive with one of her arms. 
 She had wound herself tightly around him and was 
 clasping his waist with all her force, as though trying to 
 break his vigorous body in two. 
 
 Then he saw the head of this woman approaching him
 
 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 with an aggressive swiftness as if she were going to bite 
 him. . . . Her enlarged eyes, tearful and misty, ap- 
 peared to be far off, very far off. Perhaps she was not 
 even looking at him. . . . Her trembling mouth, bluish 
 with emotion, a round and protruding mouth like an 
 absorbing duct, was seeking the sailor's mouth, taking 
 possession of it and devouringjt with her lips. 
 
 It was the kiss of a cupping-glass, long, dominating, 
 painful. Ulysses realized that he had never before been 
 kissed in this way. The water from that mouth surging 
 across her row of teeth, discharged itself in his like 
 swift poison. A shudder unfamiliar until then ran the 
 entire length of his back, making him close his eyes. 
 
 He felt as if all his interior had turned to liquid. 
 He had a presentiment that his life was going to date 
 from this kiss, that with it was going to begin a new 
 existence, that he never would be able to free himself 
 from these deadly and caressing lips with their faint 
 savor of cinnamon, of incense, of Asiatic forests haunted 
 with sensuousness and intrigue. 
 
 And he let himself be dragged down by the caress of 
 this wild beast, with thought lost and body inert and 
 resigned, like a castaway who descends and descends 
 the infinite strata of the abyss without ever reaching 
 bottom.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 fa 
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 
 
 AFTER that kiss, the lover believed that all his desires 
 were about to be immediately realized. The most diffi- 
 cult part of the road was already passed. But with 
 Freya one always had to expect something absurd and 
 inconceivable. 
 
 The midday gun aroused them from a rapture that 
 had lasted but a few seconds as long as years. The 
 steps of the guard, growing nearer all the time, finally 
 separated the two and unlocked their arms. 
 
 Freya was the first to calm herself. Only a slight haze 
 flitted across her pupils now, like the vapor from a re- 
 cently extinguished fire. 
 
 "Good-by. . . . They are waiting for me." 
 
 And she went out from the Aquarium followed by 
 Ferragut, still stammering and tremulous. The ques- 
 tions and petitions with which he pursued her while 
 crossing the promenade were of no avail, 
 
 "So far and no further," she said at one of the cross 
 streets of Chiaja. "We shall see one another. ... I 
 formally promise you that. . . . Now leave me." 
 
 And she disappeared with the firm step of a handsome 
 huntress, as serene of countenance as though not re- 
 calling the slightest recollection of her primitive, pas- 
 sional paroxysm. 
 
 This time she fulfilled her promise. Ferragut saw; 
 her every day. 
 
 They met in the mornings near the hotel, and some- 
 
 191
 
 192 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 times she came down into the dining-room, exchanging 
 smiles and glances with the sailor, who fortunately 
 was sitting at a distant table. Then they took strolls 
 and chatted together, Freya laughing good-naturedly at 
 the amorous vows of the captain. . . . And that was all. 
 
 With a woman's skil fulness in sounding a man's depth 
 and penetrating into his secrets, keeping fast-locked 
 and unapproachable her own, she gradually informed 
 herself of the incidents and adventures in the life of 
 Ulysses. Vainly he spoke, in a natural reciprocity, of 
 the island of Java, of the mysterious dances before Siva, 
 of the journeys through the lakes of the Andes. Freya 
 had to make an effort to recall them. "Ah ! . . . Yes !" 
 And after giving this distracted exclamation for every 
 answer, she would continue the process of delving eagerly 
 into the former life of her lover. Ulysses sometimes be- 
 gan to wonder if that embrace in the Aquarium could 
 have occurred in his dreams. v 
 
 One morning the captain managed to bring about the 
 realization of one of his ambitions. He was jealous of 
 the unknown friends that were lunching with Freya. In 
 vain she affirmed that the doctor was the only companion 
 of the hours that she passed outside of the hotel. In 
 order to tranquillize himself, the sailor insisted that the 
 widow should accept his invitations. They ought to 
 extend their strolls; they ought to visit the beautiful 
 outskirts of Naples, lunching in their gay little trattorias 
 or eating-houses. 
 
 They ascended together the funicular road of Monte 
 Vomero to the heights crowned by the castle of S. Elmo 
 and the monastery of S. Martino. After admiring in 
 the museum of the abbey the artistic souvenirs of the 
 Bourbon domination and that of Murat, they entered into 
 a nearby trattoria with tables placed on an esplanade 
 from whose balconies they could take in the unforget-
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 193 
 
 &ble spectacle of the gulf, seeing Vesuvius in the dis- 
 tance and the chain of mountains smoking on the horizon 
 like an immovable succession of dark rose-colored waves. 
 
 Naples was extended in horseshoe form on the bow- 
 shaped border of the sea tossing up from its enormous 
 white mass, as though they were bits of foam, the clus- 
 ters of houses in the suburbs. 
 
 A swarthy oysterman, slender, with eyes like live coals, 
 and enormous mustaches, had his stand at the door of 
 the restaurant, offering cockles and shell fish of strong 
 odor that had been half a week perhaps in ascending 
 from the city to the heights of Vomero. Freya jested 
 about the oysterman's typical good looks and the lan- 
 guishing glances that he was forever casting toward all 
 the ladies that entered the establishment ... a prime 
 discovery for a tourist anxious for adventures in local 
 color. 
 
 In the background a small orchestra, was accompany- 
 ing a tenor voice or was playing alone, enlarging upon 
 the melodies and amplifying the measures with Neapoli- 
 tan exaggeration. 
 
 Freya felt a childish hilarity upon seating herself at 
 the table, seeing over the cloth the luminous summit. 
 Bisected in the foreground by a crystal vase full of 
 flowers, the distant panorama of the city, the gulf, and 
 its capes spread itself before her eager eyes. The air 
 on this peak enchanted her after two weeks passed with- 
 out stirring outside of Naples. The harps and violins 
 gave the situation a pathetic thrill and served as a back- 
 ground for conversation, just as the vague murmurs of 
 a hidden orchestra give the effect in the theater of 
 psalmody or of melancholy verses moving the listener 
 to tears. 
 
 They ate with the nervousness which joy supplies. !At 
 some tables further on a young man and woman were
 
 J94 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 forgetting the courses in order to clasp hands under-' 
 neath the cloth and place knee against knee with frenzied 
 pressure. The two were smiling, looking at the land- 
 scape and then at each other. Perhaps they were for- 
 eigners recently married, perhaps fugitive lovers, realiz- 
 ing in this picturesque spot the billing and cooing so 
 many times anticipated in their distant courtship. 
 
 Two English doctors from a hospital ship, white haired 
 and uniformed, were disregarding their repast in order 
 to paint directly in their albums, with a childish painstak- 
 ing crudeness, the same panorama that was portrayed 
 on the postal cards offered for sale at the door of the 
 restaurant. 
 
 A fat-bellied bottle with a petticoat of straw and a 
 long neck attracted Freya's hands to the table. She 
 ridiculed the sobriety of Ferragut, who was diluting 
 with water the reddish blackness of the Italian wine. 
 
 "Thus your ancestors, the Argonauts, must have 
 drunk," she said gayly. "Thus your grandfather, Ulys- 
 ses, undoubtedly drank." 
 
 And herself filling the captain's glass with an exag- 
 geratedly careful division of the parts of water and wine, 
 she added gayly: 
 
 "We are going to make a libation to the gods." 
 
 ^These libations were very frequent. Freya's peals of 
 laughter made the Englishmen, interrupted in their con- 
 scientious work, turn their glances toward her. The 
 sailor felt himself overcome by a warm feeling of well- 
 being, by a sensation of repose and confidence, as though 
 this woman were unquestionably his already. 
 
 Seeing that the two lovers, terminating their luncheon 
 hastily, were arising with blushing precipitation as 
 though overpowered by some sudden desire, his glance 
 became tender and fraternal. . . . Adieu, adieu, compan- 
 ions!
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 195 
 
 The voice of the widow recalled him to reality. 
 
 "Ulysses, make love to me. . . . You haven't yet told 
 me this whole day long that you love me." 
 
 In spite of the smiling and mocking tone of this order, 
 he obeyed her, repeating once more his promises and 
 his desires. Wine was giving to his words a thrill of 
 emotion; the musical moaning of the orchestra was ex- 
 citing his sensibilities and he was so touched with his 
 own eloquence that his eyes slightly filled with tears. 
 
 The high voice of the tenor, as though it were an echo 
 of Ferragut's thought, was singing a romance of the 
 fiesta of Piedigrotta, a lamentation of melancholy love, 
 a canticle of death, the final mother of hopeless lovers. 
 
 "All a lie !" said Freya, laughing. "These Mediterra- 
 neans. . . . What comedians they are for love! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses was uncertain as to whether she was referring 
 to him or to the singer. She continued talking, placid 
 and disdainful at the same time, because of their sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 "Love, . . . love! In these countries they can't talk 
 of anything else. It is almost an industry, somewhat 
 scrupulously prepared for the credulous and simple peo- 
 ple from the North. They all harp on love : this howling 
 singer, you . . . even the oysterman. . . ." 
 
 Then she added maliciously: 
 
 "I ought to warn you that you have a rival. Be very 
 careful, Ferragut!" 
 
 She turned her head in order to look at the oyster- 
 man. He was occupied in the contemplation of a fat 
 lady with grisled hair and abundant jewels, a lady es- 
 corted by her husband, who was looking with astonish- 
 ment at the vendor's killing glances without being able 
 to understand them. 
 
 The lady-killer was stroking his mustache affectedly, 
 looking from time to time at his cloth suit in order to
 
 196 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 smooth out the wrinkles and brush off the specks of dusi 
 He was a handsome pirate disguised as a gentleman. 
 Upon noticing Freya's interest, he changed the course 
 of his glances, poised his fine figure and replied to her 
 questioning eyes with the smile of a bad angel, making 
 her understand his discretion and skillfulness in ingratiat- 
 ing himself behind husbands and escorts. 
 
 "There he is 1" cried Freya with peals of laughter. "I 
 already have a new admirer! . . ." 
 
 The swarthy charmer was restrained by the scan- 
 dalous publicity with which this lady was receiving his 
 mysterious insinuations. Ferragut spoke of knocking 
 the scamp down on his oyster shells with a good pair 
 of blows. 
 
 "Now don't be ridiculous," she protested. "Poor man ! 
 Perhaps he has a wife and many children. . . . He is 
 the father of a family and wants to take money 
 home." 
 
 There was a long silence between the two. Ulysses 
 appeared offended by the lightness and cruelty of nis 
 companion. 
 
 "Now don't you be cross," she said. "See here, my 
 shark! Smile a bit. Show me your teeth. . . . The 
 libations to the gods are to blame. Are you offended 
 because I wished to compare you with that clown? . . . 
 What if you are the only man that I appreciate at all! 
 . . . Ulysses, I am speaking to you seriously, with all 
 the frankness that wine gives. I ought not to tell you 
 so, but I admit it. ... If I should ever love a man, 
 that man would be you." 
 
 Ferragut instantly forgot all his irritation in order to 
 listen to her and envelop her in the adoring light of his 
 eyes. Freya averted her glance while speaking, not wish- 
 ing to meet his eye, as though she were weighing what
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 197 
 
 she was saying while her glance wandered over the wide- 
 spread landscape. 
 
 Ulysses' origin was what interested her most. She 
 who had traveled over almost the entire world, had trod- 
 den the soil of Spain only a few hours, when disem- 
 barking in Barcelona from the transatlantic liner which 
 he had commanded. The Spaniards inspired her both 
 with fear and attraction. A noble gravity reposed in the 
 depths of their ardent hyperbole. 
 
 "You are an exaggerated being, a meridional who en- 
 larges everything and lies about everything, believing 
 all his own lies. But I am sure that if you should ever 
 be really in love with me, without fine phrases or pas- 
 sionate fictions, your affection would be more sane and 
 deep than that of other men. . . . My friend, the doctor, 
 says that you are a crude people and that you have only 
 simulated the nervousness, unbalanced behavior, and in- 
 trigues that accompany love in other civilized countries 
 even to refinement." 
 
 Freya looked at the sailor, making a long pause. 
 
 "Therefore you strike," she continued, "therefore you 
 kill when you feel love and jealousy. You are brutes 
 but not mediocre. You do not abandon a woman inten- 
 tionally; you do not exploit her. . . You are a new 
 species of man for me, who has known so many. If I 
 were able to believe in love, I would have you at my side 
 all my life. . . . All my life long!" 
 
 A light, gentle music, like the vibration of fragile and 
 delicate crystal, spread itself over the terrace. Freya 
 followed its rhythm with a light motion of the head. She 
 was accustomed to this cloying music, this Serenata of 
 Toselli, a passionate lament that always touches the 
 soul of the tourist in the halls of the grand hotels. She, 
 who at other times had ridiculed this artificial and re- 
 fined little music, now felt tears welling up in her eyes.
 
 198 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Not to be able to love anybody!" she murmure'd. 
 "To wander alone through the world! . . . And love 
 is such a beautiful thing!" 
 
 She guessed what Ferragut was going to say, his pro- 
 test of eternal passion, his offer to unite his life to hers 
 forever, and she cut his words short with an energetic 
 gesture. 
 
 "No, Ulysses, you do not know me; you do not 
 know who I am. . . . Go far from me. Some days ago 
 it was a matter of indifference to me. I hate men and 
 do not mind injuring them, but now you inspire me with 
 a certain interest because I believe you are good and 
 frank in spite of your haughty exterior. ... Go! Do 
 not seek me. This is the best proof of affection that I 
 can give you." 
 
 She said this vehemently, as if she saw Ferragut run- 
 ning toward danger and was crying out in order to ward 
 him from it. 
 
 "On the stage," she continued, "there is a role that 
 they call 'The Fatal Woman,' and certain artists are not 
 able to play any other part. They were born to repre- 
 sent this personage. ... I am a 'Fatal Woman,' but 
 really and truly. ... If you could know my life ! . . . 
 It is better that you do not know it ; even I wish to ignore 
 it. I am happy only when I forget it. ... Ferragut, my 
 friend, bid me farewell, and do not cross my path again." 
 
 But Ferragut protested as though she were proposing 
 a cowardly thing to him. Flee? Loving her so much? 
 If she had enemies, she could rely upon him for her de- 
 fense; if she wanted wealth, he wasn't a millionaire, 
 but. . . . 
 
 "Captain," interrupted Freya, "go back to your own 
 people. I was not meant for you. Think of your wife 
 and son; follow your own life. I am not the conquest 
 that is cherished for a few weeks, no more. Nobody
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 199 
 
 can trust me with impunity. I have suckers just like the 
 animals that we saw the other day ; I burn and sting just 
 like those transparent parasols in the Aquarium. Flee, 
 Ferragut! . . . Leave me alone. . . . Alone!" 
 
 And the image of the immense barrenness of her lonely 
 future made the tears gush from her eyes. 
 
 The music had ceased. A motionless waiter was pre- 
 tending to look far away, while really listening to their 
 conversation. The two Englishmen had interrupted their 
 painting in order to glare at this gentleman who was 
 making a lady weep. The sailor began to feel the nerv- 
 ous disquietude which a difficult situation creates. 
 
 "Ferragut, pay and let us go," she said, divining his 
 state of mind. 
 
 While Ulysses was giving money to the waiters and 
 musicians, she dried her eyes and repaired the ravages 
 to her complexion, drawing from her gold-mesh bag a 
 powder puff and little mirror in whose oval she con- 
 templated herself for a long time. 
 
 As they passed out, the oysterman turned his back, 
 pretending to be very much occupied in the arrangement 
 of the lemons that were adorning his stand. She could 
 not see his face, but she guessed, nevertheless, that he 
 was muttering a bad word, the most terrible that can 
 be said of a woman. 
 
 They went slowly toward the station of the funicular 
 road, through solitary streets and between garden walls 
 one side of which was yellow in the golden sunlight and 
 the other blue in the shade. She it was who sought 
 Ulysses* arm, supporting herself on it with a childish 
 abandon as if fatigue had overcome her after the first 
 few steps. 
 
 Ferragut pressed this arm close against his body, feel- 
 ing at once the stimulus of contact. Nobody could see 
 them; their footsteps resounded on the pavements with
 
 200 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the echo of an abandoned place. The fermented ardor 
 of those libations to the gods was giving the captain a 
 new audacity. 
 
 "My poor little darling! . . . Dear little crazy-head! 
 ..." he murmured, drawing closer to him Freya's 
 head which was resting on one of his shoulders. 
 
 He kissed her without her making any resistance. 
 And she in turn kissed him, but with a sad, light, faint- 
 hearted kiss that in no way recalled the hysterical caress 
 of the Aquarium. Her voice, which appeared to be 
 coming from afar off, was repeating what she had coun- 
 seled him in the trattoria. 
 
 "Begone, Ulysses! Do not see me any more. I tell 
 you this for your own good. ... I bring trouble. I 
 should be sorry to have you curse the moment in which 
 you met me." 
 
 The sailor took advantage of all the windings of the 
 streets in order to cut these recommendations short 
 with his kisses. She advanced limply as though towed 
 by him with no will power of her own, as though she 
 were walking in her sleep. A voice was singing with 
 diabolic satisfaction in the captain's brain: 
 
 "Now it is ripe ! . . . Now it is ripe ! . . ." 
 
 And he continued pulling her along always in a direct 
 line, not knowing whither he was going, but sure of his 
 triumph. 
 
 Near the station an old man approached the pair, a 
 white-haired, respectable gentleman with an old jacket 
 and spectacles. He gave them the card of a hotel 
 which he owned in the neighborhood, boasting of the 
 good qualities of its rooms. "Every modern comfort. 
 . . . Hot water." Ferragut spoke to her familiarly: 
 
 "Would you like? . . . Would you like? 
 
 She appeared to wake up, dropping his arm brusquely.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 201 
 
 "Don't be crazy, Ulysses. . . . That will never be. 
 . . . Never!" 
 
 And drawing herself up magnificently, she entered the 
 station with a haughty step, without looking around, 
 without noticing whether Ferragut was following her 
 or abandoning her. 
 
 During the long wait and the descent to the city Freya 
 appeared as ironical and frivolous as though she had 
 no recollection of her recent indignation. The sailor, 
 under the weight of his failure and the unusual libations, 
 relapsed into sulky silence. 
 
 In the district of Chiaja they separated. Ferragut, 
 finding himself alone, felt more strongly than ever the 
 effects of the intoxication that was dominating him, 
 the intoxication of a temperate man overcome by the 
 intense surprise of novelty. 
 
 For a moment he had a forlorn idea of going to his 
 boat. He needed to give orders, to contend with some- 
 body; but the weakness of his knees pushed him toward 
 his hotel and he flung himself face downward on the 
 bed, whilst his hat rolled on the floor, content with 
 the sobriety with which he had reached his room without 
 attracting the attention of the servants. 
 
 He fell asleep immediately, but scarcely had night 
 fallen before his eyes opened again, or at least he be- 
 lieved that they opened, seeing everything under a light 
 Sirhich was not that of the sun. 
 
 Some one had entered the room, and was coming on 
 tiptoe towards his bed. Ulysses, who was not able to 
 move, saw out of the tail of one eye that what was ap- 
 proaching was a woman and that this woman appeared 
 to be Freya. Was it really she ? . . . 
 
 She had the same countenance, the blonde hair, the 
 black and oriental eyes, the same oval face. It was 
 Freya and it was not, just as twins exactly alike physi-
 
 202 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 cally, nevertheless have an indefinable something which 
 differentiates them. 
 
 The vague thoughts which for some time past had been 1 
 slowly undermining his subconsciousness with dull, sub- 
 terranean labor, now cleared the air with explosive force.' 
 Whenever he had seen the widow this subconsciousness 
 had asserted itself, forewarning him that he had known 
 her long before that transatlantic voyage. Now, under 
 a light of fantastic splendor, these vague thoughts as- 1 
 sumed definite shape. 
 
 The sleeper thought he was looking at Freya clad in 
 a bodice with flowing sleeves adjusted to the arms with 
 filagree buttons of gold; some rather barbarous gems 
 were adorning her bosom and ears, and a flowered skirt 
 was covering the rest of her person. It was the classic 
 costume of a farmer's wife or daughter of other cen- 
 turies that he had seen somewhere in a painting.' 
 Where? . . .^Where? . . ./ 
 
 "Dona Constanza! . . ." 
 
 Freya was the counterpart of that august Byzantian 
 queen. Perhaps she was the very same, perpetuated 
 across the centuries, through extraordinary incarnations. 
 In that moment Ulysses would have believed anything 
 possible. 
 
 Besides he was very little concerned with the reason- 
 ableness of things just now ; the important thing to him 
 was that they should exist; and Freya was at his side; 
 Freya and that other one, welded into one and the same 
 woman, clad like the Grecian sovereign. 
 
 Again he repeated the sweet name that had illuminated 
 his infancy with romantic splendor. "Dona Constanza! 
 Oh, Dona Constanza! . . ." And night overwhelmed 
 him, cuddling his pillow as when he was a child, and 
 falling asleep enraptured with thoughts of the young 
 widow of "Vatacio the Heretic."
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 203 
 
 When he met Freya again the next 'day, he felt at- 
 tracted by a new force, the redoubled interest that peo- 
 ple in dreams inspire. She might really be the empress 
 resuscitated in a new form as in the books of chivalry, 
 or she might simply be the wandering widow of a learned 
 sage, for the sailor it was all the same thing. He 
 desired her, and to his carnal desire was added others 
 less material, the necessity of seeing her for the mere 
 pleasure of seeing her, of hearing her, of suffering her 
 negatives, of being repelled in all his advances. 
 
 She had pleasant memories of the expedition to the 
 heights of S. Martino. 
 
 "You must have thought me ridiculous because of my 
 sensitiveness and my tears. You, on the other hand, 
 were as you always are, impetuous and daring. . . . 
 The next time we shall drink less." 
 
 The "next time" was an invitation that Ferragut re- 
 peated daily. He wanted to take her to dine at one of 
 the trattorias on the road to Posilipo where they could 
 see spread at their feet the entire gulf, colored with rose 
 by the setting sun. 
 
 Freya had accepted his invitation with the enthusiasm 
 of a school girl. These strolls represented for her hours 
 of joy and liberty, as though her long sojourns with the 
 doctor were filled with monotonous service. 
 
 One evening Ulysses was waiting for her far from the 
 hotel so as to avoid the porter's curious stares. As soon 
 as they met and glanced toward the neighboring cab- 
 stand, four vehicles advanced at the same time like a 
 row of Roman chariots anxious to win the prize in the 
 circus with a noisy clattering of hoofs, cracking of 
 whips, wrathful gesticulations and threatening appeals to 
 the Madonna. Listening to their Neapolitan curses, 
 Ferragut believed for an instant that they were going 
 to kill one another. . . . The two climbed into the near-
 
 204 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 est vehicle, and immediately the tumult ceased. The 
 empty coaches returned to occupy their former places 
 in the line, and the deadly rivals renewed their placid 
 and laughing conversation. 
 
 An enormous upright plume was waving on their 
 horses' heads. The cabman, in order not to be discourte- 
 ous to his two clients, would occasionally turn half-way 
 around, giving them explanations. 
 
 "Over there," and he pointed with his whip, "is the 
 road of Piedigrotta. The gentleman ought to see it on a 
 day of fiesta in September. Few return from it with a 
 firm step. 5*. Maria di Piedigrotta enabled Charles III to 
 put the Austrians to flight in Velletri. . . . r Aoool" 
 
 He moved his whip like a fishing rod over the upright 
 plume, increasing the steed's pace with a professional 
 howl. . . . And as though his cry were among the sweet- 
 est of melodies, he continued talking, by association of 
 ideas : 
 
 "At the fiesta, of Piedigrotia, when I was a boy, were 
 given out the best songs of the year. There was pro- 
 claimed the latest fashionable love song, and long after 
 we had forgotten it foreigners would come here repeat- 
 ing it as though it was a novelty." 
 
 He made a short pause. 
 
 "If the lady and gentleman wish," he continued, "I will 
 take them, on returning, to Piedigrotta. Then we'll see 
 the little church of S. Vitale. Many foreign ladies hunt 
 for it in order to put flowers on the sepulcher of a hunch- 
 back who made verses, Giacomo Leopardi." 
 
 The silence with which his two clients received these 
 explanations made him abandon his mechanical oratory 
 in order to take a good look at them. The gentleman 
 was taking the lady's hand and was pressing it, speak- 
 ing in a very low tone. The lady was pretending not
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 205 
 
 to listen to him, looking at the villas and the gardens 
 at the left of the road sloping down toward the sea. 
 
 With noble magnanimity, however, the driver still 
 wished to instruct his indifferent clients, showing them 
 with the point of his whip the beauty and wonders of his 
 repertoire. 
 
 "That church is S. 'Maria 'del Porto, sometimes called 
 by others the Sannazaro. Sannazaro was also a noted 
 poet who described the loves of shepherdesses, and Fred- 
 erick II of Aragon made him the gift of a villa with 
 gardens in order that he might write with greater corn- 
 fort. . . . Those were other days, sir! His heirs con- 
 verted it into a church and " 
 
 The voice of the coachman stopped short. Behind 
 him the pair were talking in an incomprehensible lan- 
 guage, without paying the slightest attention to him, 
 without acknowledging his erudite explanations. Ig- 
 norant foreigners ! . . . And he said no more, wrapping 
 himself in offended silence, relieving his Neapolitan 
 verbosity with a series of shouts and grunts to his 
 horse. 
 
 The new road from Posilipo, the work of Muraf, 
 skirted the gulf, rising along the mountain edge and 
 constantly emphasizing the declivity between the cover- 
 ing of its feet and the border of the sea. On this hang- 
 ing slope may be seen villas with white or rosy fagades 
 midst the splendor of a vegetation that is always green 
 and glossy. Beyond the colonnades of palm trees and 
 parasol pines, appeared the gulf like a blue curtain, its 
 upper edge showing above the murmuring tops of the 
 trees. 
 
 An enormous edifice appeared facing the water. It 
 was a palace in ruins, or rather a roofless palace never 
 finished, with thick walls and huge windows. On the 
 lower floor the waves entered gently through doors and
 
 206 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 windows which served as rooms of refuge for the 
 fishermen's skiffs. 
 
 The two travelers were undoubtedly talking about this 
 ruin, and the forgiving coachman forgot his snub in 
 order to come to their aid. 
 
 "That is what many people call the Palace of Queen 
 Joanna. ... A mistake, sir. Ignorance of the un- 
 educated people! That is the Palazzo di Donn' Anna, 
 and Donna Anna Carafa was a great Neapolitan slgnora, 
 wife of the Duke of Medina, the Spanish viceroy who 
 constructed the palace for her and was not able to 
 finish it." . . . 
 
 He was about to say more but stopped himself. Ah, 
 no! By the Madonna! . . . Again they had begun to 
 talk, without listening to him. . . . And he finally took 
 refuge in offended silence, while they chattered contin- 
 ually behind his back. 
 
 Ferragut felt an interest in the remote love-affairs 
 of the Neapolitan great lady with the prudent and aris- 
 tocratic Spanish magnate. His passion had made the 
 grave viceroy commit the folly of constructing a palace 
 in the sea. The sailor was also in love with a woman 
 of another race and felt equal desires to do whimsical 
 things for her. 
 
 "I have read the mandates of Nietzsche," he said to 
 her, by way of explaining his enthusiasm, " 'seek thy 
 wife outside thy country.' That is the best thing." 
 
 Freya smiled sadly. 
 
 "Who knows? . . . That would complicate love with 
 the prejudices of national antagonism. That would 
 create children with a double country who would end 
 by belonging to none, who would wander through the 
 world like mendicants with no place of refuge. ... I 
 know something about that." 
 
 And again she smiled with sadness and skepticism.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 207 
 
 Ferragut was reading the signs of the trattorias on 
 both sides of the highway: "The Ledge of the Siren," 
 "The Joy of Parthenope," "The Ouster of Flowers." 
 . . . And meanwhile he was squeezing Freya's hand, 
 putting his fingers upon the inner side of her wrist and 
 caressing her skin that trembled at every touch. 
 
 The coachman let the horse slowly ascend the con- 
 tinuous ascent of Posilipo. He was now concerned in 
 not turning around and not being troublesome. He 
 knew well what they were talking about behind him. 
 "Lovers, people who do not wish to arrive too soon!" 
 And he forgot to be offended, gloating over the prob- 
 able generosity of a gentleman in such good company. 
 
 Ulysses made him stop on the heights of Posilipo. It 
 was there where he had eaten a famous "sailor's soup," 
 and where they sold the best oysters from Fiisaro. At 
 the right of the road, there arose a pretentious and mod- 
 ern edifice with the name of a restaurant in letters of 
 gold. On the opposite side was the annex, a terraced 
 garden that slipped away down to the sea, and on these 
 terraces were tables in the open air or little low roofed 
 cottages whose walls were covered with climbing vines. 
 These latter constructions had discreet windows opening 
 upon the gulf at a great height thus forestalling any out- 
 side curiosity. 
 
 Upon receiving Ferragut's generous tip, the coachman 
 greeted him with a sly smile, that confidential gesture 
 of comradeship which passes down through all the social 
 strata, uniting them as simple men. He had brought 
 many folk to this discreet garden with its locked dining- 
 rooms overlooking the gulf. "A good appetite to you, 
 Sign ore!" 
 
 The old waiter who came to meet them on the little 
 sloping footpath made the identical grimace as soon as 
 he spied Ferragut. "I have whatever the gentleman
 
 208 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 may need.'* And crossing a low, embowered terrace wiffi 
 various unoccupied tables, he opened a door and bade 
 them enter a room having only one window. 
 
 Freya went instinctively toward it like an insect toward 
 the light, leaving behind her the damp and gloomy room 
 whose paper was hanging loose at intervals. "How beau- 
 tiful !" The gulf pictured through the window appeared 
 like an unframed canvas, the original, alive and palpi- 
 tating, of the infinite copies throughout the world. 
 
 Meanwhile the captain, while informing himself of 
 the available dishes, was secretly following the discreet 
 sign language of the waiter. With one hand he 
 was holding the door half open, his fingers fumbling 
 with an enormous archaic bolt on the under side which 
 had belonged to a much larger door and looked as though 
 it were going to fall from the wood because of its ex- 
 cessive size. . . . Ferragut surmised that this bolt was 
 going to count heavily, with all its weight, in the bill 
 for dinner. 
 
 Freya interrupted her contemplation of the panorama 
 on feeling Ferragut's lips trying to caress her neck. 
 
 "None of that, Captain! . . . You know well enough 
 what we have agreed. Remember that I have accepted 
 your invitation on the condition that you leave me in 
 peace." 
 
 She permitted his kiss to pass across her cheek, even 
 reaching her mouth. This caress was already an accepted 
 thing. As it had the force of custom, she did not resist 
 it, remembering the preceding ones, but fear of his abus- 
 ing it made her withdraw from the window. 
 
 "Let us examine the enchanted palace which my true 
 love has promised me," she said gayly in order to distract 
 Ulysses from his insistence. 
 
 In the center there was a table made of planks badly 
 planed and with rough legs. The covers and the dishes
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 209 
 
 would hide this horror. Passing her eyes scrutinizingly 
 over the old seats, the walls with their loose papering 
 and the chromes in greenish frames, she spied something 
 dark, rectangular and deep occupying one corner of the 
 room. She did not know whether it was a divan, a bed 
 or a funeral catafalque. The shabby covers that were 
 spread over it reminded one of the beds of the barracks 
 or of the prison. 
 
 "Ah, no ! . . ." Freya made one bound toward the door. 
 She would never be able to eat beside that filthy piece 
 of furniture which had come from the scum of Naples. 
 "Ah, no! How loathesome!" 
 
 Ulysses was standing near the door, fearing that 
 Freya's discoveries might go further, and hiding with 
 his back that bolt which was the waiter's pride. He 
 stammered excuses but she mistook his insistence, think- 
 ing that he was trying to lock her in. 
 
 "Captain, let me pass!" she said in an angry voice. 
 "You do not know me. That kind of thing is for 
 others. . . . Back, if you do not wish me to consider 
 you the lowest kind of fellow. . . ." 
 
 And she pushed him as she went out, in spite of the 
 fact that Ulysses was letting her pass freely, reiterating 
 his excuses and laying all the responsibility on the stu- 
 pidity of the servant. 
 
 She stopped under the arbor, suddenly tranquillized 
 upon finding herself with her back to the room. 
 
 "What a den!" . . . she said. "Come over here, 
 Ferragut. We shall be much more comfortable in the 
 open air looking at the gulf. Come, now, and don't be 
 babyish ! . . . All is forgotten. You were not to blame." 
 
 The old waiter, who was returning with table-covers 
 and dishes, did not betray the slightest astonishment at 
 seeing the pair installed on the terrace. He was accus- 
 tomed to these surprises and evaded the lady's eye like
 
 210 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 a convicted criminal, looking at the gentleman with the 
 forlorn air which he always employed when announcing 
 that there was no more of some dish on the bill of fare. 
 His gestures of quiet protection were trying to console 
 Ferragut for his failure. "Patience and tenacity!" . . . 
 He had seen much greater difficulties overcome by his 
 clientele. 
 
 Before serving dinner he placed Upon the table, in 
 the guise of an aperitive, a fat-bellied bottle of native 
 wine, a nectar from the slopes of Vesuvius with a slight 
 taste of sulphur. Freya was thirsty and was suspicious 
 of the water of the trattoria. Ulysses must forget his 
 recent mortification. . . . And the two made their liba- 
 tions to the gods, with an unmixed drink in which not 
 a drop of water cut the jeweled transparency of the 
 precious wine. 
 
 A group of singers and dancers now invaded the ter- 
 race. A coppery-hued girl, handsome and dirty, with 
 wavy hair, great gold hoops in her ears and an apron 
 of many colored stripes, was dancing under the arbor, 
 waving on high a tambourine that was almost the size 
 of a parasol. Two bow-legged youngsters, dressed 
 like ancient lazzarones in red caps, were accompanying 
 with shouts the agitated dance of the tarantella. 
 
 The gulf was taking on a pinkish light under the 
 oblique rays of the sun, as though there were growing 
 within it immense groves of coral. The blue of the sky 
 had also turned rosy and the mountain seemed aflame 
 in the afterglow. The plume of Vesuvius was less white 
 than in the morning; its nebulous column, streaked with 
 reddish flutings by the dying light, appeared to be re- 
 flecting its interior fire. 
 
 Ulysses felt the friendly placidity that a landscape 
 contemplated in childhood always inspires. Many a 
 time he had seen this same panorama with its dancing
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 211 
 
 girls and its volcano there in his old home at Valencia; 
 he had seen it on the fans called "Roman Style" that 
 his father used to collect. 
 
 Freya felt as moved as her companion. The blue of 
 the gulf was of an extreme intensity in the parts not 
 reflected by the sun; the coast appeared of ochre; al- 
 though the houses had tawdry fagades, all these dis- 
 cordant elements were now blended and interfused in 
 subdued and exquisite harmony. The shrubbery was 
 trembling rhythmically under the breeze. The very air 
 was musical, as though in its waves were vibrating the 
 strings of invisible harps. 
 
 This was for Freya the true Greece imagined by the 
 poets, not the island of burned-out rocks denuded of 
 vegetation that she had seen and heard spoken of in 
 her excursions through the Hellenic archipelago. 
 
 "To live here the rest of my life!" she murmured 
 with misty eyes. "To die here, forgotten, alone, 
 happy! . . ." 
 
 Ferragut also would like to die in Naples . . . but 
 with her! . . . And his quick and exuberant imagination 
 described the delights of life for the two, a life of love 
 and mystery in some one of the little villas, with a gar- 
 den peeping out over the sea on the slopes of Posilipo. 
 
 The dancers had passed down to the lower terrace 
 where the crowd was greater. New customers were 
 entering, almost all in pairs, as the day was fading. 
 The waiter had ushered some highly-painted women with 
 enormous hats, followed by some young men, into the 
 locked dining-room. Through the half-open door came 
 the noise of pursuit, collision and rebound with brutal 
 roars of laughter. 
 
 Freya turned her back, as if the memory of her pas- 
 sage through that den offended her. 
 
 The old waiter now devoted himself to them, beginning
 
 212 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 to serve dinner. To the bottle of Vesuvian wine had suc- 
 ceeded another kind, gradually losing its contents. 
 
 The two ate little but felt a nervous thirst which made 
 them frequenly reach out their hands toward the glass. 
 The wine was depressing to Freya. The sweetness of 
 the twilight seemed to make it ferment, giving it the 
 acrid perfume of sad memories. 
 
 The sailor felt arising within him the aggressive fever 
 of temperate men when becoming intoxicated. Had he 
 been with a man he would have started a violent dis- 
 cussion on any pretext whatever. He did not relish the 
 oysters, the sailor's soup, the lobster, everything that 
 another time, eaten alone or with a passing friend in the 
 same site, would have appeared to him as delicacies. 
 
 He was looking at Freya with enigmatical eyes while, 
 in his thought, wrath was beginning to bubble. He almost 
 hated her on recalling the arrogance with which she had 
 treated him, fleeing from that room. "Hypocrite ! . . ." 
 She was just amusing herself with him. She was a 
 playful and ferocious cat prolonging the death-agony 
 of the mouse caught in her claws. In his brain a brutal 
 voice was saying, as though counseling a murder: "This 
 will be her last day ! . . . I'll finish her to-day ! . . . No 
 more after to-day! . . ." After several repetitions, he 
 was disposed to the greatest violence in order to extri- 
 cate himself from a situation which he thought ridic- 
 ulous. 
 
 And she, ignorant of her companion's thought, de- 
 ceived by the impassiveness of his countenance, con- 
 tinued chatting with her glance fixed on the horizon, 
 talking in an undertone as though she were recounting 
 to herself her illusions. 
 
 The momentary suggestion of living in a cottage of 
 Posilipo, completely alone, an existence of monastic isola-
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 213 
 
 tion with all the conveniences of modern life, was domi- 
 nating her like an obsession. 
 
 "And yet, after all," she continued, "this atmosphere is 
 not favorable to solitude ; this landscape is for love. To 
 grow old slowly, two who love each other, before the 
 eternal beauty of the gulf ! . . . What a pity that I have 
 never been really loved! . . ." 
 
 This was an offense against Ulysses who expressed 
 his annoyance with all the aggressiveness that was seeth- 
 ing beneath his bad humor. How about him ? . . . Was 
 he not loving her and disposed to prove it to her by all 
 manner of sacrifices? . . . 
 
 Sacrifices as proof of love always left this woman 
 cold, accepting them with a skeptical gesture. 
 
 "All men have told me the same thing," she added; 
 "they all promise to kill themselves if I do not love 
 them. . . . And with the most of them it is nothing 
 more than a phrase of passionate rhetoric. And what 
 if they did kill themselves really ? What does that prove ? 
 ... To leave life on the spur of a moment that gives no 
 opportunity for repentance; a simple nervous flash, a 
 posture many times assumed simply for what people will 
 say, with the frivolous pride of an actor who likes to 
 pose in graceful attitudes. I know what all that means. 
 A man once killed himself for me. . . ." 
 
 On hearing these last words Ferragut jerked himself 
 out of his sullen silence. A malicious voice was chant- 
 ing in his brain, "Now there are three ! . . ." 
 
 "I saw him dying," she continued, "on a bed of the 
 hotel. He had a red spot like a star on the bandage 
 of his forehead, the hole of the pistol shot. He died 
 clutching my hands, swearing that he loved me and that 
 he had killed himself for me ... a tiresome, horrible 
 scene. . . . And nevertheless I am sure that he was de- 
 ceiving himself, that he did not love me. He killed him-
 
 214 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 self through wounded vanity on seeing that I would 
 have nothing to do with him, just for stubbornness, for 
 theatrical effect, influenced by his readings. . . . He was 
 a Roumanian tenor. That was in Russia. ... I have 
 been an actress a part of my life. . . ." 
 
 The sailor wished to express the astonishment that the 
 different changes of this mysterious wandering existence, 
 always showing a new facet, were producing in him ; but 
 he contained himself in order to listen better to the cruel 
 counsels of the malignant voice speaking within his 
 thoughts. . . . He was not trying to kill himself 
 for her. Quite the contrary ! His moody aggressiveness 
 was considering her as the next victim. There was in 
 his eyes something of the dead Triton when in pursuit 
 of a distant woman's skirt on the coast. 
 
 Freya continued speaking. 
 
 "To kill one's self is not a proof of love. They all 
 promise me the sacrifice of their existence from the very 
 first words. Men don't know; any other song. Don't 
 imitate them, Captain." 
 
 She remained pensive a long time. Twilight was 
 rapidly falling; half the sky was of amber and the 
 other half of a midnight blue in which the first stars 
 were beginning to twinkle. The gulf was drowsing 
 under the leaden coverlet of its water, exhaling a mys- 
 terious freshness that was spreading to the mountains 
 and trees. All the landscape appeared to be acquiring 
 the fragility of crystal. The silent air was trembling 
 with exaggerated resonance, repeating the fall of an oar 
 in the boats that, small as flies, were slipping along under 
 the sky arching above the gulf, and prolonging the femi- 
 nine and invisible voices passing through the groves on 
 the heights. 
 
 The waiter went from table to table, distributing can- 
 dles enclosed in paper shades. The mosquitoes and moths,
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 215 
 
 revived by the twilight, were buzzing around these red 
 and yellow flowers of light. 
 
 Her voice was again sounding in the twilight air with 
 the vagueness of one speaking in a dream. 
 
 "There is a sacrifice greater than that of life, the only 
 one that can convince a woman that she is beloved. 
 What does life signify to a man like you? . . . Your 
 profession puts it in danger every day and I believe you 
 capable of risking your life, when tired of land, for the 
 slightest motive. . . ." 
 
 She paused again and then continued. 
 
 "Honor is worth more than life for certain men, 
 respectability, the preservation of the place that they 
 occupy. Only the man that would risk his honor and 
 position for me, who would descend to the lowest depths 
 without losing his will to live, would ever be able to 
 convince me. . . . That indeed would be a sacrifice!" 
 
 Ferragut felt alarmed at such words. What kind of 
 sacrifice was this woman about to propose to him? . . . 
 But he grew calmer as he listened to her. It was all a 
 fancy of her disordered imagination. "She is crazy," 
 again affirmed the hidden counselor in his brain. 
 
 "I have dreamed many times," she continued, "of a 
 man who would rob for me, who would kill if it was 
 necessary and might have to pass the rest of his years 
 in prison. . . . My poor thief! ... I would live 
 only for him, spending night and day near the walls of 
 his prison, looking through the bars, working like a 
 woman of the village in order to send a good dinner to 
 my outlaw. . . That is genuine love and not the cold 
 lies, the theatrical vows of our world." 
 
 Ulysses repeated his mental comment, "She certainly is 
 crazy" and his thought was so clearly reflected in his 
 eyes that she guessed it. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, Ferragut," she said, smiling. "I
 
 216 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 have no thought of exacting such a sacrifice of you. 
 All this that I am talking about is merely fancy, a 
 whimsy invented to fill the vacancy of my soul. 'Tis 
 the fault of the wine, of our exaggerated libations, that 
 to-day have been without water, to the gods. . . . Just 
 look!" 
 
 And she pointed with comical gravity to the Iwo 
 empty bottles that were occupying the center of the 
 table. 
 
 , Night had fallen. In the dark sky twinkled infinite 
 eyes of starry light. The immense bowl of the gulf 
 was reflecting their sparkles like thousands of will o' 
 the wisps. The candle shades in the restaurant were 
 throwing purplish spots upon the table covers, casting 
 upon the faces of those who were eating around them 
 violent contrasts of light and shade. From the locked 
 rooms were escaping sounds of kisses, pursuit and fall- 
 ing furniture. 
 
 "Let us go !" ordered Freya. 
 
 The noise of this vulgar orgy was annoying her as 
 though it were dishonoring the majesty of the night. 
 She needed to move about, to walk in the darkness, to 
 breathe in the freshness of the mysterious shade. 
 
 At the garden gate they hesitated before the appeals of 
 various coachmen. Freya was the one who refused their 
 offers. She wished to return to Naples on foot, fol- 
 lowing the easy descent of the road of Posilipo after 
 their long inaction in the restaurant. Her face was 
 warm and flushed because of the excess of wine. 
 
 Ulysses gave her his arm and they began to move 
 through the shadows, insensibly impelled in their march 
 by the ease of the downward slope. Freya knew just 
 what this trip would mean. At the very first step the 
 sailor advised her with a kiss on the neck. He was 
 going to take advantage of all the windings of the road,
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 217 
 
 of the hills and terraces cut through in certain places 
 to show the phosphorescent gulf across the foliage, and 
 of the long shadowy stretch broken only now and then 
 by the public echoes or the lanterns of carriages and 
 tramways. . . . 
 
 But these liberties' were already an accepted thing. 
 She had taken the first step in the Aquarium: besides, 
 she was sure of her ability to keep her lover at what- 
 ever distance she might choose to fix. . . . And con- 
 vinced of her power of checking herself in time, she gave 
 herself up like a lost woman. 
 
 Never had Ferragut had such a propitious occasion. 
 It was a try sting-place in the mystery of the night with 
 plenty of time ahead of them. The only trouble was the 
 necessity of walking on, of accompanying his embraces 
 and protests of love with the incessant activity of walk- 
 ing. She protested, coming out from her rapture every 
 time that the enamored man would propose that they 
 sit down on the side of the road. 
 
 Hope made Ulysses very obedient to Freya, desirous 
 of reaching Naples as soon as possible. Down there in 
 the curve of the light near the gulf was the hotel, and 
 the sailor looked upon it as a place of happiness. 
 
 "Say yes," he murmured in her ear, punctuating his 
 words with kisses, "say that it will be to-night ! . . ." 
 
 She did not reply, leaning on the arm that the cap- 
 tain had passed around her waist, letting herself be 
 dragged along as if she were half-fainting, rolling her 
 eyes and offering her lips. 
 
 While Ulysses was repeating his pleadings and caresses 
 the voice in his brain was chanting victoriously, "Here 
 it is! ... It's settled now. . . . The thing now is to 
 get her to the hotel." 
 
 They roamed on for nearly an hour, fancying that 
 only a few minutes had passed by.
 
 2i8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Approaching the gardens of the Villa Ncteionale, near 
 the Aquarium, they stopped an instant. There were fewer 
 people and more life here than in the road to Posilipo. 
 They avoided the electric lights of the Via Caracciolo 
 reflected in the sea, the two instinctively approaching 
 a bench, and seeking the ebony shade of the trees. 
 
 Freya had suddenly become very composed. She ap- 
 peared annoyed at herself for her languor during the 
 walk. Finding herself near the hotel, she recovered her 
 energy as though in the presence of danger. 
 
 "Good-by, Ulysses! We shall see each other again 
 to-morrow. ... I am going to pass the night in the 
 doctor's home." 
 
 The sailor withdrew a little in the shock of surprise. 
 "Was it a jest? . . ." But no, he could not think that. 
 The very tone of her words displayed firm resolution. 
 
 He entreated her humbly with a thick and threatening 
 Voice not to go away. At the same time his mental 
 counselor was rancorously chanting, "She's making a 
 fool of you ! . . . It's time to put an end to all this. . . . 
 Make her feel your masculine authority." And this 
 Voice had the same ring as that of the dead Triton. 
 
 Suddenly occurred a violent, brutal, dishonorable 
 thing. Ulysses threw himself upon her as though he 
 Were going to kill her, holding her tightly in his arms, 
 and the two fell upon the bench, panting and struggling. 
 But this only lasted an instant. 
 
 The vigorous Ferragut, trembling with emotion, was 
 only using half of his powers. He suddenly sprang 
 back, raising his two hands to his shoulders. He felt a 
 sharp pain, as though one of his bones had just broken. 
 She had repelled him with a certain Japanese fencing 
 trick that employs the hands as irresistible weapons. 
 
 "Ah ! . . . Tall . . ." he roared, hurling upon her the 
 [worst of feminine insults.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 219 
 
 And He fell upon her again as though he were a man, 
 uniting to his original purpose the desire of maltreat- 
 ing her, of degrading her, of making her his. 
 
 Freya awaited him firmly. . . . Seeing the icy glitter 
 of her eyes, Ulysses without knowing why recalled the 
 "eye of the morning," the companionable reptile of her 
 dances. 
 
 In this ft - >ns onslaught he was stopped by the sim- 
 ple contact on r orehead of a diminutive metal circle, 
 a kind of frozen thimble that was resting on his skin. 
 
 He looked. ... It was a little revolver, a deadly toy 
 of shining nickel. It had appeared in Freya's hand, 
 drawn secretly from her clothes, or perhaps from that 
 gold-mesh bag whose contents seemed inexhaustible. 
 
 She was looking at him fixedly with her finger on the 
 trigger. He surmised her familiarity with the weapon 
 that she had in her hand. It could not be the first time 
 that she had had recourse to it. 
 
 The sailor's indecision was brief. With a man, he 
 would have taken possession of the threatening hand, 
 twisting it until he broke it, without the slightest fear 
 of the revolver. But he had opposite him a woman 
 . . . and this woman was entirely capable of wounding 
 him, and at the same time placing him in a ridiculous 
 situation. 
 
 "Retire, sir!" ordered Freya with a ceremonious and 
 threatening tone as though she were speaking to an 
 utter stranger. 
 
 But it was she who retired finally, seeing that Ulysses 
 stepped back, thoughtful and confused. She turned her 
 back on him at the same time that the revolver disap- 
 peared from her hand. 
 
 Before departing, she murmured some words that Fer- 
 ragut was not able to understand, looking at him for the 
 last time with contemptuous eyes. They must be terri-
 
 220 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ble insults, and just because she was uttering them in 
 a mysterious language, he felt her scorn more deeply. 
 
 "It cannot be. ... It is all ended. It is ended for- 
 ever! . . ." 
 
 She said this repeatedly before returning to her hotel. 
 And he thought of it during all the wakeful night be- 
 tween agonizing attacks of nightmare. When the 
 morning was well advanced the bugles of the bersag- 
 lieri awakened him from a heavy sleep. 
 
 He paid his bill in the manager's office and gave a last 
 tip to the porter, telling him that a few hours later 
 a man from the ship would come for his baggage. 
 
 He was happy, with the forced happiness of one 
 obliged to accommodate himself to circumstances. He 
 congratulated himself upon his liberty as though he had 
 gained this liberty of his own free will and it had not 
 been imposed upon him by her scorn. Since the mem- 
 ory of the preceding day pained him, putting him in a 
 ridiculous and gross light, it was better not to recall 
 the past. 
 
 He stopped in the street to take a last look at the 
 hotel. "Adieu, accursed albergo! . . . Never will I see 
 you again. Would that you might burn down with all 
 your occupants !" 
 
 Upon treading the deck of the Mare Nostrum, his en- 
 forced satisfaction became immeasurably increased. 
 Here only could he live far from the complications and 
 illusions of terrestrial life. 
 
 All those aboard who in previous weeks had feared 
 the arrival of the ill-humored captain, now smiled as 
 though they saw the sun coming out after a tempest. 
 He distributed kindly words and affectionate grasps of 
 the hand. The repairs were going to be finished the 
 following day. . . . Very good! He was entirely con- 
 tent. Soon they would be on the sea again.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 221 
 
 In the galley he greeted Uncle Caragol. . . . That 
 man was a philosopher. All the women in the world 
 were not in his estimation worth a good dish of rice. 
 Ah, the great man ! . . . He surely was going to live to 
 be a hundred! And the cook flattered by such praises, 
 whose origin he did not happen to comprehend, responded 
 as always, "That is so, my captain." 
 
 Toni, silent, disciplined and familiar, inspired him 
 with no less admiration. His life was an upright life, 
 firm and plain, as the road of duty. When the young 
 officials used to talk in his presence of boisterous sup- 
 pers on shore with women from distant countries, the 
 pilot had always shrugged his shoulders. "Money and 
 pleasure ought to be kept for the home," he would say 
 sententiously. 
 
 Ferragut had laughed many times at the virtue of his 
 mate who, timid and torpid, used to pass over a great 
 part of the planet without permitting himself any distrac- 
 tion whatever, but would awake with an overpower- 
 ing tension whenever the chances of their voyage brought 
 him the opportunity of a few days' stay in his home 
 in the Marina. 
 
 And with the tranquil grossness of the virtuous stay- 
 at-home, he was accustomed to calculate the dates of his 
 voyages by the age of his eight children. "This one was 
 on returning from the Philippines. . . . This other one 
 after I was in the coast trade in the Gulf of Califor- 
 nia. . . ." 
 
 His methodical serenity, incapable of being perturbed 
 by frivolous adventures, made him guess from the very 
 first the secret of the captain's enthusiasm and wrath. 
 "It must be a woman," he said to himself, upon seeing 
 him installed in a hotel in Naples, and after feeling 
 the effects of his bad humor in the fleeting appearances 
 that he made on board.
 
 222 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Now, listening to Ferragut's jovial comments on his 
 mate's tranquil life and philosophic sagacity, Tcni again 
 ejaculated mentally, without the captain's suspecting any- 
 thing from his impassive countenance: "Now he has 
 quarreled with the woman. He has tired of her. But 
 better so !" 
 
 He was more than ever confirmed in this belief on 
 hearing Ferragut's plans. As soon as the boat could 
 be made ready, they were going to anchor in the commer- 
 cial port. He had been told of a certain cargo for Barce- 
 lona, some cheap freight, but that was better than go- 
 ing empty. ... If the cargo should be delayed, they 
 would set sail merely with ballast. More than any- 
 thing else, he wished to renew his trips. Boats were 
 scarcer and more in demand all the time. It was high 
 time to stop this enforced inertia. 
 
 "Yes, it's high time/' responded Toni who, during the 
 entire month, had only gone ashore twice. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum left the repair dock coming to an- 
 chor opposite the commercial wharf, shining and re- 
 juvenated, with no imperfections recalling her recent 
 injuries. 
 
 One morning when the captain and his second were 
 in the saloon under the poop undecided whether to start 
 that night or wait four days longer, as the owners of 
 the cargo were requesting, the third officer, a young An- 
 dalusian, presented himself greatly excited by the piece 
 of news of which he was the bearer. A most beautiful 
 and elegant lady (the young man emphasized his ad- 
 miration with these details) had just arrived in a launch 
 and, without asking permission, had climbed the ladder, 
 entering the vessel as though it were her own dwell- 
 ing. 
 
 Toni felt his heart thump. His swarthy countenance 
 became ashy pale. " Crist o! . . . The woman from
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 223 
 
 Naples !" v He did not really know whether she was 
 from Naples ; he had never seen her, but he was certain 
 that she was coming as a fatal impediment, as an un- 
 expected calamity. . . . Just when things were going so 
 well, too ! . . . 
 
 The captain whirled around in his arm chair, jumped 
 up from the table, and in two bounds was out on deck. 
 
 Something extraordinary was perturbing the crew. 
 They, too, were all on deck as though some powerful 
 attraction had drawn them from the orlop, from the 
 depths of the hold, from the metallic corridors of the 
 engine rooms. Even Uncle Caragol was sticking his 
 episcopal face out through the door of the kitchen, hold- 
 ing a hand closed in the form of a telescope to one of his 
 eyes, without being able to distinguish clearly the an- 
 nounced marvel. 
 
 Freya was a few steps away in a blue suit somewhat 
 like a sailor's, as though this visit to the ship necessi- 
 tated the imitative elegance and bearing of the multi- 
 millionaires who live on their yachts. The seamen, clean- 
 ing brass or polishing wood, were pretending extraor- 
 dinary occupations in order to get near her. They felt 
 the necessity of being in her atmosphere, of living in 
 the perfumed air that enveloped her, following her steps. 
 
 Upon seeing the captain, she simply extended her 
 hand, as though she might have seen him the day be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Do not object, Ferragut ! * . . As I did not find you 
 in the hotel, I felt obliged to visit you on your ship. I 
 have always wanted to see your floating home. Every- 
 thing about you interests me." 
 
 She appeared an entirely different woman. Ulysses 
 noted the great change that had taken place in her per- 
 son during the last days. Her eyes were bold, challeng- 
 ing, of a calm seductiveness. She appeared to be sur-
 
 224 % MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 rendering herself entirely. Her smiles, her words, her 
 manner of crossing the deck toward the staterooms of 
 the vessel proclaimed her determination to end her long 
 resistance as quickly as possible, yielding to the sailor's 
 desires. 
 
 In spite of former failures, he felt anew the joy of 
 triumph. "Now; it is going to be! My absence has 
 conquered her. . . ." And at the same time that he was 
 foretasting the sweet satisfaction of love and triumphant 
 pride, there arose in him a vague instinct of suspicion 
 of this woman so suddenly transformed, perhaps loving 
 her less than in former days when she resisted and ad- 
 vised him to be gone. 
 
 In the forward cabin he presented her to his mate. The 
 crude Toni experienced the same hallucination that had 
 perturbed all the others on the boat. What a woman! 
 ... At the very first glance he understood and excused 
 the captain's conduct. Then he fixed his eyes upon her 
 with an expression of alarm, as though her presence made 
 him tremble for the fate of the steamer: but finally he 
 succumbed, dominated by this lady who was examining 
 the saloon as though she had come tq remain in it for- 
 ever. 
 
 For a few moments Freya was interested in the hairy 
 ugliness of Toni. He was a true Mediterranean, just the 
 kind she had imagined to herself, a faun pursuing 
 nymphs. Ulysses laughed at the eulogies which she 
 passed on his mate. v 
 
 "In his shoes," she continued, "he ought to have pretty 
 little hoofs like a goat's. He must know how to play 
 the flute. Don't you think so, Captain? . . ." 
 
 The faun, wrinkled and wrathful, took himself off, 
 saluting her stolidly as he went away. Ferragut felt 
 greatly relieved at his absence, since he ;was fearful of 
 some rude speech from Toni.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 225 
 
 Finding herself alone with Ulysses, she ran through 
 the great room from one side to the other. 
 
 "Is here where you live, my dear shark? . . . Let me 
 see everything. Let me poke around everywhere. 
 Everything of yours interests me. You will not say now 
 that I do not love you. What a boast for Captain Fer- 
 ragut ! The ladies come to seek him on his ship. . . ." 
 
 She interrupted her ironic and affectionate chatter in 
 order to defend herself gently from the sailor. He, for^ 
 getting the past, and wishing to take advantage of the 
 happiness so suddenly presented to him, was kissing 
 the nape of her neck. 
 
 "There, . . . there!" she sighed. "Now let me'look 
 around. I feel the curiosity of a child." 
 
 She opened the piano, the poor piano of the Scotch 
 captain and some thin and plaintive chords, showing 
 many years' lack of tuning, filled the saloon with the 
 melancholy of resuscitated memories. 
 
 The melody was like that of the musical boxes that we 
 find forgotten in the depths of a wardrobe among the 
 clothes of some deceased old lady. Freya declared that 
 it smelled of withered roses. 
 
 Then, leaving the piano, she opened one after the 
 other, all the doors of the staterooms surrounding the 
 saloon. She stopped at the captain's sleeping room 
 without wishing to pass the threshold, without loosening 
 her hold on the brass doorknob in her right hand. Fer- 
 ragut behind her, was pushing her with treacherous gen- 
 tleness, at the same time repeating his caresses on her 
 neck. 
 
 "No; here, no,'* she said. "Not for anything in the 
 world! ... I will be yours, I promise you; I give you 
 my word of honor. But where I will and when it seems 
 best to me. . . . Very soon, Ulysses !" 
 
 He felt complete gratification in all these affirmations
 
 226 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 made in a <fatessing and submissive voice, all possible 
 pride in such spontaneous, affectionate address, equiv- 
 alent to the first surrender. 
 
 The arrival of one of Uncle Caragol's acolytes made 
 them recover their composure. He was bringing two 
 enormous glasses filled with a ruddy and foamy cocktail, 
 an intoxicating and sweet mixture, a composite of all 
 the knowledge acquired by the chef in his intercourse 
 with the drunkards of the principal ports of the world. 
 
 She tested the liquid, rolling up her eyes like a 
 greedy tabby. Then she broke forth into praises, lifting 
 up the glass in a solemn manner. She was offering her 
 libation to Eros, the god of Love, the most beautiful 
 of the gods, and Ferragut who always had a certain 
 terror of the infernal and agreeable concoctions of his 
 cook, gulped the glass in one swallow, in order to join 
 in the invocation. 
 
 All was arranged between the two. She was giving 
 the orders. Ferragut would return ashore, lodging in 
 the same albergo. They would continue their life as be- 
 fore, as though nothing had occurred. 
 
 "This evening you will await me in the gardens of the 
 Villa Nazionale. . . . Yes, there where you wished to 
 kill me, you highwayman! . . ." 
 
 Before he should clearly recall that night of violence, 
 Freya continued her recollections with feminine astute- 
 ness. ... It was Ulysses who had wanted to kill her; 
 she reiterated it without admitting any reply. 
 
 "We shall visit the doctor," shecontinued. "The poor 
 woman wants to see you and has asked me to bring you. 
 She is very much interested in you because she knows 
 that I love you, my pirate!" 
 
 After having arranged the hour of meeting, Freya 
 wished to depart. But before returning to her launch,
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 227 
 
 she felt curious to inspect the boat, just as she Bad ex- 
 amined the saloon and the staterooms. 
 
 With the air of a reigning princess, preceded by the 
 captain and followed by the officials, she went over the 
 two decks, entered the galleries of the engine room and 
 the four-sided abyss of the hatchways, sniffing the musty 
 odor of the hold. On the bridge she touched with child- 
 ish enthusiasm the large brass hood of the binnacle and 
 other steering instruments glistening as though made of 
 gold. 
 
 She wished to see the galley and invaded Uncle Cara- 
 gol's dominions, putting his formal lines of casseroles into 
 lamentable disorder, and poking the tip of her rosy little 
 nose into the steam arising from the great stew; in which 
 was boiling the crew's mess. 
 
 The old man was able to see her close with his half- 
 blind eyes. "Yes, indeed, she was pretty!" The frou- 
 frou of her skirts and the frequent little clashes that 
 he had with her in her comings and goings, perturbed 
 the apostle. His chef-like sense of smell made him 
 feel annoyed by the perfume of this lady. "Pretty, but 
 with the smell of . . ." he repeated mentally. For him 
 all feminine perfume merited this scandalous title. 
 Good women smelled of fish and kitchen pots; he was 
 sure of that. ... In his faraway youth, the knowledge 
 of poor Caragol had never gone beyond that. 
 
 As soon as he was alone, he snatched up a rag, waving 
 it violently around, as though he were driving away 
 flies. He wished to clear the atmosphere of bad odors. 
 He felt as scandalized as though she had let a cake of 
 soap fall into one of his delicious rice compounds. 
 
 The men of the crew crowded to the railings in order 
 to follow the course of the little launch that was making 
 toward shore.
 
 228 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Toni, standing on the bridge, also contemplated her 
 with enigmatic eyes. 
 
 "You are handsome, but may the sea swallow you up 
 before you come back!" 
 
 A handkerchief was waving from the stern of the 
 little boat. "Good-by, Captain!" And the captain 
 nodded his head, smiling and gratified by the feminine 
 greeting while the sailors were envying him his good 
 luck. 
 
 Again one of the men of the crew carried Ferragut's 
 baggage to the albergo on the shore of S. Lucia. The 
 porter, as though foreseeing the chance of getting an 
 easy fee from his client, took it upon himself 'to select 
 a room for him, an apartment on a floor lower than 
 on his former stay, near that which the signora Talberg 
 was occupying. 
 
 They met in mid-afternoon in the Villa Nazionale, and 
 began their walk together through the streets of Chiaja. 
 At last Ulysses was going to know where the doctor was 
 hiding her majestic personality. He anticipated some- 
 thing extraordinary in this dwelling-place, but was dis- 
 posed to hide his impressions for fear of losing the affec- 
 tion and support of the wise lady who seemed to be 
 exercising so great a power over Freya. 
 
 They entered into the vestibule of an ancient palace. 
 Many times the sailor had stopped before this door, but 
 had gone on, misled by the little metal door plates an- 
 nouncing the offices and counting-houses installed on the 
 different floors. 
 
 He beheld an arcaded court paved with great tiled 
 slabs upon which opened the curving balconies of the 
 four interior sides of the palace. They climbed up a 
 stairway of resounding echoes, as large as one of the hill- 
 side streets, with broad turnings which in former time 
 permitted the passage of the litters and chairmen. As
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 229 
 
 souvenirs of the white-wigged personages and ladies of 
 voluminous farthingales who had passed through this 
 palace, there were still some classic busts on the landing 
 places, a hand-wrought iron railing, and various huge 
 lanterns of dull gold and blurred glass. 
 
 They stopped on the first floor before a row of doors 
 rather weather-beaten by the years. 
 
 "Here it is," said Freya. 
 
 And thereupon she pointed to the only door that was 
 covered with a screen of green leather displaying a 
 commercial sign, enormous, gilded and pretentious. 
 The doctor was lodging in an office. . . . How could he 
 ever have found it I 
 
 The first room really was an office, a merchant's room 
 with files for papers, maps, a safe for stocks, and vari- 
 ous tables. One employee only was working here, a 
 man of uncertain age with a childish face and a clipped 
 beard. His obsequious and smiling attitude was in strik- 
 ing contrast to his evasive glance, a glance of alarm 
 and distrust. 
 
 Upon seeing Freya he arose from his seat. She 
 greeted him, calling him Karl, and passed on as though 
 he were a mere porter. Ulysses upon following her, 
 surmised that the suspicious glance of the writer was 
 fixed upon his back. 
 
 "Is he a Pole, too?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, a Pole. ... He is a protege of the doctor's." 
 
 They entered a salon evidently furnished in great 
 haste, with the happy-go-lucky and individual knack of 
 those accustomed to traveling and improvising a dwelling 
 place; divans with cheap and showy chintzes, skins of 
 the American llama, glaring imitation-Oriental rugs, and 
 on the walls, prints from the periodicals between gilt 
 moldings. On a table were displayed their marble orna- 
 ments and silver things, a great dressing-case with a
 
 230 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 cover of cut leather, and a few little Neapolitan statu- 
 ettes which had been bought at the last moment in order 
 to give a certain air of sedentary respectability to this 
 room which could be dismantled suddenly and whose 
 most valuable adornments were acquired en route. 
 
 Through a half-drawn portiere they descried the doc- 
 tor writing in the nearby room. She was bending over 
 an American desk, but she saw them immediately in 
 a mirror which she kept always in front of her in order 
 to spy on all that was passing behind her. 
 
 Ulysses surmised that the imposing dame had made 
 certain additions to her toilette in order to receive him. 
 A gown as close as a sheath molded the exuberance of 
 her figure. The narrow skirt drawn tightly over the edge 
 of her knees appeared like the handle of an enormous 
 club. Over the green sea of her dress she was wear- 
 ing a spangled white tulle draped like a shawl. The 
 captain, in spite of his respect for this wise lady, could 
 not help comparing her to a well-nourished mother-mer- 
 maid in the oceanic pasture lands. 
 
 With outstretched hands and a joyous expression on 
 her countenance irradiating even her glasses, she ad- 
 vanced toward Ferragut. Her meeting was almost an 
 embrace. . . . "My dear Captain! Such a long time 
 since I have seen you ! . . ." She had heard of him fre- 
 quently through her young friend, but even so, she could 
 not but consider it a misfortune that the sailor had 
 never come to see her. 
 
 She appeared to have forgotten her coldness when bid- 
 ding him farewell in Salerno and the care which she 
 had taken to hide from him her home address. 
 
 Neither did Ferragut recall this fact now that he was 
 so agreeably touched by the doctor's amiability. She had 
 seated herself between the two as though wishing to pro- 
 tect them with all the majesty of her person and the af-
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 231 
 
 faction of her eyes. She was a real mother for her 
 young friend. While speaking, she was patting Freya's 
 great locks of hair, which had just escaped from under- 
 neath her hat, and Freya, adapting herself to the tender- 
 ness of the situation, cuddled down against the doctor, 
 assuming the air of a timid and devoted child while she 
 fixed on Ulysses her eyes of sweet promise. 
 
 "You must love her very much, Captain," continued 
 the matron. "Freya speaks only of you. She has been 
 so unfortunate ! . . . Life has been so cruel to her ! . . ." 
 
 The sailor felt as though he were in the placid bosom 
 of a family. That lady was discreetly taking everything 
 for granted, speaking to him as to a son-in-law. Her 
 kindly glance was somewhat melancholy. It was the 
 sweet sadness of mature people who find the present 
 monotonous, the future circumscribed, and taking refuge 
 in memories of the past, envy the young who enjoy the 
 reality of what they can taste only in memory. 
 
 "Happy you ! . . . You love each other so much ! . . . 
 Life is worth living only because of love." 
 
 And Freya, as though irresistibly affected by these 
 counsels, threw one arm around the doctor's globular, 
 corseted figure, while convulsively clasping Ulysses' right 
 hand. 
 
 The gold-rimmed spectacles, with their protecting 
 gleam, appeared to incite them to even greater intimacy. 
 "You may kiss each other. . . ." And the imposing 
 dame, trumping up an insignificant pretext, so as to fa- 
 cilitate their love-making was about to go out when the 
 drapery of the door between the salon and office was 
 raised. 
 
 There entered a man of Ferragut's age, but shorter, 
 with a weather-beaten face. He was dressed in the Eng- 
 lish style with scrupulous correctness. It was plain to 
 be seen that he was accustomed to take the most exces-
 
 232 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sive and childish interest in everything referring to the 
 adornment of his person. The suit of gray wool ap- 
 peared to have achieved its finishing touch in the har- 
 mony of cravat, socks, and handkerchief sticking out 
 of his pocket, all in the same tone. The three pieces 
 were blue, without the slightest variation in shade, chosen 
 with the exactitude of a man who would undoubtedly 
 suffer cruel discomfort if obliged to go out into the 
 street with his cravat of one color and his socks of an- 
 other. His gloves had the same dark tan tone as his 
 shoes. 
 
 Ferragut thought that this dandy, in order to be ab- 
 solutely perfect, ought to be clean shaved. And yet, he 
 was wearing a beard, close clipped on the cheeks and 
 forming over the chin a short, sharp point. The cap- 
 tain suspected that he was a sailor. In the German 
 fleet, in the Russian, in all the navies of the North where 
 they are not shaved in the English style, they use this 
 traditional little beard. 
 
 The newcomer bowed, or, more properly speaking, 
 doubled himself over at right angles, with a brusque 
 stiffness, upon kissing the hands of the two ladies. Then 
 he raised his impertinent monocle and fixed it in one 
 of his eyes while the doctor made the introduction. 
 
 "Count Kaledine . . . Captain Ferragut." 
 
 The count gave the sailor his hand, a hard hand, well- 
 cared for and vigorous, which for a long time enclosed 
 that of Ulysses, wishing to dominate it with an in- 
 effectual pressure. 
 
 The conversation continued in English which was the 
 language employed by the doctor in her relations with 
 Ulysses. 
 
 "The gentleman is a sailor?" asked Ferragut in order 
 to clarify his doubts. 
 
 Tte monocle did not move from its orbit, but a light
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 233 
 
 ripple of surprise appeared to cross its luminous con- 
 vexity. The doctor hastened to reply. 
 
 "The count is an illustrious diplomat who is now on 
 leave, regaining his health. He has traveled a great deal, 
 but he is not a sailor." 
 
 And she continued her explanations. 
 
 The Kaledines were of a Russian family ennobled in 
 the days of Catherine the Great. The doctor, being a 
 Polish woman, had been connected with them for many 
 years. . . . And she ceased speaking, giving Kaledine his 
 cue in the conversation. 
 
 At the beginning the count appeared cold and rather 
 disdainful in his words, as though he could not possibly 
 lay aside his diplomatic haughtiness. But this hauteur 
 gradually melted away. 
 
 Through his "distinguished friend, Madame Tal- 
 berg," he had heard of many of Ferragut's nautical ad- 
 ventures. Men of action, the heroes of the ocean, were 
 always exceedingly interesting to him. 
 
 Ulysses suddenly noticed in his noble interlocutor a 
 warm affection, a desire to make himself agreeable, just 
 like the doctor's. What a lovely home this was in which 
 everybody was making an effort to be gracious to Cap- 
 tain Ferragut! 
 
 The count, smiling amiably, ceased to avail himself of 
 his English, and soon began talking to him in Spanish, 
 as though he had reserved this final touch in order to 
 captivate Ulysses* affection with this most irresistible 
 of flatteries. 
 
 "I have lived in Mexico," he said, in order to explain 
 his knowledge of the language. "I made a long trip 
 through the Philippines when I was living in Japan." 
 
 The seas of the extreme Far East were those least 
 frequented by Ulysses. Only twice had he entered the 
 Chinese and Nipponese harbors, but he knew them
 
 234 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sufficiently to keep up his end of the conversation with 
 this traveler who was displaying in his tastes a cer- 
 tain artistic refinement. For half an hour, there filed 
 through the vulgar atmosphere of this salon, images of 
 enormous pagodas with superimposed roofs whose strings 
 of bells vibrated in the breeze like an yEolian harp, 
 monstrous idols carved in gold, in bronze, or in marble- 
 houses made of paper, thrones of bamboo, furniture with 
 mother-of-pearl inlay, screens with flocks of flying 
 storks. 
 
 The doctor disappeared, bored by a dialogue of which 
 she could only understand a few words. Freya, mo- 
 tionless, with drowsy eyes, and a knee between her 
 crossed hands, held herself aloof, understanding the 
 conversation, but without taking any part in it, as 
 though she were offended at the forgetfulness in which 
 the two men were leaving her. Finally she slipped dis- 
 creetly away, responding to the call of a hand peeping 
 through the portieres. The doctor was preparing tea and 
 needed help. 
 
 The conversation continued on in no way affected by 
 their absence. Kaledine had abandoned the Asiatic 
 waters in order to pass to the Mediterranean, and there 
 he anchored himself with admirable insistence. An- 
 other sign of affection for Ferragut who was finding 
 him more and more charming in spite of his slightly 
 glacial attitude. 
 
 He suddenly noticed that it was not as a Russian count 
 that he was speaking since, with brief and exact ques- 
 tions, he was making Ferragut reply just as though he 
 were undergoing an examination. 
 
 These signs of interest shown by the great traveler in 
 the little mare nostrum, and especially in the details of 
 its western bowl which he wished to kno\v most minutely, 
 pleased Ferragut greatly.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 235 
 
 He might ask him whatever he wished. Ferragut 
 knew mile for mile all its shores, Spanish, French, and 
 Italian, the surface and also its depths. 
 
 Perhaps because he was staying in Naples, Kaledine 
 insisted upon learning especially about that part of the 
 Mediterranean enclosed between Sardinia, southern 
 Italy, and Sicily, the part which the ancients had called 
 the Tyrrhenian Sea. . . . Did the captain happen to 
 know those little frequented and almost forgotten islands 
 opposite Sicily? 
 
 "I know all about all of them," replied the sailor 
 boastfully. And without realizing exactly whether it 
 was curiosity on the part of the listener, or whether he 
 was being submitted to an interesting examination, he 
 talked on and on. 
 
 He was well acquainted with the archipelago of the 
 Lipari Islands with their mines of sulphur and pumice- 
 stone, a group of volcanic peaks which rise up from 
 the depths of the Mediterranean. In these the ancients 
 had placed yEolus, lord of the winds; in these was 
 Stromboli, vomiting forth enormous balls of lava which 
 exploded with the roar of thunder. Its volcanic slag fell 
 again into the chimneys of the crater or rolled down the 
 mountain slopes, falling into the waves. 
 
 More to the west, isolated and solitary in a sea free 
 from shoals, was Ustica, an abrupt and volcanic island 
 that the Phoenicians had colonized and which had served 
 as a refuge for Saracen pilots. Its population was scant 
 and poor. There was nothing to see on it, apart from 
 certain fossil shells interesting to men of science. 
 
 But the count showed himself wonderfully interested 
 in this extinct and lonely crater in the midst of a sea 
 frequented only by fishing smacks. 
 
 Ferragut had also seen, although far off, at the en- 
 trance of the harbor of Trapani, the archipelago of the
 
 236 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 n Islands where are the great fishing 1 grounds 
 of the tunny. Once he had disembarked in the island 
 of Pantellaria, situated halfway between Sicily and 
 Africa. It was a very high, volcanic cone that came 
 up in the midst of the strait and had at its base alka- 
 line lakes, sulphurous fumes, thermal waters, and pre- 
 historic constructions of great stone blocks similar to 
 those in Sardinia and the Balearic Islands. Boats bound 
 for Tunis and Tripoli used to carry cargoes of raisins, 
 the only export from this ancient Phoenician colony. 
 
 Between Pantellaria and Sicily the ocean floor was 
 considerably elevated, having on its back an aquatic layer 
 that in some points was only twelve yards thick. It was 
 the great shoal called the Aventura, a volcanic swell- 
 ing, a double submerged island, the submarine pedestal 
 of Sicily. 
 
 The ledge of Aventura also appeared to interest the 
 count greatly. 
 
 "You certainly know the sea well," he said in an 
 approving tone. 
 
 Ferragut was about to go on talking when the two 
 ladies entered with a tray which contained the tea service 
 and various plates of cakes. The captain saw nothing 
 strange in their lack of servants. The doctor and her 
 friend were to him a pair of women of extraordinary 
 customs, and so he thought all their acts were logical 
 and natural. Freya served the tea with modest grace 
 as though she were the daughter of the house. 
 
 They passed the rest of the afternoon conversing 
 on distant voyages. Nobody alluded to the war, nor to 
 Italy's problem at that moment as to whether she should 
 maintain or break her neutrality. They appeared to be 
 living in an inaccessible place thousands of leagues from 
 all human bustle. 
 
 The two women were treating the count with the
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 237 
 
 well-bred familiarity of persons in the same rank of life, 
 but at times the sailor fancied that he noted that they 
 were afraid of him. 
 
 At the end of the afternoon this personage arose and 
 Ferragut did the same, understanding that he was ex- 
 pected to bring his visit to an end. The count offered 
 to accompany him. While he was bidding the doctor 
 good-by, thanking her with extreme courtesy for having 
 introduced him to the captain, Ferragut felt that Freya 
 was clasping his hand in a meaning way. 
 
 "Until to-night," she murmured lightly, hardly mov- 
 ing her lips. "I shall see you later. . . . Expect me." 
 
 Oh, what happiness! . . . The eyes, the smile, the 
 pressure of her hand were telling him much more than 
 that. 
 
 Never did he take such an agreeable stroll as when 
 walking beside Kaledine through the streets of Chiaja 
 toward the shore. What was that man saying ? . . . In- 
 significant things in order to avoid silence, but to him 
 they appeared to be observations of most profound wis- 
 dom. His voice sounded musical and affectionate. 
 Everything about them seemed equally agreeable, the 
 people who were passing through the streets, the Nea- 
 politan sounds at nightfall, the dark seas, the entire 
 life. 
 
 They bade each other good-by before the door of the 
 hotel. The count, in spite of his offers of friendship, 
 went away without mentioning his address. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," thought Ferragut. "We shall 
 meet again in the doctor's house." 
 
 He passed the rest of his watch agitated alternately 
 by hope and impatience. He did not wish to eat ; emotion 
 had paralyzed his appetite. . . . And yet, once seated at 
 the table, he ate more than ever with a mechanical and 
 distraught avidity.
 
 238 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 He needed to stroll around, to talk with somebody, in 
 order that time might fly by with greater rapidity, be- 
 guiling his uneasy wait. She would not return to the 
 hotel until very late. . . . And he therefore retired to 
 his room earlier than usual, believing with illogical super- 
 stition that by so doing Freya might arrive earlier. 
 
 His first movement upon finding himself alone in his 
 room, was one of pride. He looked up at the ceiling, 
 pitying the enamored sailor that a week before had been 
 dwelling on the floor above. Poor man! How they 
 must have made fun of him ! . . . Ulysses admired him- 
 self as though he were an entirely new personality, 
 happy and triumphant, completely separated from that 
 other creature by dolorous periods of humiliations and 
 failures that he did not wish to recall. 
 
 The long, long hours in which he waited with such 
 anxiety! . . . He strolled about smoking, lighting one 
 cigar with the remnant of the preceding one. Then he 
 opened the window, wishing to get rid of the perfume of 
 strong tobacco. She only liked Oriental cigarettes. . . . 
 And as the acrid odor of the strong, succulent Havana 
 cigar persisted in the room, he searched in his dressing- 
 case and sprinkled around the contents of various per- 
 fumed essences which he had long ago forgotten. 
 
 A sudden uneasiness disturbed his waiting. Perhaps 
 she who was going to come did not know which was his 
 room. He was not sure that he had given her the direc- 
 tions with sufficient clearness. It was possible that she 
 might make a mistake. . . . He began to believe that 
 really she had made a mistake. 
 
 Fear and impatience made him open his door, taking 
 his stand in the corridor in order to look down toward 
 Freya's closed room. Every time that footsteps sounded 
 on the stairway or the grating of the elevator creaked, 
 the bearded sailor trembled with a childish uneasiness.
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 239 
 
 He wanted to hide himself and yet at the same time he 
 wanted to look to see if she was the one who was com- 
 ing. 
 
 The guests occupying the same floor kept seeing 
 him withdraw into his room in the most inexplicable at- 
 titudes. Sometimes he would remain firmly in the corri- 
 dor as though, worn out with useless calling, he were 
 looking for the domestics; and at other times they sur- 
 prised him with his head poking out of the half-open 
 door or hastily withdrawing it. An old Italian count, 
 passing by, gave him a smile of intelligence and com- 
 radeship. . . . He was in the secret ! The man was un- 
 doubtedly waiting for one of the maids of the hotel. 
 
 He ended by settling himself in his room, but leaving 
 his door ajar. The rectangle of bright light that it 
 marked on the floor and wall opposite would guide Freya, 
 showing her the way. . . . 
 
 But he was not able to keep up this signal very long. 
 Scantily clad dames in kimonos and gentlemen in py- 
 jamas were slipping discreetly down the passage way in 
 soft, slipper-clad silence, all going in the same direc- 
 tion, and casting wrathful glances toward the lighted 
 doorway. 
 
 Finally he had to close the door. He opened a book, 
 but it was impossible to read two paragraphs consecu- 
 tively. His watch said twelve o'clock. 
 
 "She will not come ! . . . She will not come !" he cried 
 in desperation. 
 
 A new idea revived his drooping spirits. It was 
 ridiculous that so discreet a person as Freya should ven- 
 ture to come to his room while there was a light under 
 the door. Love needed obscurity and mystery. And 
 besides, this visible hope might attract the notice of some 
 curious person. 
 
 He snapped off the electric light and in the darkness
 
 240 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 found his bed, throwing himself down with an exag- 
 gerated noise, in order that nobody might doubt that he 
 had retired for the night. The darkness reanimated his 
 hope. 
 
 "She's going to come. . . * She will come at any mo- 
 ment." 
 
 Again he arose cautiously, noiselessly, going on tiptoe. 
 He must overcome any possible difficulty at the entrance. 
 He put the door slightly ajar so as to avoid the swinging 
 noise of the door-fastening. A chair in the frame of the 
 doorway easily held it unlatched. 
 
 He got up several times more, arranging things to his 
 satisfaction and then threw himself upon the bed, dis- 
 posed to keep his watch all night, if it was necessary. 
 He did not wish to sleep. No, he ought not to drowse. 
 . . . And half an hour later he was slumbering pro- 
 foundly without knowing at what moment he had slid 
 down the soft slopes of sleep. 
 
 Suddenly he awoke as if some one had hit his head 
 with a club. His ears were buzzing. ... It was the 
 rude impression of one who sleeps without wishing to 
 and feels himself shaken by reviving restlessness. Some 
 moments passed without his taking in the situation. 
 Then he suddenly recalled it all. . . . Alone! She had 
 not come! ... He did not know whether minutes or 
 hours had passed by. 
 
 Something besides his uneasiness had brought himi 
 back to life. He suspected that in the dark silence 
 some real thing was approaching. A little mouse ap- 
 peared to be moving down the corridor. The shoes 
 placed outside one of the doors were moved with a 
 slight creaking. Ferragut had the vague impression of 
 air that is displaced by the slow advance of a body. 
 
 The door trembled. The chair was pushed back, little 
 by little, very gently pushed. In the darkness he descried
 
 THE WILES. OF CIRCE 241 
 
 a moving shadow, dark and dense. He made a movf 
 ment. 
 
 "Shhhh-h!" sighed a ghostly voice, a voice from the 
 other world. "It is I." 
 
 Instinctively he raised his right hand to the wall and 
 turned on the light. 
 
 Under the electric light it was she, a different Freya 
 from any that he had ever seen, with her wealth of hair 
 falling in golden serpents over her shoulders covered with 
 an Asiatic tunic that enveloped her like a cloud. 
 
 It was not the Japanese kimono, vulgarized by com- 
 merce. It was made in one piece of Hindustanic cloth, 
 embroidered with fantastic flowers and capriciously 
 draped. Through its fine texture could be perceived the 
 flesh as though it were a wrapping of multicolored air. 
 
 She uttered a protest. Then, imitating Ulysses' ges- 
 ture, she reached her hand toward the wall . . , and aH 
 was darkness. 
 
 Upon awakening, he felt the sunlight on his face. The 
 window, whose curtains he had forgotten to draw, was 
 blue, blue sky above and the blue of the sea in its lower 
 panes. 
 
 He looked around him. . . . Nobody ! For a moment 
 he believed he must have been dreaming, but the sweet 
 perfume of her hair still scented the pillow. The reality 
 of awakening was as joyous for Ulysses, as sweet as had 
 been the night hours in the mystery of the darkness. He 
 had never felt so strong and so happy. 
 
 In the window sounded a baritone voice singing one of 
 the songs of Naples, "Oh, sweet land, sweet gulf ! . . ." 
 That certainly was the most beautiful spot in the world. 
 Proud and satisfied with his fate, he would have liked to 
 embrace the waves, the islands, the city, Vesuvius,
 
 242 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 A bell jangled impatiently in the corridor. Captain 
 Ferragut was hungry. He surveyed with the glance of 
 an ogre the cafe au lait, the abundant bread, and the 
 small pat of butter that the waiter brought him. A very 
 small portion for him ! . . . And while he was attacking 
 all this with avidity, the door opened and Freya, rosy 
 and fresh from a recent bath and clad like a man, en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 The Hindu tunic had been replaced with masculine 
 pyjamas of violet silk. The pantaloons had the edges 
 turned up over a pair of white Turkish slippers into 
 which were tucked her bare feet. Over her heart there 
 was embroidered a design whose letters Ulysses was not 
 able to decipher. Above this device the point of her 
 handkerchief was sticking out of the pocket. Her opu- 
 lent hair, twisted on top of her head and the voluptuous 
 curves that the silk was taking in certain parts of her 
 masculine attire were the only things that announced the 
 woman. 
 
 The captain forgot his breakfast, enthusiastic over 
 this novelty. She was a second Freya, a page, an 
 adorable, freakish novelty. . . . But she repelled his 
 caresses, obliging him to seat himself. 
 
 She had entered with a questioning expression in her 
 eyes. She was feeling the disquietude of every woman 
 on her second amorous interview. She was trying to 
 guess his impressions, to convince herself of his grati- 
 tude, to be certain that the fascinations of the first hours 
 had not been dissipated during her absence. 
 
 While the sailor was again attacking his breakfast with 
 the familiarity of a lover who has achieved his ends and 
 no longer needs to hide and poetize his grosser necessi- 
 ties, she seated herself on an old chaise longue, lighting a 
 cigarette. 
 
 She cuddled into this seat, her crossed legs forming an
 
 THE WILES OF CIRCE 243 
 
 angle within the circle of one of her arms. Then she 
 leaned her head on her knees, and in this position 
 smoked a long time, with her glance fixed on the sea. 
 He guessed that she was about to say something interest- 
 ing, something that was puckering her mental interior, 
 struggling to come out. 
 
 Finally she spoke with deliberation, without taking her 
 eyes off the gulf. From time to time she would stop 
 this contemplation in order to fasten her eyes on Ulysses, 
 measuring the effect of her words. He stopped occupy- 
 ing himself definitely with the breakfast tra3 r , foreseeing 
 that something very important was coming. 
 
 "You have sworn that you will do for me whatever I 
 ask you to do. . . . You do not wish to lose me for- 
 ever." 
 
 Ulysses protested. Lose her? . . . He could not live 
 without her. 
 
 "I know your former life ; you have told me all about 
 it. ... You know nothing about me and you ought to 
 know about me now that I am really yours." 
 
 The sailor nodded his head; nothing could be more 
 just. 
 
 "I have deceived you, Ulysses. I am not Italian." 
 
 Ferragut smiled. If that was all the deception con- 
 sisted of! ... From the day in which they had spoken 
 together for the first time going to Psestum, he had 
 guessed that what she had told him about her nationality 
 was false. 
 
 "My mother was an Italian. I swear it. ... But my 
 father was not. . . ." 
 
 She stopped a moment. The sailor listened to her 
 with interest, with his back turned to the table. 
 
 "I am a German woman and . . ."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 
 
 EVERY morning on awaking at the first streak of dawn, 
 Toni felt a sensation of surprise and discouragement. 
 
 "Still in Naples!" he would say, looking through the 
 port-hole of his cabin. 
 
 Then he would count over the days. Ten had passed 
 by since the Mare Nostrum, entirely repaired, had an- 
 chored in the commercial harbor. 
 
 "Twenty-four hours more," the mate would add men- 
 tally. 
 
 And he would again take up his monotonous life, stroll- 
 ing over the empty and silent deck of the vessel, with- 
 out knowing what to do, looking despondently at the 
 other steamers which were moving their freighting an- 
 tennas, swallowing up boxes and bundles and beginning 
 to send out through their chimneys the smoke announc- 
 ing departure. 
 
 He suffered great remorse in calculating what the 
 boat might have gained were it now under way. The 
 advantage was all for the captain, but he could not avoid 
 despairing over the money lost. 
 
 The necessity of communicating his impressions to 
 somebody, of protesting in chorus against this lament- 
 able inertia, used to impel him toward Caragol's do- 
 minions. In spite of their difference in rank, the first 
 officer always treated the cook with affectionate fa- 
 miliarity. 
 
 "An abyss is separating us !" Toni would say gravely. 
 244
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 245 
 
 This "abyss" was a metaphor extracted from his 
 reading of radical papers and alluded to the old man's 
 fervid and simple beliefs. But their common affection 
 for the captain, all being from the same land, and the em- 
 ployment of the Valencian dialect as the language of 
 intimacy, made the two seek each other's company in- 
 stinctively. For Toni, Caragol was the most congenial 
 spirit aboard . . . after himself. 
 
 As soon as he stopped at the door of the galley, sup- 
 porting his elbow in the doorway and obstructing the sun- 
 light with his body, the old cook would reach out for 
 his bottle of brandy, preparing a "refresco" or a "cali- 
 ente" in honor of his visitor. 
 
 They would drink slowly, interrupting their relish of 
 the liquor to lament together the immovability of the 
 Mare Nostrum. They would count up the cost as 
 though the boat were theirs. While it was being re- 
 paired, they had been able to tolerate the captain's con- 
 duct. 
 
 "The English always pay," Toni would say. "But now 
 nobody is paying and the ship isn't earning anything, and 
 we are spending every day. . . . About how much are 
 we spending?" 
 
 And he and the cook would again calculate in detail 
 the cost of keeping up the steamer, becoming terrified 
 on reaching the total. One day without moving was 
 costing more than the two men could earn in a month. 
 
 "This can't go on !" Toni would protest. 
 
 His indignation took him ashore several times in 
 search of the captain. He was afraid to speak to him, 
 considering it a lack of discipline to meddle in the man- 
 agement of the boat, so he invented the most absurd 
 pretext in order to run afoul of Ferragut. 
 
 He looked with antipathy at the porter of the albergo 
 because he always told him that the captain had just gone
 
 246 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 out. This individual with the air of a procurer must be 
 greatly to blame for the immovability of the steamer; 
 his heart told him so. 
 
 Because he couldn't come to blows with the man, and 
 because he could not stand seeing him laugh deceitfully 
 while watching him wait hour after hour in the vesti- 
 bule, he took up his station in the street, spying on Fer- 
 ragut's entrances and exits. 
 
 The three times that he did succeed in speaking with 
 the captain, the result was always the same. The cap- 
 tain was as greatly delighted to see him as if he were an 
 apparition from the past with whom he could com- 
 municate the joy of his overflowing happiness. 
 
 He would listen to his mate, congratulating himself 
 that all was going so well on the ship, and when Tohi, 
 in stuttering tones, would venture to ask the date of 
 departure, Ulysses would hide his uncertainty under a 
 tone of prudence. He was awaiting a most valuable 
 cargo ; the longer they waited for it, the more money they 
 were going to gain. . . . But his words were not con- 
 vincing to Toni. He remembered the captain's protests 
 fifteen days before over the lack of good cargo in Na- 
 ples, and his desire to leave without loss of time. 
 
 Upon returning aboard, the mate would at once hunt 
 Caragol, and both would comment on the changes in their 
 chief. Toni had found him an entirely different man, 
 with beard shaved, wearing his best clothes, and display- 
 ing in the arrangement of his person a most minute 
 nicety, a decided wish to please. The rude pilot had even 
 come to believe that he had detected, while talking to 
 him, a certain feminine perfume like that of their blonde 
 visitor. 
 
 This news was the most unbelievable of all for Caragol. 
 
 "Captain Ferragut perfumed! . . . The captain 
 scented ! . . . The wretch !" And he threw up his arms,
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 247 
 
 his blind eyes seeking the brandy bottles and the oil 
 flasks, in order to make them witnesses of his indig- 
 nation. 
 
 The two men were entirely agreed as to the cause of 
 their despair. She was to blame for it all ; she who was 
 going to hold the boat spellbound in this port until She 
 knew when, with the irresistible power of a witch. 
 
 "Ah, these females! . . . The devil always follows 
 after petticoats like a lap-dog. , . . They are the ruina- 
 tion of our life." 
 
 And the wrathful chastity of the cook continued 
 hurling against womankind insults and curses equal to 
 those of the first fathers of the church. 
 
 One morning the men washing down the deck senf 
 a cry passing from stem to stern, "The captain !" They 
 saw him approaching in a launch, and the word was 
 passed along through staterooms and corridors, giving 
 new force to their arms, and lighting up their sluggish 
 countenances. The mate came up on deck and Caragol 
 stuck his head out through the door of his kitchen. 
 
 At the very first glance, Toni foresaw that something 
 important was about to happen. The captain had a 
 lively, happy air. At the same time, he saw in the ex- 
 aggerated amiability of his smile a desire to conciliate 
 them, to bring sweetly before them something which he 
 considered of doubtful acceptation. 
 
 "Now you'll be satisfied," said Ferragut, giving his 
 hand, "we are going to weigh anchor soon." 
 
 They entered the saloon. Ulysses looked around his 
 boat with a certain strangeness as though returning to 
 it after a long voyage. It looked different to him ; cer- 
 tain details rose up before his eyes that had never at- 
 tracted his attention before. 
 
 He recapitulated in a lightning cerebral flash all that 
 had occurred in less than two weeks. For the first time
 
 'S 4 8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 he realized the great change in his life since Freya had 
 come to the steamer in search of him. 
 
 He saw himself in his room in the hotel opposite her, 
 dressed like a man, and looking out over the gulf while 
 smoking. 
 
 "I am a German woman, and . . ." 
 I Her mysterious life, even its most incomprehensible de- 
 tails, was soon to be explained. 
 
 She was a German woman in the service of her coun- 
 try. Modern war had aroused the nations en masse; it 
 was not as in other centuries, a clash of diminutive, pro- 
 fessional minorities that have to fight as a business. All 
 vigorous men were now going to the battlefield, and the 
 others were working in industrial centers which had been 
 converted into workshops of war. And this general ac- 
 tivity was also taking in the women who were devot- 
 ing their labor to factories and hospitals, or their intelli- 
 gence on the other side of the frontiers, to the service of 
 their country. 
 
 Ferragut, surprised by this outright revelation, re- 
 mained silent, but finally ventured to formulate his 
 thought. 
 
 "According to that, you are a spy ?" . , . 
 
 She heard the word with contempt. That was an 
 antiquated term which had lost its primitive significance. 
 Spies were those who in other times, when only the 
 professional soldiers took part in war, had mixed 
 themselves in the operations voluntarily or for money, 
 surprising the preparations of the enemy. Nowadays, 
 with the mobilization of the nations en masse, the old 
 official spy a contemptible and villainous creature, dar- 
 ing death for money had practically disappeared. 
 Nowadays there only existed patriots anxious to work 
 .for their country, some with weapons in their hands,
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 249 
 
 others availing themselves of their astuteness, or exploit- 
 ing the qualities of their sex. 
 
 Ulysses was greatly disconcerted by this theory. 
 
 "Then the doctor? ... he again questioned, guessing 
 what the imposing dame must be. 
 
 Freya responded with an expression of enthusiasm 
 and respect. Her friend was an illustrious patriot, a very 
 learned woman, who was placing all her faculties at 
 the service of her country. She adored her. She was 
 her protector; she had rescued her in the most difficult 
 moment of her existence. 
 
 "And the count?" Ferragut continued asking. 
 
 Here the woman made a gesture of reserve. 
 
 "He also is a great patriot, but do not let us talk about 
 him." 
 
 In her words there were both respect and fear. He 
 suspected that she did not wish to have anything to do 
 with this haughty personage. 
 
 A long silence. Freya, as if fearing the effects of the 
 captain's meditations, suddenly cut them short with hef 
 headlong chatter. 
 
 The doctor and she had come from Rome to take 
 refuge in Naples, fleeing from the intrigues and mutter- 
 ings of the capital. The Italians were squabbling among 
 themselves; some were partisans of the war, others of 
 neutrality; none of them wished to aid Germany, their 
 former ally. 
 
 "We, who have protected them so much!" she ex- 
 claimed. "False and ungrateful race! . . ." 
 
 Her gestures and her words recalled to Ulysses' 
 mind the image of the doctor, execrating the Italian 
 country from a little window of the coach, the first day 
 that they had talked together. 
 
 The two women were in Naples, whiling away their
 
 250 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 tedious waiting with trips to neighboring places of in- 
 terest, when they met the sailor. 
 
 "I have a very pleasant recollection of you," contin- 
 ued Freya. "I guessed from the very first instant that 
 our friendship was going to terminate as it has ter- 
 minated." 
 
 She read a question in his glance, 
 
 "I know what you are going to say to me. You won- 
 der that I have made you wait so long, that I should 
 have made you suffer so with my caprices. ... It was 
 because while I was loving you, at the same time I wished 
 to separate myself from you. You represented an at- 
 traction and a hindrance. I feared to mix you up in 
 my affairs. . . . Besides, I need to be free in order 
 to dedicate myself wholly to the fulfillment of my mis- 
 sion." 
 
 There was another long pause. Freya's eyes were 
 fixed on those of her lover with scrutinizing tenacity. 
 She wished to sound the depths of his thoughts, to study 
 the ripeness of her preparation before risking the de- 
 cisive blow. Her examination was satisfactory. 
 
 "And now that you know me," she said with painful 
 slowness, "begone! . . . You cannot love me. I am 
 a spy, just as you say, a contemptible being. ... I 
 know that you will not be able to continue loving e 
 fcfter what I have revealed to you. Take yourself away 
 in your boat, like the heroes of the legends; we shall 
 not see each other more. All our intercourse will have 
 been a beautiful dream. . . . Leave me alone. I am 
 ignorant of what my own fate may be, but what is more 
 important to me is your tranquillity." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She threw herself face 
 downward on the divan, hiding her face in her arms, 
 while a sobbing outburst set all the adprajble curves Qf 
 her back a-tremble.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 251; 
 
 Toadied by her grief, Ulysses at the same time ad- 
 mired Freya's shrewdness in divining all his thoughts. 
 The voice of good counsel, that prudent voice that al- 
 .ways spoke in one-half of his brain whenever the cap- 
 tain found himself in difficult situations, had begun 
 to cry out, scandalized at the first revelations made by 
 this woman: 
 
 "Flee, Ferragut! . . . Flee! You are in a bad fix. 
 Do not agree to any relations with such people. What 
 have you to do with the country of this adventuress? 
 Why should you encounter dangers for a cause that is 
 of no importance to you? What you wanted of her, you 
 already have gotten. Be an egoist, my son!" 
 
 But the voice in his other mental hemisphere, that 
 boasting and idiotic voice which always impelled him to 
 embark on vessels bound to be shipwrecked, to be reck- 
 less of danger for the mere pleasure of putting his vigor 
 to the proof, also gave him counsel. It was a villainous 
 thing to abandon a woman. Only a coward would do 
 such a thing. . . . And this German woman appeared to 
 love him so much! . . . 
 
 And with his ardent, meridional exuberance, he em- 
 braced her and lifted her up, patting the loosened ring- 
 lets on her forehead, petting her like a sick child, and 
 drinking in her tears with interminable kisses. 
 
 No; he would not abandon her. ... He was more 
 disposed to defend her from all her enemies. He did 
 not know who her enemies were, but if she needed a 
 man, there he was. . . . 
 
 In vain his inner monitor reviled him while he was 
 making such offers ; he was compromising himself blind- 
 ly ; perhaps this adventure was going to be the most ter- 
 rible in his history. . . . But in order to quiet his scru- 
 ples, the other voice kept crying, "You are a gentleman ; 
 and a gentleman does not desert a lady, through fear, a
 
 252 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 few hours after having won her affection. Forward, 
 Captain !" 
 
 An excuse of cowardly selfishness " arose in his 
 thoughts, fabricated from one single piece. He was a 
 Spaniard, a neutral, in no way involved in the conflict of 
 the Central Powers. His second had often spoken to him 
 of solidarity of race, of Latin nations, of the necessity of 
 putting an end to militarism, of going to war in order 
 that there might be no more wars. . . . Mere vaporings 
 of a credulous reader! He was neither English nor 
 French. Neither was he German; but the woman he 
 loved was, and he was not going to give her up for any 
 antagonisms in which he was not concerned. 
 
 Freya must not weep. Her lover affirmed repeatedly 
 that he wished to live forever at her side, that he was 
 not thinking of abandoning her because of what she had 
 said : and he even pledged his word of honor that he 
 would aid her in everything that she might consider pos- 
 sible and worthy of him. 
 
 Thus Captain Ulysses Iferragut impetuously decided 
 his destiny. 
 
 When his beloved again took him to the doctor's home, 
 he was received by her just as though he really belonged 
 to the family. She no longer had to hide her national- 
 ity. Freya simply called her Fran Doktor and she, with 
 the glib enthusiasm of the professor, finally succeeded 
 in converting the sailor, explaining to him the right and 
 reason of her country's entrance into war with half of 
 Europe. 
 
 Poor Germany had to defend herself. The Kaiser 
 was a man of peace in spite of the fact that for many 
 years he had been methodically preparing a military force 
 capable of crushing all humanity. All the other nations 
 had driven him to it; they had all been the first in ag- 
 gression. The insolent French, long before the war, had
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 253 
 
 been sending clouds of aeroplanes over German cities, 
 bombarding them. 
 
 Ferragut blinked with surprise. This was news to 
 him. It must have occurred while he was on the high 
 seas. The verbose positiveness of the doctor did not 
 permit any doubt whatever. ... Besides, that lady ought 
 to know better than those who lived on the ocean. 
 
 Then had arisen the English provocation. . . . Like a 
 traitor of melodrama, the British government had been 
 preparing the war for a long time, not wishing to show 
 its hand until the last moment; and Germany, lover of 
 peace, had had to defend herself from this enemy, the 
 worst one of all. 
 
 "God will punish England !" affirmed the doctor, look- 
 ing at Ulysses. 
 
 And he not wishing to defraud her of her expecta- 
 tions, gallantly nodded his head. . . . For all he cared, 
 God might punish England. 
 
 But in expressing himself in such a way, he felt him- 
 self agitated by a new duality. The English had been 
 good comrades ; he remembered agreeably his voyages as 
 an official aboard the British boats. At the same time, 
 their increasing power, invisible to the men on shore, 
 monstrous for those who were living on the sea, had 
 been producing in him a certain irritation. He was ac- 
 customed to find them either as dominators of all the seas, 
 or else solidly installed on all the strategic and commer- 
 cial coasts. 
 
 The doctor, as though guessing the necessity of arous- 
 ing his hatred of the great enemy, appealed to his his- 
 torical memories : Gibraltar, stolen by the English ; the 
 piracies of Drake; the galleons" of America seized with 
 methodical regularity by the British fleets; the landings 
 on the coast of Spain that in other centuries had per- 
 turbed the life of the peninsula. England at the begin-
 
 254 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ning of her greatness in the reign of Elizabeth, was the 
 size of Belgium ; if she had made herself one of the great 
 powers, it was at the cost of the Spaniards and then of 
 Holland, even dominating the entire world. And the 
 doctor spoke in English and with so much vehemence 
 about England's evil deeds against Spain that the im- 
 pressionable sailor ended by saying spontaneously: 
 
 "May God punish her !" 
 
 But just here reappeared the Mediterranean navigator, 
 the complicated and contradictory Ulysses. He suddenly 
 remembered the repairs on his vessel that must be paid 
 for by England. 
 
 "May God punish them . . . but fhay He wai a little 
 bit \" he murmured in his thoughts. 
 
 The imposing professor became greatly exasperated 
 when speaking of the land in which she was living. 
 
 "Mandolin players ! Bandits 1" she always cried when 
 referring to the Italians. 
 
 How much they owed to Germany! The Emperor 
 Wilhelm had been a father to them. All the world 
 knew that! . . . And yet when the war was breaking 
 out, they were going to refuse to follow their old friends. 
 Now German diplomacy must busy itself, not to keep 
 them at her side, but to prevent their going with the 
 adversary. Every day she was receiving news from 
 Rome. She had hoped that Italy might keep herself 
 neutral, but who could trust the word of such people? 
 . . . And she repeated her wrathful insults. 
 
 The sailor immediately adapted himself to this home, 
 as though it were his own. On the few occasions that 
 Freya separated herself from him, he used to go in 
 search of her in the salon of the imposing dame who was 
 now assuming toward Ulysses the air of a good-natured 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 In various visits he met the count. This taciturn
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 255 
 
 personage would offer his hand instinctively though 
 keeping a certain distance between them. Ulysses now 
 knew his real nationality, and he knew that he knew it. 
 But the two kept up the fiction of Count Kaledine, Rus- 
 sian diplomat, and this man exacted respect from erery 
 one in the doctor's dwelling. Ferragut, devoted to his 
 amorous selfishness, was not permitting himself any in- 
 vestigation, adjusting tiimse,lf to, the hints dropped by the 
 two women. 
 
 He had never known such happiness. He was experi- 
 encing the great sensuousness of one who finds himself 
 seated at table in a well-warmed dining-room and sees 
 through the window the tempestuous sea tossing a bark 
 that is struggling against the waves. 
 
 The newsboys were crying through the streets ter- 
 rible battles in the center of Europe; cities were burn- 
 ing under bombardment; every twenty- four hours thou- 
 sands upon thousands of human beings were dying. . . , 
 And he was not reading anything, not wishing to know 
 anything. He was continuing his existence as though 
 he were living in a paradisiacal felicity. Sometimes, 
 while waiting for Freya, his memory would gloat over 
 her wonderful physical charm, the refinements and fresh 
 sensations which his passion was enjoying; at other 
 times, the actual embrace with its ecstasy blotted out and 
 suppressed all unpleasant! possibilities. 
 
 Something, nevertheless, suddenly jerked him from his 
 amorous egoism, something that was overshadowing his 
 visage, furrowing his forehead with wrinkles of pre- 
 occupation, and making him go aboard his vessel. 
 
 When seated in the large cabin of his ship opposite 
 his mate, he leaned his elbows on the table and com- 
 menced to chew on a great cigar that had just gone out. 
 
 "We're going to start very soon," he repeated with
 
 256 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 visible abstraction. "You will be glad, Torn; I be- 
 lieve that you will be delighted." 
 
 Toni remained impassive. He was waiting for some- 
 thing more. The captain in starting on a voyage had 
 always told him the port of destiny and the special na- 
 ture of the cargo. Therefore, noting that Ferragut did 
 not want to add anything more, he ventured to ask: 
 
 "Is it to Barcelona that we are going ?" 
 
 Ulysses hesitated, looking toward the door, as though 
 fearing to be overheard. Then he leaned over toward 
 Toni. 
 
 The voyage was going to be one without any danger, 
 but one which must be shrouded in mystery. 
 
 "I am counting on you, because you know all my 
 affairs, because I consider you as one of my family." 
 
 The pilot did not appear to be touched with this sample 
 of confidence. He still remained impassive, though 
 within him all the uneasiness that had been agitating him 
 in former days was reawakening. 
 
 The captain continued talking. These were war times 
 and it was necessary to take advantage of them. For 
 those two it would not be any novelty to transport car- 
 goes of military material. Once he had carried from 
 Europe arms and munitions for a revolution in South 
 America. Toni had recounted to him his adventures in 
 the Gulf of California, in command of a little schooner 
 which had served as a transport to the insurrectionists 
 of the southern provinces in the revolt against the Mexi- 
 can government. 
 
 But the mate, while nodding his Head affirmatively, was 
 at the same time looking at him with questioning eyes. 
 What were they going to transport on this trip? . . . 
 
 "Toni, it is not a matter of artillery nor of guns. 
 Neither is it an affair of munitions. . . It is a short
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 257 
 
 and well-paid job that will make us go very littte out 
 of our way on our return to Barcelona." 
 
 He stopped himself in his confidences, feeling a curi- 
 ous hesitation and finally he added, lowering his voice: 
 
 "The Germans are paying for it! . . . We are going 
 to supply their Mediterranean submarines with petrol." 
 
 Contrary to all Ferragut's expectations, his second did 
 not make any gesture of surprise. He remained as im- 
 passive as if this news were actually incomprehensible to 
 him. Then he smiled lightly, shrugging his shoulders as 
 though he had heard something absurd. . . . The Ger- 
 mans, perhaps, had submarines in the Mediterranean ? It 
 was likely, was it, that one of these navigating machines 
 would be able to make the long crossing from the North 
 Sea to the Strait of Gibraltar? . . . 
 
 He knew all about the great atrocities that the subma- 
 rines were causing in the vicinity of England, but in a' 
 greatly reduced zone in the limited radius of action of 
 which they were capable. The Mediterranean, fortu- 
 nately for the merchant vessels, was quite beyond the 
 range of their treacherous lying-in-wait. 
 
 Ferragut interrupted with his meridional vehemence. 
 Beside himself with passion, he was already beginning 
 to express himself as though the doctor were speaking 
 through his mouth. 
 
 "You are referring to the submarines, Toni, to the lit- 
 tle submarines that were in existence at the beginning 
 of the war little grasshoppers of fragile steel that 
 moved with great difficulty when on a level with the water 
 and might be overwhelmed at the slightest shock. . . . 
 But to-day there is something more : there is a submersi- 
 ble that is like a submarine protected by a ship's hull 
 which is able to go hidden between the two waters and, 
 at the same time, can navigate over the surface better 
 than a torpedo-boat. . . . You have no idea what these
 
 258 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Germans are capable of! They are a great iiaticJn, the 
 finest in the world! . . ." 
 
 And with impulsive exaggeration, he insisted in pro- 
 claiming German greatness and its inventive spirit as 
 though he had some share in this mechanical and destruc- 
 tive glory. 
 
 Then he added confidentially, placing his hand on 
 Toni's arm: 
 
 "I'm going to fell it only to you : you are the only per- 
 son who knows the secret, aside from those who have 
 told it to me. . . . The German submersibles are going 
 to enter the Mediterranean. We are going to meet them 
 in order to renew their supplies of oil and combustibles." 
 
 He became silent, looking fixedly at his subordinate, 
 and smiling in order to conquer his scruples. 
 
 For two seconds he did not know what to expect. 
 Toni was remaining pensive with downcast eyes. Then, 
 little by little, he drew himself erect, abandoned his seat, 
 and said simply: 
 
 Ulysses also left his revolving chair with the impulsive- 
 ness of surprise. "No? . . . And why not?" 
 
 He was the captain and they all ought to obey him. 
 For that reason he was responsible for the boat, for the 
 life of its crew, for the fate of the cargo. Besides, he 
 was the proprietor ; no one exceeded him in command ; his 
 power was unlimited. Through friendly affection and 
 custom, he had consulted his mate, making him share 
 in his secrets and here Toni, with an ingratitude never 
 seen before, was daring to rebel. . . . What did this 
 mean? . . . 
 
 But the mate, instead of giving any explanation, merely 
 confined himself to answering, each time more obstinately 
 and v/rathf ully : 
 
 "No! . . No!"
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 259 
 
 "But why not?" insisted Ferragut, waxing impatient 
 and in a voice trembling with anger. 
 
 Toni, without losing energy in his negatives, was hesi- 
 tating, confused, bewildered, scratching his beard, and 
 lowering his eyes in order to reflect better. 
 
 He did not know just how to explain himself. He 
 envied his captain's facility in finding just the right 
 word. The simplest of his ideas suffered terribly be- 
 fore coming anxiously from his mouth. . . . But, finally, 
 little by little, between his stutterings, he managed to ex- 
 press his hatred of those monsters of modern industry 
 which were dishonoring the sea with their crimes. 
 
 Each time that he had read in the newspapers of their 
 exploits in the North Sea a wave had passed over the 
 conscience of this simple, frank and upright man. They 
 were accustomed to attack treacherously hidden in the 
 water, disguising their long and murderous eyes like the 
 visual antennae of the monsters of the deep. This ag- 
 gression without danger appeared to revive in his soul 
 the outraged souls of a hundred Mediterranean ances- 
 tors, cruel and piratical perhaps, but who, nevertheless, 
 had sought the enemy face to face with naked breast, 
 battle-axe in hand, and the barbed harpoon for boarding 
 ship as their only means of struggle. 
 
 "If they would torpedo only the armed vessels!" he 
 added. "War is a form of savagery, and it is necessary 
 to shut the eyes to its treacherous blows, accepting them 
 as glorious achievements. . . . But there is something 
 more than that : you know it well. They sink merchant 
 vessels, and passenger ships carrying women, carrying 
 little children. . . ." 
 
 His weather-beaten cheeks assumed the color of a 
 baked brick. His eyes flashed with a bluish splendor. 
 He was feeling the same wrath that he had experienced
 
 260 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 when reading the accounts of the first torpedoing of the 
 great transatlantic steamer on the coast of England. 
 
 He was seeing the defenseless and peaceable throng 
 crowding to the boats that were capsizing; the women 
 throwing themselves into the sea with children in their 
 arms; all the deadly confusion of a catastrophe. . . . 
 Then the submarine arising to contemplate its work ; the 
 Germans grouped on the decks of dripping steel, laugh- 
 ing and joking, satisfied with the rapid result of their la- 
 bors ; and for a distance of many miles the sea was filled 
 with black bulks dragged slowly along by the waves men 
 floating on their backs, immovable, with their glassy 
 eyes fixed on the sky ; children with their fair hair cling- 
 ing like masks to their livid face; corpses of mothers 
 pressing to their bosom with cold rigidity little corpses 
 of babies, assassinated before they could even know what 
 life might mean. 
 
 When reading the account of these crimes, Toni had 
 naturally thought of his own wife and children, imagining 
 what their condition might have been on that steamer, 
 experiencing the same fate as its innocent passengers. 
 This imagination had made him feel so intense a wrath 
 that he even mistrusted his own self-control on the day 
 that he should again encounter German sailors in any 
 port . . . And Ferragut, an honorable man, a good cap- 
 tain whose praises every one was sounding, could he 
 possibly aid in transplanting such horrors as these to the 
 Mediterranean? . . . 
 
 Poor Toni! . . . He did not know how to express 
 himself properly, but the very possibility that his beloved 
 sea might witness such crimes gave new vehemence to 
 his indignation. The soul of Doctor Ferragut appeared 
 to be reviving in this rude Mediterranean sailor. He had 
 never seen the white Amphitrite, but he trembled for her 
 with a religious fervor, without even knowing her. Was
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 261 
 
 the luminous blue from which had arisen the early gods 
 to be dishonored by the oily spot that would disclose 
 assassination en masse! . . . Were the rosy strands from 
 whose foam Venus had sprung to receive clusters of 
 corpses, impelled by the waves! . . . Were the sea-gull 
 wings of the fishing-boats to flee panic-stricken before 
 those gray sharks of steel! . . . Were his family and 
 neighbors to be terrified, on awakening, by this floating 
 cemetery washed to their doors during the night ! . . . 
 
 He was thinking all this, he was seeing it; but not 
 succeeding in expressing it, so he limited himself tp in- 
 sisting upon his protest: 
 
 "No f . . . I won't tolerate it in our sea !" 
 
 Ferragut, in spite of his impetuous character, fltfv$ 
 adopted a conciliatory tone like that of a father who 
 wishes to convince his scowling and stubborn son. 
 
 The German submersibles would confine themselves, 
 in the Mediterranean, to military actions only. There 
 was no danger of their attacking defenseless barkg 
 as in the northern seas. Their drastic exploits there had 
 been imposed by circumstances, by the sincere desire of 
 terminating the war as quickly as possible, by giving 
 terrifying and unheard-of blows. < I 
 
 ft l assure you that in our sea there will be nothing of 
 that sort. People who ought to know have told me so. 
 ... If that had not been the case, I should not have 
 promised to give them aid." 
 
 He affirmed this several times in good faith, with absd- 
 lute confidence in the people who had given him their 
 promise. 
 
 "They will sink, if they can, the ships of the Allies 
 that are in the Dardanelles. But what does that matter 
 to us ? ... That is war ! When we were carrying can- 
 nons and guns to the revolutionists in South America
 
 262 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 we did not trouble ourselves about the use which they 
 might make of them, did we?" 
 
 Toni persisted in his negative 
 
 "It is not the same thing. ... I flon't know how to 
 express myself, but it is not the same. There, cannon 
 can be answered by cannon. He who strikes also re- 
 ceives blows. . . . But to aid the submarines is a very 
 different thing. They attack, hidden, without danger. 
 . . . And I, for my part, do not like treachery." 
 
 Finally his mate's insistence exasperated Ferragut, ex- 
 hausting his enforced good nature. 
 
 "We will say no more about it," he said haughtily. 
 "I am the captain and I command as I see fit. ... I have 
 given my promise, and I am not going Jo break it just to 
 please you. . . . We have finished." 
 
 Toni staggered as though he had jttsf received a blow 
 on the breast. His eyes shone again, becoming moist. 
 After a long period of reflection, he held out his shaggy 
 right hand to the captain. 
 
 "Good-by, Ulysses! . . ." 
 
 He could not obey, and a sailor who takes ftisrespedful 
 exception to the orders of his chief must leave the ship. 
 In no other boat could he ever live as in the Mare Nos- 
 trum. Perhaps he might not get another job, perhaps 
 the other captains might not like him, considering him 
 to have grown too habituated to excessive familiarity. 
 But, if it should be necessary, he would again become 
 the skipper of a little coast-trader. . . . Good-by! He 
 would not sleep on board that night. 
 
 Ferragut was very indignant, even yelling angrily: 
 
 "But, don't be such a barbarian! . . . What a stub- 
 born fool you are! . . . What do these exaggerated 
 scruples amount to? . . ." 
 
 Then he smiled malignly and said in a low tone, "You
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 263 
 
 kno\r already what we know, and I know very well that 
 in your youth you carried contraband." 
 
 Toni drew himself up haughtily. Now it was he who 
 was indignant. 
 
 "I have carried contraband, yes. And what is there 
 astonishing about that? . . . Your grandparents did the 
 same thing. There is not a single honorable sailor on our 
 sea who has not committed this little offense. . . . Who 
 is the worse for that? . .'-* 
 
 The only one who could complain was the State, a 
 vague personality whose whereabouts and place nobody 
 knew and who daily experienced a million of similar vio- 
 lations. In the custom-houses Toni had seen the richest 
 tourists eluding the vigilance of the employees in order 
 to evade an insignificant payment, Erery one down In 
 his heart was a smuggler. . . * Besides, thanks to these 
 fraudulent navigators, the poor were able to smoke better 
 and more cheaply. Whom were they assassinating with 
 their business? . . How did Ferragut dare to compare 
 these evasions of the law which never did anybody any 
 harm with the job of aiding submarine pirates in con- 
 tinuing their crimes? . . . 
 
 The captain, disarmed by this simple logic, now ap- 
 pealed to his powers of persuasion. 
 
 "Joni, at least you will do it for me. Do ft for my 
 sake. &Ve shall continue friends as we have always 
 been. On some other occasion I'll sacrifice myself. 
 Think. ... I have given my word of honor." 
 
 And the mate, although much touched by his pleadings, 
 replied dolefully; 
 
 "I cannot. ... I cannot!" 
 
 He was anxious to say something more to. round out 
 his thought, and added : 
 
 "I'm a Republican. . . ." 
 
 This profession of faith he brought forward aS an
 
 264 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 insurmountable barrier, striking himself at the same time 
 on the breast, in order to prove the hardness of the ob- 
 stacle. 
 
 Ulysses felt tempted to laugh, as he had always done, 
 at Toni's political affirmations. But the situation was 
 not one for joking, and he continued talking in the hope 
 of convincing him. 
 
 He had always Itfved liberty and been on the side op- 
 posed to despotism! . . . England was the great tyrant 
 of the sea; she had provoked the war in order to 
 strengthen her jurisdiction and if she should achieve the 
 victory, her haughtiness would have no limit. Poor Ger- 
 many had done nothing more than defend herself. . . . 
 Ferragut repeated all that he had heard in the doctor's 
 home, winding up in a tone of reproach : 
 
 "And are you on the side of the English, Toni? You, 
 a man of advanced ideas? . . ." 
 
 The pilot scratched his beard with an expression of 
 perplexity, searching for the elusive words. He knew 
 what he ought to say. He had read it in the writings of 
 gentlemen who knew quite as much as his captain; be- 
 sides, he had thought a great deal about this matter in his 
 solitary pacing on the bridge. 
 
 "I am where I ought to be. I am with France. . . ." 
 
 He expressed this thought sluggishly, with stutterings 
 and half-formed words. France was the country of the 
 great Revolution, and for that reason he considered it 
 as something to which he belonged, uniting its faith with 
 that of his own person. 
 
 "And I do not need to say more. As to England . . ." 
 
 Here he made a pause like one who rests and gathers 
 all his forces together for a difficult leap. 
 
 "There always has to be one nation on top," he con- 
 tinued. "We hardly amount to anything at present and, 
 according to what I have read, Spain was once mistress
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 265 
 
 of the entire world for a century and a half. Once we 
 were everywhere ; now we are in the soup. Then came 
 France's turn. Now it is England's. ... It doesn't 
 bother me that one nation place3 itself above the rest. 
 The thing that interests me is what that nation repre- 
 sents, the fashion it will set." 
 
 Ferragut was concentrating his attention in order to 
 comprehend what Toni wished to say. 
 
 "If England triumphs," the pilot continued, "Liberty 
 will be the fashion. What does their haughtiness amount 
 to with me, if there always has to be one dominating 
 toation? . . . The nations will surely copy the victor. 
 . . . England, so they say, is really a republic that pre- 
 fers to pay for the luxury of a king for its grand cere- 
 monials. With her, peace would be inevitable, the gov- 
 ernment managed by the people, the disappearance of 
 the great armies, the true civilization. If Germany 
 triumphs, we shall live as though we were in barracks. 
 Militarism will govern everything. We shall bring up 
 our children, not that they may enjoy life, but that they 
 may become soldiers and go forth to kill from their very 
 youth. Might as the only Right, that is the German 
 method, a return to barbarous times under the mask 
 of civilization." 
 
 He was silent an instant, as though mentally re- 
 capitulating all that he had said in order to convince 
 himself that he had not left any forgotten idea in the 
 corners of his cranium. Again he struck himself on the 
 breast. Yes, he was where he ought to be, and it was 
 impossible for him to obey his caotain. 
 
 "I am a Republican! . . . I am a Republican!" he 
 repeated energetically, as though having said that, there 
 was nothing more to add. 
 
 Ferragut, not knowing how to answer this simple and 
 solid enthusiasm, gave way to his temper.
 
 266 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Get out, you brute! ... I don't want to see you 
 again, ungrateful wretch! I shall do the thing alone; I 
 don't need you. It is enough for me to take my boat 
 where it pleases me and to follow out my own pleasure. 
 Be off with all the old lies with which you have crammed 
 your cranium. . . . You blockhead!" 
 
 His wrath made him fall into his armchair, swinging 
 his back toward the mate, hiding his head in his hands, 
 in order to make him understand that with this scornful 
 silence everything between them had come to an end. 
 
 Toni's eyes, growing constantly more distended and 
 glassy, finally released a tear. ... To separate thus, 
 after a fraternal life in which the months were like 
 years! . . . 
 
 He advanced timidly in order to take possession of 
 one of Ferragut's soft, inert, inexpressive hands. Its 
 cold contact made him hesitate. He felt inclined to 
 yield. . . . But immediately he blotted out this weakness 
 with a firm, crisp tone: 
 
 "Good-by, Ulysses! . . ." 
 
 The captain did not answer, lefting him go away 
 without the slightest word of farewell. The mate was 
 already near the door when he stopped to say to him 
 with a sad and affectionate expression: 
 
 "Do not fear that I shall say anything about this to 
 anybody. . . . Everything remains between us two. I 
 will make up some excuse in order that those aboard 
 will not be surprised at my going." 
 
 He hesitated as though he were afraid to appear im- 
 portunate, but he added: 
 
 "I advise you not to undertake that trip. I know how 
 or men feel about these matters; you can't rely upon 
 them. Even Uncle Caragol, who only concerns himself 
 with his galley, will criticize you. . . . Perhaps they will 
 obey you because you are the captain, but when they
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 26; 
 
 go ashore, you will not be the master of their silence. 
 . . . Believe me; do not attempt it. You are going to 
 disgrace yourself. You well know for what cause. . . . 
 Good-by, Ulysses 1" 
 
 When the captain raised his head the pilot had already 
 disappeared and solitude, with its deadly burden, soon 
 weighed upon his thoughts. He felt afraid to carry out 
 his plans without Toni's aid. It appeared to him that 
 the chain of authority which united him to his men had 
 been broken. The mate was carrying away a part of the 
 prestige that Ferragut exercised over the crew. How 
 could he explain his disappearance on the eve of an 
 illegal voyage which exacted such great secrecy? How 
 could he rely upon the silence of everybody? . . . He 
 remained pensive a long time, then suddenly leaping up 
 from his armchair, he went out on deck, shouting to 
 the seamen: 
 
 "Where is Don Antonio? Go find Jiim. Call him for 
 me." 
 
 "Doti Arilonit . . . Don Anioni! . . ." replied a string 
 of voices from poop to prow, while Uncle Caragol's head 
 poked itself out of the door of his dominions. 
 
 "Don Antoni" appeared through the hatchway. He had 
 been going all over the boat, after taking leave of his 
 captain. Ferragut received him with averted face, avoid- 
 ing his glance, and with a complex and contradictory 
 gesture. He felt angry at being vanquished and the 
 shame of weakness yet, allied to these sensations, was the 
 instinctive gratitude which one experiences upon being 
 freed from an unwise step by a violent hand which mis- 
 treats and saves. 
 
 "You are to remain, Toni!" he said in a 3ull voice. 
 "There is nothing to say. I will redeem my word as 
 best I can. . . . To-morrow you shall know certainly 
 what we are going to do."
 
 268 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The solar face of Caragol was beaming beatifically 
 without seeing anything, without hearing anything. He 
 had suspected something serious in the captain's arrival, 
 his long interview alone with the mate, and the departure 
 of the latter passing silent and scowling before the door 
 of his galley. Now the same presentiment advised him 
 that a reconciliation between the two men whose figures 
 he could only distinguish confusedly, must have taken 
 place. Blessed be the Christ of the Grao! . . . And 
 upon learning that the captain would remain aboard until 
 afternoon, he set himself to the confection of one of his 
 masterly rice-dishes in order to solemnize the return of 
 peace. 
 
 A little before sunset Ulysses again found himself with 
 his mistress in the hotel. He had returned to land, nerv- 
 ous and uneasy. His uneasiness made him fear this in- 
 terview while at the same time he wished it. 
 
 "Out with it! I am not a child to feel such fears," 
 he said to himself upon entering his room and finding 
 Freya awaiting him. 
 
 He spoke to her with the brusqueness of one who 
 wishes to conclude everything quickly. ... "I could not 
 undertake the service that the doctor asked. I take back 
 my word. The mate on board would not consent to 
 it." 
 
 Her wrath burst forth without any finesse, with the 
 frankness of intimancy. She always hated Toni. "Hide- 
 ous old faun! . . ." From the very first moment shs 
 had suspected that he would prove an enemy. 
 
 "But you are master of your own boat," she con- 
 tinued. "You can do what you want to, and you don't 
 need his permission to sail." 
 
 When Ulysses furthermore said that he was not sure 
 of his crew either, and that the voyage was impossible, 
 the woman again became furious at him. She appeared
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 269' 
 
 .>. 
 to have grown suddenly ten years older. To the sailor 
 
 she seemed to have another face, of an ashy pallor, with 
 furrowed brows, eyes filled with angry tears, and a light 
 foam in the corners of her mouth. 
 
 "Braggart. . . . Fraud. . . . Southerner! Meridional'." 
 
 Ulysses tried to calm her. It might be possible to find 
 another boat. He would try to help them find another. 
 He was going to send the Mare Nostrum to await him 
 in Barcelona, and he himself would stay in Naples, just 
 as long as she wished him to. 
 
 "Buffoon ! . . . And I believed in you ! And I yielded 
 myself to you, believing you to be a hero, believing your 
 offer of sacrifice to be the truth! . . ." 
 
 She marched off, furious, giving the door a spiteful 
 slam. 
 
 "She is going to see the doctor," thought Ferragut. 
 "It is all over." 
 
 He regretted the loss of this woman, even after hav- 
 ing seen her in her tragic and fleeting ugliness. At the 
 same time, the injurious word, the cutting insults with 
 which she had accompanied her departure caused sharp 
 pain. He already was tired and sick of hearing himself 
 called "meridional," as though it were a stigma. 
 
 Yet he rather relished his enforced happiness, the 
 sensation of false liberty which every enamored person 
 feels after a quarrelsome break. "Now to live again! 
 . . ." He wished to return at once to the ship, but feared 
 a revival of the memories evoked by silence. It would 
 be better to remain in Naples, to go to the theater, to 
 trust to the luck of some chance encounter just as when 
 he used to come ashore for a few hours. The next 
 morning he would leave the hotel, with all his baggage, 
 and before sunset he would be sailing the open sea. 
 
 He ate outside of the albergo, and he passed the night 
 elbowing women in cabarets where an insipid variety,
 
 270 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 show served as a pretext to disguise the baser objecl. 
 The recollection of Freya, fresh-looking and gay, kept 
 rising between him and those painted mouths every time 
 that they; smiled upon him, trying to attract his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 At one o'clock in the morning he went up the hotel 
 stairway, surprised at seeing a ray of light underneath 
 the door of his room. He entered. . . . She was await- 
 ing him reading, tranquil and smiling. Her face, re- 
 freshed and retouched with juvenile color, did not shows 
 the slightest trace of the morning's spasmodic outbreak. 
 She was clad in pyjamas. 
 
 Seeing Ulysses enter, she arose with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 "Tell me that you are not still angry with me! . . . 
 Tell me that you will forgive me! ... I was very 
 naughty toward you this afternoon, I admit it." 
 
 She was embracing him, rubbing her mouth against 
 his neck with a feline purr. Before the captain could 
 respond she continued with a childish voice: 
 
 "My shark! My sea-wolf! who has made me wait 
 all these hours! . . . Swear to me that you have not 
 been unfaithful! ... I can perceive at once the trace 
 of another woman." 
 
 Sniffing his beard and face, her mouth approached the 
 sailor's. 
 
 "No, you have not been unfaithful. ... I still find 
 my own perfume. . . . Oh, Ulysses! My hero! . . ." 
 
 She kissed him with that absorbing kiss, which ap- 
 peared to take all the life from him, obscuring his 
 thoughts and annulling his will-power, making him trem-j 
 ble from head to foot. All was forgotten, offenses, 
 slights, plans of departure. . . . And, as usual, fre fell, 
 conquered by that vampire caress. 
 
 In the darkness he heard Freya's gentle voice. She
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 271 
 
 was recapitulating what they had not said, but what the 
 two were thinking of at the same time. 
 
 "The doctor believes that you ought to remain. Let 
 your boat go with its hideous old faun, who is nothing 
 but a drawback. You are to remain here, on land. , . . 
 You will be able to do us a great favor. . . . You know 
 you willj you will remain? . . . What happiness!" 
 
 Ferragut's destiny was to obey this idolized and 
 dominating voice. . . . And the following morning Toni 
 saw him approaching the vessel with an air of command 
 which admitted no opposition. The Mare Nostrum must 
 set forth at once for Barcelona. He would entrust the 
 command to his mate. He would join it just as soon as 
 he could finish certain affairs that were detaining him 
 in Naples. 
 
 Toni opened his eyes with a gesture of surprise. He 
 wished to respond, but stood with his mouth open, not 
 venturing to speak a single word. . . . This was his 
 captain, and he was not going to permit any objections 
 to his orders. 
 
 "Very well," he said finally. "I only ask you that you 
 return as soon as possible to take up your command. 
 ... Do not forget what we are losing while the boat 
 is tied up." 
 
 A few days after the Departure of the steamer Ulyssfes 
 radically changed his method of living. 
 
 Freya no longer wished to continue lodging in the ho- 
 tel. Attacked by a sudden modesty, the curiosity and 
 smiles of the tourists and servants were annoying her. 
 Besides, she wished to enjoy complete liberty in her love 
 affairs. Her friend, who was like a mother to her, would 
 facilitate her desire. The two would live in her house. 
 V'^Ferragut was yreatly surprised to discover the ex- 
 treme size of the apartment occupied by the doctor. Be- 
 yond her salon there was an endless number of rooms,
 
 272 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 somewhat dismantled and without furniture, a labyrinth 
 of partitioned walls and passageways, in which the cap- 
 tain was always getting lost, and having to appeal to 
 Freya for aid ; all the doors of the stair-landings that ap- 
 peared unrelated to the green screen of the office were so 
 many other exits from the same dwelling. 
 
 The lovers were lodged in the extreme end, as though 
 living in a separate house. One of the doors was for 
 them only. They occupied a grand salon, rich in mold- 
 ings and gildings and poor in furniture. Three arm- 
 chairs, an old divan, a table littered with papers, toilet 
 articles and eatables, and a rather narrow couch in one 
 of the corners, were all the conveniences of this new 
 establishment. 
 
 In the street it was hot, and yet they were shivering 
 with cold in this magnificent room into which the sun's 
 rays had never penetrated. Ulysses attempted to make 
 a fire on a hearth of colored marble, big as a monument, 
 but he had to desist half-suffocated by the smoke. In 
 order to reach the doctor's apartment they had to pass 
 through a row of numberless connecting rooms, long 
 since abandoned. 
 
 They lived as newl- r -wed people, in an amorous soli- 
 tude, commenting with childish hilarity on the defects 
 of their quarters and the thousand little inconveniences 
 of material existence. Freya would prepare breakfast 
 on a small alcohol stove, defending herself from her 
 lover, who believed himself more skilled than she in culi- 
 nary affairs. A sailor knows something of everything, 
 
 The mere suggestion of hunting a servant for theif 
 most common needs irritated the German maiden. 
 
 "Never! . . . Perhaps she might be a spy!" 
 
 And the word "spy" on her lips took on an expression 
 of immense scorn. 
 
 The doctor was absent on frequent trips and
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 273 
 
 the employee in the study, was the one who received 
 visitors. Sometimes he would pass through the row 
 of deserted rooms in order to ask some information of 
 Freya, and she would follow him out, deserting her lover 
 for a few moments. 
 
 Left to himself, Ulysses would suddenly realize the 
 dual nature of his personality. Then the man he was 
 before that meeting in Pompeii would assert himself, and 
 he would see his vessel and his home in Barcelona. 
 
 "What have you got yourself into?" he would ask 
 himself remorsefully. "How is all this affair ever going 
 to turn out? . . ." 
 
 But at the sound of her footsteps in the next room, 
 on perceiving the atmospheric wave produced by the 
 displacement of her adorable body, this second person 
 would fold itself back and a dark curtain would fall 
 over his memory, leaving visible only the actual reality. 
 
 With the beatific smile of an opium-smoker, he would 
 accept the impetuous carrss of her lips, the entwining 
 of her arms, strangling him like marble boas. 
 
 "Ulysses, my master ! . . . The moments that separate 
 me from you weigh upon me like centuries!" 
 
 He, on the other hand, had lost all notion of time. 
 The days were all confused in his mind, and he had to 
 keep asking in order to realize their passing. After a 
 week passed in the doctor's home, he would sometimes 
 suppose that the sweet sequestration had been but forty- 
 eight hours long, at others that nearly a month had flitted 
 by. 
 
 They went out very little. The mornings slipped away 
 insensibly between the late awakening and preparations 
 for a breakfast made by themselves. If it was necessary 
 to go after some eatable forgotten the day before, it 
 was she who took charge of the expedition, wishing to 
 keep him from all contact with outside life.
 
 274 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The afternoons were afternoons of the harem, passed 
 upon the divan or stretched on the floor. In a low voice 
 she would croon Oriental songs, incomprehensible and 
 mysterious. Suddenly she would spring up impetuously 
 like a spring that is unwound, like a serpent that uncoils 
 itself, and would begin to dance, almost without mov- 
 ing her feet, waving her lithe limbs. . . . And he would 
 smile with stupefied infatuation, extending a right hand 
 toward an Arabian tabaret, covered with bottles. 
 
 Freya took even greater care of the supply of liquor 
 than of things to eat. The sailor was half-drunk, but 
 with a drunkenness wisely tempered that never 
 went beyond the rose-colored period. But he was so 
 happy! . . . 
 
 They dined outside the house. Sometimes their ex- 
 cursions were at midday and they would go to the restau- 
 rants of Posilipo or Vomero, the very places that he had 
 known when he was a hopeless suppliant, and which 
 saw him now with her hanging on his arm, with a proud 
 air of possession. If nightfall surprised them, they 
 would hastily betake themselves to a cafe in the interior 
 of the city, a beer-garden whose proprietor always spoke 
 to Freya in German in a low voice. 
 
 Whenever the doctor was in Naples she would seat 
 herself at their table, with the air of a good mother who 
 is receiving her daughter and son-in-law. Her scrutiniz- 
 ing glasses appeared to be searching Ferragut's very soul, 
 as though doubtful of his fidelity. Then she would be- 
 come more affectionate in the course of these banquets, 
 composed of cold meats with a great abundance of 
 drinks, in the German style. For her, love was the most 
 beautiful thing in existence, and she could not look upon 
 these two enamored ones without a mist of emotion blur- 
 ring the crystals of her second eyes. 
 
 "Ah, Captain! . . . How much she loves you! . . .
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 275 
 
 Do no'f disappoint her; obey her in every respect. . . . 
 She adores you." 
 
 I Frequently she returned from hef trips in evident bad 
 humor. Ulysses surmised that she had been in Rome. 
 At other times she would appear very gay, with an 
 ironic and tedious gaye'ty. "The mandolin-strummers ap- 
 pear to be coming to their senses. Germany is constantly 
 receiving more support from their ranks. In Rome the 
 'German propaganda' is distributed among millions." 
 
 One night emotion overcame her rugged sensibilities. 
 She had brought back from her trip a portrait which 
 she pressed lovingly against her vast bosom before show- 
 ing it 
 
 "Look at it," she said to the frfrt). "It is the hero 
 whose name brings tears of enthusiasm to all Germans. 
 . . . What an honor for our family 1" 
 
 Pride made her hasty, snatching the photograph from 
 Freya's hand in order to pass it on to Ulysses. He saw 
 a naval official rather mature, surrounded by a numerous 
 family. Two children with long blonde hair were seated 
 on his knees. Five youngsters, chubby and tow-headed, 
 appeared at his feet with crossed legs, lined up in the 
 order of their ages. Near his shoulder extended a double 
 line of brawny young girls with coronal braids imitating 
 the coiffures of empresses and grand duchesses. . . . Be- 
 hind these, proudly erect, was his virtuous and prolific 
 companion, aged by too continuous maternity. 
 
 Ferragut contemplated this patriotic warrior very de- 
 liberately. He had the face of a kindly person with 
 clear eyes and grayish, pointed beard. He almost inspired 
 a tender compassion by his overwhelming duties as a 
 father. 
 
 , Meanwhile the doctor's voice was chanting the glories 
 of her relative. 
 
 "A hero ! . . . Our gracious Kaiser has decorated him
 
 276 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 with the Iron Cross. They have given him honorary 
 citizenship in various capitals. . . . May God punish 
 England 1" 
 
 And she extolled this patriarch's unheard-of exploit. 
 He was the commandant of the submarine that had tor- 
 pedoed one of the greatest English transatlantic steamers. 
 Out of the twelve hundred passengers from New York 
 more than eight hundred were drowned. . . . Women 
 and children had gone down in the general destruc- 
 tion, 
 
 Freya, more quick-witted than the doctor, read Ulys- 
 ses* thoughts in his eyes. . . . He was now surveying 
 with astonishment the photograph of this official sur- 
 rounded with his biblical progeny, like a good-natured 
 burgher. And a man who appeared so complacent had 
 committed such butchery without encountering any dan- 
 ger whatever! hidden in the water with his eye glued 
 to the periscope, he had coldly ordered the sending of 
 a torpedo against this floating and defenseless city ? . . . 
 
 "Such is war," said Freya. 
 
 "Of course it is war!" retorted the doctor as if of- 
 fended at the propitiatory tone of her friend. "And it 
 is our right also. They blockade us, and they wish our 
 women and children to die of hunger, and so we kill 
 theirs." 
 
 The captain felt obliged to protest, in spite of the 
 hidden nudges and gestures of his mistress. The doctor 
 had many times told him that, thanks to her organiza- 
 tion, Germany could never know hunger, and that she 
 could exist years and years on the consumption of her 
 own product. 
 
 "That is so," replied the dame, "but war has to make 
 itself ferocious, implacable, in order that it may not 
 last so long. It is our human duty to terrify the
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 277 
 
 enemy with a cruelty beyotni what they Af able to 
 imagine." 
 
 The sailof slept badly that night, evidently greatly 
 troubled. Freya guessed the presence of something 
 beyond the influence of her caresses. The follow- 
 ing day his pensive reserve continued and she, well 
 knowing the cause, tried to dissipate it with her 
 words. . . . 
 
 The torpedoing of defenseless steamers was only made 
 on the coast of England. They had to cut short, cost 
 what it might, the source of supplies for that hated 
 island. 
 
 "In the Mediterranean nothing of that kind will ever 
 occur. I can assure you of that. . . . The submarines 
 will attack battleships only." 
 
 And, as if fearing a reappearance of Ulysses' scru- 
 ples, she redoubled her seductions on their afternoons 
 of voluptuous imprisonment. She was constantly de- 
 vising new fascinations, that her lover might never be 
 surfeited. He, on his part, came to believe that he was 
 living with several women at the same time, like an 
 Oriental personage. Freya upon multiplying her charms, 
 had to do no more than to swing around on herself, 
 showing a new facet of her past existence. 
 
 The sentiment of jealousy, the bitterness of not hav- 
 Aig been the first and only one, rejuvenated the sailor's 
 passion, alleviating the tedium of satiety, yet at the samfc 
 time giving to her caresses an acrid, desperate and at- 
 tractive relish due to his enforced fraternity with un- 
 known predecessors. 
 
 Desisting from her enchantments, she came and went 
 through the salon, sure of her beauty, proud of her firm 
 and superb physique, which had not yielded in the slight- 
 est degree to the passing of the years. A couple of 
 colored shawls served as her transparent clothing.
 
 278 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Waving them as rainbow shafts around her marble-white 
 body, she used to interpret the priestess dances to tke 
 terrible Siva that she had learned in Java. 
 
 Suddenly the chill of the room would begin biting in, 
 awaking her from her tropical dream. With a final 
 bound, she sought refuge in his arms. 
 
 "Oh, my beloved Argonaut! . . . My shark!" 
 
 She threw herself on the sailor's breast, stroking his 
 beard, and pushing him so as to edge in on the divan 
 which was too narrow for the two. 
 
 She guessed at once the cause of his furrowed brow, 
 the listlessness with which he responded to her caresses, 
 the gloomy fire that was smouldering in his eyes. The 
 exotic dance had made him recall her past and in order 
 to regain her sway over him, subjecting him in sweet 
 passivity, she sprang up from the divan, running about 
 the room. 
 
 "What shall I give to my bad little man, in order to 
 make him smile a bit? . . . What shall I do in order to 
 make him forget his wrong ideas ? . . ." 
 
 Perfumes were her pet fad. As she herself used to- 
 say, it was possible for her to do without eating but 
 never without the richest and most expensive essences. 
 In that scantily furnished room, like the interior of an 
 army and navy supply store, the cut glass flasks with 
 gold and nickel stoppers, protruded among the clothing 
 and papers, and stood up in the corners denouncing the 
 forgetfulness of their enchanting breath. 
 
 "Take it! Take it!" 
 
 And she sprinkled the precious perfumes as though 
 they were water on Ferragut's hair, over his curled 
 beard, advising the sailor to close his eyes in order not 
 to be blinded by this crazy baptism. 
 
 Anointed and fragrant as an Asiatic despot, the sfroag 
 Ulysses would sometimes revolt against this effeminate-
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 279 
 
 ness. At others, he would accept it with the delight of 
 a new pleasure. 
 
 Suddenly a window-shutter would seem to swing open 
 in his imagination, and, passing by this luminous square, 
 he would see the melancholy Cinta, his son Esteban, 
 the bridge of his vessel and Toni at the helm. 
 
 "Forget!" cried the voice of his evil counselor, blot- 
 ting out the vision. "Enjoy the present! . . . There is 
 plenty of time to go in search of them." 
 
 And again he would sink himself in his refined and 
 artificial luxurious state with the selfishness of the 
 satrap who, after ordering various cruelties, locks him- 
 self in his harem. 
 
 The very finest linens, scattered by chance, enveloped 
 his body or served as cushions. They were her lin- 
 gerie, stray petals of her beauty, that still kept the 
 warmth and perfume of her body. If Ferragut needed 
 any object belonging to him, he had to hunt for it 
 through sheaves of skirts, silk petticoats, white negligees, 
 perfumes and portraits, all scattered over the furniture 
 or tossed in the corners. When Freya, tired of dancing 
 in the center of the salon, wa* not curling herself up 
 in his arms she took delight in opening a box of san- 
 dal wood. In this she used to keep all her jewels, taking 
 them out again and again with a nervous restless- 
 ness, as though she feared they might have evaporated 
 in their enclosure. Her lover had to listen to the grayest 
 explanations accompanying the display of her treasures. 
 
 "Kiss it," she said, offering him the string of pearls 
 almost always on her neck. 
 
 These grains of moonlight splendor were to her little 
 living beings, little creatures that she needed in contact 
 with her skin. She was impregnated with tfre essence pf 
 all that she wore J she drank their life. 
 
 "They have slept upon me so many nights," she would
 
 2 So MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 murmur, contemplating them amorously. "This light 
 amber tone I have given them with the warmth of my 
 body." 
 
 They were no longer a piece of jewelry, they formed 
 a part of her organism. They might grow pale and 
 die if they were to pass many days forgotten in the depths 
 of her casket. 
 
 After that she kept on ransacking the perfumed jewel- 
 box for all the gems that were her great pride, ear- 
 rings and finger-rings of great price, mixed with other 
 exotic jewels of bizarre form and slight value, picked 
 up on her voyages. 
 
 "Look carefully at this," she said gravely to Ferra- 
 gut, while she rubbed against her bare arm an enormous 
 diamond in one of her rings. 
 
 Warmed by the friction, the precious stone became 
 converted into a magnet. A bit of paper placed a few 
 inches away was attracted to it with an irresistible flut- 
 tering. 
 
 She then rubbed one of the barbaric imitation- jewels 
 of thick cut glass, and the scrap of paper remained mo- 
 tionless without the slightest evidence of attraction. 
 
 Satisfied with these experiments, she replaced her 
 treasures in the casket and set herself to beguiling the 
 passing monotony, again devoting herself to UlysseS. 
 
 These long imprisonments in an atmosphere charged 
 with perfumes, Oriental tobaccos, and feminine seduc- 
 tion were gradually disordering Ferragut's mind. Be- 
 sides this, he was drinking heavily in order to give new 
 vigor to his organism which was beginning to break 
 down under the excesses of his voluptuous seclusion. At 
 the slightest sign of weariness, Freya would fall upon 
 him with her dominating lips. If she freed herself from 
 his embraces, it was to offer him a glass full of the 
 strongest liquor.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 281 
 
 When the spell of intoxication overcame him, weigh- 
 ing down his eyes, he always recalled the same dream. 
 In his maudlin siestas, satiated and happy, there would 
 always reappear another Freya who was not Freya, but 
 Dona Constanza, the Empress of Byzantium. He could 
 see her dressed as a peasant girl, just as she was por- 
 trayed in the picture in the church of Valencia, and at 
 the same time completely undressed, like the other houri, 
 who was dancing in the salon. 
 
 This double image, which disappeared and reappeared 
 capriciously with the arbitrariness of dreams, was al- 
 ways telling him the same thing 1 . Freya was Dona Con- 
 stanza perpetuated across the centuries, taking on a new 
 form. She was born of the union of a German and an 
 Italian, just like this other one. . . . But the chaste 
 empress was now smiling in her nudeness, satisfied with 
 being simply Freya. Marital infidelity, persecution and 
 poverty had been the result of her first existence when 
 she was tranquil and virtuous. 
 
 "Now I know the truth," Dona Constanza would say 
 with a sweetly immodest smile. "Only love exists; all 
 the rest is illusion. Kiss me, Ferragut! ... I have re- 
 turned to life in order to recompense you. You gave 
 me the first of your childish affection; you longed for 
 me before you became a man." 
 
 And her kiss was like that of the spy an absorbing 
 kiss throughout his entire person, making him awake. 
 . . . Upon opening his eyes he saw Freya with her 
 mouth close to his. 
 
 "Arise, my sea-wolf! ... It is already night. We 
 are going to dine." 
 
 Outside the house, Ulysses would breathe in the twi- 
 light breeze and look at the first stars that were begin- 
 ning to sparkle above the roofs. He felt the fresh de-
 
 282 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 light and trembling limbs of the odalisque coming out o 
 retreat. 
 
 The dinner finished, they would stroll through the 
 darkest street or the promenades along the shore, avoid- 
 ing the people. One night they stopped in the gardens 
 of the Villa Nazionale, near the bench that had witnessed 
 their struggle when returning from Posilipo. 
 
 "You wished to kill me, you little rascal 1 . . . You 
 threatened me with your revolver, my bandit! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses protested. What a way to remember things! 
 But she refuted his correction with a bold and lying au- 
 thority. 
 
 "It was you! ... It was you! I say so, and that is 
 enough. You must become accustomed to accepting 
 whatever I may affirm." 
 
 In the beer garden, where they used to dine almost 
 every night an imitation medieval saloon, with paneled 
 beams made by machinery, plaster walls imitating oak, 
 and neo-Gothic crystals the proprietor used to exhibit 
 as a great curiosity a jar of grotesque little figures among 
 the porcelain steins that adorned the brackets of the 
 pedestals. 
 
 Ferragut recognized it immediately; it was an ancient 
 Peruvian jar. 
 
 "Yes, it is a huaca" she said. "I have been in that, 
 too. . . . We were engaged in manufacturing antiques." 
 
 Freya misunderstood the gesture that her lover made. 
 She thought that he was astonished at the audacity of 
 this manufacture of souvenirs. "Germany is great; 
 nothing can resist the adaptive powers of her indus- 
 tries. . . ." 
 
 And her eyes burned with a proud light as she enu- 
 merated these exploits of false historical resurrection. 
 They had filled museums and private collections with 
 Egyptian and Phoenician statuettes recently reproductifl.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 283 
 
 Then, on German soil, they had manufactured Peruvian 
 antiquities in order to sell them to the tourists who visit 
 the ancient realm of the Incas. Some of the inhabitants 
 received wages for disinterring these things opportunely 
 with a great deal of publicity. Now the fad of the 
 moment was the black art, and collectors were hunting 
 horrible wooden idols carved by tribes in the interior 
 of Africa. 
 
 But what had really impressed Ferragut was the plural 
 ;which she had employed in speaking of such industries. 
 Who had fabricated these Peruvian antiquities? . . . 
 Was it her husband, the sage? . . . 
 
 "No," replied Freya tranquilly. "It was another one, 
 an artist from Munich. He had hardly any talent 
 for painting, but great intelligence in business matters. 
 We returned from Peru with the mummy of an Inca 
 which we exhibited in almost all the museums of Eu- 
 rope without finding a purchaser. Bad business! We 
 had to keep the Inca in our room in the hotel, and . . .. " 
 
 Ferragut was not interested in the wanderings of the 
 poor Indian monarch, snatched from the repose of his 
 tomb. . . . One more! Each of Freya's confidences 
 evoked a new predecessor from the haze of her past. 
 
 Coming out of the beer-garden, the captain stalked 
 along with a gloomy aspect. She, on the other hand, 
 was laughing at her memories surveying across the years, 
 with a flattering optimism, this far-away adventure of her 
 Bohemian days, and growing very merry on recalling the 
 remains of the Inca on his passage from hotel to hotel. 
 
 Suddenly Ulysses* wrath blazed forth. . . . The Dutch 
 officer, the natural history sage, the singer who killed 
 himself in one shot and now the fabricator of antiqui- 
 ties. . . . How many more men had there been in her 
 existence? How many were there still to be told of? 
 Why had she not brought them all out at once? . . .
 
 284 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Freya was astounded at his abrupt violence. The 
 sailor's wrath was terrifying. Then she laughed, lean- 
 ing heavily on his arm, and putting her face clofee to 
 his. 
 
 "You are jealous! . . . My shark is jealous! Go on 
 talking. You don't know how much I like to hear you. 
 Complain away! . . . Beat me! . . . It's the first time 
 that I've seen a jealous man. Ah, you Southerners! . . . 
 Meridionals ! . . . With good reason the women adore 
 you." 
 
 And she was telling the truth. She was experiencing 
 a new sensation before this manly wrath, provoked by 
 amorous indignation. Ulysses appeared to her a very 
 'different man from all the others she had known in 
 her former life, cold, compliant and selfish. 
 
 "My Ferragut! . . . My Mediterranean hero! How 
 I love you ! Come . . . come. ... I must reward you !" 
 
 They were in a central street, near the corner of a 
 sloping little alley with stairs. She pushed him toward 
 it, and at the first step in the narrow and dark passage- 
 way embraced him, turning her back on the movement 
 and light in the great street, in order to kiss him with 
 that kiss which always made the captain's knees trem- 
 ble. 
 
 Although his temper was soothed, he continued com- 
 plaining during the rest of the stroll. How many had 
 preceded him? . . . He must know. He wished to. 
 know, no matter how horrible the knowledge might be. 
 It was the delight of the jealous who persist in scratching 
 open the wound. 
 
 "I want to know you," he repeated. "I ought to know 
 you, since you belong to me. I have the right ! . . ." 
 
 This right recalled with childish obstinacy made Freya 
 smile dolorously. Long centuries of experience appeared 
 to peep out from the melancholy curl of her lips. In her
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 285 
 
 gleamed the wisdom of the woman, more cautious and 
 foresighted than that of the man, since love was her only 
 preoccupation. 
 
 "Why do you wish to know?" she asked discourag- 
 ingly. "How much further could you go on that? . . . 
 Would you perchance be any happier when you did 
 know? . . ." 
 
 She was silent for some steps and then said as though 
 disclosing a secret; 
 
 "In order to love, it is not necessary for us to know 
 one another. Quite the contrary. A little bit of mys- 
 tery keeps up the illusion and dispells monotony. . . . 
 He who wishes to know is never happy." 
 
 She continued talking. Truth perhaps was a good 
 tiling in other phases of existence, but it was fatal to 
 love. It was too strong, too crude. Love was like cer- 
 tain women, beautiful as goddesses under a discreet and 
 artificial light, but horrible as monsters under the burn- 
 ing splendors of the sun. 
 
 "Believe me; put away these bugbears of the past. Is 
 not the present enough for you? . . . Are you not 
 happy?" 
 
 And, trying to convince him that he was, she re- 
 doubled her exertions, chaining Ulysses in bonds which 
 were sweet )^et v/eighed heavily upon him. Strongly 
 convinced of his vileness, he nevertheless adored and de- 
 tested this woman, with her tireless sensuality. . . . And 
 it was impossible to separate himself from her! . . . 
 
 Anxious to find some excuse, he recalled the image of 
 his cook philosophizing in his culinary dominion. When- 
 ever he had wished to call down the greatest of evils 
 upon an enemy, the astute fellow had always uttered this 
 anathema : 
 
 "May God send you a female to your taste ! . . ." 
 
 Ferragut had found the "female to his taste" and was
 
 286 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 forever slave of his destiny. If would follow him 
 through every form of debasement which she might de- 
 sire, and each time would leave him with less energy to 
 protest, accepting the most disgraceful situations in ex- 
 change for love. . . . And it would always be so ! And 
 he who but a few months before used to consider him- 
 self a hard and overbearing man, would end by pleading 
 and weeping if she should go away! . . . Ah, mis- 
 ery! . . , 
 
 In hours of tranquillity, when satiety made them con- 
 verse placidly like two friends of the same sex, Ulysses 
 would avoid allusions to the past, questioning her only 
 about her actual life. These questions were chiefly con- 
 cerned with the doctor's mysterious work; he wished to 
 know with the interest that the slightest actions of a 
 beloved person always inspire, the part that Freya was 
 playing in them. Did he not belong now to the same 
 association since he was obeying its orders? . . . 
 
 The responses were very incomplete. She had limited 
 herself to obeying the doctor, who knew everything. . . . 
 Then she hesitated and corrected herself. No, her friend 
 could not know everything, because above her were the 
 count and other personages who used to come from time 
 to time to visit her like passing tourists. And the chain 
 of agents, from the lowest to the highest, were lost in 
 mysterious heights that made Freya turn pale, imposing 
 on her eyes and voice an expression of superstitious 
 respect. 
 
 She was free to speak only of her work, and she did 
 this very cautiously, relating the measures she had em- 
 ployed, but without mentioning her co-workers nor stat- 
 ing what her final aim was to be. The most of the time 
 she had been moved about without knowing toward what 
 her efforts were converging, like a whirling wheel which 
 knows only its immediate environments and is ignorant
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 287 
 
 of the machinery as a whole and the class of production 
 to which it contributes. 
 
 Ulysses marveled at the grotesque and dubious pro- 
 ceedings employed by the agents of the spy system. 
 
 "But that is liko the paper novels I They are ridicu- 
 lous and worn-out measures that any one can learn from 
 books and melodramas." 
 
 Freya assented. For that vefy feasori they were em- 
 ploying them. The surest way of bewildering the enemy 
 was to avail themselves of obvious methods; thus the 
 modern world, so intelligent and subtle, would refuse to 
 believe in them. By simply telling the truth, Bismarck 
 had deceived all European diplomacy, for the very rea- 
 son that nobody was expecting the truth from his lips. 
 
 German espionage was comporting itself like the per- 
 sonages in a political novel, and people consequently 
 could not seem to believe in it, although it was taking 
 place right under their eyes, just because its methods 
 appeared too exaggerated and antiquated. 
 
 "Therefore," she continued, "every time that France 
 uncovers a part of our maneuvers, the opinion of the 
 world which believes only in ingenious and difficult 
 things ridicules it, considering it attacked with a de- 
 lirium of persecution." 
 
 Women for some time past had been deeply involved 
 in the service of espionage. There were many as wise 
 as the doctor, as elegant as Freya, and many venerable 
 ones with famous names, winning the confidence 
 that illustrious dowagers inspire. They were very nu- 
 merous, but they did not know each other. Sometimes 
 they met out in the world and were suspicious of 
 each other, but each continued on her special mission, 
 pushed in different directions by an omnipotent and 
 hidden force. 
 
 She showed him some portraits that were taken a few
 
 288 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 i 
 
 years before. Ulysses was slow to recognize her as a 
 
 slim Japanese young girl, clad in a dark kimono. 
 
 "It is I when I was over there. It was to our interest 
 to know the real force of that nation of little men with 
 rat-like eyes." 
 
 In another portrait she appeared in short skirt, riding 
 boots, a man's shirt, and a felt cowboy hat. 
 
 "That was from the Transvaal." 
 
 She had gone to South Africa in company with other 
 German women of the "service" in order to sound the 
 state of mind of the Boers under English domination. 
 
 "I've been everywhere," she affirmed proudly. 
 
 "In Paris, too?" questioned the sailor. 
 
 She hesitated before answering, but finally nodded her 
 head. . . . She had been in Paris many times. The out- 
 break of the war had found her living in the Grand 
 Hotel. Fortunately, two days before the rupture of hos- 
 tilities, she had received news enabling her to avoid 
 being made prisoner in a concentration camp. . . . And 
 she did not wish to say more. She was verbose and 
 frank in the relation of her far-distant experiences, but 
 the memory of the more recent ones enshrouded her in a 
 restless and frightened reserve. 
 
 To change the course of conversation, she spoke of 
 the dangers that had threatened her on her journeys. 
 
 "We have to be very courageous. . . . The doctor, just 
 as you see her, is a heroine. . . . You laugh, but if you 
 should know her arsenal, perhaps it might strike fear 
 to your heart. She is a scientist." 
 
 The grave lady had an invincible repugnance for vul- 
 gar weapons, and Freya referred freely to a portable 
 medicine case full of anesthetics and poisons. 
 
 "Besides this she carries on her person a little bag 
 full of certain powders of her own invention, tobacco, 
 red pepper. . . . Perfect little devils! Whoever gets
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 289 
 
 them in the eyes is blinded for life. It is as though she 
 were throwing flames." 
 
 She herself was less complicated in her measures of 
 defense. She had her revolver, a species of firearms 
 which she managed to keep hidden just as certain in- 
 sects hide their sting, without knowing certainly when 
 it might be necessary to draw it forth. And if she 
 could not avail herself of that, she always relied on her 
 hatpin. 
 
 "Just look at it ! ... With what gusto I could pierce 
 the heart of many a person! . . ." 
 
 And she showed him a kind of hidden poniard, a 
 keen, triangular stiletto of genuine steel, capped by a 
 large glass pearl that served as its hilt. 
 
 "Among what kind of people are you living!" mur- 
 mured the practical voice in Ferragut's interior. "What 
 have you mixed yourself up with, my son!" But his 
 tendency to discount danger, not to live like other peo- 
 ple, made him find a deep enchantment in this novel-like 
 existence. 
 
 The doctor no longer went on excursions, but her 
 visitors were increasing in number. Sometimes, when 
 Ulysses was starting toward her room, Freya would stop 
 him. 
 
 "Don't go. ... They're having a consultation." 
 
 Upon opening the door of the landing that corre- 
 sponded to his quarters he saw, on various occasions, the 
 green screened door of the office closing behind many 
 men, all of them of Teutonic aspect, travelers who had 
 just disembarked in Naples with a certain precipitation, 
 neighbors from the city who used to receive orders from 
 the doctor. 
 
 She appeared much more preoccupied than usual. Her 
 eyes would pass over Freya and the sailor as though she 
 did not see them.
 
 290 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Bad news from Rome," Ferragut's companion told 
 him. "Those accursed mandolin-strummers are getting 
 away from us." 
 
 Ulysses began to feel a certain boredom in these mo- 
 notonously voluptuous days. His senses were becoming 
 blunted with so many indulgences mechanically repeated. 
 Besides, a monstrous debilitation was making him think 
 in self-defense of the tranquil life of the hearth. He 
 timidly began calculating the time of his seclusion. How 
 long had he been living with her? . . . His confused 
 and crowded memory besought her aid. 
 
 "Fifteen days," replied Freya. 
 
 Again he persisted in his calculations, and she affirmed 
 that only three weeks had passed by since his steamer 
 had left Naples. 
 
 "I shall have to go," said Ulysses hesitatingly. 
 will be expecting me in Barcelona ; I have no news. . . . 
 What will become of my vessel? . . ." 
 
 She who generally listened to these inquiries with a 
 distraught air, not wishing to understand his timid in- 
 sinuations, responded one afternoon unequivocally: : 
 
 "The time is approaching when you are going to fulfill 
 your word of honor in regard to sacrificing yourself 
 for me. Soon you will be able to go to Barcelona, and 
 I I shall join you there. If I am not able to go, we 
 shall meet again. . . . The world is very small." 
 
 Her thought did not go beyond this sacrifice exacted 
 of Ferragut. After that, who could tell -where she would 
 stop? . . . 
 
 Two afternoons later, the doctor and the count sum- 
 moned the sailor. The lady's voice, always so good- 
 natured and protecting, now assumed a slight accent of 
 command. 
 
 "Everything is all ready, Captain.'* As she had not 
 been able to avail herself of his steamer, she had pre-
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 291 
 
 pared another boat for him. He was merely to follow 
 the instructions of the count who would show him the 
 bark of which he was going to take command. 
 
 The two men went away together. It was the first 
 time that Ulysses had gone out in the street without 
 Freya, and in spite of his enamored enthusiasm, he felt 
 an agreeable sensation of freedom. 
 
 They went down to the shore and in the little harbor 
 of the Castello dell' Ovo passed over the plank that 
 served as a bridge between the dock and a little schooner 
 with a greenish hull. Ferragut, who had taken in its 
 exterior with a single glance, ran his eye over its deck. 
 . . . "Eighty tons." Then he examined the apparatus 
 and the auxiliary machinery, a petroleum motor which 
 permitted it to make seven miles an hour whenever the 
 sails did not find a breeze. 
 
 He had seen on the poop the name of the boat and 
 its destination, guessing at once the class of navigation 
 to which it was dedicated. It was a Sicilian schooner 
 from Trapani, built for fishing. An artistic calker had 
 sculptured a wooden cray-fish climbing over the rudder. 
 From the two sides of the prow dangled a double row 
 of cray-fish carved with the innocent prolixity of medi- 
 eval imagination. 
 
 Coming out of the hatchway, Ferragut saw half of 
 the hold full of boxes. He recognized this cargo ; each 
 one of these boxes contained two cans of gasoline. 
 
 "Very well," he said to the count, who had remained 
 silent behind him, following him in all his evolutions. 
 "Where is the crew? . . ." 
 
 Kaledine pointed out to him three old sailors huddled 
 on the prow and a ragged boy. They were veterans 
 of the Mediterranean, silent and self-centered, accus- 
 tomed to obey orders mechanically, without troubling
 
 292 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 themselves as to where they were going, nor who was 
 commanding them. 
 
 "Are there no more ?" Ferragut asked. 
 
 The count assured him that other men would come to 
 reenforce the crew at the moment of its departure. 
 This would be just as soon as the loading was finished. 
 They had to take certain precautions in order not to 
 attract attention. 
 
 "In any case, you will be ready to embark quickly, 
 Captain. Perhaps you may be advised with only a 
 couple of hours' notice." 
 
 Talking it over with Freya at night, Ulysses was as- 
 tonished at the promptness with which the doctor had 
 found a boat, the discretion with which she had had it 
 loaded, with all the details of this business that had been 
 developing so easily and mysteriously right in the very 
 mouth of a great harbor without any one's taking any 
 notice of it. 
 
 His companion affirmed proudly that Germany well 
 understood how to conduct such affairs. It was not the 
 doctor only who was working such miracles. All the Ger- 
 man merchants of Naples and Sicily had been giving 
 aid. . . . And convinced that the captain might be sent 
 for at any moment, she arranged his baggage, packing 
 the little suit-case that always accompanied him on short 
 trips. 
 
 The next day at twilight the count came in search of 
 him. All was ready ; the boat was awaiting its captain. 
 
 The doctor bade Ulysses farewell with a certain sol- 
 emnity. They were in the salon, and in a low voice 
 she gave an order to Freya, who went out, returning im- 
 mediately with a tall, thin bottle. It was mellow Rhine 
 wine, the gift of a merchant of Naples, that the doctor 
 was saving for an extraordinary occasion. She filled four
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 293 
 
 glasses, and, raising hers, looked around fter uncer- 
 tainly. 
 
 "Where is the North? . . ." 
 
 The count pointed it out silently. Then the lady con- 
 tinued raising her glass, with solemn slowness, as though 
 offering a religious libation to the mysterious power hid- 
 den in the North, far, far away. Kaledine imitated her 
 with the same fervid manner. 
 
 Ulysses was going to raise the glass to his lips, wishing 
 to hide a ripple of laughter provoked by the imposing 
 lady's gravity. 
 
 "Do like the others," murmured Freya in his ear. 
 
 And the two quietly drank to his health with their 
 eyes turned toward the North. 
 
 "Good luck to you, Captain!" said the doctor. "You 
 will return promptly and with all happiness, since you 
 are working for such a just cause. .We shall never for- 
 get your services." 
 
 Freya wished to accompany him, even to the boat. 
 The count began a protest, but stopped on seeing the 
 good-natured gesture of the sentimental lady. 
 
 "They love each other so much ! . . . Something must 
 be conceded to love. . . ." 
 
 The three went down the sloping streets of Chiaja to 
 the shore of S. Lucia. In spite of his preoccupation, 
 Ferragut could not but look attentively at the count's 
 appearance. He was now dressed in blue, with a yachts- 
 man's black cap, as though prepared to take part in a 
 regatta. He had undoubtedly adopted this attire in or- 
 der to make the farewell more solemn. 
 
 In the gardens of the Villa Nazionale Kaledine 
 stopped, giving an order to Freya. He could not permit 
 her to go any further. She would attract attention in the 
 little harbor deU Ovo frequented only by fishermen. 
 As the tone of his order was sharp and imperious, she
 
 294 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 obeyed without protest, as though accustomed to sucK 
 superiority. 
 
 "Good-bye! . . . Good-bye." 
 
 Forgetting the presence of the haughty witness, she 
 embraced Ulysses ardently; then she burst out weeping 
 with a nervous sobbing. It seemed to him that she had 
 never been so sincere as in that moment. And he had 
 to make a great effort to disentangle himself from her 
 embrace. 
 
 "Good-bye! . . . Good-bye! . . ." 
 
 Then he followed the count without daring to ttlfn 
 his head, suspecting that her eyes were still upon him. 
 
 On the shores of S. Lucia, he saw in the distance his 
 old hotel with its illuminated windows. The porter was 
 preceding a young man who was just descending from 
 a carriage, carrying a suit-case. Ferragut was instantly 
 reminded of his son Esteban. The young tourist bore a 
 certain resemblance to him. . . . And Ferragut con- 
 tinued on, smiling rather bitterly at this inopportune 
 recollection. 
 
 On entering the schooner he encountered Karl, the 
 doctor's factotum, who had brought his little baggage 
 and had just installed it in his cabin. "He could retire." 
 . . . Then he looked over the crew. In addition to the 
 three old Sicilians he now saw seven husky young fel- 
 lows, blonde and stout, with rolled-up sleeves. They 
 were talking Italian, but the captain had no doubt as, 
 to their real nationality. 
 
 As some of them were already beginning to weigh 
 anchor, Ferragut looked at the count as though inviting 
 him to depart. The boat was gradually detaching itself 
 from the dock. They were going to draw in the gang- 
 plank which had served as a bridge. 
 
 "I'm going, too," said Kaledine. "This trip interests 
 me."
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 295 
 
 Ulysses, who was disposed not to be surprised at 
 anything in this extraordinary voyage, merely exclaimed 
 courteously, "So much the better!" He was no longer 
 concerned with him, and devoted all his efforts to con- 
 ducting the boat out of the little harbor, directing its 
 course through the gulf. The glass windows on the 
 shore of S. Lucia trembled with the vibration of the 
 motor of the decrepit steamer an old and scandalous 
 piece of machinery imitating the paddling of a tired 
 dog. Meanwhile the sails were unfurled and swelling 
 under the first gusts of the wind. 
 
 The trip lasted three days. The first night, the cap- 
 tain enjoyed the selfish delights of resting alone. He 
 was living among men. . . . And he appreciated the 
 satisfaction chastity offered with all the enchantments 
 of novelty. 
 
 The second night, in the narrow and noisome cabin 
 of the skipper, he felt wakeful because of the memories 
 that were again springing up. Oh, Freya! . . . When 
 would he ever see her again? 
 
 The count and he conversed little, but passed long 
 hours together, seated at the side of the wheel looking 
 out on the sea. They were more friendly than on land, 
 although they exchanged very few words. The com- 
 mon life lessened the haughtiness of the pretended diplo- 
 mat and enabled the captain to discover new merits in 
 his personality. The freedom with which he was going 
 through the boat, and certain technical words employed 
 against his will, left no doubt in Ferragut's mind regard- 
 ing his true profession. 
 
 "You are in the navy," he said suddenly. 
 
 And the count assented, judging dissimulation useless. 
 
 Yes, he was a naval officer. 
 
 "Then what am I doing here? Why have you given 
 the command to me? . . ." So Ferragut was thinking,
 
 296 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 without discovering why this man should seek his assist- 
 ance when he could direct a boat himself, without any 
 outside aid. 
 
 Undoubtedly he was a naval officer, and all the 
 blonde sailors that were working like automatons must 
 also have come from some fleet. Discipline was mak- 
 ing them respect Ferragut's orders, but the captain sus- 
 pected that for them he was merely a proxy, the true 
 chief on board being the count. 
 
 The schooner passed within sight of the Liparian archi- 
 pelago; then, twisting its course toward the west, fol- 
 lowed the coast of Sicily, from Cape Gallo to the Cape 
 of Vito. From there it turned its prow to the southeast, 
 heading toward the ^Egadian Islands. 
 
 It had to wait in the waters where the Mediterranean 
 was beginning to narrow between Tunis and Sicily, 
 where the volcanic peak of the Pantellarian Island rises 
 up in the middle of the immense strait. 
 
 Brief indications from the count were sufficient to 
 make the course followed by Ferragut in accordance with 
 his desire. He finally could not hide his admiration for 
 the Spaniard's mastery of navigation. 
 
 "You know your sea well," said the count. 
 
 The captain shrugged his shoulders, smiling. It truly 
 was his. He could call it "mare nostrum" just as the 
 Romans and their former rulers had done. 
 
 As though divining the subsea depths by a simple 
 glance, he kept his boat within the limits of the extensive 
 ledge of the Aventura. He was navigating slowly with 
 only a few sails, crossing and recrossing the same water. 
 
 Kaledine, after two days had passed by, began to grow 
 uneasy. Several times it sounded to Ferragut as though 
 he were muttering the name of Gibraltar. The passage 
 from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean was the greatest 
 danger for those that he was expecting.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 297 
 
 From the deck of the schooner he was able to sea 
 only a short distance, and the count clambered up the 
 rigging in order that his eyes might take in a more ex-i 
 tensive sweep. 
 
 One morning up aloft he called something to the cap-^ 
 tain, pointing out a speck on the horizon. He must 
 steer in that very direction. What he was seeking was 
 over there. 
 
 Ferragut obeyed him, and half an hour later thera 
 appeared, one after the other, two long, low boats, mov- 
 ing with great velocity. They were like destroyers, but 
 without mastheads, without smokestacks, skimming along 
 almost on a level with the water, painted in a gray that 
 made them seem a short distance away of the same color 
 as the sea. They came around on both sides of the 
 sailboat as though they were going to crush it with the 
 meeting of their hulls. Various metallic cables came 
 up from their decks and were thrown over the bitts of 
 the schooner, fastening it to -them, and forming the three 
 vessels into a solid mass that, united, followed the slow 
 undulation of the sea. 
 
 ! Ulysses examined curiously his two companions in this 
 improvised float. Were these the famous submarines? 
 . . . He saw on their steel decks round and protruding 
 hatchways like chimneys through which groups of 
 heads were sticking out. The officers and crews were 
 dressed like fishermen from the northern coast with 
 waterproof suits of one piece and oilskin hats. Many of 
 them were swinging their tarpaulins over their heads, and 
 the count replied to them by waving his cap. The 
 blonde sailors of the schooner shouted in reply to the 
 acclamations of their comrades on t;i2 Submersibles, 
 "Deutclisland iiber dies! . . ." 
 
 But this enthusiasm, equivalent to a song of triumph" 
 in the midst of the solitude of the sea, lasted but a very
 
 298 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 short time. Whistles sounded, men ran over the steel 
 decks and Ferragut saw his vessel invaded by two files 
 of seamen. In a moment the hatchways were opened; 
 there sounded the crash of breaking pieces of wood, and 
 the cases of petrol began to be carried off on both 
 sides. The water all around the sailboat was filled with 
 broken cases that were gently floating away. 
 
 The count on the poop deck was listening to an officer 
 dressed in waterproof garments. 
 
 He was recounting their passage through the Strait of 
 Gibraltar, completely submerged, seeing through the 
 periscope the English torpedo-chasers on patrol. 
 
 "Nothing, Commandant," continued the officer. "Not 
 even the slightest incident. ... A magnificent voyage !" 
 
 "May God punish England!" said the count now 
 called Commandant. 
 
 "May God punish her!" replied the official as though 
 he were saying "Amen." 
 
 Ferragut saw himself forgotten, ignored, by all the 
 men aboard the schooner. Some of the sailors even 
 pushed him to one side in the haste of their work. He 
 was the mere master of a sailing vessel who counted 
 for nothing in this hierarchy of warlike men. 
 
 He now began to understand why they had given 
 him the command of the little vessel. The count was 
 in possession of the situation. Ferragut saw him 
 approaching as though he had suddenly recollected him, 
 stretching out his right hand with the affability of a 
 comrade. 
 
 "Many thanks, Captain. This service is of the kind 
 that is not easily forgotten. Perhaps we shall never see 
 each other again. . . . But if at any time you need 
 me, you may know who I am." 
 
 And, as though presenting him to another person, he 
 gave his name and titles ceremoniously : Archibald von
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 299 
 
 Kramer, Naval Lieutenant of the Imperial Navy. . . . 
 His diplomatic role had not been entirely false. . . . He 
 had served as Naval Attache in various embassies. 
 
 He then gave instructions for the return trip. Ferra- 
 gut was to wait opposite Palermo where a boat would 
 come out after him and take him ashore. Everything 
 had been foreseen. . . . He must deliver the command to 
 the true owner of the schooner, a timorous man who had 
 made them pay very high for the hire of the boat without 
 venturing to jeopardize his own person. In the cabin 
 were the customary papers for clearing the vessel. 
 
 "Salute the ladies in my name. Tell them that they 
 will soon have news of us. We are going to make our- 
 selves lords of the Mediterranean." 
 
 The unloading of combustibles still continued. Fer- 
 ragut saw von Kramer slipping through the openings 
 of one of the submarines. Then he thought he recognized 
 on the submersible two of the sailors of the crew of 
 the schooner who, after being received with shouts and 
 embraces by their comrades, disappeared through a tubu- 
 lar hatchway. 
 
 The unloading lasted until mid-afternoon. Ulysses 
 had not imagined that the little boat could carry so many 
 cases. When the hold was empty, the last German 
 sailors disappeared and with them the cables that had 
 lashed them to the sailboat. An officer shouted to him 
 that he could get under way. 
 
 The two submersibles with their cargo of oil and gaso- 
 line were nearer the level of the sea than on their arrival 
 and now began to disappear in the distance. 
 
 Finding himself alone in the stern of the schooner, 
 the Spaniard felt a sudden disquietude. 
 
 "What have you done! . . . What have you done!" 
 clamored a voice in his brain. 
 
 But contemplating the three old men and the boy
 
 300 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 who had remained as the only crew, he forgot his re- 
 morse. He would have to bestir himself greatly in 
 order to supply the lack of men. For two nights and a 
 day he scarcely rested, managing almost at the same 
 time both helm and motor, since he did not dare to 
 let out all his sails with this scarcity of sailors. 
 
 When he found himself opposite the port of Palermo, 
 just as it was beginning to extinguish its night lights, 
 Ferragut was able to sleep for the first time, leaving the 
 watch of the boat in charge of one of the seamen, 
 who maintained it with sails furled. In the middle of the 
 morning he was awakened by some voices shouting 
 from the sea: 
 
 "Where is the captain?" 
 
 He saw a skiff and various men leaping aboard the 
 schooner. It was the owner who had come to claim 
 his boat in order to bring it into port in the customary 
 legal form. The skiff was commissioned to take Ulysses 
 ashore with his little suitcase. He was accompanied 
 by a red-faced, fat gentleman who appeared to have 
 great authority over the skipper. 
 
 "I suppose you are already informed of what is 
 happening/' he said to Ferragut while the two oarsmen 
 made the skiff glide over the waves. "Those bandits! 
 . . . Those mandolin-players! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses, without knowing why, made an affirmative 
 gesture. This indignant burgher was a German, one of 
 those that were useful to the doctor. ... It was enough 
 just to listen to him. 
 
 A half hour later Ferragut leaped on the dock with- 
 out any one's opposing his disembarking, as though the 
 protection of his obese companion had made all the 
 guards drowsy. The good gentleman showed, notwith- 
 standing, a fervent desire to separate himself from his 
 charge to hurry away, attending to his own affairs.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 301 
 
 He smiled upon learning that Ulysses wished to go 
 immediately to Naples. "You do well. . . . The train 
 leaves in two hours." And putting him in a vacant hack, 
 he disappeared with precipitation. 
 
 Finding himself alone, the captain almost believed that 
 he had dreamed of those two preceding days. 
 
 He was again seeing Palermo after an absence of long 
 years : and he experienced the joy of an exiled Sicilian 
 on meeting the various carts of the countryside, drawn 
 by broken-down horses with plumes, whose badly-painted 
 wagon bodies represented scenes from "Jerusalem De- 
 livered." He recalled the names of the principal roads,- 
 the roads of the old Spanish viceroys. In one square he 
 saw the statue of four kings of Spain. . . . But all these 
 souvenirs only inspired in him a fleeting interest. What 
 he particularly noticed was the extraordinary movement 
 in the streets, the people grouping themselves together 
 in order to listen to the reading of the daily papers. 
 Many windows displayed the national flag, interlaced 
 with those of France, England, and Belgium. 
 
 Upon arriving at the station he learned the truth, was 
 informed of the event to which the merchant had alluded 
 while they were in the skiff. It was war! . . . Italy 
 had broken her relations the day before with the Central 
 Powers. 
 
 Ulysses felt very uneasy on remembering what he had 
 done out on the Mediterranean. He feared that the popu- 
 lar groups, thronging past him and giving cheers behind 
 their flags, were going to guess his exploit and fall upon 
 him. It was necessary to get away from this patriotic 
 enthusiasm, and he breathed more freely when he found 
 himself in one of the coaches of a train. . . . Besides, 
 he w..~ going to see Freya. And it was enough for him 
 merely to evoke her image to make all his remorse van- 
 ish.
 
 302 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The short journey proved long and difficult. The ne- 
 cessities of war had made themselves felt from the very 
 first moment, absorbing all means of communication. 
 The train would remain immovable for hours together 
 in order to give the right of way to other trains loaded 
 with men and military materials. ... In all the stations 
 were soldiers in campaign uniform, banners and cheer- 
 ing crowds. 
 
 When Ferragut arrived at Naples, fatigued by a jour- 
 ney of forty-eight hours, it seemed to him that the 
 coachman was going too slowly toward the old palace of 
 Chiaja. 
 
 Upon crossing the vestibule with his little suit-case, the 
 portress, a fat old crone with dusty, frizzled hair whom 
 he had sometimes caught a glimpse of in the depths of 
 her hall cavern, stopped his passage. 
 
 "The ladies are no longer living in the house. . . . The 
 ladies have suddenly left with Karl, their employee." 
 And she explained the rest of their flight with a hostile 
 and malignant smile. 
 
 Ferragut saw that he must not insist. The slovenly 
 old wife was furious over the flight of the German 
 ladies, and was examining the sailor as a probable spy 
 fit for patriotic denunciation. Nevertheless, through 
 professional honor, she told him that the blonde signora, 
 the younger and more attractive one, had thought of him 
 on going away, leaving his baggage in the porter's room. 
 
 Ulysses hastened to disappear. He would soon send 
 some one to collect those valises. And taking another 
 carnage, he betook himself to the albergo of S. Lucia. 
 . . . What an unexpected blow! 
 
 The porter made a gesture of surprise and astonish- 
 ment upon seeing him enter. Before Ferragut could in- 
 quire for Freya, with the vague hope that she might have 
 taken refuge in the hotel, this man gave him some news.
 
 THE SIN OF ULYSSES 303 
 
 "Captain, your son has been here waiting for you." 
 
 The captain stuttered in dismay, "What son? . . ." 
 
 The man with the embroidered keys brought the regis- 
 ter, showing him one line, "Esteban Ferragut, Barce- 
 lona." Ulysses recognized his son's handwriting, and 
 at the same time his heart was oppressed with indefinable 
 anguish. 
 
 Surprise made him speechless, and the porter took ad- 
 vantage of his silence to continue speaking. He was 
 such a charming and intelligent lad! ... Some morn- 
 ings he had accompanied him in order to point out to 
 him the best things in the city. He had inquired among 
 the consignees of the Mare Nostrum, hunting everywhere 
 for news of his father. Finally convinced that the cap- 
 tain must already be returning to Barcelona, he also had 
 gone the day before. 
 
 "If you had only come twelve hours sooner, you would 
 have found him still here." 
 
 The porter knew nothing more. Occupied in doing er- 
 rands for some South American ladies, he had been un- 
 able to say good-bye to the young man when he left the 
 hotel, undecided whether to make the trip in an English 
 steamer to Marseilles or to go by railroad to Genoa, 
 where he would find boats direct to Barcelona. 
 
 Ferragut wished to know when he had arrived. And 
 the porter, rolling his eyes, gave himself up to long 
 mental calculation. . . . Finally he reached a date and 
 the sailor, in his turn, concentrated his powers of recor- 
 lection. 
 
 He struck himself on the forehead with his clenched 
 hand. It must have been his son then, that youth whom 
 he had seen entering the albergo the very day that he was 
 going to take charge of the schooner, to carry combusti- 
 bles to the German submarines!
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 
 
 WHENEVER the Mare Nostrum returned to Bar- 
 celona, Esteban Ferragut had always felt as dazzled as 
 though a gorgeous stained glass window had opened upon 
 his obscure and monotonous life as the son of the fam- 
 ily. ! 
 
 He now no longer wandered along the harbor admiring 
 from afar the great transatlantic liners in front of the 
 monument of Christopher Columbus, nor the cargo steam- 
 ers that were lined up along the commercial docks. An 
 important boat was going to be his absolute property 
 for some weeks, while its captain and officers were pass- 
 ing the time on land with their families. Toni, the mate, 
 was the only one who slept aboard. Many of the sea- 
 men had begged permission to live in the city, and so 
 the steamer had been entrusted to the guardianship of 
 Uncle Caragol with half a dozen men for the daily clean- 
 ing. The little Ferragut used to play that he was the 
 captain of the Mare Nostrum and would pace the 
 bridge, pretending that a great tempest was coming up, 
 and examine the nautical instrument with the gravity 
 of an expert. Sometimes he used to race through *11 
 the habitable parts of the boat, climbing down to the 
 holds that, wide open, were being ventilated, waiting 
 for their cargo; and finally he would clamber into the 
 ship's gig, untying it from the landing in order to row 
 in it for a few hours, with even more satisfaction than 
 in the light skiffs of the Regatta Club, 
 
 304
 
 THE YOUNG TEEEMACHUS 305 
 
 His visits always ended in the kitchen, invited there 
 by Uncle Caragol, who was accustomed to treat him 
 with fraternal familiarity. If the youthful oarsman was 
 perspiring greatly. . . . "A ref resquet ?" And the chef 
 would prepare his sweet mixture that made men, after 
 one gulp, fall into the haziness of intoxication. 
 
 Esteban esteemed highly the "refrescos" of the cook. 
 His imagination, excited by the frequent reading of 
 novels of travel, had made him conceive a type of heroic, 
 gallant, dashing sailor a regular swash-buckler capable 
 of swallowing by the pitcherful the most rousing drinks 
 without moving an eyelid. He wanted to be that kind ; 
 every good sailor ought to drink. 
 
 Although on land he was not acquainted with other 
 liquors than those innocent and over-sweet ones kept 
 by his mother for family fiestas, once he trod the deck 
 of a vessel he felt the necessity for alcoholic liquids so 
 as to make it evident that he was entirely a man. "There 
 wasn't in the whole world a drink that could do him 
 any harm. . . ." And after a second "refresco" from 
 Uncle Caragol, he became submersed in a placid nirvana, 
 seeing everything rose-colored and considerably en- 
 larged, the sea, the nearby boats, the docks, and Mont- 
 juich in the background. 
 
 The cook, looking at him affectionately with, his bleared 
 eyes, believed that he must have bounded back a dozen 
 years and be still in Valencia, talking with that other 
 Ferragut boy who was running away from the university 
 in order to row in the harbor. He almost came to be- 
 lieve that he had lived twice. 
 
 He always listened patiently to the lad's complaints, 
 interrupting him with solemn counsels. This fifteen- 
 year-old Ferragut appeared discontented with life. He 
 was a man and he had to live with women his mother 
 and two nieces, who were always making laces, just as
 
 306 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 in other times his mother had been the lace-making com- 
 panion of her mother-in-law, Dona Cristina. He wanted 
 to be a seaman and they were obliging him to study the 
 uninteresting courses leading to a bachelor's degree. It 
 was scarcely likely, was it, that a captain would have to 
 know Latin ? * . . He wanted to bring his student life to 
 an end so as to become a pilot and continue practicing on 
 the bridge, beside his father. Perhaps at thirty years 
 of age, he might achieve the command of the Mare Nos- 
 trum or some similar boat. 
 
 Meanwhile the lure of the sea dragged him far from 
 the classroom, prompting him to visit Uncle Caragol at 
 the very hour that his professors were calling the roll 
 and noting the students' absence. 
 
 The old man and his protege used to betake themselves 
 in the galley with the uneasy conscience of the guilty. 
 Steps and voices on deck always changed their topic 
 of conversation. "Hide yourself!" and Esteban would 
 dodge under the table or hide in the provision-closet 
 while the cook sallied forth with a seraphic countenance 
 to meet the recent arrival. 
 
 Sometimes it was Toni, and the boy would then dare 
 to come out, relying on his silence; for Toni liked him, 
 too, and approved of his aversion to books. 
 
 If it was the captain who was coming to the boat for 
 a few moments, Caragol would talk with him? obstructing 
 the door with his bulk at the same time that he was 
 smiling maliciously. 
 
 For Esteban the two most wonderful things in all the 
 world were the sea and his father. All those romantic 
 heroes that had come from the pages of novels to take 
 their place in his imagination had the face and ways of 
 Captain Ferragut. 
 
 From babyhood he had seen his mother weeping oc- 
 casionally in resigned sadness. Years later, recognizing
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 307 
 
 with the precocity of a little-watched boy the relations 
 that exist between men and women, he suspected that all 
 these tears must be caused by the flirtations and infideli- 
 ties of the distant sailor. 
 
 He adored his mother with the passion of an only and 
 spoiled child, but he admired the captain no less, excus- 
 ing every fault that he might commit. His father was 
 the bravest and handsomest man in all the world. 
 
 And when rummaging one day through the drawers 
 in his father's stateroom, he chanced upon various pho- 
 tographs having the names of women from foreign coun- 
 tries, the lad's admiration was greater still. Everybody 
 must have been madly in love with the captain of the 
 Mare Nostrum. Ay! No matter what he might do when 
 he became a man, he could never hope to equal this tri- 
 umphant creature who had given him existence. . . . 
 
 When the boat, on its return from Naples, arrived 
 at Barcelona without its owner, Ferragut's son did not 
 feel any surprise. 
 
 Toni, who was always a man of few words, was very 
 lavish with them on the present occasion. Captain Fer- 
 ragut had remained behind because of important busi- 
 ness, but he would not be long in returning. His second 
 was looking for him at any moment. Perhaps he would 
 make the trip by land, in order to arrive sooner. 
 
 Esteban was astounded to see that his mother did 
 not accept this absence as an insignificant event. The 
 good lady appeared greatly troubled and her eyes filled 
 with tears. Her feminine instinct made her suspect 
 something ominous in her husband's delay. 
 
 In the afternoon, when her old lover, the professor, 
 visited her as usual, the two talked slowly with guarded 
 words but with eyes of understanding and long inter- 
 vals of silence. 
 
 When Don Pedro reached the height of his glorious ca-
 
 308 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 reer, the possession of a professorship in the institute 
 of Barcelona, he used to visit Cinta every afternoon, 
 passing an hour and a half in her parlor with chronome- 
 tric exactitude. Never did the slightest impure thought 
 agitate the professor. The past had fallen into oblivion. 
 . . . But he needed to see daily the captain's wife weav- 
 ing laces with her two little nieces, as he had seen Ferra- 
 gut's widow years before. 
 
 He informed them of the most important events in 
 Barcelona and in the entire world ; they would comment 
 together on the future of Esteban, and the former suitor 
 used to listen rapturously to her sweet voice, conceding 
 great importance to the details of domestic economy or 
 descriptions of religious fiestas, solely because it was she 
 who was recounting them. 
 
 Many times they would remain in a long silence. 
 Don Pedro represented patience, even temper, and silent 
 respect, in that tranquil and immaculate house which lost 
 its monastic calm only when its head presented himself 
 there for a few days between voyages. 
 
 Cinta had accustomed herself to the professor's visits. 
 At half-past three by the clock his footsteps could always 
 be heard in the passageway. 
 
 If any afternoon he did not come, the sweet Penelope 
 was" greatly disappointed. 
 
 "I wonder what can be the matter with*Don Pedro?" 
 she would ask her nieces uneasily. 
 
 She oftentimes asked this question of her son; but 
 Esteban, without exactly hating the visitor, appreciated 
 him very slightly. 
 
 Don Pedro belonged to that group of gentlemen al the 
 Institute whom the government paid to annoy youth 
 with their explanations and their examinations. He still 
 remembered the two years that he had passed in his 
 course, as in the torture chamber, enduring the tor-
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 309 
 
 ments of Latin. Besides that, the professor was a timid 
 man who was always afraid of catching cold, and who 
 never dared to venture into the street on cloudy days 
 without an umbrella. Let people talk to him about 
 courageous men! 
 
 "I don't know," he would reply to his mother. "Per- 
 haps he's gone to bed with seven kerchiefs on his head.'* 
 
 When Don Pedro returned, the house recovered its 
 normality of a quiet and well-regulated clock. Dona 
 Cinta, after many consultations, had come to believe his 
 collaboration indispensable. The professor mildly sup- 
 plemented the authority of the traveling husband, and 
 took it upon himself to represent the head of the fam- 
 ily in all outside matters. . . . Many times Ferragut's 
 wife would be awaiting him with impatience in order to 
 ask his mature counsel, and he would emit his opinion 
 in a slow voice after long reflection. 
 
 Esteban found it intolerable that this gentleman, who 
 Was no more than a distant relative of his grandmother, 
 should meddle in the affairs of the house, pretending 
 to oversee him as though he were his father. But it 
 irritated him still more to see him in a good humor and 
 trying to be funny. It made him furious to hear his 
 mother called "Penelope" and himself "the young Telem- 
 achus." . . . "Stupid, tedious old bore!" 
 
 The young Telemachus was not slow to wrath nor 
 vengeance. From babyhood he had interrupted his play 
 in order to "work" in the reception room near to the 
 hatrack by the door. And the poor professor on his 
 departure would find his hat crown dented in or its 
 nap roughened up, or he would sally home innocently 
 carrying spitballs on the skirts of his overcoat. 
 
 Now the boy contented himself with simply ignoring 
 the existence of the family friend, passing in front of
 
 310 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 him without recognizing him and only greeting him when 
 his mother ordered him to do so. 
 
 The day in which he brought the news of the return 
 of the ship without its captain, Don Pedro made a longer 
 visit than usual. Cinto shed two tears upon the lace, 
 but had to stop weeping, vanquished by the good sense 
 of her counselor. 
 
 "Why weep and get your mind overwrought with so 
 many suppositions without foundation? . . . What you 
 ought to do, my daughter, is to call in this Toni who is 
 mate of the vessel ; he must know all about it. ... Per- 
 haps he may tell you the truth." 
 
 Esteban was told to hunt him up the following day, 
 and he quickly noticed Toni's extreme disquietude upon 
 learning that Dona Cinta wished to talk with him. The 
 mate left the boat in lugubrious silence as though he were 
 being taken away to mortal torment: then he began to 
 hum loudly, an indication that he was in deep thought. 
 
 The young Telemachus was not able to be present at 
 the interview but he hung around the closed door and 
 succeeded in hearing a few loud words which slipped 
 through the cracks. His mother was speaking with 
 greater frequency. Toni was reiterating in a dull voice 
 the same excuse: "I don't know. The captain will 
 come at any moment. . . " But when the mate found 
 himself outside the house, his wrath broke out against 
 himself, against his cursed character that did not know 
 how to lie, against all women bad and good. He believed 
 he had said too much. That lady had the skill of a judge 
 in getting words out of him. 
 
 That night, at the supper hour, the mother scarcely 
 opened her mouth. Her fingers communicated a nervous 
 trembling to the plates and forks, and she looked at her 
 son with tragic commiseration as though she foresaw 
 terrible troubles about to burst upon his head. She
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 311 
 
 opposed a desperate silence to Esteban's questions and 
 finally exclaimed : 
 
 "Your father is deserting us! . . . Your father has 
 forgotten us! . . ." 
 
 And she left the dining-room to hide her overflowing 
 tears. 
 
 The boy slept rather restlessly, but he slept The 
 admiration which he always felt for his father and a 
 certain solidarity with the strong examples of his sex 
 made him take little account of these complaints. Matters 
 for women! His mother just didn't know how to be 
 the wife of an extraordinary man like Captain Ferragut. 
 He who was really a man, in spite of his few years, 
 was going to intervene in this affair in order to show 
 up the truth. 
 
 When Toni, from the deck of the vessel, saw the lad 
 coming along the wharf the following morning, he was 
 greatly tempted to hide himself. ... "If Dona Cinta 
 should call me again in order to question me ! . . ." But 
 he calmed himself with the thought that the boy was 
 probably coming of his own free will to pass a few hours 
 on the Mare Nostrum. Even so, he wished to avoid his 
 presence as though he feared some slip in talking with 
 him, and so pretended that he had work in the hold. 
 Then he left the boat going to visit a friend on a steamer 
 some distance off. 
 
 Esteban entered the galley, calling gayly to Uncle 
 Caragol. He wasn't the same, either. His humid and 
 reddish eyes were looking at the child with an extraor- 
 dinary tenderness. Suddenly he stopped his talk with 
 an expression of uneasiness on his face. He looked 
 uncertainly around him, as though fearing that a precipice 
 might open at his feet. 
 
 Never forgetful of the respect due to every visitor 
 in his dominion, he prepared two "re frescos." He was
 
 3 i2 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 going to treat Esteban for the first time on this return 
 trip. On former days, incredible as it may seem, he 
 had not thought of making even one of his delicious 
 beverages. The return from Naples to Barcelona had 
 been a sad one : the vessel had a funereal air without its 
 master. 
 
 For all these reasons, Caragol's hand lavishly measured 
 out the rum until the liquid took on a tobacco tone. 
 
 They drank . . . The young Telemachus began to talk 
 about his father when the glasses were only half empty, 
 and the cook waved both hands in the air, giving a grunt 
 which signified that he had no wish to bother about the 
 captain's absence. 
 
 "Your father will return, Esteban," he added. "He 
 will return but I don't know when. Certainly later 
 than Toni says." 
 
 And not wishing to say more, he gulped down the rest 
 of the glass, devoting himself hastily to the confection 
 of the second "refresco" in order to make up for lost 
 time. 
 
 Little by little he slipped away from the prudent 
 barrier that was hedging in his verbosity and spoke with 
 his old time abandon; but his flow of words did not 
 exactly convey news. 
 
 Caragol preached morality to Ferragut's son, mo- 
 rality from his standpoint, interrupted by frequent 
 caresses of the glass. 
 
 "Esteban, my son, respect your father greatly. Imitate 
 him as a seaman. Be good and just toward the men that 
 you command. . . . But avoid the females !" 
 
 The women! . . . There was no better theme for his 
 piously drunken eloquence. The world inspired his pity. 
 It was all governed by the infernal attraction exercised 
 by the female of the species. The men were working,
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 313 
 
 struggling, and trying to grow rich and celebrated, all in 
 order to possess one of these creatures. 
 
 "Believe me, my son, and do not imitate your father 
 in this respect." 
 
 The old man had said too much to back out now and 
 he had to go on, letting out the rest of it, bit by bit. Thus 
 Esteban learned that the captain was enamored with a 
 lady in Naples and that he had remained there pretending 
 business matters, but in reality dominated by this 
 woman's influence. 
 
 "Is she pretty?" asked the boy eagerly. 
 
 "Very pretty," replied Caragol. "And such odors.! 
 . . . And such a swishing of fine clothes! . . ." 
 
 Telemachus thrilled with contradictory sensations of 
 pride and envy. He admired his father once more, but 
 this admiration only lasted a few seconds. A new idea 
 was taking possession of him while the cook continued: 
 
 "He will not come now. I know what these elegant 
 females are, reeking with perfume. They are true 
 demons that dig their nails in when they clutch, and it is 
 necessary to cut off their hands in order to loosen 
 them. . . . And the boat as useless now as though it 
 were aground, while the others are filling themselves with 
 gold! . . . Believe me, my son, this is the only truth 
 in the world." 
 
 And he concluded by gulping in one draft all that 
 was left in the second glass. 
 
 Meanwhile the boy was forming in his mind an idea 
 prompted by his pleasant intoxication. What if he 
 should go to Naples in order to bring his father 
 back! . . . 
 
 At this moment everything seemed possible to him. 
 The world was rose-colored as it always was when he 
 looked at it, glass in hand, near to Uncle Caragol. All 
 obstacles would turn out to be trifling : everything would
 
 314 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 arrange itself with wonderful facility. Men were able 
 to progress by bounds. 
 
 But hours afterward when his thoughts were cleared 
 of their beatific visions, he felt a little fearful when 
 recollecting his absent parent. How would he receive 
 him upon his arrival? . . . What excuses could he give 
 his father for his presence in Naples ? . . . He trembled, 
 recalling the image of his scowling brow and angry eyes. 
 
 On the following day a sudden self-confidence replaced 
 this uneasiness. He recalled the captain as he had seen 
 him many times on the deck of his vessel, telling of his 
 escapades when rowing in the harbor of Barcelona, or 
 commenting to friends on his son's strength and intelli- 
 gence. The image of the paternal hero now came to his 
 mind with good-humored eyes and a smile passing like 
 a fresh breeze over his face. 
 
 He would tell him the whole truth. He would make 
 him understand that he had come to Naples just to take 
 him away with him, like a good comrade who comes to 
 another's rescue in time of danger. Perhaps he might be 
 irritated and give him a blow, but he would eventually 
 accede to his proposition. 
 
 Ferragut's character was reborn in him with all the 
 force of decisive argument. And if the voyage should 
 prove absurd and dangerous? . . . All the better! So 
 much the better! That was enough to make him 
 undertake it. He was a man and should know no fear. 
 
 During the next two weeks he prepared his flight. He 
 had never taken a long journey. Only once he had 
 accompanied his father on a flying business trip to 
 Marseilles. It was high time that he should go out in 
 the world like the man that he was, acquainted with 
 almost all the cities of the earth, through his readings. 
 
 The money question did not worry him any. Dona 
 Cinta had it in abundance and it was easy to find her
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 315 
 
 buncH of keys. An old and slow-going steamer, com- 
 manded by one of his father's friends, had just entered 
 port and the following day would weigh anchor for Italy. 
 
 This sailor accepted the son of his old comrade without 
 any traveling papers. He would arrange all irregular- 
 ities with his friends in Genoa. Between captains they 
 ought to exchange such services, and Ulysses Ferragut, 
 who was awaiting his son in Naples (so Esteban told 
 him), would not wish to waste time just because of some 
 ridiculous, red tape formality. 
 
 Telemachus with a thousand pesetas in his pocket, 
 extracted from a work box which his mother used as a 
 cash box, embarked the following day. A little suit-case, 
 taken from his home with deliberate and skillful pre- 
 caution, formed his entire baggage. 
 
 From Genoa he went to Rome, and from there to 
 Naples, with the foolhardiness of the innocent, employing 
 Spanish and Catalan words to reinforce his scanty 
 Italian vocabulary acquired at the opera. The only 
 positive information that guided him on his quest of 
 adventure was the name of the cdbergo on the shore of 
 S. Lucia which Caragol had given him as his father's 
 residence. 
 
 He sought him vainly for many days and visited in 
 Naples the consignees who thought that the captain had 
 returned to his country some time ago. 
 
 Not finding him, he began to be afraid. He ought to 
 be back in Barcelona by this time and what he had begun 
 as an heroic voyage was going to turn into a runaway, a 
 boyish escapade. He thought of his mother who was 
 perhaps weeping hours at a time, reading and rereading 
 the letter that he had left for her explaining the object 
 of his flight. Besides, Italy's intervention in the war, 
 an event which every one had been expecting but had 
 supposed to be still a long way off, had suddenly become
 
 316 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 an actual fact. What was there left for him to do in this 
 country? . . . And one morning he had disappeared. 
 
 Since the hotel porter could not tell him anything more, 
 the father, after his first impression of surprise had 
 passed, thought it would be a good plan to visit the firm 
 of consignees. Perhaps there they might give him some 
 news. 
 
 The war was the only thing of interest in that office. 
 But Ferragut, owner of a ship and a former client, was 
 guided by the director to the employees who had re- 
 ceived Esteban. 
 
 They did not know much about it. They recalled 
 Vaguely a young Spaniard who said that he was the 
 captain's son and was making inquiries about him. His 
 last visit had been two days before. He was then hesi- 
 tating between returning to his country by rail or 
 embarking in one of the three steamers that were in 
 port ready to sail for Marseilles. 
 
 "I believe that he has gone by railroad," said one of 
 the clerks. 
 
 Another of the office force supported his companion's 
 supposition with a positive affirmation in order to attract 
 the attention of his chief. He was sure of his departure 
 by land. He himself had helped him to calculate what 
 the trip to Barcelona would cost him. 
 
 Ferragut did not wish to know more. He must get 
 away as soon as possible. This inexplicable voyage of 
 his son filled him with remorse and immeasurable alarm. 
 He wondered what could have occurred in his home. . . . 
 
 The director of the offices pointed out to him a 
 French steamer from Suez that was sailing that very 
 afternoon to Marseilles, and took upon himself all the 
 arrangements concerning his passage and recommen- 
 dation to the captain. There only remained four hours 
 before the boat's departure, and Ulysses, after collecting
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 317 
 
 his valises and sending them aboard, took a last stroll 
 through all the places where he had lived with Freya. 
 Adieu, gardens of the Villa Nasionale and white 
 Aquarium! . . . Farewell, albergo! . . . 
 
 His son's mysterious presence in Naples had intensified 
 his disgust at the German girl's flight. He thought sadly 
 of lost love, but at the same time he thought with dolorous 
 suspense of what might greet him when reentering his 
 home. 
 
 A little before sunset the French steamer weighed 
 anchor. It had been many years since Ulysses had sailed 
 as a simple passenger. Entirely out of his element, he 
 wandered over the decks and among the crowds of 
 tourists. Force of habit drew him to the bridge, talking 
 with the captain and the officers, who from his very first 
 words recognized his professional genius. 
 
 Realizing that he was no more than an intruder in this 
 place, and annoyed at finding himself on a bridge from 
 which he could not give a single order, he descended to 
 the lower decks, examining the groups of passengers. 
 They were mostly French, coming from Indo-China. On 
 prow and poop there were quartered four companies of 
 Asiatic sharpshooters, little, yellowish, with oblique eyes 
 and voices like the miauling of cats. They were going to 
 the war. Their officers lived in the staterooms in the 
 center of the ship, taking with them their families who 
 had icquired a foreign aspect during their long residence 
 in the colonies. 
 
 Ulysses saw ladies clad in white stretched out on their 
 steamer chairs, having themselves fanned by their little 
 Chinese pages; he saw bronzed and weather-beaten 
 soldiers who appeared disgusted yet galvanized by the 
 war that was snatching them from their Asiatic siesta, 
 and children, many children delighted to go to 
 France, the country of their dreams, forgetting in their
 
 3i8 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 happiness that their fathers were probably going to their 
 death. 
 
 The passage could not have been smoother. The 
 Mediterranean was like a silver plain in the moonlight. 
 From the invisible coast came warm puffs of garden 
 perfumes. The groups on deck reminded one another, 
 with selfish satisfaction, of the great dangers that threat- 
 ened the people embarking in the North Sea, harassed by 
 German submarines. Fortunately the Mediterranean 
 was free from such calamity. The English had so well 
 guarded the port of Gibraltar that it was all a tranquil 
 lake dominated by the Allies. 
 
 Before going to bed, the captain entered a room on the 
 upper deck where was installed the wireless telegraph 
 outfit. The hissing as of frying oil that the apparatus 
 was sending out attracted him. The operator, a young 
 Englishman, took off his nickel band with two ear- 
 phones. Greatly bored by his isolation, he was trying to 
 distract himself by conversing with the operators on the 
 other vessels that came within the radius of his apparatus. 
 They kept in constant communication like a group of 
 comrades making the same trip and conversing placidly 
 together. 
 
 From time to time the operator, advised by the sparking 
 of his induction coils, would put on the diadem with ear 
 pieces in order to listen to his far-away comrades. 
 
 "It is the man on the Calif ornian bidding me good- 
 night," he said after one of these calls. "He is going to 
 bed. There's no news." 
 
 And the young man eulogized Mediterranean naviga- 
 tion. At the outbreak of the war, he had been on another 
 vessel going from London to New York and he recalled 
 the unquiet nights, the days of anxious vigilance, search- 
 ing the sea and the atmosphere, fearing from one moment 
 to another the appearance of a periscope upon the waters,
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 319 
 
 or the electric warning of a steamer torpedoed by the 
 submarine. On this sea, one could live as tranquilly as 
 in times of peace. 
 
 Ferragut suspected that the poor operator was very; 
 anxious to enjoy the delights of such tranquillity. His 
 companion in service was snoring in a nearby cabin and 
 he was anxious to imitate him, putting his head down on 
 the table of the apparatus. . . . "Until to-morrow !" 
 
 The captain also fell asleep as soon as he had stretched 
 himself out on the narrow ledge in his stateroom. His 
 sleep was all in one piece, gloomy and complete, without 
 sudden surprises or visions. Just as he was feeling that 
 only a few moments had passed by, he was violently 
 awakened as though some one had given him a shove. 
 In the dim light he could make out only the round glass 
 of the port hole, tenuously blue and veiled by the 
 humidity of the maritine dew, like a tearful eye. 
 
 Day was breaking and something extraordinary had 
 just occurred on the boat. Ferragut was accustomed to 
 sleep with the lightness of a captain who needs to 
 awaken opportunely. A mysterious perception of 
 danger had cut short his repose. He distinguished over 
 his head the patter of quick runnings the whole length of 
 the deck ; he heard voices. While dressing as quickly as 
 possible he realized that the rudder was working 
 violently, and that the vessel was changing its course. 
 
 Coming up on deck, one glance was sufficient to con- 
 vince him that the ship was not running any danger. 
 Everything about it presented a normal aspect. The 
 sea, still dark, was gently lapping the sides of the vessel 
 which continued going forward with regular motion. The 
 decks were cleared of passengers. They were all sleeping 
 in their staterooms. Only on the bridge he saw a group 
 of persons: the captain and all the officers, some of,
 
 320 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 them dressed very lightly as though they had been roused 
 from slumber. 
 
 Passing by the wireless office, he obtained an explana- 
 tion of the matter. The youth of the night before was 
 near the door and his companion was now wearing the 
 head phone and tapping the keys of the apparatus, listen- 
 ing and replying to invisible boats. 
 
 An half hour before, just as the English operator was 
 going off guard and giving place to his just awakened 
 companion, a signal had kept him in his seat. The 
 Calif ornian was sending out by wireless the danger call, 
 the S. O. S., that is only employed when a ship needs 
 help. Then in the space of a few seconds a mysterious 
 voice had spread its tragic story over hundreds of miles. 
 A submersible had just appeared a short distance from 
 the Calif ornian and had fired several shells at it. The 
 English boat was trying to escape, relying on its superior 
 speed. Then the submarine had fired a torpedo. . . . 
 
 All this had occurred in twenty minutes. Suddenly 
 the echoes of the distant tragedy were extinguished as the 
 communication was cut off. A prolonged, intense, 
 sibilant buzzing in the apparatus, and nothing! . . . 
 Absolute silence. 
 
 The operator now on duty responded with negative 
 movements to his companion's inquiring glances. He 
 could hear nothing but the dialogue between the boats that 
 had received the same warning. They too were alarmed 
 by the sudden silence, and were changing their course 
 going, like the French steamer, toward the place where 
 the Calif ornian had met the submersible. 
 
 "Can it be that they are already in the Mediterranean !" 
 the operator exclaimed with astonishment on finishing his 
 report. "How could the submarines possibly get 'way 
 down here? . . ." 
 
 Ferragut did not dare to go up on the bridge. He was
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 321 
 
 afraid that the glances of those men of the sea might 
 fasten themselves accusingly upon him. He believed 
 that they could read his thoughts. 
 
 A passenger ship had just been sunk at a relatively 
 short distance from the boat on which he was traveling. 
 Perhaps von Kramer was the author of the crime. With 
 good reason he had charged Ulysses to tell his com- 
 patriots that they would soon hear of his exploits. And 
 Ferragut had aided in the preparation of this maritime 
 barbarity! . . . 
 
 "What have you done ? What have you done ?" wrath- 
 fully demanded his mental voice of good counsel. 
 
 An hour afterward he felt ashamed to remain on deck. 
 In spite of the captain's orders, the news had got out and 
 was circulating among the staterooms. Entire families 
 were rushing up on deck, frightened out of the calm- 
 ness usually reigning on the boat, arranging their 
 clothes with precipitation, and struggling to adjust to 
 their bodies the life-preservers which they were trying 
 on for the first time. The children were howling, 
 terrified by the alarm of their parents Some nervous 
 women were shedding tears without any apparent cause. 
 The boat was going toward the place where the other one 
 had been torpedoed, and that was enough to make the 
 alarmists imagine that the enemy would remain absolutely 
 motionless in the same place, awaiting their arrival in 
 order to repeat their attack. 
 
 Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the sea, scrutinizing 
 the surface of the waves, believing every object which 
 they saw, bits of wood, seaweed or crates floating on 
 the surface of the water, to be the top of a periscope. 
 
 The officials of the battalion of snipers had gone to 
 prow and poop in order to maintain discipline among 
 their men. But the Asiatics, scornful of death, had not 
 abandoned their serene apathy. Some merely looked out
 
 322 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 over the sea with a childish curiosity, anxious to become 
 acquainted with this new diabolical toy, invented by the 
 superior races. On the decks reserved for first class 
 passengers astonishment was as great as the uneasiness. 
 
 "Submarines in the Mediterranean! . . . But is it 
 possible? . . ." 
 
 Those last to awake appeared very incredulous and 
 could only be convinced of what had occurred when 
 they heard the news from the boat's crew. 
 
 Ferragut wandered around like a soul in torment. 
 Remorse made him hide himself in his stateroom. These 
 people with their complaints and their comments were 
 causing him great annoyance. Soon he found that he 
 could not remain in this isolation. He needed to see and 
 to know, like a criminal who returns to the place where 
 he has committed his crime. 
 
 At midday they began to see on the horizon various 
 little clouds. They were the ships hastening from all 
 sides, attracted by this unexpected attack. 
 
 The French boat that was sailing ahead of them 
 suddenly moderated its speed. They had come into 
 the zone of the shipwreck. In the lookouts were 
 sailors exploring the sea and shouting the orders that 
 guided the steamer's course. During these evolutions, 
 there began to slip past the vessel's sides the remains of 
 the tragic event. 
 
 The two rows of heads lined tip on the different "decks 
 saw life preservers floating by empty, a boat with its 
 keel in the air, and bits of wood belonging to a raft 
 evidently constructed in great haste and never finished. 
 
 Suddenly a howl from a thousand voices, followed by 
 a funereal silence. . . . The body of a woman lying on 
 some planks passed by. One of her legs was thrust into a 
 gray silk stocking, her head was hanging on the opposite
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 323 
 
 side, spreading its blonde locks over the water like a 
 bunch of gilded seaweed. 
 
 Her firm and juvenile bust was visible through the 
 opening of a drenched nightgown which was outlining 
 her body with unavoidable immodesty. She had been 
 surprised by the shipwreck at the very moment that she 
 had been trying to dress; perhaps terror had made her 
 throw herself into the sea. Death had twisted her face 
 with a horrible contraction, exposing the teeth. One 
 side of her face was swollen from some blow. 
 
 Looking over the shoulders of two ladies who were 
 trembling and leaning against the deck-railing, Ferragut 
 caught a glimpse of this corpse. In his turn the vigorous 
 sailor trembled like a woman, and his eyes filmed with 
 mistiness. He simply could not look at it! ... And 
 again he went down into his stateroom to hide himself. 
 
 An Italian torpedo-destroyer was maneuvering 
 among the remains of the shipwreck, as though seeking 
 the footprints of the author of the crime. The steamers 
 stopped their circular course of exploration to lower the 
 lifeboats into the water and collect the corpses and 
 bodies of the living near to death. 
 
 The captain in his desperate imprisonment heard new 
 shrieks announcing an extraordinary event. Again the 
 cruel necessity of knowing what it could be dragged 
 him from his stateroom ! 
 
 A boat full of people had been found by the steamer. 
 The other ships were also meeting little by little the rest 
 of the life boats occupied by the survivors of the 
 catastrophe. The general rescue was going to be a very 
 short piece of work. 
 
 The most agile of the shipwrecked people, on reaching 
 the deck, found themselves surrounded by sympathetic 
 groups lamenting their misfortune and at the same 
 time offering them hot drinks. Others, after staggering
 
 324 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 a few steps as though intoxicated, collapsed on the 
 benches. Some had to be hoisted from the bottom of the 
 boat and carried in a chair to the ship's hospital. 
 
 Various British soldiers, serene and phlegmatic, upon 
 climbing on deck asked for a pipe and began to smoke 
 vigorously. Other shipwrecked people, lightly clad, 
 simply rolled themselves up in shawls, beginning the 
 account of the catastrophe as minutely and serenely as 
 though they were in a parlor. A period of ten hours in 
 the crowded narrowness of the boat, drifting at random 
 in the hope of aid, had not broken down their energy. 
 
 The women showed greater desperation. Ferragut 
 saw in the center of a group of ladies a young English 
 girl, blond, slender, elegant, who was sobbing and 
 stammering explanations. She had found herself in a 
 launch, separated from her parents, without knowing 
 how. Perhaps they were dead by this time. Her slight 
 hope was that they might have sought refuge in some 
 other boat and been picked up by any one of the steamers 
 that had happened to see them. 
 
 A desperate grief, noisy, meridional, silenced with its 
 meanings the noise of conversation. There had just 
 climbed aboard a poor Italian woman carrying a baby; 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Figlia, mia! . . . Mia figlia! . ." she was wailing 
 with disheveled hair and eyes swollen by weeping. 
 
 In the moment of the shipwreck she had lost a little 
 girl, eight years old, and upon finding herself in the 
 French steamer, she went instinctively toward the prow 
 in search of the same spot which she had occupied on 
 the other ship, as though expecting to find her daughter 
 there. Her agonized voice penetrated down the stairway : 
 "Figlia mia! . . . Mia figlia!" 
 
 Ulysses could not stand it. That voice hurt him, as 
 though its piercing cry were clawing at his brain.
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 325 
 
 He approached a group in the center of which was a 
 young barefooted lad in trousers and shirt open at the 
 breast who was talking and talking, wrapping himself 
 from time to time in a shawl that some one had placed 
 upon his shoulders. 
 
 He was describing in a mixture of French and Italian 
 the loss of the Calif ornlan. 
 
 He had been awakened by hearing the first shot fired 
 by the submersible against his steamer. The chase had 
 lasted half an hour. 
 
 The most audacious and curious were on the decks 
 and believed their salvation already sure as they saw 
 their ship leaving its enemy behind. Suddenly a black 
 line had cut the sea, something like a long thorn with 
 splinters of foam which was advancing at a dizzying 
 speed, in bold relief against the water. . . . Then came 
 a blow on the hull of the vessel which had made it 
 shudder from stem to stern, not a single plate nor screw, 
 escaping tremendous dislocation. . . . Then a volcanic 
 explosion, a gigantic hatchet of smoke and flames, a 
 yellowish cloud in which were flying dark objects: 
 fragments of metal and of wood, human bodies blown to 
 bits. . . . The eyes of the narrator gleamed with an 
 insane light as he recalled the tragic sight. 
 
 "A friend of mine, a boy from my own country," he 
 continued, sighing, "had just left me in order to see 
 the submersible better and he put himself exactly in the 
 path of the explosion. . . . He disappeared as suddenly 
 as if he had been blotted out. I saw him and I did not 
 see him. ... He exploded in a thousand bits, as though 
 he had had a bomb within his body." 
 
 And the shipwrecked man, obsessed by this recol- 
 lection, could hardly attach any importance to the scenes 
 following, the struggle of the crowds to gain the boats, 
 the efforts of the officers to maintain order, the death of
 
 326 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 many that, crazy with desperation, had thrown themselves 
 into the sea, the tragic waiting huddled in barks that 
 were with great difficulty lowered to the water, fearing 
 a second shipwreck as soon as they touched the waves. 
 
 The steamer had disappeared in a few moments, its 
 prow sinking in the waters and then its smokestacks 
 taking on a vertical position almost like the leaning tower 
 of Pisa, and its rudders turning crazily as the shudder- 
 ing ship went down. 
 
 The narrator began to be left alone. Other ship- 
 wrecked folk, telling their doleful tales at the same 
 time, were now attracting the curious. 
 
 Ferragut looked at this young man. His physical type 
 and his accent made him surmise that he was a com- 
 patriot. 
 
 "You are Spanish?" 
 
 The shipwrecked man replied affirmatively. 
 
 "A Catalan?" continued Ulysses in the Catalan idiom. 
 
 A fresh oratorical vehemence galvanized the ship- 
 wrecked boy. "The gentleman is a Catalan also?" . . . 
 And smiling upon Ferragut as though he were a celestial 
 apparition, he again began the story of his misfortunes. 
 
 He was a commercial traveler from Barcelona, and in 
 JNaples he had taken the sea route because it had 
 seemed to him the more rapid one, avoiding the railroads 
 congested by Italian mobilization. 
 
 "Were there other Spaniards traveling on your boat ?" 
 Ulysses continued inquiring. 
 
 "Only one: my friend, that boy of whom I was just 
 speaking. The explosion of the torpedo blew him into 
 bits. I saw him. . . ." 
 
 The captain felt his remorse constantly increasing. A 
 compatriot, a poor young fellow, had perished through 
 his fault! . , . 
 
 The salesman also seemed to be suffering a twinge of
 
 THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS 327 
 
 conscience. He was holding himself responsible for his 
 companion's death. He had only met him in Naples a 
 few days before, but they were united by the close 
 brotherhood of young compatriots who had run across 
 each other far from their country. 
 
 They had both been born in Barcelona. The poor lad, 
 almost a child, had wanted to return by land and he had 
 carried him off with him at the last hour, urging upon him 
 the advantages of a trip by sea. Whoever would have 
 imagined that the German submarines were in the 
 Mediterranean! The traveling man persisted in his 
 remorse. He could not forget that half-grown lad who, 
 in order to make the voyage in his company, had gone 
 to meet his death. 
 
 "I met him in Naples, hunting everywhere] for his 
 father." 
 
 "Ah! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses uttered this exclamation with his neck vio- 
 lently outstreched, as though he were trying to loosen 
 his skull from the rest of his body. His eyes were 
 protruding from their sockets. 
 
 "The father," continued the youth, "commands a 
 ship. ... He is Captain Ulysses Ferragut." 
 
 An outcry. . . . The people ran. ... A man had just 
 fallen heavily, his body rebounding on the deck.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 
 
 TONI, who abominated railway journeys on account of 
 his torpid immovability, now had to abandon the Mare 
 Nostrum and suffer the torture of remaining twelve 
 hours crowded in with strange persons. 
 
 Ferragut was sick in a hotel in the harbor of Marseilles. 
 They had taken him off of a French boat coming from 
 Naples, crushed with silent melancholia. He wished to 
 die. During the trip they had to keep sharp watch so that 
 he could not repeat his attempts at suicide. Several times 
 he had tried to throw himself into the water. 
 
 Toni learned of it from the captain of a Spanish vessel 
 that had just arrived from Marseilles exactly one day 
 after the newspapers of Barcelona had announced the 
 death of Esteban Ferragut in the" torpedoing of the 
 Calif ornian. The commercial traveler was still relating 
 everywhere his version of the event, concluding it now 
 with his melodramatic meeting with the father, the 
 larter's fatal fall on receiving the news, and desperation 
 upon recovering consciousness. 
 
 The first mate had hastened to present himself at his 
 captain's home. All the Blanes were there, surrounding 
 Cinta and trying to console her. 
 
 "My son ! . . . My son ! . . ." the mother was groan- 
 ing, writhing on the sofa. 
 
 And the family chorus drowned her laments, over- 
 whelming her with a flood of fantastic consolations and 
 recommendations of resignation. She ought to think of 
 
 328
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 329 
 
 the father: she was not alone in the world as she was 
 affirming: besides her own family, she had her husband. 
 
 Toni entered just at that moment. 
 
 "His father!'^ she) cried in desperation. "His 
 father! . . ." 
 
 And she fastened her eyes on the mate as though trying 
 to speak to him with them. Toni knew better than any- 
 one what that father was, and for what reason he had re- 
 mained in Naples. It was his fault that the boy had 
 undertaken the crazy journey at whose end death was 
 awaiting him... . . The devout Cinta looked upon this 
 misfortune as a chastisement from God, always compli- 
 cated and mysterious in His designs. Divinity, in order 
 to make the father expiate his crimes, had killed the son 
 without thinking of the mother upon whom the blow; 
 rebounded. 
 
 Toni went away. He could not endure the glances and 
 the allusions made by Dona Cinta. And as though 
 this emotion were not enough, he received the news a 
 few hours later of his captain's wretched condition, 
 news which obliged him to make the trip to Marseilles 
 immediately. 
 
 On entering the quarters of the hotel frequented by 
 the officials of merchant vessels, he found Ferragut 
 seated near a balcony from which could be seen the 
 entire harbor. 
 
 He was limp and flabby, with eyes sunken and faded, 
 beard unkempt, and a manifest disregard of his personal 
 appearance. 
 
 "Toni! . . . Toni!" 
 
 He embraced his mate, moistening his neck with tears. 
 For the first time he began to weep and this appeared to 
 give him a certain relief. The presence of his faithful 
 officer brought him back to life. Forgotten memories of 
 business journeys crowded in his mind. Toni resuscitated
 
 330 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 all his past energies. It was as though the 'Mare 
 'Nostrum had come in search of him. 
 
 He felt shame and remorse. This man knew his 
 secret : he was the only one to whom he had spoken of 
 supplying the German submarines. 
 
 "My poor Esteban ! . . . My son !" 
 
 He did not hesitate to admit the fatal relationship 
 between the death of his son and that illegal trip whose 
 memory was weighing him down like a monstrous crime. 
 But Toni was discreet. He lamented the death of 
 Esteban like a misfortune in which the father had not had 
 any part. 
 
 "I also have lost sons . . . And I know that nothing 
 is gained by giving up to despair. . . . Cheer up !" 
 
 He never said a word of all that had happened before 
 the tragic event. Had not Ferragut known his mate so 
 well, he might have believed that he had entirely for- 
 gotten it. Not the slightest gesture, not a gleam in his 
 eyes, revealed the awakening of that malign recollection. 
 His only anxiety was that the captain should soon regain 
 his health. . . . 
 
 Reanimated by the presence and words of this prudent 
 companion, Ulysses recovered his strength and a few 
 days after, abandoned the room in which he had believed 
 he was going to die, turning his steps toward Barcelona. 
 
 He entered his home with a foreboding that almost 
 made him tremble. The sweet Cinta, considered until 
 then with the protecting superiority of the Orientals who 
 do not recognize a soul in woman, now inspired him with 
 a certain fear. What would she say on seeing him ? . . . 
 
 She said nothing of what he had feared. She permitted 
 herself to be embraced, and drooping her head, burst into 
 desperate weeping, as though the presence of her husband 
 brought into higher relief the image of her son whom 
 she would never see again. Then she dried her tears,
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 331 
 
 and paler and sadder than ever, continued her habitual 
 life. 
 
 Ferragut saw her as serene as a school-mistress, with 
 her two little nieces seated at her feet, keeping on with 
 her eternal lace-work. She forgot it only in order to 
 attend to the care of her husband, occupying herself 
 with the very slightest details of his existence. That was 
 her duty. From childhood, she had known what are 
 the obligations of the wife of the captain of a ship when 
 he stops at home for a few days, like a bird of passage. 
 But back of such attentions, Ulysses divined the presence 
 of an immovable obstacle. It was something enormous 
 and transparent that had interposed itself between the 
 two. They saw each other but without being able to 
 touch each other. They were separated by a distance, as 
 hard and luminous as a diamond, that made every 
 attempt at drawing nearer together useless. 
 
 Cinta never smiled. Her eyes were dry, trying not to 
 weep while her husband was near her, but giving herself 
 lip freely to grief when she was alone. Her duty was to 
 make his existence bearable, hiding her thoughts. 
 
 But this prudence of a good house-mistress was 
 trampling under foot their conjugal life of former times. 
 One day Ferragut, with a return of his old affection, 
 and desiring to illuminate Cinta's twilight existence with 
 a pale ray of sunlight, ventured to caress her as in 
 the early days of their marriage. She drew herself 
 up, modest and offended, as though she had just received 
 an insult. She escaped from his arms with the energy 
 of one who is repelling an outrage. 
 
 Ulysses looked upon a new woman, intensely pale, of 
 an almost olive countenance, the nose curved with wrath 
 and a flash of madness in her eyes. All that she was 
 guarding in the depths of her thoughts came forth, boil- 
 ing over, expelled in a hoarse voice charged with tears.
 
 332 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "No, no! ... We shall live together, because you 
 are my husband and God commands that it shall be so; 
 but I no longer love you: I cannot love you. . . . The 
 wrong that you have done me I ... I who loved you so 
 much! . . . However much you may hunt in your voy- 
 ages and in your wicked adventures, you will never find 
 a woman that loves you as your wife has loved you." 
 
 Her past of modest and submissive affection, of su- 
 pine and tolerant fidelity, now issued from her mouth in 
 one interminable complaint. 
 
 "From our home my thoughts have followed you in 
 all your voyages, although I knew your forgetfulness 
 and your infidelity. All the papers found in your 
 pockets, and photographs lost among your books, the 
 allusions of your comrades, your smiles of pride, the 
 satisfied air with which you many times returned, the 
 series of new manners and additional care of your 
 person that you did not have when you left, told me all. 
 ... I also suspected in your bold caresses the hidden 
 presence of other women who lived far away on the 
 other side of the world." 
 
 She stopped her turbulent language for a few 
 moments, letting the blush which her memories evoked 
 fade away. 
 
 "I loathed it all," she continued. "I know the men of 
 the sea ; I am a sailor's daughter. Many times I saw my 
 mother weeping and pitied her simplicity. There is no 
 use weeping for what men do in distant lands. It is 
 always bitter enough for a woman who loves her hus- 
 band, but it has no bad consequences and must be par- 
 doned. . . . But now. . . . Now! . . ." 
 
 The wife became irritated on recalling his recent 
 infidelities. . . . Her rivals were not the public women 
 of the great ports, nor the tourists who could give only a 
 few days of love, like an alms which they tossed without
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 333 
 
 stopping 1 their progress. Now he had become enamored 
 with the enthusiasm of a husky boy with an elegant and 
 handsome dame, with a foreign woman who had made 
 him forget his business, abandon his ship, and remain 
 away, as though renouncing his family forever. . . . And 
 poor Esteban, orphaned by his father's forgetfulness, 
 had gone in search of him, with the adventurous impetu- 
 osity inherited from his ancestors : and death, a horrible 
 death, had come to meet him on the road. 
 
 Something more than the grief of the outraged wife 
 vibrated in Cinta's laments. It was the rivalry with that 
 woman of Naples, whom she believed a great lady with 
 all the attractions of wealth and high birth. She envied 
 her superior weapons of seduction ; she raged at her own 
 modesty and humility as a home-keeping woman. 
 
 "I was resolved to ignore it all," she continued. "I 
 had one consolation, my son. What did it matter to 
 me what you did? . . . You were far off, and my son 
 was living at my side. . . . And now I shall never see 
 him again ! . . . My fate is to live eternally alone. You 
 know very well that I shall not be a mother again, that 
 I cannot give you another son. . . . And it was you, you ! 
 who have robbed me of the only thing that I had ! . . ." 
 
 Her imagination invented the most improbable reasons 
 for explaining to herself this unjust loss. 
 
 "God wished to punish you for your bad life and has 
 therefore killed Esteban, and is slowly killing me. . . . 
 When I learned of his death I wished to throw myself 
 off the balcony. I am still living because I am a 
 Christian, but what an existence awaits me! What a 
 life for you if you are really a father! . . . Think that 
 your son might 'Still be existing if you had not remained 
 in Naples." 
 
 Ferragut was a pitiful object. He hung his head with-
 
 334 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 out strength to repeat the confused and lying protests 
 with which he had received his wife's first words. 
 
 "If she knew all the truth!" the voice of remorse 
 kept saying in his brain. 
 
 He was thinking with horror of what Cinta could say 
 if she knew the magnitude of his sin. Fortunately she 
 was ignorant of the fact that he had been of assistance 
 to the assassins of their son. . . . And the conviction 
 that she never would know it made him admit her words 
 with silent humility, the humility of the criminal who 
 hears himself accused of an offense by a judge ignorant 
 of a still greater offense. 
 
 Cinta finished speaking in a discouraged and gloomy] 
 tone. She was exhausted. Her wrath faded out, con- 
 sumed by its own violence. Her sobs cut short her 
 words. Her husband would never again be the same 
 man to her; the body of their son was always inter- 
 posing between the two. 
 
 "I shall never be able to love you. . . . What have you 
 done, Ulysses ? What have you done that I should have 
 such a horror of you? . . . When I am alone I weep: 
 my sadness is great, but I admit my sorrow with resig- 
 nation, as a thing inevitable. ... As soon as I 
 hear your footsteps, the truth springs forth. I realize 
 that my son has died because of you, that he would still be 
 living had he not gone in search of you, trying to make 
 you realize that you were a father and what you owe to 
 us. ... And when I think of that I hate you, I luxte you! 
 . . . You have murdered my son! My only consolation 
 is in the belief that if you have any conscience you will 
 suffer even more than I." 
 
 Ferragut came out from this horrible scene with the 
 conviction that he would have to go away. That home 
 was no longer his, neither was his wife his. The re- 
 minder of death filled everything, intervening between
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 335 
 
 him and Cinta, pushing him away, forcing him again on 
 the sea. His vessel was the only refuge for the rest of 
 his life, and he must resort to it like the great criminals 
 of other centuries who had taken refuge in the isolation 
 of monasteries. 
 
 He needed to vent his wrath on somebody, to find 
 some responsible person whom he might blame for his 
 misfortunes. Cinta had revealed herself to him as an 
 entirely new being. He would never have suspected such 
 energy of character, such passionate vehemence, in his 
 sweet, obedient, little wife. She must have some coun- 
 selor who was encouraging her complaints and making 
 her speak badly of her husband. 
 
 And he fixed upon Don Pedro, the professor, because 
 there was still deep within him a certain dislike of the 
 man since the days of his courtship. Besides, it offended 
 Aim to see him in his home with a certain air of a noble 
 personage whose virtue served as foil for the sins and 
 shortcomings of the master of the house. 
 
 The professor evidently considered Ferragut on a level 
 with all the famous Don Juans, liberal and care-free 
 when in far-away homes, punctilious and suspiciously 
 correct in his own. 
 
 "That old blatherskite !" said Ulysses to'himself , "is in 
 love with Cinta. It is a platonic passion: with him, it 
 couldn't be anything else. But it annoys me greatly. . . * 
 I'm going to say a few things to him." 
 
 Don Pedro, who was continuing his daily visits in order 
 to console the mother, speaking of poor Esteban as 
 though he were his own son, and casting servile smiles 
 upon the captain, found himself intercepted by him one 
 afternoon, on the landing of the stairway. 
 
 The sailor aged suddenly while talking, and his features 
 were accented with a vigorous ugliness. At that moment 
 he looked exactly like his uncle, the Triton..
 
 336 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 With a threatening voice, he recalled a classic passage 
 well known to the professor. His namesake, old Ulysses, 
 upon returning to his palace, had found Penelope sur- 
 rounded with suitors and had ended by hanging them on 
 tenterhooks. 
 
 "Wasn't that the way of it, Professor? ... I do not 
 find here more than one suitor, but this Ulysses swears to 
 you that he will hang him in the same way if he finds him 
 again in his home." 
 
 Don Pedro fled. He had always found the rude 
 heroes of the Odyssey very interesting, but in verse and 
 on paper. In reality they now seemed to him most 
 dangerous brutes, and he wrote a letter to Cinta telling 
 her that he would suspend his visits until her husband 
 should have returned to sea. 
 
 This insult increased the wife's distant bearing. She 
 resented it as an offense against herself. After having 
 made her lose her son, Ulysses was terrifying her only 
 friend. 
 
 The captain felt obliged to go. By staying in that hos- 
 tile atmosphere, which was only sharpening his remorse, 
 he would pile one error upon another. Nothing but 
 action could make him forget. 
 
 One day he announced to Toni that in a few hours he 
 was going to weigh anchor. He had offered his services 
 to the allied navies in order to carry food to the fleet in 
 the Dardanelles. The Mare Nostrum would transport 
 eatables, arms, munitions, aeroplanes. 
 
 Toni attempted objection. It would be easy to find 
 trips equally productive and much less dangerous; they 
 might go to America. . . . 
 
 "And my revenge?" interrupted Ferragut. "I am 
 going to dedicate the rest of my life to doing all the evil 
 that I can to the assassins of my son. The Allies need 
 boats, I'm going to give them mine and my person."
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 337 
 
 Knowing what was troubling his mate, he added, 
 
 "Besides, they pay well. These trips are very 
 remunerative. . . . They will give me whatever I ask." 
 
 For the first time in his existence on board the Mare 
 Nostrum, the mate made a scornful gesture regarding the 
 value of the cargo. 
 
 "I almost forgot," continued Ulysses, smiling in spite 
 of his sadness. "This trip flatters your ideals. . . . We 
 are going to work for the Republic." 
 
 They went to England and, taking on their cargo, set 
 forth for the Dardanelles. Ferragut wished to sail alone 
 without the protection of the destroyers that were es- 
 corting the convoys. 
 
 He knew the Mediterranean well. Besides, he was 
 from a neutral country and the Spanish flag was flying 
 from the poop of his vessel. This abuse of his flag did 
 not produce the slightest remorse, nor did it appear as 
 disloyal to him. The German corsairs were coming 
 closer to their prey, displaying neutral flags, in order to 
 deceive. The submarines were remaining hidden behind 
 pacific sailing ships in order to rise up suddenly near 
 defenseless vessels. The most felonious proceedings of 
 the ancient pirates had been resuscitated by the German 
 fleet. 
 
 He was not afraid of the submarines. He trusted in 
 the speed of the Mare Nostrum and in his lucky star. 
 
 "And if any of them should cross our path," he said 
 to his second, "just let them go before the prow !" 
 
 He wished this so that he could send his vessel upon 
 the submersible at full speed, daring it to come on. 
 
 The Mediterranean was no longer the same sea that it 
 had been months before when the captains knew all its 
 secrets ; he could- no longer live on it as confidently as in 
 the house of a friend. 
 
 He stayed in his stateroom only to sleep. He and Toni
 
 338 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 spent long hours on the bridge talking without seeing 
 each other, with their eyes turned on the sea, scanning 
 the heaving blue surface. All the crew, excepting those 
 that were resting, felt the necessity of keeping the same 
 watch. 
 
 In the daytime the slightest discovery would send the 
 alarm from prow to poop. All the refuse of the sea, that 
 weeks before had splashed unnoticed near the sides 
 of the vessel, now provoked cries of attention, and many 
 arms were outstretched, pointing it out. Bits of sticks, 
 empty preserve cans sparkling in the sunlight, bunches 
 of seaweed, a sea gull with outspread wings letting 
 itself rock on the waves ; everything made them think of 
 the periscopes of the submarine coming up to the water's 
 level. 
 
 At night time the vigilance was even greater. To the 
 danger of submersibles must also be added that 
 of collision. The warships and the allied transports 
 were traveling with few lights or completely dark. The 
 sentinels on the bridge were no longer scanning the 
 surface of the sea with its pale phosphorescence. Their 
 gaze explored the horizon, fearing that before the prow 
 there might suddenly surge up an enormous, swift, black 
 form, vomited forth by the darkness. 
 
 If at any time the captain tarried in his stateroom, 
 instantly that fatal memory came to his mind. 
 
 "Esteban! ... My son! .. ." 
 
 And his eyes were full of tears. 
 
 Remorse and wrath made him plan tremendous ven- 
 geance. He was convinced that it would be impossible 
 to carry it through, but it was a momentary consolation 
 to his meridional character predisposed to the most bloody 
 revenge. 
 
 One day, running over some forgotten papers in a 
 suit-case, he came across Freya's portrait. Upon seeing
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 339 
 
 her audacious smile and her calm eyes fixed upon him, 
 he felt within him a shameful reversion. He admired 
 the beauty of this apparition, a thrill passing over his 
 body as their past intercourse recurred to him. . . . And 
 at the same time that other Ferragut existing within him 
 thrilled with the murderous violence of the Oriental who 
 considers death as the only means of vengeance. She 
 was to blame for it all. "Ah ! . . . Tal!" 
 
 He tore up the photograph, but then he put the frag- 
 ments together again and finally placed them among his 
 papers. 
 
 His wrath was changing its objective. Freya really 
 was not the principal person guilty of Esteban's death. 
 He was thinking of that other one, of the pretended 
 diplomat, of that von Kramer who perhaps had directed 
 the torpedo which had blown his son to atoms. . . . 
 Would he not raise the devil if he could meet him some- 
 time? . . . What happiness if these two should find 
 themselves face to face! 
 
 Finally he avoided the solitude of a stateroom that 
 tormented him with desires of impotent revenge. Near 
 Toni on deck or on the bridge he felt better. . . . 
 And with a humble condescension, such as his mate 
 had never known before, he would talk and talk, enjoying 
 the attention of his simple-hearted listener, just as though 
 he were telling marvelous stories to a circle of children. 
 
 In the Strait of Gibraltar he explained to him the great 
 currents sent by the ocean into the Mediterranean, at 
 certain times aiding the screw-propeller in the propulsion 
 of the vessel. 
 
 Without this Atlantic current the mare nostrum, which 
 lost through atmospheric evaporation much more water 
 than the rains and rivers could bring to it, would become 
 dry in a few centuries. It had been calculated that it 
 might disappear in about four hundred and seventy years,
 
 340 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 leaving as evidence of its former existence a stratum 
 of salt fifty-two meters thick. 
 
 In its deep bosom were born great and numerous 
 springs of fresh water, on the coast of Asia Minor, in 
 Morea, Dalmatia and southern Italy ; it received besides a 
 considerable contribution from the Black Sea, which on 
 returning to the Mediterranean accumulated from the 
 rains and the discharge of its rivers, more water than it 
 lost by evaporation, sending it across the Bosporous 
 and the Dardenelles in the form of a superficial current. 
 But all these tributaries, enormous as they were, sank 
 into insignificance when compared with the renovation of 
 the oceanic currents. 
 
 The waters of the Atlantic poured into the Mediterra- 
 nean so riotously that neither contrary winds nor reflex 
 motion could stop them. Sailboats sometimes had to 
 wait entire months for a strong breeze that would enable 
 them to conquer the impetuous mouth of the strait. 
 
 "I know that very well," said Toni. "Once going to 
 Cuba we were in sight of Gibraltar more than fifty days, 
 going backwards and forwards until a favorable wind 
 enabled us to overcome the current and go out into the 
 great sea." 
 
 "Just such a current," added Ferragut, "was one of the 
 causes that hastened the decadence of the Mediterranean 
 navies in the sixteenth century. They had to go to the 
 recently discovered Indies, and the Catalan or the 
 Genoese ships would remain here in the strait weeks and 
 weeks, struggling with the wind and the contrary current 
 while the Galicians, the Basques, the French and the 
 English who had left their ports at the same time were 
 already nearing America. . . . Fortunately, navigation by 
 steam has now equalized all that." 
 
 Toni was silently admiring his captain. What he must 
 have learned in those books that filled the stateroom ! .
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 341 
 
 It was in the Mediterranean that men had first en- 
 trusted themselves to the waves. Civilization emanated 
 from India, but the Asiatic peoples were not able to 
 master the art of navigation in their few seas whose 
 coasts were very far apart and where the monsoons of 
 the Indian Ocean blew six months together in one direc- 
 tion and six months in another. 
 
 Not until he reached the Mediterranean by overland 
 emigration did the white man wish to become a sailor. 
 This sea that, compared with others, is a simple lake 
 sown with archipelagoes, offered a good school. To 
 whatever wind he might set his sails, he would be sure 
 to reach some hospitable shore. The fresh and irregular 
 breezes revolved with the sun at certain times of the 
 year. The hurricane whirled across its bowl, but never 
 stopped. There were no tides. Its harbors and water- 
 ways were never dry. Its coasts and islands were often 
 so close together that you could see from one to the other ; 
 its lands, beloved of heaven, were recipients of the sun's 
 sweetest smiles. 
 
 Ferragut recalled the men who had plowed this sea 
 in centuries so remote that history makes no mention of 
 them. The only traces of their existence now extant 
 were the nuraghs of Sardinia and the talayots of the 
 Balearic Islands, gigantic tables formed with blocks, 
 barbaric altars of enormous rocks which recalled the 
 Celtic obelisks and sepulchral monuments of the Breton 
 coast. These obscure people had passed from isle to 
 isle, from the extreme of the Mediterranean to the strait 
 which is its door. 
 
 The captain could imagine their rude craft made from 
 trunks of trees roughly planed, propelled by one oar, or 
 rather by the stroke of a stick, with no other aid than 
 a single rudimentary sail spread to the fresh breeze. 
 The navy of the first Europeans had been like that
 
 342 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of the savages of the oceanic islands whose flotillas 
 of tree trunks are still actually going from archipelago 
 to archipelago. 
 
 Thus they had dared to sally forth from the coast, 
 to lose sight of land, to venture forth into the blue 
 desert, advised of the existence of islands by the vaporous 
 knobs of the mountains which were outlined on the hori- 
 zon at sunset. Every advance of this hesitating marine 
 over the Mediterranean had represented greater expendi- 
 ture of audacity and energy than the discovery of Amer- 
 ica or the first voyage around the world. . . . These 
 primitive sailors did not go forth alone to their adven- 
 tures on the sea ; they were nations en masse, they car- 
 ried with them families and animals. Once installed on 
 an island, the tribes sent forth fragments of their own 
 life, going to colonize other nearby lands across the 
 waves. 
 
 Ulysses and his mate thought much about the great 
 catastrophes ignored by history the tempest surprising 
 the sailing exodus, entire fleets of rough rafts swal- 
 lowed up by the abyss in a few moments, families dying 
 clinging to their domestic animals, whenever they at- 
 tempted a new advance of their rudimentary civiliza- 
 tion. 
 
 In order to form some idea of what these little em- 
 barkations were, Ferragut would recall the fleets of 
 Homeric form, created many centuries afterwards. The 
 winds used to impose a religious terror on those war- 
 riors of the sea, reunited in order to fall upon Troy. 
 Their ships remained chained an entire year in the har- 
 bor of Aulis and, through fear of the hostility of the 
 wind and in order to placate the divinity of the Mediter- 
 ranean, they sacrificed the life of a virgin. 
 
 All was danger and mystery in the kingdom of the 
 waves. The abysses roared, the rocks moaned; on the
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 343 
 
 ledges were singing sirens who, with their music, at- 
 tracted ships in order to dash them to pieces. There 
 was not an island without its particular god, without its 
 monster and cyclops, or its magician contriving artifices. 
 
 Before domesticating the elements, mankind had at- 
 tributed to them their most superstitious fears. 
 
 A material factor had powerfully influenced the dan- 
 gers of Mediterranean life. The sand, moved by the 
 caprice of the current, was constantly ruining the vil- 
 lages or raising them to peaks of unexpected pros- 
 perity. Cities celebrated in history were Ito-day no 
 more than streets of ruins at the foot of a hillock 
 crowned with the remains of a Phoenician, Roman, By- 
 zantine or Saracen castle, or with a fortress contempo- 
 rary with the Crusades. In other centuries these had 
 been famous ports; before their walls had taken place 
 naval battles ; now from their ruined acropolis one could 
 scarcely see the Mediterranean except as a light blue 
 belt at the end of a low and marshy plain. The accu- 
 mulating sand had driven the sea back miles. . . . On 
 the other hand, inland cities had come to be places of 
 embarkation because of the continual perforation of the 
 waves that were forcing their way in. 
 
 The wickedness of mankind had imitated the de- 
 structive work of nature. When a maritime republic 
 conquered a rival republic, the first thing that it thought 
 of was to obstruct its harbor with sand and stones in 
 order to divert the course of its waters so as to convert 
 it into an inland city, thereby ruining its fleets and its 
 traffic. The Genoese, triumphant over Pisa, stopped 
 up its harbor with the sands of the Arno; and the 
 city of the first conquerors of Mallorca, of the navigators 
 to the Holy Land, of the Knights of St. Stephen, guard- 
 ians of the Mediterranean, came to be Pisa the Dead, a 
 settlement that knew the sea only by hearsay.
 
 344 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Sand," continued Ferragut, "has changed the com- 
 mercial routes and historic destinies of the Mediter- 
 ranean." 
 
 Of the many deeds which had stretched along the 
 scenes of the mare nostrum, the most famous in the 
 captain's opinion was the unheard-of epic of Roger de. 
 Flor which he had known from childhood through the 
 stories told him .by the poet Labarta, by the Triton, and 
 by that poor secretary who was always dreaming of the 
 great past of the Catalan marine. 
 
 All the worlfi was now talking about the blockade 
 of the Dardanelles. The boats that furrowed the 
 Mediterranean, merchant vessels as well as battleships, 
 were furthering the great military operation that was 
 developing opposite Gallipoli. The name of the long, 
 narrow maritime pass which separates Europe and 
 Asia was in every mouth. To-day the eyes of mankind 
 were converged on this point just as, in remote centuries, 
 they had been fixed on the war of Troy. 
 
 "We also have been there," said Ferragut with pride. 
 "The Dardanelles have been frequented for many years 
 by the Catalans and the Aragonese. Gallipoli was one of 
 our cities governed by the Valencian, Ramon Muntaner." 
 
 And he began the story of the Almogavars in the 
 Orient, that romantic Odyssey across the ancient Asiatic 
 provinces of the Roman Empire that ended only with 
 the founding of the Spanish duchy of Athens and NeQ- 
 patria in the city of Pericles and Minerva. The chron- 
 icles of the Oriental Middle Ages, the books of Byzan- 
 tine chivalry, the fantastic tales of the Arab do not con- 
 tain more improbable and dramatic adventures than the 
 warlike enterprises of these Argonauts coming from tha 
 valleys of the Pyrenees, from the banks of the Ebro, and 
 from the Moorish gardens of Valencia. 
 
 "Eighty years," said Ferragut, terminating his account
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 345 
 
 of the glorious adventures of Roger de Flor around Gal- 
 lipoli, "the Spanish duchy of Athens and Neopatria 
 flourished. Eighty years the Catalans governed these 
 lands." 
 
 And he pointed out on the horizon the place where 
 the red haze of distant promontories and mountains out- 
 lined the Grecian land. 
 
 Such a duchy was in reality a republic. Athens and 
 Thebes were administered in accordance with the laws 
 of Aragon and its code was "The book of Usages and 
 Customs of the City of Barcelona." The Catalan tongue 
 ruled as the official language in the country of Demos- 
 thenes, and the rude Almogavars married with the highest 
 ladies of the country. 
 
 The Parthenon was still intact as in the glorious times 
 of ancient Athens. The august monument of Minerva 
 converted into a Christian church, had not undergone, 
 any other modification than that of seeing a new god- 
 dess on its altars, La Virgen Santisima. 
 
 And in this thousand-year-old temple of sovereign 
 beauty the Te Deum was sung for eighty years in honor 
 of the Aragonese dukes, and the clergy preached in thfe 
 Catalan tongue. 
 
 The republic of adventurers did not bother with con* 
 structing nor creating. There does not remain On tha 
 Grecian land any trace of their dominion, edifices, 
 seals, nor coins. Only a few noble families, especially 
 in the islands, took the Catalan patronym. 
 
 "Although they yet remember us confusedly, they do 
 remember us," said Ferragut. " 'May the vengeance of 
 the Catalans overtake you' was for many centuries the 
 worst of curses in Greece." 
 
 Thus terminated the most glorious and bloody of the 
 Mediterranean adventures of the Middle Ages, the 
 clash of western crudeness, almost savage but fr^nk and
 
 346 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 noble, against the refined malice and decadent civiliza- 
 tion of the Greeks, childish and old at the same time, 
 which survived in Byzantium. 
 
 Ferragut felt a pleasure in these relations of im- 
 perial splendor, palaces of gold, epic encounters and 
 furious frays, while his ship was navigating through the 
 black night and bounding over the dark sea accompanied 
 by the throbbing of machinery and the noisy thrum of 
 the screw, at times out of the water during the furious 
 rocking from prow to poop. 
 
 They were in the worst place in the Mediterranean 
 where the winds coming from the narrow passage of the 
 Adriatic, from the steppes of Asia Minor, from the 
 African deserts and from the gap of Gibraltar tempestu- 
 ously mingled their atmospheric currents. The waters 
 boxed in among the numerous islands of the Grecian 
 archipelago were writhing in opposite directions, enraged 
 and clashing against the ledges on the coast with a retro- 
 grading violence that converted them into a furious 
 surge. 
 
 The captain, hooded like a friar and bowed before 
 the wind that was striving to snatch him from the bridge, 
 kept talking and talking to his mate, standing immovable 
 near him and also covered with a waterproof coat thai 
 was spouting moisture from every fold. The rain was 
 streaking with light, cobwebby lines the slaty darkness, 
 of the night. The two sailors felt as though icy nettles 
 were falling upon face and hands across the darkness. 
 
 Twice they anchored near the island of Tenedos, see- 
 ing the movable archipelago of ironclads enveloped 
 in floating veils of smoke. There came to their ears, like 
 incessant thunderings, the echo of the cannons that were 
 roaring at the entrance of the Dardanelles. 
 
 From afar off they perceived the sensation caused by
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 347 
 
 the loss of some English and French ships. The cur- 
 rent of the Black Sea was the best armor for the de- 
 fenders of this aquatic defile against the attacks of the 
 fleets. They had only to throw into the strait a quantity 
 of floating mines and the blue river which slipped by 
 the Dardanelles would drag these toward the boats, de- 
 stroying them with an infernal explosion. On the coast 
 of Tenedos the Hellenic women with their floating hair 
 were tossing flowers into the sea in memory of the vic- 
 tims, with a theatrical grief similar to that of the heroines 
 of ancient Troy whose ramparts were buried in the hills 
 opposite. 
 
 The third trip in mid-winter was a very hard one, and 
 at the end of a rainy night, when the faint streaks of 
 dawn were beginning to dissipate the sluggish shadows, 
 the Mare Nostrum arrived at the roadstead of Salonica. 
 
 Only once had Ferragut been in this port, many years 
 before, when it still belonged to the Turks. At first he 
 saw only some lowlands on which twinkled the last gleams 
 from the lighthouses. Then he recognized the roadstead, 
 a vast aquatic extension with a frame of sandy bars 
 and pools reflecting the uncertain life of daybreak. 
 The recently awakened sea-gulls were flying in groups 
 over the immense marine bowl. At the mouth of the 
 Vardar the fresh-w r ater fowls were starting up with 
 noisy cries, or standing on the edge of the bank immov- 
 able upon their long legs. 
 
 Opposite the prow, a city was rising up out of the al- 
 buminous waves of fog. In a bit of the clear, blue sky 
 appeared various minarets, their peaks sparkling with 
 the fires of Aurora. As the vessel advanced, the morn- 
 ing clouds vanished, and Salonica became entirely visible 
 from the cluster of huts at her wharves to the ancient 
 castle topping the heights, a fortress of ruddy towers, 
 low and strong.
 
 348 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Near the water's edge, the entire length of the har- 
 bor, were the European constructions, commercial houses 
 with gold-lettered signs, hotels, banks, moving-picture 
 shows, concert halls, and a massive tower with another 
 smaller one upon it, the so-called White Tower, a 
 remnant of the Byzantine fortifications. 
 
 In this European conglomerate were dark gaps, open 
 passageways, the mouths of sloping streets climbing to 
 the hillock above, crossing the Grecian, Mohammedan 
 and Jewish quarters until they reached a table-land cov- 
 ered with lofty edifices between dark points of cypress. 
 
 The religious diversity of the Oriental Mediterranean 
 made Salonica bristle with cupolas and towers. The 
 Greek temple threw into prominence the gilded bulbs 
 of its roof; the Catholic church made the cross glisten 
 from the peak of its bell-tower; the synagogue of geo- 
 metrical forms overflowed in a succession of terraces; 
 the Mohammedan minaret formed a colonnade, white, 
 sharp and slender. Modem life had added factory chim- 
 neys and the arms of steam-cranes which gave an an- 
 achronistic effect to this decoration of an Oriental har- 
 bor. Around the city and its acropolis was the plain 
 which lost itself in the horizon, a plain that Ferragut, 
 on a former voyage, had seen desolate and monotonous, 
 with few houses and sparsely cultivated, with no other 
 Vegetation except that in the little oases of the Moham- 
 medan cemetery. This desert extended to Greece and 
 Servia or to the borders of Bulgaria and Turkey. 
 
 Now the brownish-gray steppes coming out from the 
 fleecy fog of daybreak were palpitating with new life. 
 Thousands and thousands of men were encamped around 
 the city, occupying new villages made of canvas, rec- 
 tangular streets of tents, cities of wooden cabins, and con- 
 structions as big as churches whose canvas walls were 
 trembling under the violent squalls of wind.
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 349 
 
 Through his glasses, Ulysses could see warlike hosts 
 occupied with the business of caring for strings of 
 riderless horses that were going to watering places, parks 
 of artillery with their cannon upraised like the tubes of 
 a telescope, enormous birds with yellow wings that were 
 trying to skip along the earth's surface with a noisy 
 bumping, gradually reappearing in space with their 
 waxy wings glistening in the first shafts of sunlight. 
 
 All the allied army of the Orient returning from the 
 bloody and mistaken adventure of the Dardanelles or pro- 
 ceeding from Marseilles and Gibraltar were massing 
 themselves around Salonica. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum anchored at the wharves filled 
 with boxes and bales. War had given a much greater 
 activity to this port than in times of peace. Steamers 
 of all the allied and neutral flags were unloading eatables 
 and military materials. 
 
 They were coming from every continent, from every 
 ocean, drawn thither by the tremendous necessities of 
 a modern army. They were unloading harvests from 
 entire provinces, unending herds of oxen and horses, 
 tons upon tons of steel, prepared for deadly work, and 
 human crowds lacking only a tail of women and chil- 
 dren to be like the great martial exoduses of history. 
 Then taking on board the residuum of war, arms needing 
 repair, wounded men, they would begin their return 
 trip. 
 
 These cargoes quietly transported through the dark- 
 ness in spite of bad times and the submarine threats, 
 were preparing the ultimate victory. Many of these 
 steamers were formerly luxurious vessels, but novfr 
 commandeered by military necessity, were dirty and 
 greasy and used as cargo boats. Lined up, drowsing 
 along the docks, ready to begin their work, were new hos- 
 pital ships, the more fortunate transatlantic liners that
 
 350 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 still retained a certain trace of their former condition, 
 quite clean with a red cross painted on their sides and an- 
 other on their smokestacks. 
 
 Some of the transports had reached Salonica most 
 miraculously. Their crews would relate with the fatal- 
 istic serenity of men of the sea how the torpedo had 
 passed at a short distance from their hulls. A dam- 
 aged steamer lay on its side, with only the keel sub- 
 merged, all its red exterior exposed to the air; on its 
 water-line there had opened a breach, angular in outline. 
 Upon looking from the deck into the depths of its hold 
 filled with water, there mi~ht be seen a great gash in its 
 side like the mouth of a luminous cavern. 
 
 Ferragut, while his boat was discharging its cargo 
 under Toni's supervision, passed his days ashore, visiting 
 the city. 
 
 From the very first moment he was attracted by the 
 narrow lanes of the Turkish quarters their white 
 houses with protruding balconies covered with latticed 
 blinds like cages painted red; the little mosques with 
 their patios of cypresses and fountains of melancholy 
 tinkling; the tombs of Mohammedan dervishes in kiosks 
 which block the streets under the pale reflection of a 
 lamp; the women veiled with their black firadfes; and 
 the old men who, silent and thoughtful under their 
 scarlet caps, pass along swaying to the staggering of the 
 ass on which they are mounted. 
 
 The great Roman way between Rome and Byzantium, 
 the ancient road of the blue flagstones, passed through a 
 street of modern Salonica. Still a part of its pavement 
 remained and appeared gloriously obstructed by an arch 
 of triumph near whose weatherbeaten stone base were 
 working barefooted bootblacks wearing the scarlet fez. 
 
 An endless variety of uniforms filed through the
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 351 
 
 streets, and this diversity in attire as well as the ethnical 
 difference in the men who wore it was very noticeable. 
 The soldiers of France and the British Isles touched el- 
 bows with the foreign troops. The allied governments 
 had sent out a call to the professional combatants and 
 volunteers of their colonies. The black sharpshooters 
 from the center of Africa showed their smiling teeth of 
 marble to the bronze giants with huge white turbans 
 who had come from India. The hunters from the glacial 
 plains of Canada were fraternizing with the volunteers 
 from Australia and New Zealand. 
 
 The cataclysm of the world war had dragged man- 
 kind from the antipodes to this drowsy little corner of 
 Greece where were again repeated the invasions of re- 
 mote centuries which had made ancient Thessalonica 
 bow to the conquest of Bulgarians, Byzantians, Saracens, 
 and Turks. 
 
 The crews of the battleships in the roadstead had just 
 added to this medley of uniforms the monotonous 
 note of their midnight blue, almost like that of all the 
 navies of the world. . . . And to the military amalga- 
 mation was also added the picturesque variety of civil 
 dress, the hybrid character of the neighborhood of 
 Salonica, composed of various races and religions that 
 were mingled together without confusing their individu- 
 ality. Files of black tunics and hats with brimless 
 crowns passed through the streets, near the Catholic 
 priests or the rabbis with their long, loose gowns. In 
 the outskirts might be seen men almost naked, with no 
 other clothing than a sheep-skin tunic, guiding flocks of 
 pigs, just like the shepherds in the Odyssey. Dervishec, 
 with their aspect of dementia, chanted motionless in a 
 crossway, enveloped in clouds of flies, awaiting the aid 
 of the good believers. 
 
 A great part of the population was composed of Is-
 
 352 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 raelitish descendants of the Jews expelled from Spain 
 and Portugal. The oldest and most conservative were 
 dad just like their remote ancestors with large kaftans 
 striped with striking colors. The women, when not imi- 
 tating the European fashions, usually wore a picturesque 
 garment that recalled the Spanish apparel of the Middle 
 Ages. Here they were not mere brokers or traders as 
 in the rest of the world. The necessities of the city 
 dominated by them had made them pick up all the pro- 
 fessions, becoming artisans, fishermen, boatmen, porters 
 and stevedores of the harbor. They still kept the Castilian 
 tongue as the language of the hearth like an original 
 flag whose waving reunited their scattered souls, a 
 Castilian in the making, soft and without consistency 
 like one newly-born. 
 
 "Are you a Spaniard?" they said brokenly to Captain 
 Ferragut. "My ancestors were born there. It is a beau- 
 tiful land." 
 
 But they did not wish to return to it. The country 
 of their grandsires inspired a certain amount of terror 
 in them, and they feared that upon seeing them return, 
 the present-day Spaniards would banish the bullfights 
 and reestablish the Inquisition, organizing an auto de je 
 every Sunday. 
 
 Hearing them speak his language, the captain recalled 
 a certain date 1492. In the very year that Christopher 
 Columbus had made his first voyage, discovering the In- 
 dies, the Jews were expelled from the Spanish peninsula, 
 and Nebrija brought out the first Castilian grammar. 
 These Spaniards had left their native land months before 
 their idiom had been codified for the first time. 
 
 A sailor of Genoa, an old friend of Ulysses, took him 
 to one of the harbor cafes, where the merchant captains 
 used to gather together. These were the only ones 
 wearing civilian clothes among the crowds of land and
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 353 
 
 sea officers who crowded the divans, obstructed the tables, 
 and grouped themselves before the doorway. 
 
 These Mediterranean vagabonds who oftentimes could 
 not converse together because of the diversity of their 
 native idiom, instinctively sought each other out, keeping 
 near together in a fraternal silence. Their passive hero- 
 ism was in many instances more admirable than that of 
 the men of war, who were able to return blow for blow. 
 All the officers of the different fleets, seated near them, 
 had at their disposition cannon, ram, torpedo, great 
 speed and aerial telegraphy. These valorous muleteers 
 of the sea defied the enemy in defenseless boats without 
 wireless and without cannons. Sometimes when search- 
 ing all the men of the crew, not a single revolver would 
 be found among them, and yet these brave fellows were 
 daring the greatest adventures with professional fatalism, 
 and trusting to luck. 
 
 In the social groups of the cafe the captains would 
 sometimes relate their encounters on the sea, the un- 
 expected appearance of a submarine, the torpedo miss- 
 ing aim a few yards away, the flight at full speed while 
 being shelled by their pursuers. They would flame up 
 for an instant upon recalling their danger, and then re- 
 lapse into indifference and fatalism. 
 
 "If I've got to die by drowning," they would always 
 conclude, "it would be useless for me to try to avoid 
 it." 
 
 And they would hasten their departure in order to re- 
 turn a month later transporting a regular fortune in 
 their vessel, completely alone, preferring free and wary 
 navigation to the journey in convoy, slipping along from 
 island to island and from coast to coast in order to out- 
 wit the submersibles. 
 
 They were far more concerned about the state of their 
 ships, that for more than a year had not been cleaned,'
 
 354 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 than about the dangers of navigation. The captains of 
 the great liners lamented their luxurious staterooms con- 
 verted into dormitories for the troops, their polished 
 decks that had been turned into stables, their dining- 
 room where they used to sit among people in dress suits 
 and low-neck gowns, which had now to be sprayed with 
 every class of disinfectant in order to repel the invasion 
 of vermin, and the animal odors of so many men and 
 beasts crowded together. 
 
 The decline of the ships appeared to be reflected in 
 the bearing of their captains, more careless than be- 
 fore, worse dressed, with the military slovenliness of the 
 trench-fighter, and with calloused hands as badly cared 
 for as those of a stevedore. 
 
 Among the naval men also there were some who had 
 completely neglected their appearance. These were the 
 commanders of "chaluteros," little ocean fishing steam- 
 ers armed with a quickfirer, which had come into the 
 Mediterranean to pursue the submersible. They wore 
 oilskins and tarpaulins, just like the North Sea fisher- 
 men, smacking of fuel and tempestuous water. They 
 would pass weeks and weeks on the sea whatever the 
 weather, sleeping in the bottom of the hold that smelled 
 offensively of rancid fish, keeping on patrol no matter 
 how the tempest might roar, bounding from wave to 
 wave like a cork from a bottle, in order to repeat the ex- 
 ploits of the ancient corsairs. 
 
 Ferragut had a relative in the army which was as- 
 sembling at Salonica making ready for the inland march. 
 As he did not wish to go away without seeing the lad he 
 passed several mornings making investigations in the 
 offices of the general staff. 
 
 This relative was his nephew, a son of Blanes, the 
 manufacturer of knit goods, who had fled from Barce- 
 lona at the outbreak of the war with other boys devoted
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 355 
 
 to singing Los Segadores and perturbing the tranquillity 
 of the "Consul of Spain" sent by Madrid. The son of 
 the pacific Catalan citizen had enlisted in the battalion of 
 the Foreign Legion made up to a great extent of Span- 
 iards and Spanish-Americans. 
 
 Blanes had asked the captain to see his son. He was 
 sad yet at the same time proud of this romantic adven- 
 ture blossoming out so unexpectedly in the utilitarian 
 and monotonous existence of the family. A boy that 
 had such a great future in his father's factory ! . . . And 
 then he had related to Ulysses with shaking voice and 
 moist eyes the achievasents of his son, wounded in 
 Champagne, two citations and the Croix de Guerre. 
 Who would ever have imagined that he could be such 
 a hero! . . . Now his battalion was in Salonica after 
 having fought in the Dardanelles. 
 
 "See if you can't bring him back with you," repeated 
 Blanes. "Tell him that his mother is going to die 
 of grief. . . . You can do so much !" 
 
 But all that Captain Ferragut could do was to obtain 
 a permit and an old automobile with which to visit the 
 encampment of the legionaries. 
 
 The arid plain around Salonica was crossed by numer- 
 ous roads. The trains of artillery, the rosaries of auto- 
 mobiles, were rolling over recently opened roads that the 
 rain had converted into mire. The mud was the worst 
 calamity that could befall this plain, so extremely dusty 
 in dry weather. 
 
 Ferragut passed two long hours, going from encamp- 
 ment to encampment, before reaching his destination. 
 His vehicle frequently had to stop in order to make way 
 for interminable files of trucks. At other times machine- 
 guns, big guns dragged by tractors, and provision cars 
 with pyramids of sacks and boxes, blocked their road. 
 
 .On all sides were thousands and thousands of soldiers
 
 356 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of different colors and races. The captain recalled the 
 great invasions of history Xerxes, Alexander, Genghis- 
 Khan, all the leaders of men who had made their advance 
 carrying villages en masse behind their horses, trans- 
 forming the servants of the earth into fighters. There 
 lacked only the soldierly women, the swarms of children, 
 to complete exactly the resemblance to the martial exo- 
 'duses of the past. 
 
 In half an hour more he was able to embrace his 
 nephew, who was with two other volunteers, an Andu- 
 lasian and a South American, the three united by broth- 
 erhood of birth and by their continual familiarity with 
 death. 
 
 Ferragut took them to the canteen of a trader estab- 
 lished near the cantonment. The customers were seated 
 under a sail-cloth awning before boxes that had con- 
 tained munitions and were converted into office tables. 
 This discomfort was surpassed by the prices. In no 
 Palace Hotel would drink have cost such an extraordi- 
 nary sum. 
 
 In a few moments the sailor felt a fraternal affection 
 for these three youths to whom he gave the nickname 
 of the "Three Musketeers," He wished to treat them to 
 the very best which the canteen afforded, so the proprietor 
 produced a bottle of champagne or rather ptisan from 
 Rheims, presenting it as though it were an elixir fabri- 
 cated of gold. 
 
 The amber liquid, bubbling in the glasses, seemed to 
 bring the three youths back to their former existence. 
 Boiled by the sun and the inclemency of the weather, 
 habituated to the hard life of war, they had almost for- 
 gotten the softness and luxuriant conveniences of former 
 years. 
 
 Ulysses examined them attentively. In the course of 
 ithe campaign they had grown with youth's last rapid
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 357 
 
 growth. Their arms were sticking out to an ungainly 
 degree from the sleeves of their coats, already too short 
 for them. The rude gymnastic exercise of the marches, 
 with the management of the shovel, had broadened their 
 wrists and calloused their hands. 
 
 The memory of his own son surged up in his memory. 
 If only he could see him thus, made into a soldier like 
 his cousin ! See him enduring all the hardships of mili- 
 tary existence . . . but living ! 
 
 In order not to be too greatly moved, he drank and 
 paid close attention to what the three youths were say- 
 ing. Blanes, the legionary, as romantic as the son of a 
 merchant bent upon adventure should be, was talking of 
 the daring deeds of the troops of the Orient with all the 
 enthusiasm of his twenty-two years. There wasn't time 
 to throw themselves upon the Bulgarians with bayonets 
 and arrive at Adrianopolis. As a Catalan, this war in 
 Macedonia was touching him very close. 
 
 "We are going to avenge Roger de Flor," he said 
 gravely. 
 
 * And his uncle wanted to weep and to laugh before this 
 simple faith comparable only to the retrospective memory 
 of the poet Labarta and that village secretary who was 
 always lamenting the remote defeat of Ponza. 
 
 Blanes explained like a knight-errant the impulse that 
 had called him to the war. He wanted to fight for the 
 liberty of all oppressed nations, for the resurrection of 
 all forgotten nationalities, Poles, Czechs, Jugo-Slavs. 
 . . . And very simply, as though he were saying some- 
 thing indisputable, he included Catalunia among the peo- 
 ple who were weeping tears of blood under the lashes 
 of the tyrant. Thereupon his companion, the Andalu- 
 sian, burst forth indignantly. They passed their time 
 arguing furiously, exchanging insults and continually
 
 358 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 seeking each other's company as though they couldn'^ 
 live apart. 
 
 The Andalusian was not battling for the liberty of 
 this or that people. He had a longer range of vision. He 
 was not near-sighted and egoistic like his friend, "the 
 Catalan." He was giving his blood in order that the 
 whole world might be free and that all monarchies should 
 disappear. 
 
 "I am battling for France because it is the country of 
 the great Revolution. Its former history makes no dif- 
 ference to me, for we still have kings of our own, but 
 dating from the I4th of July, whatever France is, I con- 
 sider mine and the property of all mankind." 
 
 He stopped a few; seconds, searching for a more con- 
 crete affirmation. 
 
 "I am fighting, Captain, because of Danton and 
 Hoche." 
 
 Ferragut in his imagination saw the white, disheveled 
 hair of Michelet and the romantic foretop of Lamar- 
 tine upon a double pedestal of volumes which used to 
 contain the story-poem of the Revolution. 
 
 "And I am also fighting for France," concluded the lad 
 triumphantly, "because it is the country of Victor Hugo." 
 
 Ulysses suspected that this twenty-year-old Republi- 
 can was probably hiding in his knapsack a blank book 
 full of original verses written in lead pencil. 
 
 The South American, accustomed to the disputes of 
 his two companions, looked at his black fingernails with 
 the melancholy desperation of a prophet contemplating 
 his country in ruins. Blanes, the son of a middle-class 
 citizen, used to admire him for his more distinguished 
 family. The day of the mobilization he had gone to 
 Paris in an automobile of fifty horse-power to enroll as 
 a volunteer; he and his chauffeur had enlisted together. 
 Jhen he had donated his luxurious vehicle to the cause.
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 359 
 
 He had wished to be a soldier because all the young 
 fellows in his club were leaving for the war. Further- 
 more, he felt greatly flattered that his latest sweetheart, 
 seeing him in uniform, should devote a few tears of ad- 
 miration and astonishment to him. He had felt the 
 necessity of producing a touching effect upon all the 
 ladies that had danced the tango with him up to the 
 week before. Besides that, the millions of his grand- 
 father, "the Galician," held rather tight by HTs father, 
 the Creole, were slipping through his hands. 
 
 "This experience is lasting too long, Captain." 
 
 In the beginning he had believed in a six months' war. 
 The shells didn't trouble him much ; for him the terrible 
 things were the vermin, the impossibility of changing his 
 clothing, and being deprived of his daily; bath. If he 
 could ever have supposed! . . . 
 
 And he summed up his enthusiasm with this affirma- 
 tion: 
 
 "I am fighting for France because it is a chic country. 
 Only in Paris do the women know how to dress. Those 
 Germans, no matter how much they try, will always be 
 very ordinary." 
 
 It was not necessary to add anything to this. All had 
 been said. 
 
 The three recalled the hellish months suffered recently 
 in the Dardanelles, in a space of three miles conquered 
 by the bayonet. A rain of projectiles had fallen inces- 
 santly upon them. They had had to live underground 
 like moles and, even so, the explosion of the great shells 
 sometimes reached them. 
 
 In this tongue of land opposite Troy through which 
 had slipped the remote history of humanity, their shov- 
 els, on opening the trenches, had stumbled upon the rarest 
 finds. One day Blanes and his companions had exca- 
 vated pitchers, statuettes, and plates centuries old. At
 
 3<5o MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 other times, when opening trenches that had served as 
 cemeteries for Turks, they had hacked into repulsive 
 bits of pulp exhaling an insufferable odor. Self-defense 
 had obliged the legionaries to live with their faces on a 
 level with the corpses that were piled up in the vertical 
 yard of removed earth. 
 
 "The dead are like the truffles in a pie," said the South 
 American. "An entire day I had to remain with my 
 nose touching the intestines of a Turk who had died two 
 weeks before. . . . No, war is not chic, Captain, no mat- 
 ter how; much they talk of heroism and sublime things 
 in the newspapers and books." 
 
 Ulysses wished to see the three musketeers again 
 before leaving Salonica, but the battalion had broken 
 camp and was now situated several kilometers farther 
 inland, opposite the first Bulgarian lines. The enthusi- 
 astic Blanes had already fired his gun against the as- 
 sassins of Roger de Flor. 
 
 In the middle of November the Mar e 'Nostrum arrived 
 at Marseilles. Its captain always felt a certain admira- 
 tion upon doubling Cape Croisette, and noting the vast 
 maritime curves opening out before the prow. In the 
 center of it was an abrupt and bare hill, jutting into the 
 sea, sustaining on its peak the basilica and square-sided 
 tower of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. 
 
 Marseilles was the metropolis of the Mediterranean, 
 the terminal for all the navigators of the mare nostrum. 
 In its bay with choppy waves were various yellowish 
 islands fringed with foam and upon one of these the 
 strong towers of the romantic Chateau d'If. 
 
 All the crew, from Ferragut down to the lowest sea- 
 man, used to look upon this city somewhat as their own 
 when they saw, appearing in the background of the bay, 
 its forests of masts and its conglomeration of gray edi- 
 fices upon which sparkled the Byzantian domes of the
 
 361 
 
 new cathedral. Around Marseilles there opened out a 
 semi-circle of dry and barren heights brightly colored 
 by the sun of Provence and spotted by white cottages 
 and hamlets, and the pleasure villas of the merchants 
 of the city. On beyond this semi-circle the horizon was 
 bounded by an amphitheater of rugged and gloomy moun- 
 tains. 
 
 On former trips the sight of the gigantic gilded Virgin 
 which glistened like a shaft of fire on the top of Notre- 
 Dame-de-la-Garde shed an atmosphere of joy over the 
 bridge of the vessel. 
 
 "Marseilles, Toni," the captain used to say gayly. "I 
 invite you to a bouillabaisse at Pascal's." 
 
 And Toni's hairy countenance would break into a 
 greedy smile, seeing in anticipation the famous restaurant 
 of the port, its twilight shadows smelling of shell-fish 
 and spicy sauces, and upon the table the deep dish of 
 fish with its succulent broth tinged with saffron. 
 
 But now Ulysses had lost his vigorous joy in living. 
 He looked at the city with kindly but sad eyes. He 
 could see himself disembarking there that last time, sick, 
 without will-power, overwhelmed by the tragic disap- 
 pearance of his son. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum approached the mouth of the old 
 Jiarbor having at its right the batteries of the Phare. This 
 old port was the most interesting souvenir of ancient 
 Marseilles, penetrating like an aquatic knife into the 
 heart of its clustered homes. The city extended along 
 the wharves. It was an enormous stretch of water into 
 which all the streets flowed; but its area was now so 
 insufficient for the maritime traffic that eight new har- 
 bors were gradually covering the north shore of the bay. 
 
 An interminable jetty, a breakwater longer than the 
 city itself, was parallel to the coast, and in the space 
 between the shore and this obstacle which made the
 
 362 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 waves foam and roar were eight roomy communicating 
 harbors stretching from Joliette at the entrance to the 
 one which, farthest away, is connected inland by the 
 great subterranean canal, putting the city in communi- 
 cation with the Rhone. 
 
 Ferragut had seen anchored in this succession of har- 
 bors the navies of every land and even of every epoch. 
 Near to the enormous transatlantic liners were some very 
 ancient tartans and some Greek boats, heavy and of 
 archaic form, which recalled the fleets described in the 
 Iliad. 
 
 On the wharves swarmed all kinds of Mediterranean 
 men, Greeks from the continent and from the islands, 
 Levantines from the coast of Asia, Spaniards, Italians, 
 Algerians, Moroccans, Egyptians. Many had kept their 
 original costume and to this varied picturesque garb was 
 united a diversity of tongues, some of them mysterious 
 and well-nigh extinct. As though infected by the oral 
 confusion, the French themselves began to forget their 
 native language, speaking the dialect of Marseilles, which 
 preserves indelible traces of its Greek origin. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum crossed the outer port, the innef 
 harbor of Joliette, and slipped slowly along past groups 
 of pedestrians and carts that were waiting the closing of 
 the steel drawbridge now opening before their prow. 
 Then they cast anchor in the basin of Arenc near the 
 docks. 
 
 When Ferragut could go ashore he noticed the great 
 transformation which this port had undergone in war 
 times. 
 
 The traffic of the times of peace with its infinite variety 
 of wares no longer existed. On the wharves there were 
 piled up only the monotonous and uniform loads of pro- 
 visions and war material. 
 
 The legions of longshoremen had also disappeared.
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 363 
 
 They were all in the trenches. The sidewalks 
 were now swept by women, and squads of Senegalese 
 sharpshooters were unloading the cargoes, shivering 
 with cold in the sunny winter days, and bent double as 
 though dying under the rain or the breeze of the Mis- 
 tral. They were working with red caps pulled down 
 over their ears, and at the slightest suspension of their 
 labor would hasten to put their hands in the pockets 
 of their coats. Sometimes when formed in vociferating 
 groups around a case that four men could have moved 
 in ordinary times, the passing of a woman or a vehicle 
 would make them neglect their work, their diabolical 
 faces filled with childish curiosity. 
 
 The unloaded cargoes piled up the same articles on 
 the principal docks, wheat, much wheat, sulphur and 
 saltpeter for the composition of explosive material. On 
 other piers were lined up, by the thousands, pairs 
 of gray wheels, the support of cannons and trucks; 
 boxes as big as dwellings that contained aeroplanes ; huge 
 pieces of steel that served as scaffolding for heavy ar- 
 tillery; great boxes of guns and cartridges; huge cases 
 ,of preserved food and sanitary supplies, all the pro- 
 visioning of the army struggling in the extreme end of 
 the Mediterranean. 
 
 Various squads of men, preceded and followed by 
 bayonets, were marching with rhythmic tread from 
 one port to another. They were German prisoners, - 
 rosy and happy, in spite of their captivity, still wearing 
 their uniforms of green cabbage color, with round caps 
 on their shaved heads. They were going to work on 
 the vessels, loading and unloading the material that was 
 to serve for the extermination of their compatriots and 
 friends. 
 
 The ships at the docks seemed to be increasing in size, 
 for on arrival they had extended only a few yards
 
 364 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 above the wharf; but now that their cargo was piled 
 up on land, they appeared like towering fortresses. Two- 
 thirds of the hull, usually hidden in the water, were now 
 in evidence, showing the bright red of their curved shell. 
 Only the keel kept itself in the water. The upper third, 
 that which remained visible above the line of flotation 
 in ordinary times, was now a simple black cornice that 
 capped the long purple walls. The masts and smoke- 
 stacks diminished by this transformation appeared to 
 belong to other smaller boats. 
 
 Each of these merchant and peaceful steamers carried 
 a quickfirer at the stern in order to protect itself from 
 the submarine corsairs. England and France had mo- 
 bilized their tramp ships and were beginning to supply 
 them with means of defense. Some of them had not 
 been able to mount their cannon upon a fixed gun car- 
 riage, and so carried a field gun with its mouth sticking 
 out between the wheels bolted to the deck. 
 
 The captain in all his strolls invariably felt attracted 
 by the famous Cannebiere, that engulfing roadway which 
 sucks in the entire activity of Marseilles. 
 
 Some days a fresh and violent wind would eddy 
 through, littering it with (Just and papers, and the 
 waiters of the cafes would have to furl the great awn- 
 ings as though they were the sails of a vessel. The Mis- 
 tral was approaching and every owner of an establish- 
 ment was ordering this maneuver in order to withstand 
 the icy hurricane that overturns tables, snatches away 
 chairs, and carries off everything which is not secured 
 with marine cables. 
 
 To Ferragut this famous avenue of Marseilles was a 
 reminder of the antechamber of Salonica. The same 
 types from the army of the East crowded its sidewalks, 
 English dressed in khaki, Canadians and Australians 
 in hats with up-turned brims, tall, slender Hindoos
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 365 
 
 with coppery complexion and thick fan-shaped beards, 
 Senegalese sharpshooters of a glistening black, and An- 
 ammite marksmen with round yellow countenance and 
 eyes forming a triangle. There was a continual pro- 
 cession of dark trucks driven by soldiers, automobiles 
 full of officers, droves of mules coming from Spain that 
 were going to be shipped to the Orient, leaving behind 
 their quick-trotting hoofs a pungent and penetrating 
 smell of the stable. 
 
 The old harbor attracted Ferragut because of its an- 
 tiquity which was almost as remote as that of the 
 first Mediterranean navigations. On passing before 
 the Palace of the Bourse he shot a glance at the statue 
 of the two great Marseillaise navigators, Eutymenes 
 and Pytas, the most remote ancestors of Mediterranean 
 navigators. One had explored the coast of Senegambia, 
 the other had gone further up to Ireland and the Orkney 
 Islands. 
 
 The ancient Greek cokay had been, during long 
 centuries, supplanted by others, Venice, Genoa and 
 Barcelona having held it in humble subjection. But 
 when those had fallen and its hour of prosperity re- 
 turned, that prosperity was accompanied by all the ad- 
 vantages of the present day. Steam machinery had been 
 invented and boats were easily able to overcome the 
 obstacles of the Strait of Cadiz without being obliged to 
 wait weeks until the violence of the current sent by the 
 Atlantic should abate. Industrialism was born and in- 
 land factories sent forward, over the recently-installed 
 railroads, a downpour of products that the fleets were 
 transporting to all the Mediterranean towns. Finally, 
 upon the opening of the Isthmus of Suez, the city un- 
 folded in a prodigious way, becoming a world port, put- 
 ting itself in touch with the entire earth, multiplying its 
 harbors, which became gigantic marine sheepfolds where
 
 366 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 vessels of every flag were gathered together in herds. 
 
 The old port, boxed in the city, changed its aspect 
 according to the time and state of the atmosphere. On 
 calm mornings it was a yellowish green and smelled 
 slightly of stale water, organic water, animal water. 
 The oyster stands established on its wharfs appeared 
 sprinkled with this water impregnated by shell fish. 
 
 On the days of a strong wind the waters turned a 
 terrible dark green, forming choppy and continuous 
 waves with a light yellowish foam. The boats would 
 begin to dance, creaking and tugging at their hawsers. 
 Between their hulls and the vertical surface of the 
 wharfs would be formed mountains of restless rubbish 
 eaten underneath by the fish and pecked above by the 
 sea-gulls. 
 
 Ferragut saw the swift torpedo destroyers dancing 
 at the slightest undulation upon their cables of twisted 
 steel, and examined the improvised submarine-chasers, 
 robust and short little steamers, constructed for fishing, 
 that carried quickfirers on their prows. All these vessels 
 were painted a metallic gray to make them indistinguish- 
 able from the color of the water, and were going in and 
 out of the harbor like sentinels changing watch. 
 
 They mounted guard out on the high sea beyond the 
 rocky and desert islands that closed the bay of Mar- 
 seilles, accosting the incoming ships in order to recog- 
 nize their nationality or running at full speed, with their 
 wisps of horizontal smoke toward the point where they 
 expected to surprise the periscope of the enemy hidden 
 between two waters. There was no weather bad enough 
 to terrify them or make them drowsy. In the wildest 
 storms they kept the coast in view, leaping from wave 
 to wave, and only when others came to relieve them 
 would they return to the old port to rest a few hours 
 at the entrance of the Cannebiere.
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 367 
 
 The narrow passageways of the right bank attracted 
 Ferragut. This was ancient Marseilles in which may 
 still be seen some ruined palaces of the merchants and 
 privateers of other centuries. On these narrow and 
 filthy slopes lived the bedizened and dismal prostitutes 
 of the entire maritime city. 
 
 In this district were huddled together the warriors of 
 the French-African colonies, impelled by their ardor 
 of race and by their desire to free themselves glutton- 
 ously from the restrictions of their Mahommedan coun- 
 try where the women live in jealous seclusion. On every 
 corner were groups of Moroccan infantry, recently dis- 
 embarked or convalescing from wounds, young soldiers 
 with red caps and long cloaks of mustard yellow. The 
 Zouaves of Algiers conversed with them in a Spanish 
 spattered with Arabian and French. Negro youths who 
 worked as stokers in the vessels, came up the steep, 
 narrow streets with eyes sparkling restlessly as though 
 contemplating wholesale rapine. Under the doorways 
 disappeared grave Moorish horsemen, trailing long gar- 
 ments fastened at the head in a ball of whiteness, or 
 garbed in purplish mantles, with sharp pointed hoods 
 that gave them the aspect of bearded, ckimson-clad 
 monks. 
 
 The captain went through the upper end of these 
 streets, stopping appreciatively to note the rude contrast 
 which they made with their terminal vista. Almost all 
 descended to the old harbor with a ditch of dirty water 
 in the middle of the gutter that dribbled from stone to 
 stone. They were dark as the tubes of a telescope, and 
 at the end of these evil smelling ditches occupied by 
 abandoned womanhood, there opened out a great space 
 of light and blue color where could be seen little white 
 sailboats, anchored at the foot of the hill, a sheet of 
 sparkling water and the houses of the opposite wharf
 
 368 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 diminished by the distance. Through other gaps ap- 
 peared the mountain of Notre-Dame-de-lc^Garde with 
 its sharp pointed Basilica topped by its gleaming statue, 
 like an immovable, twisted tongue of flame. Sometimes 
 a torpedo destroyer entering the old harbor could be 
 seen slipping by the mouth of one of these passageways 
 as shadowy as though passing before the glass of a 
 telescope. 
 
 Feeling fatigued by the bad smells and vicious misery 
 of the old district, the sailor returned to the center of 
 the city, strolling among the trees and flower stands of 
 the avenues. . . . 
 
 One evening while awaiting with others a street car 
 in the Cannebiere, he turned his head with a presentiment 
 that some one was looking at his back. 
 
 Sure enough ! He saw behind him on the edge of the 
 sidewalk an elegantly-dressed, clean-shaven gentleman 
 whose aspect was that of an Englishman careful of his 
 personal appearance. The dapper man had stopped in 
 surprise as though he might have just recognized Fer- 
 rtgut. 
 
 The two exchanged glances without awakening the 
 slightest echo in the captain's memory. . . . He could 
 not recall this man. He was almost sure of never having 
 seen him before. His shaven face, his eyes of a metallic 
 gray, his elegant pomposity did not enlighten the Span- 
 iard's memory. Perhaps the unknown had made a mis- 
 take. 
 
 This must have been the case, judging by the rapidity 
 with which he withdrew his glance from Ferragut and 
 went hastily away. 
 
 The captain attached no importance to this encounter. 
 He had already forgotten it when, taking the car but a 
 few minutes later, it recurred to him in a new light. 
 The face of the Englishman presented itself to his im-
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 369 
 
 agination with the distinct relief of reality. He could 
 see it more clearly than in the dying splendor of the 
 Cannebiere. . . . He passed with indifference over his 
 features; in reality he had seen them for the first time. 
 But the eyes ! . . . He knew those eyes perfectly. They 
 had often exchanged glances with him. Where? . . . 
 When? . . . 
 
 ' The memory of this man accompanied him as an obses- 
 sion even to his ship without giving the slightest answer 
 to his questioning. Then, finding himself on board with 
 Toni and the third officer, he again forgot it. 
 
 Upon going ashore on the following days, his memory 
 invariably experienced the same phenomena. The cap- 
 tain would be going through the city without any thought 
 of that individual, but on entering the Cannebiere the 
 same remembrance, followed by an inexplicable anxiety, 
 would again surge up in his mind. 
 
 "I wonder where my Englishman is now," he would 
 think. "Where have I seen him before? . . . Because 
 there is no doubt that we are acquainted with each 
 other." 
 
 From that time on, he would look curiously at all the 
 passersby and sometimes would hasten his step in order 
 to examine more closely some one whose back resembled 
 the haunting unknown. One afternoon he felt sure that 
 he recognized him in a hired carriage whose horse was 
 going at a lively trot through one of the avenues, but 
 when he tried to follow it the vehicle had disappeared 
 into a nearby street. 
 
 Some days passed by and the captain completely for- 
 got the meeting. Other a-ffairs more real and immediate 
 were demanding his atttention. His boat was ready; 
 they were going to send it to England in order to load 
 it with munitions destined for the army of the Orient.
 
 370 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The morning of its departure he went ashore without 
 any thought of going to the center of the city. 
 
 In one of the wharf streets there was a barber shop 
 frequented by Spanish captains. The picturesque chat- 
 ter of the barber, born in Cartagena, the gay, brilliant 
 chromos on the walls representing bullfights, the news- 
 papers from Madrid, forgotten on the divans, and a 
 guitar in one corner made this shop a little bit of Spain 
 for the rovers of the Mediterranean. 
 
 Before sailing, Ferragut wished to have his beard 
 clipped by this verbose master. When, an hour later, 
 he left the barber-shop, tearing himself away from the 
 interminable farewells of the proprietor, he passed down 
 a broad street, lonely and silent, between two rows of 
 docks. 
 
 The steel-barred gates were closed and locked. The 
 warehouses, empty and resounding as the naves of a 
 cathedral, still exhaled the strong odors of the wares 
 which they had kept in times of peace, vanilla, cinna- 
 mon, rolls of leather, nitrates and phosphates for chemi- 
 cal fertilizers. 
 
 In all the long street he saw only one man, com- 
 ing toward him with his back to the inner harbor. Be- 
 tween the two long walls of brick appeared in the back- 
 ground the wharf with its mountains of merchandise, 
 its squadrons of black stevedores, wagons and carts. On 
 beyond were the hulls of the ships sustaining their grove 
 of masts and smokestacks and, at the extreme end, the 
 yellow breakwater and the sky recently washed by the 
 rain, with flocks of little clouds as white and placid as 
 silky sheep. 
 
 The man who was returning from the dock and walking 
 along with his eyes fixed on Ferragut suddenly stopped 
 and, turning upon his tracks, returned again to the
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 371 
 
 quay. . . . This movement awakened the captain's curi- 
 osity, sharpening his senses. Suddenly he had a presenti- 
 ment that this pedestrian was his Englishman, though 
 dressed differently and with less elegance. He could 
 only see his rapidly disappearing back, but his instinct 
 in this moment was superior to his eyes. . . . He did 
 not need to look further. ... It was the Englishman. 
 
 And without knowing why, he hastened his steps in 
 order to catch up with him. Then he broke into a run, 
 rinding that he was alone in the street, and that the other 
 one had disappeared around the corner. 
 
 When Ferragut reached the harbor he could see him 
 hastening away with an elastic step which amounted 
 almost to flight. Before him was a ridge of bundles 
 piled up in uneven rows. He was going to lose sight 
 of him; a minute later it would be impossible to find 
 him. 
 
 The captain hesitated. "What motive have I for pur- 
 suing this unknown person? . . ." And just as he was 
 formulating this question, the other one slowed down a 
 little in order to turn his head and see if he were still 
 being followed. 
 
 Suddenly a rapid phenomenal transformation took 
 place in Ferragut. He had not recognized this man's 
 glance when he had almost run into him on the sidewalk 
 of the Cannebiere, and now that there was between the 
 two a distance of some fifty yards, now that the other 
 was fleeing and showing only a fugitive profile, the cap- 
 tain identified him despite the fact that he could not 
 distinguish him clearly at such a distance. 
 
 W r ith a sharp click a curtain of his memory seemed to 
 be dashed aside, letting in torrents of light. ... It was 
 the counterfeit Russian count, he was sure of that, 
 shaven and disguised, who undoubtedly was "operating" 
 in Marseilles, directing new services, months after hav-
 
 372 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ing prepared the entrance of the submersibles into the 
 Mediterranean. 
 
 Surprise held Ferragut spellbound. With the same 
 imaginative rapidity with which a drowning person 
 giddily recalls all the scenes of his former life, the cap- 
 tain now beheld his infamous existence in Naples, his 
 expedition in the schooner carrying supplies to the sub- 
 marines and then the torpedo which had opened a breach 
 in the Calif ornian. . . . And this man, perhaps, was the 
 one who had made his poor son fly through the air in 
 countless pieces! . . . 
 
 He also saw his uncle, the Triton, just as when a little 
 chap he used to listen to him in the harbor of Valencia. 
 He recalled his story of a certain night of Egyptian orgy 
 in a low cafe in Alexandria where he had had to "sting" 
 a man with his dagger in order to force his way. 
 
 Instinct made him carry his hand to his belt. Noth- 
 ing! . . . He cursed modern life and its uncertain se- 
 curities, which permit men to go from one side of the 
 world to the other confident, disarmed, without means of 
 attack. In other ports he would have come ashore with a 
 revolver in the pocket of his trousers. . . . But in Mar- 
 seilles ! He was not even carrying a penknife ; he had 
 only his fists. ... At that moment he would have given 
 his entire vessel, his life even, for an instrument that 
 would enable him to kill . . . kill with one blow ! . . . 
 
 The bloodthirsty vehemence of the Mediterranean was 
 overwhelming him. To kill ! . . . He did not know how; 
 he was going to do it, but he must kill. 
 
 The first thing was to prevent the escape of his en- 
 emy. He was going to fall upon him with his fists, with 
 his teeth, staging a prehistoric struggle, the animal fight 
 before mankind had invented the club. Perhaps that 
 other man was hiding firearms and might kill him; but
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 373 
 
 he, in his superb vengeance, could see only the death of 
 the enemy, repelling all fear. 
 
 In order that his victim might not get out of his sight, 
 he ran toward him without any dissimulation whatever, 
 as though he might have been in the desert, at full 
 speed. The instinct of attack made him stoop, grasp a 
 piece of wood lying on the ground, a kind of rustic 
 handspike, and armed in this primitive fashion he con- 
 tinued his race. 
 
 All this had lasted but a few seconds. The other one, 
 perceiving the hostile pursuit, was also running frankly, 
 disappearing among the hills of packages. 
 
 The captain saw confusedly that some shadows were 
 leaping around him, preventing his progress. His eyes 
 that were seeing everything red finally managed to dis- 
 tinguish a few black faces and some white ones. . . . 
 They were the soldiers and civilian stevedores, alarmed 
 by the aspect of this man who was running like a lunatic. 
 
 He uttered a curse upon finding himself stopped. 
 With the instinct of the multitude, these people were only 
 concerned with the aggressor, letting the one who was 
 fleeing go free. Ferragut could not keep his wrath bot- 
 tled up on that account. He had to reveal his secret. 
 
 "He is a spy ! . . . A Boche spy ! . . ." 
 
 He said this in a dull, disjointed voice and never did 
 his word of command obtain such a noisy echo. 
 
 "A spy! . . ." 
 
 The cry made men rise up as though vomited forth by 
 the earth ; from mouth to mouth it leaped, repeating itself 
 incessantly, penetrating through the docks and the boats, 
 vibrating even beyond the reach of the eye, permeating 
 everywhere with the confusion and rapidity of sound 
 waves. "A spy! . . ." Men came running with re- 
 doubled agility; the stevedores were abandoning their 
 loads in order to join the pursuit; people were leaping
 
 374 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 from the steamers in order to unite in the human hun?. 
 
 The author of the noisy alarm, he who had given the 
 cry, saw himself outdistanced and ignored by the pur- 
 suing streams of people which he had just called forth. 
 Ferragut, always running, remained behind the negro 
 sharpshooters, the stevedores, the harbor guard, the sea- 
 men that were hastening from all sides crowding in the 
 alleyways between the boxes and bundles. . . . They 
 were like the greyhounds that follow the windings of 
 the forest, making the stag come out in the open field, 
 like the ferrets that slip along through the subterranean 
 valleys, obliging the hare to return to the light of day. 
 The fugitive, surrounded in a labyrinth of passageways, 
 colliding with enemies at every turn, came running out 
 through the opposite end and continued his race the 
 whole length of the wharf. The chase lasted but a few 
 instants after coming out on ground free of obstacles. 
 "A spy ! . . ." The voice, more rapid than the legs, ouk 
 distanced him. The cries of the pursuers warned tin 
 people who were working afar off, without understand 
 ing the alarm. 
 
 Suddenly the fugitive was within a concave semi-circle 
 of men who were awaiting him firmly, and a convex 
 semi-circle following his footsteps in irregular pursuit. 
 The two multitudes, closing their extremes, united and 
 the spy was a prisoner. 
 
 Ferragut saw that he was intensely pale, panting, 
 casting his eyes around him with the expression of an 
 animal at bay, but still thinking of the possibility of de- 
 fending himself. 
 
 His right hand was feeling around one of his pockets. 
 Perhaps he was going to draw out a revolver in order to 
 die, defending himself. A negro nearby raised a beam 
 of wood which he was grasping as a club. The spy's 
 hand, displaying a bit of paper between the fingers, was
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT MARSEILLES 375 
 
 hastily raised toward his mouth; but the negro's blow, 
 suspended in the air, fell upon his arm, making it hang 
 inert. The spy bit his lips in order to keep back a roar 
 of pain. 
 
 The paper had rolled upon the ground and several 
 hands at once tried to pick it up. A petty officer 
 smoothed it out before examining it. It was a piece of 
 thin paper sketched with the outline of the Mediter- 
 ranean. The entire sea was laid out in squares like a 
 chess board and in the center of each of these squares 
 there was a number. These squares were charted sec- 
 tions whose numbers made the submarines know, by 
 wireless, where they were to lie in wait for the allied 
 vessels and torpedo them. 
 
 Another officer explained rapidly to the people crowd- 
 ing close, the importance of the discovery. "Indeed he 
 was a spy !" This affirmation awakened the joy of cap- 
 ture and that impulsive desire for vengeance that at cer- 
 tain times crazes a crowd. 
 
 The men from the boats were the most furious, for 
 the very reason that they were constantly encountering 
 the treacherous submarine traps. "Ah, the bandit ! . . ." 
 Many cudgelings fell upon him, making him stagger 
 under their blows. 
 
 When the prisoner was protected by the breasts of 
 various sub-officers, Ferragut could see him close by, 
 with one temple spotted with blood and a cold and 
 haughty expression in his eye. Then he realized that 
 the prisoner had dyed his hair. 
 
 He had fled in order to save himself; he had shown 
 himself humble and timorous upon being approached, 
 believing that it would still be possible to lie out of it. 
 But the paper that he had tried to hide in his mouth 
 was now in the hands of the enemy. ... It was useless 
 to pretend longer ! . . .
 
 376 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 And he drew himself up proudly like every army 
 man who considers his death certain. The officer of 
 the military caste reappeared, looking haughtily at his 
 unknown pursuers, imploring protection only from the 
 kepis with its band of gold. 
 
 Upon discovering Ferragut, he surveyed him fixedly 
 with a glacial and disdainful insolence. His lips also 
 curled with an expression of contempt. 
 
 They said nothing, but the captain surmised his sound- 
 less words. They were insults. It was the insult of 
 the man of the superior hierarchy to his faithless serv- 
 ant; the pride of the noble official who accuses himself 
 for having trusted in the loyalty of a simple merchant 
 marine. 
 
 "Traitor! . . . Traitor!" his insolent eyes and mur- 
 muring, voiceless lips seemed to be saying. 
 
 Ulysses became furious before this haughtiness, but 
 his wrath was cold and self-contained on seeing the 
 enemy deprived of defense. 
 
 He advanced toward the prisoner, like one of the 
 many who were insulting him, shaking his fist at him. 
 His glance sustained that of the German and he spoke 
 to him in Spanish with a dull voice. 
 
 "My son. . . . My only son was blown to a thousand 
 atoms by the torpedoing of the Calif ornian!" 
 
 These words made the spy change expression. Hi? 
 lips separated, emitting a slight exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Ah! . . ." 
 
 The arrogant light in his pupils faded away. Then 
 he lowered his eyes and soon after hung his head. The 
 vociferating crowd was shoving and carrying him along 
 without taking into consideration the man who had given 
 the alarm and begun the chase. * 
 
 That very afternoon the Mare Nostrum sailed from 
 Marseilles.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN BARCELONA 
 
 FOUR months later Captain Ferragut was in Bar- 
 celona. 
 
 During the interval he had made three trips to Salon- 
 ica, and on the second had to appear before a naval cap- 
 tain of the army of the Orient. The French officer was 
 informed of his former expeditions for the victualing 
 of the allied troops. He knew his name and looked upon 
 him as does a judge interested in the accused. He had 
 received from Marseilles a long telegram with reference 
 to Ferragut. A spy submitted to military justice was 
 accusing him of having carried supplies to the German 
 submarines. 
 
 "How about that, Captain? . . ." 
 
 Ulysses hesitated, looking at the official's grave face, 
 framed by a grey beard. This man inspired his con- 
 fidence. He could respond negatively to such questions ; 
 it would be difficult for the German to prove his 
 affirmation; but he preferred to tell the truth, with the 
 simplicity of one who does not try to hide his faults, de- 
 scribing himself just as he had been, blind with lust, 
 dragged down by the amorous artifices of an adven- 
 turess. 
 
 "The women! . . . Ah, the women!" murmured the 
 French chief with the melancholy smile of a magistrate 
 who does not lose sight of human weaknesses and has 
 participated in them. 
 
 Nevertheless Ferragut's transgression was of gravest 
 
 377
 
 378 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 importance. He had aided in staging the submarine at- 
 tack in the Mediterranean. . . . But when the Spanish 
 captain related how he had been one of the first victims, 
 how his son had died in the torpedoing of the Calif ornian, 
 the judge appeared touched, looking at him less severely. 
 
 Then Ferragut related his encounter with the spy in 
 the harbor of Marseilles. 
 
 "I have sworn," he said finally, "to devote my ship 
 and my life to causing all the harm possible to the mur- 
 derers of my son. . . . That man is denouncing me in 
 order to avenge himself. I realize that my headlong 
 blindness dragged me to a crime that I shall never forget. 
 I am sufficiently punished in the death of my son. . . . 
 But that does not matter; let them sentence me, too." 
 
 The chief remained sunk in deep reflection, forehead 
 in hand and elbow on the table. Ferragut recognized 
 here military justice, expeditious, intuitive, passional, 
 attentive to the sentiments that have scarcely any weight 
 in other tribunals, judging by the action of conscience 
 more than by the letter of the law, and capable of shoot- 
 ing a man with the same dispatch that he would employ 
 in setting him at liberty. 
 
 When the eyes of the judge again fixed themselves 
 upon him, they had an indulgent light. He had been 
 guilty, not on account of money nor treason, but crazed 
 by a woman. Who has not something like this in his 
 own history? . . . "Ah, the women!" repeated the 
 Frenchman, as though lamenting the most terrible form 
 of enslavement. . . . But the victim had already suf- 
 fered enough in the loss of his son. Besides, they owed 
 to him the discovery and arrest of an important spy. 
 
 "Your hand, Captain," he concluded, holding out his 
 own. "All that we have said will be just between our- 
 selves. It is a sacred, confessional secret. I will ar-
 
 IN BARCELONA 379 
 
 range it with the Council of War. . . . You may con- 
 tinue lending your services to our cause." 
 
 And Ferragut was not annoyed further about the af- 
 fair of Marseilles. Perhaps they were watching him 
 discreetly and keeping sight of him in order to convince 
 themselves of his entire innocence; but this suspected 
 vigilance never made itself felt nor occasioned him any 
 trouble. 
 
 On the third trip to Salonica the French captain saw 
 him once at a distance, greeting him with a grave smile 
 which showed that he no longer was thinking of him as 
 a possible spy. 
 
 Upon its return, the Mare Nostrum anchored at Barce- 
 lona to take on cloth for the army service, and other in- 
 dustrial articles of which the troops of the Orient 
 stood in need. Ferragut did not make this trip for mer- 
 cantile reasons. An affectionate interest was drawing 
 him there. . . . He needed to see Cinta, feeling that in 
 his soul the past was again coming to life. 
 
 The image of his wife, vivacious and attractive, as in 
 the early years of their marriage, kept rising before him. 
 It was not a resurrection of the old love; that would 
 have been impossible. . . . But his remorse made him 
 see her, idealized by distance, with all her qualities of a 
 sweet and modest woman. 
 
 He wished to reestablish the cordial relations of other 
 times, to have all the past pardoned, so that she would 
 no longer look at him with hatred, believing him respon- 
 sible for the death of her son. 
 
 In reality she was the only woman who had loved 
 him sincerely, as she was able to love, without violence 
 or passional exaggeration, and with the tranquillity 
 of a comrade. The other women no longer existed. 
 They were a troop of shadows that passed through his 
 memory like specters of visible shape but without color.
 
 380 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 As for that last one, that Freya whom bad luck had put 
 in his way . *,. How the captain hated her! How 
 he wished to meet her and return a part of the harm 
 she had done him! . . . 
 
 Upon seeing his wife, Ulysses imagined that no time 
 had passed by. He found her just as at parting, with 
 her two nieces seated at her feet, making interminable, 
 complicated blonde lace upon the cylindrical pillows sup- 
 ported on their knees. 
 
 The only novelty of the captain's stay in this dwelling 
 of monastic calm was that Don Pedro abstained from 
 his visits. Cinta received her husband with a pallid 
 smile. In that smile he suspected the work of time. She. 
 had continued thinking of her son every hour, but with a 
 resignation that was drying her tears and permitting 
 her to continue the deliberate mechanicalness of exist- 
 ence. Furthermore, she wished to remove the impres- 
 sion of the angry words, inspired by grief, the remem- 
 brance of that scene of rebellion in which she had arisen 
 like a wrathful accuser against the father. And Fer- 
 ragut for some days believed that he was living just as 
 in past years when he had not yet bought the Mare Nos- 
 trum and was planning to remain always ashore. Cinta 
 was attentive to his wishes and obedient as a Christian 
 wife ought to be. Her words and acts revealed a desire 
 to forget, to make herself agreeable. 
 
 But something was lacking that had made the past so 
 sweet. The cordiality of youth could not be resuscitated. 
 The remembrance of the son was always intervening be- 
 tween the two, hardly ever leaving their thoughts. And 
 so it would always be ! 
 
 Since that house could no longer be a real home to 
 him, he again began to await impatiently the hour of sail- 
 ing. His destiny was to live henceforth on the ship, to 
 pass the rest of his days upon the waves like the accursed
 
 IN BARCELONA 381 
 
 captain of the Dutch legend, until the pallid virgin 
 wrapped in black veils Death should come to rescue 
 him. 
 
 While the steamer finished loading he strolled through 
 the city visiting his cousins, the manufacturers, or re- 
 maining idly in the cafes. He looked with interest on the 
 human current passing through the Ramblas in which 
 were mingled the natives of the country and the pic- 
 turesque and absurd medley brought in by the war. 
 
 The first thing that Ferragut noticed was the visible 
 diminution of German refugees. 
 
 Months before he had met them everywhere, filling the 
 hotels and monopolizing the cafes, their green hats 
 and open-neck shirts making them recognized immedi- 
 ately. The German women in showy and extravagant 
 gowns, were everywhere kissing each other when meet- 
 ing, and talking in shrieks. The German tongue, con- 
 founded with the Catalan and the Castilian, seemed to 
 have become naturalized. On the roads and moun- 
 tains could be seen rows of bare-throated boys with 
 heads uncovered, staff in hand, and Alpine knapsack on 
 the back, occupying their leisure with pleasure excur- 
 sions that were at the same time, perhaps, a fore- 
 sighted study. 
 
 These Germans had all come from South America, 
 especially from Brazil, Argentina, and Chile. From Bar- 
 celona they had, at the beginning of the war, tried to re- 
 turn to their own country but were now interned, unable 
 to continue their voyage for fear of the French and 
 English cruisers patrolling the Mediterranean. 
 
 At first no one had wished to take the trouble to settle 
 down in this land, and they had all clustered together 
 in sight of the sea with the hope of being the first to em- 
 bark at the very moment that the road of navigation 
 might open for them.
 
 382 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The war was going to be very short. . . . Exceedingly 
 short! The Kaiser and his irresistible army would re- 
 quire but six months to impose their rule upon all Europe. 
 The Germans enriched by commerce were lodged in the 
 hotels. The poor who had been working in the new 
 world as farmers or shop clerks were quartered in a 
 slaughter house on the outskirts. Some, who were mu- 
 sicians, had acquired old instruments and, forming stroll- 
 ing street bands, were imploring alms for their roarings 
 from village to village. 
 
 But the months were passing by, the war was being 
 prolonged, and nobody could now discern the end. The 
 number of those taking arms against the medieval im- 
 perialism of Berlin was constantly growing greater, and 
 the German refugees, finally convinced that their wait 
 was going to be a very long one, were scattering them- 
 selves through the interior of the state, hunting a more 
 satisfying and less expensive existence. Those who had 
 been living in luxurious hotels were establishing 
 themselves in villas and chalets of the suburbs ; the poor, 
 tired of the rations of the slaughter-house, were exerting 
 themselves to find jobs in the public works of the in- 
 terior. 
 
 Many were still remaining in Barcelona, meeting to- 
 gether in certain beer gardens to read the home periodi- 
 cals and talk mysteriously of the works of war. 
 
 Ferragut recognized them at once upon passing them 
 in the Rambla. Some were dealers, traders established 
 for a long time in the country, bragging of their Catalan 
 connections with that lying facility of adaptability pe- 
 culiar to their race. Others came from South America 
 and were associated with those in Barcelona by the free- 
 masonry of comradeship and patriotic interest. But they 
 were all Germans, and that was enough to make the 
 captain immediately recall his son, planning bloody
 
 IN BARCELONA 383 
 
 vengeance. He sometimes wished to have in his arm all 
 the blind forces of Nature in order to blot out his ene- 
 mies with one blow. It annoyed him to see them estab- 
 lished in his country, to have to pass them daily without 
 protest and without aggression, respecting them because 
 the laws demanded it. 
 
 He used to like to stroll among the flower stands of 
 the Rambla, between the two walls of recently-cut flow- 
 ers that were still guarding in their corollas the dews of 
 daybreak. Each iron table was a pyramid formed of all 
 the hues of the rainbow and all the fragrance that the 
 earth can bring forth. 
 
 The fine weather was beginning. The trees of the 
 Ramblas were covering themselves with leaves and in 
 their shady branches were twittering thousands of birds 
 with the deafening tenacity of the crickets. 
 
 The captain found special enjoyment in surveying 
 the ladies in lace mantillas who were selecting bouquets 
 in the refreshing atmosphere. No situation, however 
 anguished it might be, ever left him insensible to feminine 
 attractions. 
 
 One morning, passing slowly through the crowds, he 
 noticed that a woman was following him. Several 
 times she crossed his path, smiling at him, hunting a pre- 
 text for beginning conversation. Such insistence was 
 not particularly gratifying to his pride; for she was a 
 female of protruding bust and swaying hips, a cook with 
 a basket on her arm, like many others who were passing 
 through the Rambla in order to add a bunch of flowers 
 to the daily purchase of eatables. 
 
 Finding that the sailor was not moved by her smiles 
 nor the glances from her sharp eyes, she planted herself 
 before him, speaking to him in Catalan. 
 
 "Excuse me, sir, but are you not a ship captain 
 named Don Ulysses? . . ."
 
 384 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 This started the conversation. The cook, convinced 
 that it was he, continued talking with a mysterious smile. 
 A most beautiful lady was desirous of seeing him. . . . 
 And she gave him the address of a towered villa situated 
 at the foot of Tibidabo in a recently constructed district. 
 He could make his visit at three in the afternoon. 
 
 "Come, sir," she added with a look of sweet promise. 
 "You will never regret the trip." 
 
 All questions were useless. The woman would say 
 no more. The only thing that could be gathered from 
 her evasive answers was that the person sending her 
 had left her upon seeing the captain. 
 
 When the messenger had gone away he wished to fol- 
 low her. But the fat old wife shook her head repeatedly. 
 Her astuteness was quite accustomed to eluding pursuit, 
 and without Ferragut's knowing exactly how, she slipped 
 away, mingling with the groups near the Plaza of Cata- 
 lunia. 
 
 "I shall not go," was the first thing that Ferragut said 
 on finding himself alone. 
 
 He knew just what that invitation signified. He re- 
 called an infinite number of former unconfessable friend- 
 ships that he had had in Barcelona, women that he 
 had met in other times, between voyages, without any 
 passion whatever, but through his vagabond curiosity, 
 anxious for novelty. Perhaps some one of these had 
 seen him in the Rambla, sending this intermediary in 
 order to renew the old relations. The captain probably 
 enjoyed the fame of a rich man now that everybody was 
 commenting upon the amazingly good business transacted 
 by the proprietors of ships. 
 
 "I shall not go," he again told himself energetically. He 
 considered it useless to bother about this interview, to 
 encounter the mercenary smile of a familiar but for- 
 gotten acquaintance.
 
 IN BARCELONA 385 
 
 But the insistence of the recollection and the very 
 tenacity with which he kept repeating to himself his 
 promise not to keep the tryst, made Ferragut begin to 
 suspect that it might be just as well to go after all. 
 
 After luncheon his will-power weakened. He didn't 
 know what to do with himself during the afternoon. His 
 only distraction was to visit his cousins in their counting- 
 houses, or to meander through the Rambla. Why not 
 o? . . . Perhaps he might be mistaken, and the inter- 
 view might prove an interesting one. At all events, he 
 would have the chance of retiring after a brief con- 
 versation about the past. . . . His curiosity was becom- 
 ing excited by the mystery. 
 
 And at three in the afternoon he took a street car 
 that conducted him to the new districts springing up 
 around the base of Tibidabo. 
 
 The commercial bourgeoisie had covered these lands 
 with an architectural efflorescence, legitimate daughter of 
 their dreams. Shopkeepers and manufacturers had 
 wished to have here a pleasure house, traditionally called 
 a torre, in order to rest on Sundays and at the same time 
 make a show of their wealth with these Gothic, Arabic, 
 Greek, and Persian creations. The most patriotic were 
 relying on the inspiration of native architects who had 
 invented a Catalan art with pointed arches, battlements, 
 and ducal coronets. These medieval coronets, which 
 were repeated even on the peaks of the chimney pots, 
 were the everlasting decorative motif of an industrial 
 city little given to dreams and lusting for lucre. 
 
 Ferragut advanced through the solitary street between 
 two rows of freshly transplanted trees that were just 
 sending forth their first growth. He looked at the fa- 
 ^ades of the torrcs made of blocks of cement imitating 
 the stone of the old fortresses, or with tiles which repre-
 
 386 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sented fantastic landscapes, absurd flowers, bluish, glazed 
 nymphs. 
 
 Upon getting out of the street car he made a resolution. 
 He would look at the outside only of the house. Per- 
 haps that would aid him in discovering the woman ! Then 
 he would just continue on his way. 
 
 But on reaching the torre, whose number he still kept 
 in mind, and pausing a few seconds before its architec- 
 ture of a feudal castle whose interior was probably like 
 that of the beer gardens, he saw the door opening, 
 and appearing in it the same woman that had talked with 
 him in the flower Rambla. 
 
 "Come in, Captain." 
 
 And the captain was not able to resist the suggestive 
 smile of the cook. 
 
 He found himself in a kind of hall similar to the fa- 
 c,ade, with a Gothic fireplace of alabaster imitating oak, 
 great jars of porcelain, pipes the size of walking-sticks, 
 and old armor adorning the walls. Various wood-cuts 
 reproducing modern pictures of Munich alternated with 
 these decorations. Opposite the fireplace William II 
 was displaying one of his innumerable uniforms, re- 
 splendent in gold and a gaudy frame. 
 
 The house appeared uninhabited. Heavy soft cur- 
 tains deadened every sound. The corpulent go-between 
 had disappeared with the lightness of an immaterial be- 
 ing, as though swallowed up by the wall. While scowling 
 at the portrait of the Kaiser, the sailor began to feel dis- 
 quieted in this silence which appeared to him almost hos- 
 tile. . . . And he was not carrying arms. 
 
 The smiling woman again presented herself with the 
 same slippery smoothness. 
 
 "Come in, Don Ulysses." 
 
 She had opened a door, and Ferragut on advancing 
 felt that this door was locked behind him.
 
 IN BARCELONA 387 
 
 The first thing that he could see was a window, broader 
 than it was high, of colored glass. A Valkyrie was 
 galloping across it, with lance in rest and floating locks, 
 upon a black steed that was expelling fire through its 
 nostrils. In the diffused light of the stained glass he 
 could distinguish tapestries on the walls and a deep 
 divan with flowered cushions. 
 
 A woman arose from the soft depths of this couch, 
 rushing towards Ferragut with outstretched arms. Her 
 impulse was so violent that it made her collide with the 
 captain. Before the feminine embrace could close around 
 him he saw a panting mouth, with avid teeth, eyes tearful 
 with emotion, a smile that was a mixture of love and 
 painful disquietude. 
 
 "You ! . . . You !" he stuttered, springing back. 
 
 His legs trembled with a shudder of surprise. A cold 
 wave ran down his back. 
 
 "Ulysses !" sighed the woman, trying again to fold him 
 in her arms. 
 
 "You ! . . ;. You!" again repeated the sailor in a dull 
 voice. 
 
 It was Freya. 
 
 He did not know positively what mysterious force 
 dictated his action. It was perhaps the voice of his good 
 counselor, accustomed to speak in his brain in critical' 
 instants, which now asserted itself. . . . He saw instan- 
 taneously a ship that was exploding and his son blown 
 to pieces. 
 
 "Ah . . . talf f 
 
 He raised his robust arm with his fist clenched like a 
 mace. The voice of prudence kept on giving him orders. 
 "Hard ! . . . No consideration ! . . . This female is shifty." 
 And he struck as though his enemy were a man, without 
 hesitation, without pity, concentrating all his soul in his 
 fist.
 
 388 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The hatred that he was feeling and the recollection of 
 the aggressive resources of the German woman madt 
 him begin a second blow, fearing an attack from her 
 and wishing to repel it before it could be made. . . . But 
 he stopped with his arm raised. 
 
 "Ay de mi! ..." 
 
 The woman had uttered a child-like wail, stagger- 
 ing, swaying upon her feet, with arms drooping, without 
 any attempt at defense whatever. . . . She reeled from 
 side to side as though she were drunk. Her knees 
 doubled under her, and she fell with the limpness of a 
 bundle of clothes, her head first striking against the 
 cushions of the divan. The rest of her body remained 
 like a rag on the rug. 
 
 There was a long silence, interrupted from time to 
 time by groans of pain. Freya was moaning with closed 
 eyes, without coming out of her inertia. 
 
 The sailor, scowling with a tragic ugliness, and trans- 
 ported with rage, remained immovable, looking grimly 
 at the fallen creature. He was satisfied with his bru- 
 tality ; it had been an opportune relief ; he could breathe 
 better. At the same time he was beginning to feel 
 ashamed of himself. "What have you done, you cow- 
 ard? . . ." For the first time in his existence he had 
 struck a woman. 
 
 He raised his aching right hand to his eyes. One of 
 his fingers was bleeding. Perhaps it had become hooked 
 in her earrings, perhaps a pin at her breast had scratched 
 it. He sucked the blood from the deep scratch, and then 
 forgot the wound in order to gaze again at the body; 
 outstretched at his feet. 
 
 Little by little he was becoming accustomed to the 
 diffused light of the room. He was already beginning 
 to see objects clearly. His glance rested upon Freya 
 with a look of mingled hatred and remorse.
 
 IN BARCELONA 389 
 
 Her head, sunk in the cushions, presented a pitiful 
 profile. She appeared much older, as though her age had 
 been doubled by her tears. The brutal blow had made 
 her freshness and her marvelous youth flit away with 
 doleful suddenness. Her half-opened eyes were en- 
 circled with temporary wrinkles. Her nose had taken 
 on the livid sharpness of the dead; her great mass of 
 hair, reddening under the blow, was disheveled in 
 golden, undulating tangles. Something black was wind- 
 ing through it making streaks upon the silk of the 
 cushion. It was the blood that was dribbling between 
 the heraldic flowers of the embroidery, blood flowing 
 from the hidden forehead, being absorbed by the dryness 
 of the soft material. 
 
 Upon making this discovery, Ferra^at felt his shame 
 increasing. He to'ok one step over the extended body, 
 soaking the door. Why was he staying there? . . . All 
 that he had to do was already done; all that he could 
 say was already said. 
 
 "Do not go, Ulysses," sighed a plaintive voice. "Lis- 
 ten to me! ... It concerns your life." 
 
 The fear that he might get away made her pull herself 
 together with dolorous groans and this movement ac- 
 celerated the flow of blood. . . . The pillow continued 
 drinking it in like a thirsty meadow. 
 
 An irresistible compassion like that which he might feel 
 for any stranger abandoned in the midst of the street, 
 made the sailor draw back, his eyes fixed on a tall crystal 
 vase which stood upon the floor filled w'A flowers. 
 With a bang he scattered over the carpet all the spring- 
 time bouquet, arranged a liLlle v:" ": b~: r ore Ly feminine 
 hands with the feverishness cf one who counts the 
 minutes and lives on hope. 
 
 He moistened his handkerchief in the water of the 
 yase and knelt down beside Freya, raising her head
 
 390 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 upon the cushion. She let the wound be washed with 
 the abandon of a sick creature, fixing upon her aggressor 
 a pair of imploring eyes, opening now for the first 
 time. 
 
 When the blood ceased to flow, forming on the temple 
 a red, coagulated spot, Ferragut tried to raise her up. 
 
 "No; leave me so," she murmured. "I prefer to be 
 at your feet. I am your bondslave ... your plaything. 
 Beat me more if it will appease your wrath." 
 
 She wished to insist upon her humility, offering her 
 lips with the timid kiss of a grateful slave. 
 
 "Ah, no! . . . No!" 
 
 To avoid this caress Ulysses stood up suddenly. He 
 again felt intense hatred toward this woman, who little by 
 little was appealing to his senses. Upon stopping the 
 flow of blood his compassion had become extinguished. 
 
 She, guessing his thoughts, felt obliged to speak. 
 
 "Do with me what you will. ... I shall not complain. 
 You are the first man who has ever struck me. . . . And 
 I have not defended myself! I shall not defend myself 
 though you strike me again. . . . Had it been any one 
 else, I would have replied blow for blow ; but you ! . . . 
 I have done you so much wrong! . . ." 
 
 She was silent for a few moments, kneeling before him 
 in a supplicating attitude with her body resting upon her 
 heels. She reached out her arms while speaking with 
 a monotonous and sorrowful voice, like the specters in 
 the apparitions of the theater. 
 
 "I have hestitated a long time before seeing you," she 
 continued. "I feared your wrath; I was sure that in 
 the first moment you would let yourself be overpowered 
 by your anger and I was terrified at the thought of the 
 interview. ... I have spied upon you ever since I knew 
 that you were in Barcelona; I have waited near your 
 home; many times I have seen you through the doorway
 
 IN BARCELONA 391 
 
 of a cafe, and I have taken my pen to write to you. But 
 I feared that you would not come, upon recognizing my 
 handwriting, or that you would pay no attention to a 
 letter in another hand. . . . This morning in the Rambla 
 I could no longer contain myself. And so I sent that 
 woman to you and I have passed some cruel hours 
 fearing that you would not come. ... At last I see you 
 and your violence makes no difference to me. Thank 
 you, thank you many times for having come !" 
 
 Ferragut remained motionless with distracted glance, 
 as though he did not hear her voice. 
 
 "It was necessary to see you," she continued. "It 
 concerns your very existence. You have set yourself in 
 opposition to a tremendous power that can crush you. 
 Your ruin is decided upon. You are one lone man and 
 you have awakened the suspicion, without knowing it, of 
 a world-wide organization. . . . The blow has not yet 
 fallen upon you, but it is going to fall at any moment, 
 perhaps this very day ; I cannot find out all about it. ... 
 For this reason it was necessary to see you in order that 
 you should put yourself on the defensive, in order that 
 you should flee, if necessary." 
 
 The captain, smiling scornfully, shrugged his shoulders 
 as he always did when people spoke to him of danger, 
 and counseled prudence. Besides, he couldn't believe a 
 single thing that woman said. 
 
 "It's a lie !" he said dully. "It's all a lie ! ... 
 
 "No, Ulysses: listen to me. You do not know the 
 interest that you inspire in me. You are the only man 
 that I have ever loved. . . . Do not smile at me in that 
 way: your incredulity terrifies me. . . . Remorse is now 
 united to my poor love. I have done you so much 
 wrong! ... I hate all men. I long to cause them all 
 the harm that I can; but there exists one exception: 
 you ! . . . All my desires of happiness are for you. My
 
 392 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 dreams of the future always have you as the central 
 personage. . . . Do you want me to remain indifferent 
 upon seeing you in danger? . . . No, I am not lying. . . . 
 Everything that I tell you this afternoon is the truth: I 
 shall never be able to lie to you. It distresses me so that 
 my artifices and my falsity should have brought trouble 
 upon you. . . . Strike me again, treat me as the worst of 
 women, but believe what I tell you ; follow my counsel." 
 
 The sailor persisted disdainfully in his indifferent 
 attitude. His hands were trembling impatiently. He 
 was going away. He did not wish to hear any more. . . . 
 Had she hunted him out just to frighten him with 
 imaginary dangers? . . . 
 
 "What have you done, Ulysses? . . . What have you 
 done ?" Freya kept saying desperately. 
 
 She knew all that had occurred in the port of 
 Marseilles, and she also knew well the infinite number of 
 agents that were working for the greater glory of 
 Germany. Von Kramer, from his prison, had made 
 known the name of his informant. She lamented the 
 captain's vehement frankness. 
 
 "I understand your hatred; you cannot forget the 
 torpedoing of the Californian. . . . But you should have 
 denounced von Kramer without letting him suspect from 
 whom the accusation came. . . . You have acted like a 
 madman; yours is an impulsive character that does not 
 fear the morrow." 
 
 Ulysses made a scornful gesture. He did not like 
 subterfuges and treachery. His way of doing was the 
 better one. The only thing that he lamented was that 
 that assassin of the sea might still be living, not having 
 been able to kill him with his own hands. 
 
 "Perhaps he may not be living still," she continued. 
 "The French Council of War has condemned him to 
 death. We do not know whether the sentence has been
 
 IN BARCELONA 393 
 
 carried out ; but they are going to shoot him any moment, 
 and every one in our circle knows that you are the true 
 author of his misfortune." 
 
 She became terrified upon thinking of the accumulated 
 hatred brought about by this deed, and upon the 
 approaching vengeance. In Berlin the name of Ferragut 
 was the object of special attention; in every nation of 
 the earth, the civilian battalions of men and women 
 engaged in working for Germany's triumph were 
 repeating his name at this moment. The commanders 
 of the submarines were passing along information regard- 
 ing his ship and his person. He had dared to attack the 
 greatest empire in the world. He, one lone man, a 
 simple merchant captain, depriving the kaiser of one of 
 his most valiant, valuable servants! 
 
 "What have you done, Ulysses? . . . What have you 
 done?" she wailed again. 
 
 And Ferragut began to recognize in her voice a 
 genuine interest in his person, a terrible fear of the 
 dangers which she believed were threatening him. 
 
 "Here, in your very own country, their vengeance will 
 overtake you. Flee! I don't know where you can go 
 to get rid of them, but believe me. . . . Flee !" 
 
 The sailor came out of his scornful indifference. 
 Anger was lending a hostile gleam to his glance. He 
 was furious to think that those foreigners could pursue 
 him in his own country; it was as though they were 
 attacking him beside his own hearth. National prid* 
 augmented his wrath. 
 
 "Let them come," he said. "I'd like to see them this 
 very day." 
 
 And he looked around, clenching his fists as though 
 these innumerable and unknown enemies were about to 
 come out from the walls. 
 
 "They are also beginning to consider me as an
 
 394 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 enemy," continued the woman. "They do no? say so, 
 because it is a common tiling with us to hide our 
 thoughts; but I suspect the coldness that is surrounding 
 me. . . . The doctor knows that I love you the same as 
 before, in spite of the wrath that she feels against you. 
 The others are talking of your 'treason' and I protest 
 because I cannot stand such a lie. . . . Why are you a 
 traitor? . . . You are not one of our clan. You are a 
 father who longs to avenge himself. We are the real 
 traitors : I, who entangled you in the fatal adventure, 
 they, who pushed me toward you, in order to take 
 advantage of your services." 
 
 Their life in Naples surged up in her memory and she 
 felt it necessary to explain her acts. 
 
 "You have not been able to understand me. You are 
 ignorant of the truth. . . . When I met you on the road 
 to Psestum, you were a souvenir of my past, a fragment 
 of my youth, of the time in which I knew the doctor 
 only vaguely, and was not yet compromised in the service 
 of 'information.' . . . From the very beginning your 
 love and enthusiasm made an impression upon me. 
 You represented an interesting diversion with your 
 Spanish gallantry, waiting for me outside the hotel in 
 order to besiege me with your promises and vows. I was 
 greatly bored during the enforced waiting at Naples. 
 You also found yourself obliged to wait, and sought in 
 me an agreeable recreation. . . . One day I came to 
 understand that you truly were interesting me greatly, as 
 no other man had ever interested me. ... I suspected 
 that I was going to fall in love with you." 
 
 "It's a lie! ... It's a lie," murmured Ferragut spite- 
 fully. 
 
 "Say what you will, but that was the way of it. We 
 love according to the place and the moment. If we had 
 met on some other occasion, we might have seen each
 
 IN BARCELONA 395 
 
 other for a few hours, no more, each following his own 
 road without further consideration. We belong to 
 different worlds. . . . But we were mobilized in the same 
 country, oppressed by the tedium of waiting, and what 
 had to be ... was. I am telling you the entire truth: 
 if you could know what it has cost me to avoid you ! . . . 
 
 "In the mornings, on arising in the room in my hotel, 
 my first motion was to look through the curtains in order 
 to convince myself that you were waiting for me in the 
 street. 'There is my devoted: there is my sweetheart!' 
 Perhaps you had slept badly thinking about me, while I 
 was feeling my soul reborn within me, the soul of a girl 
 of twenty, enthusiastic and artless. . . . My first impulse 
 was to come down and join you, going with you along 
 the gulf shores like two lovers out of a novel. Then 
 reflection would come to my rescue. My past would 
 come tumbling into my mind like an old bell fallen from 
 its tower. I had forgotten that past, and its recurrence 
 deafened me with its overwhelming jangle vibrating with 
 memories. 'Poor man ! . . . Into what a world of com- 
 promises and entanglements I am going to involve him ! 
 . . . No I No!' And I fled from you with the cunning 
 of a mischievous schoolgirl, coming out from the hotel 
 when you had gone off for a few moments, at other times 
 doubling a corner at the very instant that you turned 
 your eyes away. ... I only permitted myself to approach 
 coldly and ironically when it was impossible to avoid 
 meeting you. . . . And afterwards, in the doctor's house, 
 I used to talk about you, every instant, laughing with 
 her over these romantic gallantries." 
 
 Ferragut was listening gloomily, but with growing 
 concentration. He foresaw the explanation of many 
 hitherto incomprehensible acts. A curtain was going to 
 be withdrawn from the past showing everything behind 
 it in a new light.
 
 396 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "The doctor would laugh, but in spite of my jesting 
 she would assure me just the same: 'You are in love 
 with this man ; this Don Jose interests you. Be careful, 
 Carmen !' And the queer thing was that she did not take 
 amiss my infatuation, especially when you consider that 
 she was the enemy of every passion that could not be 
 made directly subservient to our work. . . . She told the 
 truth; I was in love. I recognized it the morning the 
 overwhelming desire to go to the Aquarium took pos- 
 session of me. I had passed many days without seeing 
 you: I was living outside of the hotel in the doctor's 
 house in order not to encounter my inamorato. And that 
 morning I got up very sad, with one fixed thought: 
 'Poor captain! . . . Let us give him a little happi- 
 ness/ I was sick that day. . . . Sick because of you! 
 Now I understood it all. We saw each other in the 
 Aquarium and it was I who kissed you at the same 
 time that I was longing for the extermination of all 
 men. . . . Of all men except you !" 
 
 She made a brief pause, raising her eyes toward him 
 in order to take in the effect of her words. 
 
 "You remember our luncheon in the restaurant of 
 Vomero ; you remember how I begged you to go away, 
 leaving me to my fate. I had a foreboding of the future. 
 I foresaw that it was going to be fatal for you. How 
 could I join a direct and frank life like yours to my 
 existence as an adventuress, mixed up in so many uncon- 
 fessable compromises ? . . . But I was in love with you. 
 I wished to save you by leaving you, and at the same 
 time I was afraid of not seeing you again. The night 
 that you irritated me with the fury of your desires and I 
 stupidly defended myself, as though it were an outrage, 
 concentrating on your person the hatred which all men 
 inspire in me, that night, alone in my bed, I wept. I 
 wept at the thought that I had lost you forever and at
 
 IN BARCELONA 397 
 
 the same time I felt satisfied with myself because thus I 
 was freeing you from my baleful influence. . . . Then 
 von Kramer came. We were in need of a boat and a 
 man. The doctor spoke, proud of her penetration which 
 had made her suspect in you an available asset. They 
 gave me orders to go in search of you, to regain the 
 mastery over your self-control. My first impulse was to 
 refuse, thinking of your future. But the sacrifice was 
 sweet; selfishness directs our actions . . . and I sought 
 you! You know the rest." 
 
 She became silent, remaining in a pensive attitude, as 
 though relishing this period of her recollection, the most 
 pleasing of her existence. 
 
 "Upon going over to the steamer for you," she con- 
 tinued a few moments afterward, "I understood just 
 what you represented in my life. What need I had of 
 you! . . . The doctor was preoccupied with the Italian 
 events. I was only counting the days, finding that they 
 were passing by with more slowness than the others. 
 One . . . two . . . three . . . 'My adored sailor, my 
 amorous shark, is going to come. . . . He is going to 
 come!' And what came suddenly, while we were still 
 believing it far away, was the blow of the war, rudely 
 separating us. The doctor was cursing the Italians, 
 thinking of Germany; I was cursing them, thinking of 
 you, finding myself obliged to follow my friend, pre- 
 paring for flight in two hours, through fear of the 
 mob. . . . My only satisfaction was in learning that we 
 were coming to Spain. The doctor was promising herself 
 to do great things here. ... I was thinking that in no 
 place would it be easier for me to find you again." 
 
 She had gained a little more bodily strength. Her 
 hands were touching Ferragut's knees, longing to 
 embrace them, yet not daring to do so, fearing that he
 
 398 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 might repel her and overcome that tragic inertia which 
 permitted him to listen to her. 
 
 "When in Bilboa I learned of the torpedoing of the 
 Californian and of the death of your son. ... I shall not 
 talk about that; I wept, I wept bitterly, hiding myself 
 from the doctor. From that time on I hated her. She 
 rejoiced in the event, passing indifferently over your 
 name. You no longer existed for her, because she was 
 no longer able to make use of you. ... I wept for 
 you, for your son whom I did not know, and also for 
 myself, remembering my blame in the matter. Since that 
 day I have been another woman. . . . Then we came to 
 Barcelona and I have passed months and months awaiting 
 this moment." 
 
 Her former passion was reflected in her eyes. A 
 flicker of humble love lit up her bruised countenance. 
 
 "We established ourselves in this house which belongs 
 to a German electrician, a friend of the doctor's. When- 
 ever she went away on a trip leaving me free, my steps 
 would invariably turn to the harbor. I was waiting to 
 see your ship. My eyes followed the seamen sym- 
 pathetically, thinking that I could see in all of them 
 something of your person. . . . 'Some day he will come/ 
 I would say to myself. You know how selfish love is ! 
 I gradually forgot the death of your son. . . . Besides, I 
 am not the one who is really guilty : there are others. I 
 have been deceived just as you have been. 'He is going 
 to come, and we shall be happy again!' . . . Ay! If 
 this room could speak ... if this divan on which I have 
 dreamed so many times could talk ! . . . I was always ar- 
 ranging some flowers in a vase, making believe that you 
 were going to come. I was always fixing myself up a lit- 
 tle bit, imagining it was for you. ... I was living in your 
 country, and it was natural that you should come. 
 Suddenly the paradise that I was imagining vanished into
 
 IN BARCELONA 399 
 
 smoke. We received the news, I don't know how, of the 
 imprisonment of von Kramer, and that you had been his 
 accuser. The doctor anathematized me, making me 
 responsible for everything. Through me she had known 
 you, and that was enough to make her include me in her 
 indignation. All our band began to plan for your death, 
 longing to have it accompanied with the most atrocious 
 tortures. . . ." 
 
 Ferragut interrupted her. His brow was furrowed as 
 though dominated by a tenacious idea. . . . Perhaps he 
 was not listening to her. 
 
 "Where is the doctor?" . . . 
 
 The tone of the question was disquieting. He clenched 
 his fists, looking around him as though awaiting the 
 appearance of the imposing dame. His attitude was just 
 like that which had accompanied his attack on Freya. 
 
 "I don't know where she's traveling," said his com- 
 panion. "She is probably in Madrid, in San Sebastian, 
 or in Cadiz. She goes off very frequently. She has 
 friends everywhere. . . . And I have ventured to ask 
 you here simply because I am alone." 
 
 And she described the life that she was leading in this 
 retreat. For the time being her former protector was 
 letting her remain in inaction, abstaining from giving her 
 any work whatever. She was doing everything herself, 
 avoiding all intermediaries. What had happened to von 
 Kramer had made her so jealous and suspicious that 
 when she needed aids, she admitted only her compatriots 
 living in Barcelona. 
 
 A ferocious and determined band, made up of refugees 
 from the South American republics, parasites from the 
 coast cities or vagabonds from the inland forests, had 
 grouped itself around her. At their head, as message' 
 bearer for the doctor, was Karl, the secretary that Ferra-
 
 400 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 gut had seen in the great old house of the district of 
 Chiaja. 
 
 This man, in spite of his oily aspect, had several 
 bloody crimes in his life history. He was a worthy 
 superintendent of the group of adventurers inflamed by 
 patriotic enthusiasm who were forwarding supplies to 
 the submarines in the Spanish Mediterranean. They 
 all knew Captain Ferragut, because of the affair at 
 Marseilles, and they were talking about his person with 
 gloomy reticence. 
 
 "Through them I learned of your arrival," she con- 
 tinued. "They are spying upon you, waiting for a 
 favorable moment. Who knows if they have not already 
 followed you here? . . . Ulysses, flee; your life is seri- 
 ously threatened." 
 
 The captain again shrugged his shoulders with an 
 expression of disgust. 
 
 "Flee, I repeat it! ... And if you can, if I arouse 
 in you a little compassion, if you are not completely 
 indifferent to me . . . take me with you ! . . ." 
 
 Ferragut began to wonder if all this preamble was 
 merely a prelude to this final request. The unexpected 
 demand produced an impression of scandalized amaze- 
 ment. Was he to flee with her, with the one who had 
 done him so much harm? . . . Again unite his life to 
 hers, knowing her as he now knew her! . . . 
 
 The proposition was so absurd that the captain smiled 
 sardonically. 
 
 "I am just as much in danger as you are," continued 
 Freya with a despairing accent. "I do not know exactly 
 what the danger is that threatens me, nor whence it may 
 come. But I suspect it, I foresee it hanging over my 
 head. ... I am of absolutely no use to them now ; I no 
 longer have their confidence, and I know too many things. 
 Since I possess too many secrets for them to give me up,
 
 IN BARCELONA 401 
 
 leaving me in peace, they have agreed to suppress me ; I 
 am sure of that. I can read it in the eyes of the one who 
 was my friend and protector. . . . You cannot abandon 
 me, Ulysses. You will not desire my death." 
 
 Ferragut waxed indignant before these supplications, 
 finally breaking his disdainful silence. 
 
 "Comedienne! . . . All a lie! ... Inventions to en- 
 tangle yourself with me, making me intervene again in 
 the network of your life, compromising me again in your 
 work of detestable surveillance! . . ." 
 
 He was now taking the right path. His desire for 
 vengeance had placed him among Germany's adversaries. 
 He was lamenting his former blindness and was satisfied 
 with his new interests. He was making no secret of his 
 conduct. He was serving the Allies. 
 
 "And that is the reason you are hunting me up ; that is 
 the reason that you have arranged this interview, 
 probably at the instigation of your friend, the doctor. 
 You wish to employ me for a second time as the secret 
 instrument of your espionage. 'Captain Ferragut is such 
 an enamored simpleton/ you have said to one another. 
 'We have nothing to do but to make an appeal to his 
 chivalry. . . .' And you wish to live with me, perhaps to 
 accompany me on my voyages, to follow my existence in 
 order to reveal my secrets to your compatriots that I 
 may again appear as a traitor. Ah, you hussy! ..." 
 
 This supposed treason again aroused his homicidal 
 wrath. He raised his arm and foot, and was about to 
 strike and crush the kneeling woman. But her passive 
 humiliation, her complete lack of resistance, stopped 
 him. 
 
 "No, Ulysses . . . listen to me I" 
 
 She tried her utmost to prove her sincerity. She was 
 afraid of her own people; she could see them now in a 
 tiew light, and they filled her with horror. Her manner
 
 402 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of looking at things had changed radically. Her remorse, 
 on thinking of what she had done, was making her a 
 martyr. Her conscience was beginning to feel the 
 wholesome transformation of repentant women who 
 were formerly great sinners. How could she wash her 
 soul of her past crimes ? . . . She had not even the con- 
 solation of that patriotic faith, bloody and ferocious 
 though it was, which inflamed the doctor and her 
 assistants. 
 
 She had been reflecting a great deal. For her there 
 were no longer Germans, English, nor French ; there only 
 existed men; men with mothers, with wives, with 
 daughters. And her woman's soul was horrified at the 
 thought of the combats and the killings. She hated war. 
 She had experienced her first remorse upon learning of 
 the death of Ferragut's son. 
 
 "Take me with you," she urged. "If you do not 
 take me out of my world I shall not know how to get 
 away from it. ... I am poor. In these last years, the 
 doctor has supported me; I do not know any way of 
 earning my living and I am accustomed to living well. 
 Poverty inspires me with greater fear than death. You 
 will be able to maintain me; I will accept of you what- 
 ever you wish to give me; I will be your handmaiden. 
 On a boat they must need the care and well-ordered 
 supervision of a woman. . . . Life locks its doors against 
 me ; I am alone." 
 
 The captain smiled with cruel irony. 
 
 "I divine what your smile means. I know what you 
 wish to say to me. ... I can see myself; you believe 
 without doubt that such has been my former life. No, 
 . . . no! You are mistaken. I have not been that. 
 There has to be a special predisposition, a certain talent 
 for feigning what I do not feel. ... I have tried to sell 
 myself, and I cannot, I cannot avail myself of that. I
 
 IN BARCELONA 403 
 
 embitter the life of men when they do not interest me ; 
 I am their adversary. I hate them and they flee from 
 me." 
 
 But the sailor prolonged his atrociously sinister smile. 
 
 "It's a lie," he said again, "all a lie. Make no further 
 effort. . . . You will not convince me." 
 
 As though suddenly reanimated with new force, she 
 rose to her feet: her face on a level with Ferragut's 
 eyes. He saw her left temple with the torn skin; the 
 spot caused by the blow extended around one eye, 
 reddened and swollen. On contemplating his barbarous 
 handiwork, remorse again tormented him. 
 
 "Listen, Ulysses ; you do not know my true existence. 
 I have always lied to you; I have eluded all your 
 investigations in our happy days. I wished to keep my 
 former life a secret ... to forget it. Now I must tell 
 you the truth, the actual truth, just as though I were 
 going to die. When you know it, you will be less cruel." 
 
 But her listener did not wish to hear it. He protested 
 in advance with a ferocious incredulity. 
 
 "Lies! . . . new lies! I wonder when you will ever 
 stop your inventions !" 
 
 "I am not a German woman," she continued without 
 listening to him. "Neither is my name Freya Talberg. 
 ... It is my nombre de guerre, my name as an adven- 
 turess. Talberg was the professor who accompanied me 
 to the Andes, and who was not my husband, either. . . . 
 My true name is Beatrice. . . . My mother was an Ital- 
 ian, a Florentine; my father was from Trieste." 
 
 This revelation did not interest Ferragut. 
 
 "One fraud more!" he said. "Another novel! . . . 
 Keep on making them up." 
 
 The woman was in despair. She raised her hands 
 above her head, twisting the interlaced fingers. Fresh 
 tears welled up in her eyes.
 
 404 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Ay! How can I succeed in making you believe me? 
 . . . What oath can I take to convince you that I am 
 telling you the truth ? . . ." 
 
 The captain's impassive air gave her to understand that 
 all such extremes would be unavailing. There was no 
 oath that could possibly convince him. Even though she 
 should tell the truth, he would not believe her. 
 
 She went on with her story, not wishing to protest 
 against this impassable wall. 
 
 "My father also was of Italian origin but was 
 Austrian because of the place of his birth. . . . Further- 
 more, the Germanic empires always inspired him with a 
 blind enthusiasm. He was among those who detest their 
 native land, and see all the virtues in the northern people. 
 
 "Inventor of marvelous business schemes, financial 
 promoter of colossal enterprises, he had passed his ex- 
 istence besieging the directors of the great banking 
 establishments and having interviews in the lobbies of the 
 government departments. Eternally on the eve of sur- 
 prising combinations that were bound to bring him 
 dozens of millions, he had always lived in luxurious 
 poverty, going from hotel to hotel always the best 
 with his wife and his only daughter. 
 
 "You know nothing about such a life, Ulysses; you 
 come from a tranquil and well-to-do family. Your 
 people have never known existence in the Palace Hotels, 
 nor have you known difficulties in meeting the monthly 
 account, managing to have it included with those of the 
 former months with an unlimited credit." 
 
 As a child she had seen her mother weeping in their 
 extravagant hotel apartment while the father was talking 
 with the aspect of an inspired person, announcing that 
 the next week he was going to clear a million dollars. The 
 wife, convinced by the eloquence of her remarkable 
 husband, would finally dry her tears, powder her face,
 
 IN BARCELONA 405 
 
 and adorn herself with her pearls and her blonde laces 
 of problematic value. Then she would descend to the 
 magnificent hall, filled with perfumes, with the hum of 
 conversation and the discreet wailings of the violins, in 
 order to take tea with her friends in the hotel, formida- 
 ble millionaires from the two hemispheres who vaguely 
 suspected the existence of an infirmity known as poverty, 
 but incapable of imagining that it might attack persons 
 of their own world. 
 
 Meanwhile the little girl used io play in the hotel 
 garden of the Palace Hotel with other children dressed 
 up and adorned like luxurious and fragile dolls, each one 
 worth many millions. 
 
 "From my childhood," continued Freya, "I had been a 
 companion of women who are now celebrated for their 
 riches in New York, Paris, and in London. I have been 
 on familiar terms with great heiresses that are to-day, 
 through their marriages, duchesses and even princesses 
 of the blood royal. Many of them have since passed by 
 me, without recognizing me, and I have said nothing, 
 knowing that the equality of childhood is no more than a 
 vague recollection. . . ." 
 
 Thus she had grown into womanhood. A few of her 
 father's casual bargains had permitted them to continue 
 this existence of brilliant and expensive poverty. The 
 promoter had considered such environment indispensable 
 for his future negotiations. Life in the most expensive 
 hotels, an automobile by the month, gowns designed by 
 the greatest modistes for his wife and daughter, sum- 
 mers at the most fashionable resorts, winter-skating in 
 Switzerland, all these luxuries were for him but a kind 
 of uniform of respectability that kept him in the world 
 of the powerful, permitting him to enter everywhere. 
 
 "This existence molded me forever, and has influenced 
 the rest of my life. Dishonor, death, anything is to me
 
 406 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 preferable to {poverty. ... I, who have no fear of 
 danger, become a coward at the mere thought of that 1" 
 
 The mother died, credulous and sensuous, worn out 
 with expecting a solid fortune that never arrived. The 
 daughter continued with her father, becoming the type of 
 young woman who lives among men from hotel to hotel, 
 always somewhat masculine in her attitude ; a half-way 
 virgin who knows everything, is not frightened at any- 
 thing, guards ferociously the integrity of her sex, calcu- 
 lating just what it may be worth, and adoring wealth as 
 the most powerful divinity on earth. 
 
 Finding herself upon her father's death with no other 
 fortune than her gowns and a few artistic gems of scant 
 value, she had coldly decided upon her destiny. 
 
 "In our world there is no other virtue than that of 
 money. The girls of the people surrender themselves less 
 easily than a young woman accustomed to luxury having 
 as her only fortune some knowledge of the piano, of 
 dancing, and a few languages. . . . We yield our body 
 as though fulfilling a material function, without shame 
 and without regret. It is a simple matter of business. 
 The only thing that matters is to preserve the former life 
 with all its conveniences . . . not to come down." 
 
 She passed hastily over her recollection of this period 
 of her existence. An old acquaintance of her father, an 
 old trader of Vienna, had been the first. Then she felt 
 romantic flutterings which even the coldest and most 
 positive women do not escape. She believed that she 
 had fallen in love with a Dutch officer, a blonde Apollo 
 who used to skate with her in Saint Moritz. This had 
 been her only husband. Finally she had become bored 
 with the colonial drowsiness of Batavia and had returned 
 to Europe, breaking off her marriage in order to renew 
 her life in the great hotels, passing the winter season at 
 the most luxurious resorts,
 
 IN BARCELONA 407 
 
 "Ay, money ! . . . In no social plane was its power so 
 evident as that in which she was accustomed to dwell. In 
 the Palace Hotels she had met women of soldierly aspect 
 and common hands, smoking at all hours, with their feet 
 up and the white triangle of their petticoats stretched 
 over the seat. They were like the prostitutes waiting at 
 the doors of their huts. How were they ever permitted 
 to live there! . . . Nevertheless, the men bowed before 
 them like slaves, or followed as suppliants these crea- 
 tures who talked with unction of the millions inherited 
 from their fathers, of their formidable wealth of indus- 
 trial origin which had enabled them to buy noble hus- 
 bands and then give themselves up to their natural tastes 
 as fast, coarse women. 
 
 "I never had any luck. ... I am too haughty for that 
 kind of thing. Men find me ill-humored, argumentative, 
 and nervous. Perhaps I was born to be the mother of a 
 family. . . . Who knows but what I might have been 
 otherwise if I had lived in your country ?" 
 
 Her announcement of her religious veneration for 
 money took on an accent of hate. Poor and well- 
 educated girls, if afraid of the misery of poverty, had 
 no other recourse than prostitution. They lacked a 
 dowry, that indispensable requisite in many civilized 
 families for honorable marriage and home-making. 
 
 Accursed poverty I ... It had weighed upon her life 
 like a fatality. The men who had appeared good at 
 first afterwards became poisoned, turning into egoists 
 and wretches. Doctor Talberg, on returning from 
 America, had abandoned her in order to marry a young 
 and rich woman, the daughter of a trader, a senator from 
 Hamburg. Others had equally exploited her youth, 
 taking their share of her gayety and beauty only to 
 marry, later, women who had merely the attractiveness 
 of a great fortune.
 
 408 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 She had finally come to hate them all, desiring their 
 extermination, exasperated at the very thought that she 
 needed them to live and could never free herself from this 
 slavery. Trying to be independent, she had taken up 
 the stage. 
 
 "I have danced. I have sung ; but my successes were 
 always because I was a woman. Men followed after 
 me, desiring the female, and ridiculing the actress. 
 Besides the life behind the scenes! ... A white-slave 
 market with a name on the play-bills. . . . What ex- 
 ploitation! . . ." 
 
 The desire of freeing herself from all this had led her 
 to make friends with the doctor, accepting her proposi- 
 tions. It seemed to her more honorable to serve a great 
 nation, to be a secret functionary, laboring in the shadow 
 for its grandeur. Besides, at the beginning she was 
 fascinated by the novelty of the work, the adventures on 
 risky missions, the proud consideration that with her 
 espionage she was weaving the web of the future, 
 preparing the history of time to come. 
 
 Here also she had, from the very first, stumbled upon 
 sexual slavery. Her beauty was an instrument for 
 sounding the depths of consciences, a key for opening 
 secrets ; and this servitude had turned out worse than the 
 former ones, on account of its being irremediable, she 
 had tried to divorce herself from her life of tantalizing 
 tourist and theatrical woman; but whoever enters into 
 the secret service can nevermore go from it. She learns 
 too many things ; slowly she gains a comprehension of im- 
 portant mysteries. The agent becomes a slave of her 
 functions; she is confined within them as a prisoner, 
 and with every new act adds a new stone to the Wall that 
 is separating her from liberty. 
 
 "You know the rest of my life," she continued. "The 
 obligation of obeying the doctor, of seducing men in order
 
 IN BARCELONA 409 
 
 to snatch their secrets from them, made me hate them 
 with a deadly aggressiveness. . . . But you came. You, 
 who are so good and generous! You who sought me 
 with the enthusiastic simplicity of a growing boy, making 
 me turn back a page in my life, as though I were still only 
 in my teens and being courted for the first time ! . . . 
 Besides, you are not a selfish person. You gave with 
 noble enthusiasm. I believe that if we had known each 
 other in our early youth you would never have deserted 
 me in order to make yourself rich by marrying some one 
 else. I resisted you at first, because I loved you and did 
 not wish to do you harm. . . . Afterwards, the mandates 
 of my superiors and my passion made me forget these 
 scruples. ... I gave myself up. I was the 'fatal 
 woman/ as always; I brought you misfortune. . . . 
 Ulysses ! My love ! . . . Let us forget ; there is no use 
 in remembering the past. I know your heart so well, 
 and finding myself in danger, I appeal to it. Save me 1 
 Take me with you ! . . ." 
 
 As she was standing opposite him, she had only to 
 raise her hands in order to put them on his shoulders, 
 starting the beginning of an embrace. 
 
 Ferragut remained insensible to the caress. His im- 
 mobility repelled these pleadings. Freya had traveled 
 much through the world, had gone through shameful 
 adventures, and would know how to free herself by her 
 own efforts without the necessity of complicating him 
 again in her net. The story that she had just told was 
 nothing to him but a web of misrepresentations. 
 
 "It is all false," he said in a heavy voice. "I do not 
 believe you. I never shall believe you. . . . Each time 
 that we meet you tell me a new tale. . . . Who are you ? 
 . . . When do you tell the truth, all the truth at once ? 
 . . You fraud!" 
 
 Insensible to his insults, she continued speaking
 
 410 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 anxiously of her future, as though perceiving the 
 mysterious dangers which were surrounding her. 
 
 "Where shall I go if you abandon me? ... If I 
 remain in Spain, I continue under the doctor's domi- 
 nation. I cannot return to the empires where my life has 
 been passed; all the roads are closed and in those lands 
 my slavery would be reborn. . . . Neither can I go to 
 France or to England ; I am afraid of my past. Any one 
 of my former achievements would be enough to make 
 them shoot me: I deserve nothing less. Besides, the 
 vengeance of my own people fills me with terror. I 
 know the methods of the 'service/ when they find it nec- 
 essary to rid themselves of an inconvenient agent who is 
 in the enemy's territory. The 'service' itself denounces 
 him, voluntarily making 1 a stupid move in order that some 
 documents may go astray, sending a compromising card 
 with a false address in order that it may fall into the 
 hands of the authorities of the country. What shall I 
 do if you do not aid me ? ... Where can I flee ? . . ." 
 
 Ulysses decided to reply, moved to pity by her desper- 
 ation. The world was large. She could go and live in the 
 republics of America. 
 
 She did not accept the advice. She had had the same 
 thought, but the uncertain future made her afraid. 
 
 "I am poor : I have scarcely enough to pay my traveling 
 expenses. . . . The 'service' recompenses well at the 
 start. Afterwards when it has us surely in its clutches 
 because of our past, it gives us only what is necessary in 
 order to live with a certain freedom. What can I ever do 
 in those lands? . . . Must I pass the rest of my existence 
 selling myself for bread? ... I will not do it. I would 
 rather die first !" 
 
 This desperate affirmation of her poverty made 
 Ferragut smile sarcastically. He looked at the necklace 
 pf pearls everlastingly reposing on the admirable cushion
 
 IN BARCELONA 411 
 
 of her bosom, the great emeralds in her ears, the diamonds 
 that were sparkling coldly on her hands. She guessed 
 his thoughts and the idea of selling these jewels gave her 
 even greater apprehension than the terrors that the 
 future involved. 
 
 "You do not know what all this represents to me," she 
 added. "It is my uniform, my coat-of-arms, the safe- 
 conduct that enables me to sustain myself in the world 
 of my youth. The women who pass alone through this 
 world need jewels in order to free their pathway of 
 obstructions. The managers of a hotel become human 
 and smile before their brilliancy. She who possesses 
 them does not arouse suspicion however late she may be 
 in paying the weekly account. . . . The employees at the 
 frontier become exceedingly gallant : there is no passport 
 more powerful. The haughty ladies become more 
 cordial before their sparkle, at the tea hour in the halls 
 where one knows nobody. . . . What I have suffered in 
 order to acquire them! ... I would be reduced to 
 hunger before I would sell them. With them, I am 
 somebody. A person may not have a coin in her pocket 
 and yet, with these glittering vouchers, may enter where 
 the richest assemble, living as one of them." 
 
 She would take no advice. She was like a hungry 
 warrior in an enemy's country asked to surrender arms 
 in exchange for gold. Once the necessity was satisfied, 
 he would become a prisoner, would be vilified and on a 
 par with the miserable creatures who a few hours 
 before were receiving his blows. She would meet cour- 
 ageously all dangers and sufferings rather than lay aside 
 her helmet and shield, the symbols of her superior caste. 
 The gown more than a year old, shabby, patched shoes, 
 negligee with badly mended rents, did not distress her 
 in the most trying moments. The important thing was 
 to possess a stylish hat and to preserve a fur coat, a
 
 412 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 necklace of pearls, emeralds, diamonds, all the honor- 
 able and glorious coat-of-mail in which she wished to 
 die. 
 
 Her glance appeared to pity the ignorance of the 
 sailor in venturing to propose such absurdities to her. 
 
 "It is impossible, Ulysses. . . . Take me with you! 
 On the sea is where I shall be safest. I am not afraid of 
 the submarines. People imagine them as numerous and 
 close together as the flagstones of a pavement, but only 
 one vessel in a thousand is the victim of their attacks. 
 . . . Besides, with you I fear nothing ; if it is our destiny 
 to perish on the sea, we shall die together." 
 
 She became insinuating 1 and enticing, passing her hands 
 over his shoulders, pulling down his neck with a passion 
 that was equal to an embrace. While speaking, her 
 mouth came near to that of the sailor, the lips arched, 
 beginning the rounding of a caressing kiss. 
 
 "Would you live so badly with Freya? . . . Do you 
 no longer remember our past? . . . Am I now; another 
 being?" 
 
 Ulysses was remembering only too well that past, 
 and began to recognize that this memory was becoming 
 too vivid. She, who was following with astute eyes 
 the seductive memories whirling through his brain, 
 guessed what they were by the contraction of his face. 
 And smiling trumphantly, she placed her mouth against 
 his. She was sure of her power. . . . And she repro- 
 duced the kiss of the Aquarium, that kiss which had so 
 thrilled the sailor, making his whole body tremble. 
 
 But when she gave herself up with more abandon to 
 this dominating ascendancy, she felt herself repelled, 
 shot back by a brutal hand-thrust similar to the blow 
 that had hurled her upon the cushions at the beginning of 
 the interview.
 
 IN BARCELONA 413 
 
 Some one had interposed between the two, in spite of 
 their close embrace. 
 
 The captain, who was beginning to lose consciousness 
 of his acts, like a castaway, descending and descending 
 through the enchanting domains of limitless pleasure, 
 suddenly beheld the face of the dead Esteban with his 
 glassy eyes fixed upon him. Further on he saw another 
 image, sad and shadowy, Cinta, who was weeping as 
 though her tears were the only ones that should fall 
 upon the mutilated body of their son. 
 
 "Ah, no! . . . No!" 
 
 He himself was surprised at his voice. It was the 
 roar of a wounded beast, the dry howling of a desperate 
 creature, writhing in torment. 
 
 Freya, staggering under the rude push, again tried to 
 draw near to him, enlacing him again in her arms, in 
 order to repeat her imperious kiss. 
 
 "My love ! ... My love ! . . ." 
 
 She could not go on. That tremendous hand again 
 repelled her, but so violently that her head struck against 
 the cushions of the divan. 
 
 The door trembled with a rude shove that made its two 
 leaves open at the same time, dragging out the bolt of 
 the lock. 
 
 The woman, tenacious in her desires, rose up quickly 
 without noticing the pain of her fall. Nimbleness only 
 could serve her now that Ferragut'was escaping after 
 mechanically picking up his hat. 
 
 "Ulysses! . . . Ulysses! . . ." 
 
 Ulysses was already in the street, and in the little 
 hallway various objects of bric-a-brac that had obtruded 
 themselves and confused the fugitive in his blind flight 
 were still trembling and then falling and breaking on 
 the floor with a crash. 
 
 Feeling on his forehead the sensation of the free air,
 
 414 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the dangers to which Freya had referred now surged 
 up in his mind. He surveyed the street with a hostile 
 glance. . . . Nobody 1 He longed to meet the enemy of 
 whom that woman had been speaking, to find vent for 
 that wrath which he was feeling even against himself. 
 He was ashamed and furious at his passing weakness 
 which had almost made him renew; their former 
 existence. 
 
 In the days following, he repeatedly recalled the band 
 of refugees under the doctor's control. When meeting 
 German-looking people on the street, he would glare at 
 them menacingly. Was he perhaps one of those 
 charged with killing him? . . . Then he would pass on, 
 regretting his irritation, sure that they were tradesmen 
 from South America, apothecaries or bank employees 
 undecided whether to return to their home on the other 
 side of the ocean, or to await in Barcelona the always- 
 near triumph of their Emperor. 
 
 Finally the captain began to ridicule Freya's recom- 
 mendations. 
 
 "Just her lies ! . . . Inventions in order to engage my 
 interest again and make me take her with me ! Ah, the 
 old fraud!" 
 
 One morning, as he was stepping out on the deck of 
 his steamer, Toni approached him with a mysterious air, 
 his face assuming, an ashy pallor. 
 
 When they reached the saloon at the stern, the mate 
 spoke in a low voice, looking around him. 
 
 The night before he had gone ashore in order to visit 
 the theater. All of Toni's literary tastes and his emo- 
 tions were concentrated in vaudeville. Men of tal- 
 ent had never invented anything better. From it he 
 used to bring back the humming songs with which he 
 beguiled his long watches on the bridge. Besides, it had 
 a feminine chorus brilliantly clad and bare-legged, a
 
 IN BARCELONA 415 
 
 prima donna rich in flesh and poor in clothes, a row of 
 rosy and voluptuous ninepins that delighted the seamen's 
 imagination without making him forget the obligations 
 of fidelity. 
 
 At one o'clock in the morning, when returning to the 
 boat along the solitary entrance pier, some one had tried 
 to assassinate him. Hearing footsteps, he fancied that 
 he had seen forms hiding behind a mountain of mer- 
 chandise. Then there had sounded three reports, three 
 revolver shots. A ball had whistled by one of his ears. 
 
 "And as I was not carrying any arms, I ran. 
 Fortunately, I was near the ship, almost to the prow. I 
 had only to take a few leaps to put myself aboard the 
 vessel. . . . And they did not shoot any more." 
 
 Ferragut remained silent. He, too, had grown pale, 
 but with surprise and anger. Then they were true, those 
 reports of Freya's ! . . . He could not pretend incredu- 
 lity, nor show himself bold and indifferent to danger 
 while Toni continued talking. 
 
 "Take care, Ulysses ! . . . I have been thinking a great 
 deal about this thing. Those shots were not meant for 
 me. What enemies have I ? Who would want to harm 
 a poor mate who never sees anybody ? . . . Look out for 
 yourself! You know perhaps where they came from; 
 you have dealings with many people." 
 
 The captain suspected that he was recalling the adven- 
 ture of Naples and that disgraceful proposition guarded 
 as a secret, relating it to this nocturnal attack. But 
 neither his voice nor his eyes justified such suspicions. 
 And Ferragut preferred not to seem to suspect what 
 he was thinking about. 
 
 "Does any one else know what occurred, . . ." 
 
 Toni shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody. . . ." He 
 had leaped on the steamer, pacifying the dog on board, 
 that was howling furiously. The man on guard had
 
 416 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 heard the shots, imagining that it was some sailors' fight. 
 
 "You have not reported this to the authorities ?" 
 
 The mate became indignant on hearing this question, 
 with the independence of the Mediterranean who never 
 remembers authority in moments of danger and whose 
 only defense is his manual dexterity. "You take me, 
 perhaps, for a police-informer? . . ." 
 
 He had wanted to do the manly thing, but henceforth 
 he would always go armed while he happened to be in 
 Barcelona. Ay, with this he might shoot if he were not 
 wounded! . . . And winking an eye, he showed his 
 captain what he called his "instrument." 
 
 The mate disliked firearms, crazy and noisy toys of 
 doubtful result. With an ancestral affection which 
 appeared to evoke the flashing battle-axes used by his 
 ancestors, he loved the blow in silence, the gleaming 
 weapon which was a prolongation of the hand. 
 
 With gentle stealthiness he drew from his belt an 
 English knife, acquired at the time that he was skipper 
 of a small boat, a shining blade which reproduced the 
 faces of those looking at it, with the sharp point of a 
 stiletto and the edge of a razor. 
 
 Perhaps he would not be long in making use of his 
 "instrument." He recalled various individuals who a 
 few days ago were strolling slowly along the wharf 
 examining the vessel, and spying upon those going on and 
 off. If he could manage to see them again he would go 
 off the steamer just to say a couple of words to them. 
 
 "You are to do nothing at all," ordered Ferragut. 
 "I'll take charge of this little matter." 
 
 All day long he was troubled over this news. Strolling 
 about Barcelona, he looked with challenging eyes at all 
 passersby who appeared to be Germans. To the aggress- 
 iveness of his character was now added the indignation 
 of a proprietor who finds himself assaulted within his
 
 IN BARCELONA 417 
 
 home. Those three shots were for him; and he was a 
 Spaniard : and the boches were daring to attack him on 
 his own ground! What audacity! . . . 
 
 Several times he put his hand in the back part of his 
 trousers, touching a long, metallic bulk. He was only 
 awaiting the nightfall to carry out a certain idea that 
 had clamped itself between his two eyebrows like a 
 painful nail. Whilst he was not carrying it forward he 
 could not be tranquil. 
 
 The voice of his good counselor protested : "Don't do 
 anything idiotic, Ferragut; don't hunt the enemy, don't 
 provoke him. Simply defend yourself, nothing more." 
 
 But that reckless courage which in times gone by had 
 made him embark on vessels destined to shipwreck, and 
 had pushed him toward danger for the mere pleasure of 
 conquering it, was now crying louder than prudence. 
 
 "In my own country!" he kept saying continually. 
 "To try to assassinate me when I am on my own land! 
 . . . I'll just show them that I am a Spaniard. . . ." 
 
 He knew well that waterfront saloon mentioned by 
 Freya. Two men in his crew had given him some fresh 
 information. The customers of the bar were poor 
 Germans accustomed to endless drinking. Some one was 
 paying for them, and on certain days even permitted 
 them to invite the skippers of the fishing boats and tramp 
 vessels. A gramophone was continually playing there, 
 grinding out shrill songs to which the guests responded in 
 roaring chorus. When war news favorable to the Ger- 
 man Empire was received, the songs and drinking would 
 redouble until midnight and the shrill music-box would 
 never stop for an instant. On the walls were portraits 
 of William II and various chromos of his generals. The 
 proprietor of the bar, a fat-legged German with square 
 head, stiff hair and drooping mustache, used to answer 
 to the nickname of Hindenbwg.
 
 418 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 i 
 
 The sailor grinned at the mere thought of putting 
 that Hindcnburg underneath his own counter. . . . He'd 
 just like to see this establishment where his name had 
 been uttered so many times ! 
 
 At nightfall, his feet took him toward the bar with an 
 irresistible impulse which disdained all counsels of 
 prudence. 
 
 The glass door resisted his nervous hands, perhaps 
 because he handled the latch with too much force. And 
 the captain finally opened it by giving a kick to its 
 lower part, made of wood. 
 
 The panes almost flew out from the shock of 
 this brutal blow. A magnificent entrance! . . . He saw 
 much smoke, perforated by the red stars of three electric 
 bulbs which had just been lit, and men around the various 
 tables, facing him or with their backs turned. The 
 gramophone was shrilling in a nasal tone like an old 
 woman without teeth. Back of the counter appeared 
 'Hindenburg, his throat open, sleeves rolled up over arms 
 as fat as legs. 
 
 "I am Captain Ulysses Ferragut." 
 
 The voice that said this had a power similar to that 
 of the magic words of Oriental tales which held the life 
 of an entire city in suspense, leaving persons and objects 
 immovable in the very attitude in which the powerful 
 conjurer surprised them. 
 
 There was the silence of astonishment. Those were 
 beginning to turn their heads, attracted by the noise of 
 the door, did not go on with the movement. Those in 
 front remained with their eyes fixed on the one who was 
 entering, eyes widened with surprise as if they could not 
 believe what they saw. The gramophone was suddenly 
 hushed. Hindenburg, who was washing out a glass, 
 remained with motionless hands, without even taking 
 the napkin from its crystal cavity.
 
 IN BARCELONA 419 
 
 Ferragut seated himself near an empty table with his 
 back against the wall. A waiter, the only one in the 
 establishment, hastened to find out what the gentleman 
 wished. He was an Andalusian, small and sprightly, 
 whose escapades had brought him to Barcelona. He 
 usually served his customers with indifference, without 
 taking any interest in their words and their hymns. He 
 "didn't mix himself up in politics." Accustomed to the 
 vrays of gay and hot-blooded people, he suspected that 
 this man had come to pick a quarrel, and hoped to soften 
 him with his smiling and obsequious manner. 
 
 The sailor spoke to him aloud. He knew that in that 
 low cafe his name was frequently used and that there 
 were many there who desired to see him. He could give 
 them the message that Captain Ferragut was there at 
 their disposition. 
 
 "I shall do so," said the Andalusian. 
 
 And he went away to the counter, bringing him, in a 
 little while, a bottle and a glass. 
 
 In vain Ulysses fixed his glance on those who were 
 occupying the nearby tables. Some, turning their backs 
 upon him, were absolutely rigid; others had their eyes 
 cast down and were talking quietly with mysterious 
 whispering. 
 
 Finally two or three exchanged glances with the 
 captain. In their pupils was the snap of budding wrath. 
 The first surprise having vanished, they seemed disposed 
 to rise up and fall upon the recent arrival. But some one 
 behind him appeared to be controlling them with mur- 
 mured orders, and they finally obeyed him, lowering 
 their eyes in submissive restraint. 
 
 Ulysses soon tired of this silence. He was beginning 
 to find his attitude of animal-tamer rather ridiculous. 
 He did not know whom to assail in a place where they 
 avoided his glance and all contact with him. On the
 
 420 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 nearest table there was an illustrated newspaper, and he 
 took possession of it, turning its leaves. It was printed 
 in German, but he pretended to read it with great 
 interest. 
 
 He had seated himself at the side, leaving free the hip 
 on which his revolver was resting. His hand, feigning 
 distraction, passed near the opening of his pocket, ready 
 to take up arms in case of attack. In a little while he 
 regretted this excessively swaggering posture. They 
 were going to fall upon him, taking advantage of his 
 reading. But pride made him remain motionless, that 
 they might not suspect his uneasiness. 
 
 Then he laughed in an insolent way as though he were 
 reading in the German illustration something that was 
 provoking his jibes. As though this were not enough, 
 he raised his eyes with aggressive curiosity in order to 
 study the portraits adorning the wall. 
 
 Then he realized the great transformation which had 
 just taken place in the bar. Almost all the customers 
 had filed silently out during his reading. There remained 
 only four blear-eyed drunkards who were guzzling with 
 satisfaction, occupied with the contents of their glasses. 
 Hindenburg, turning his mighty back upon his clientele, 
 was reading an evening newspaper on the counter. The 
 Andalusian, seated in the background, was looking at the 
 captain, smiling. "There's an old sport for you! . . ." 
 He was mentally chuckling over the fact that one of his 
 countrymen had put to flight the brawling and brutal 
 drinkers who gave him so much trouble on other 
 evenings. 
 
 Ulysses consulted his watch : half -past seven. Already 
 he had driven away all those people that Freya was so 
 afraid of. What was left to do here ? ... He paid and 
 went out. 
 
 Night had fallen. Under the light of the electric lamp
 
 IN BARCELONA 421 
 
 posts street cars and automobiles were passing toward 
 the interior of the city. Following the arcades of the 
 old edifices near the harbor, groups of workers from 
 the maritime establishments were filing by. Barcelona, 
 dazzling with splendor, was attracting the crowds. The 
 inner harbor, black and solitary, was filled with weak 
 little lights twinkling from the heights of the masts. 
 
 Ferragut stood undecided whether to go home to eat, 
 or to a restaurant in the Rambla. Then he suspected 
 that some of the fugitives from that dirty cafe were 
 near, intending to follow him. In vain he glanced 
 searchingly around: he could not recognize anybody in 
 the groups that were reading the papers or conversing 
 while waiting for the street car. 
 
 Suddenly he felt a desire to see Toni. Uncle Caragol 
 would improvise something to eat while the captain was 
 telling his mate all about his adventure at the bar. 
 Besides, it seemed to him a fitting finale to his escapade 
 to offer to any enemies that might be following him a 
 favorable occasion for attacking him on the deserted 
 wharf. The demon of false pride was whispering in his 
 ears: "Thus they will see that you are not afraid of 
 them." 
 
 And he marched resolutely toward the harbor, passing 
 over railroad tracks outlining the walls of long store- 
 houses and winding in and out among mountains of mer- 
 chandise. At first he met little groups going toward the 
 city, then pairs, then single individuals, finally nobody 
 absolute solitude. 
 
 Further on, the darkness was cut by silhouettes of 
 ebony that sometimes were boats and at others, alleyways 
 of packages or hills of coal. The black water reflected 
 the red and green serpents from the lights on the boats. 
 A transatlantic liner was prolonging its loading opera- 
 tions by the light of its electric reflectors, standing forth
 
 422 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 out of the darkness with the gayety of a Venetian fiesta. 
 
 From time to time a man of slow step would come 
 within the circle of the street lamp, the muzzle of his 
 gun gleaming. Others were lying in ambush among the 
 mountains of cargo. They were custom-house men arid 
 guardians of the port. 
 
 Suddenly the captain felt an instinctive warning. 
 They were following him. . . . He stopped in the 
 shadows, close to a pile of crates and saw some men 
 advancing in his direction, passing rapidly over the edge 
 of the red spot made by the electric bulbs, so as not to be 
 under the rain of light. 
 
 Although it was impossible for him to recognize them, 
 he was positive, nevertheless, that they were the enmy 
 seen at the bar. 
 
 His ship was far away, near the end of the dock most 
 deserted at that hour. "You've done an idiotic thing," he 
 said mentally. 
 
 He began to repent of his rashness, but it was now far 
 too late to turn back. The city was further away than the 
 steamer, and his enemies would fall upon him just as 
 soon as they saw him going back. How many were 
 there? . . That was the only thing that troubled him. 
 
 "Go on! ... Go on!" cried his pride. 
 
 He had drawn out his revolver and was carrying it 
 in his right hand with the barrel to the front. In this 
 solitude he could not count upon the conventions of 
 civilized life. Night was swallowing him up with all the 
 ambushed traps of a virgin forest while before his eyes 
 was sparkling a great city, crowned with electric 
 diamonds, throwing a halo of flame into the blackness of 
 space. 
 
 Three times the Carabineers passed near him, but he 
 did not wish to speak to them. "Forward ! Only women 
 had to ask assistance. . . ." Besides, perhaps he was
 
 IN BARCELONA 423 
 
 under an hallucination: he really could not swear that 
 they were in pursuit of him. 
 
 After a few steps, this doubt vanished. His senses, 
 sharpened by danger, had the same perception as has the 
 wild boar who scents the pack of hounds trying to cross 
 his tracks. At his right, was the water. At his left, 
 men were prowling behind the mountains of freight, 
 wishing to cut him off; behind were coming still others to 
 prevent his retreat. 
 
 He might run, advancing toward those who were trying 1 
 to hem him in. But ought a man to run with a revolver 
 in his hand ? . . . Those who were coming behind would 
 join in the pursuit A human hunt was going to take 
 place in the night, and he, Ferragut, would be the deer 
 pursued by the low crowds from the bar. "Ah, no ! . . ." 
 The captain recalled von Kramer galloping miserably in 
 full daylight along the wharves of Marseilles. ... If 
 they must kill him, let it not be in flight. 
 He continued his advance with a rapid step, seeing 
 through his enemies' plans. They did not wish to show 
 themselves in that part of the harbor obstructed by moun- 
 tains of cases, fearing that he might hide himself there. 
 They would await him near his ship in a safe, hidden 
 pot by which he would undoubtedly have to pass. 
 , "Forward!" he kept repeating to himself. "If I have 
 to die, let it be within sight of the Mare Nostrum!" 
 The steamer was near. He could recognize now its black 
 silhouette fast to the wharf. At that moment the dog 
 on board began to bark furiously, announcing the cap- 
 tain's presence and danger at the same time. 
 
 He abandoned the shelter of a hillock of coal, advanc- 
 ing over an open space. He concentrated all his will 
 power upon gaining his vessel as quickly as possible. 
 
 A swift flame flashed out, followed by a report. They 
 ;were already shooting at him. Other little lights began
 
 424 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 to twinkle from different sides of the dock, followed by 
 reports of a gun. It was a sharp cross-fire ; behind him 
 they were firing, too. He felt various whistlings near 
 his ears, and received a blow on the shoulder, a sensa- 
 tion like that from a hot stone. 
 
 They were going to kill him. His enemies were too 
 many for him. And, without knowing exactly what he 
 was doing, yielding to instinct, he threw himself on the 
 ground like a dying person. 
 
 Some few shots were still sounding. Then all was 
 silent. Only on the nearby ship the dog was continuing 
 its howling. 
 
 He saw a shadow advancing slowly toward him. It 
 was a man, one of his enemies, coming out from the 
 group in order to examine him at close range. He let 
 him come close up to him, with his right hand grasping 
 his revolver still intact. 
 
 Suddenly he raised his arm, striking the head that 
 was bending over him. Two lightning streaks flashed 
 from his hand, separated by a brief interval. The first 
 flitting blaze of fire made him see a familiar face. . . . 
 Was it really Karl, the doctor's factotum? . . . The 
 second explosion aided his memory. Yes, it was Karl, 
 with his features disfigured by a black gash in the tem- 
 ple. . . . The German pulled himself up with an agoniz- 
 ing shudder, then fell on his back, with his arms re- 
 laxed. 
 
 This vision was instantaneous. The captain must 
 think only of himself now, and springing up with a 
 bound, he ran and ran, bending himself double, in order 
 to offer the enemy the least possible mark. 
 
 He dreaded a general discharge, a hail of bullets ; but 
 his pursuers hesitated a few moments, confused in the 
 darkness and not knowing surely whether it was the 
 captain who had fallen a second time.
 
 IN BARCELONA 425 
 
 Only upon seeing a man running toward the ship did 
 they recognize their error, and renew their shots. Fer- 
 ragut passed between the balls along the edge of the 
 wharf, the whole length of the Mare Nostrum. His 
 salvation was now but a matter of seconds provided that 
 the crew had not drawn in the gangplank between the 
 steamer and the shore. 
 
 Suddenly he found himself on the gangplank, at the 
 same time seeing a man advancing toward him with 
 something gleaming in one hand. It was the mate who 
 had just come out with his knife drawn. 
 
 The captain feared that he might make a mistake. 
 
 "Toni, it is I," he said in a voice almost breathless be- 
 cause of the effort of his running. 
 
 Upon treading the deck of his vessel, he instantly re- 
 covered his tranquillity. 
 
 Already the shots had ceased and the silence was 
 ominous. In the distance could be heard whistlings, cries 
 of alarm, the noise of running. The Carabineers and 
 guards were called and grouped together in order to 
 charge in the dark, marching toward the spot where the 
 shooting had sounded. 
 
 "Haul in the gangplank !" ordered Ferragut. 
 
 The mate aided three of the hands who had just come 
 up to retire the gangplank hastily. Then he threatened 
 the dog v to make it cease howling. 
 
 Ferragut, near the railing, scanned carefully the dark- 
 ness of the quay. It seemed to him that he could sev 
 some men carrying another in their arms. A remnant 
 of his wrath made him raise his right hand, still armed, 
 aiming at the group. Then he lowered it again. . . . He 
 remembered that officers would be coming to investigate 
 the occurrence. It was better that they should find the 
 boat absolutely silent.
 
 426 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Still panting, he entered the saloon under the poop and 
 sat down. 
 
 As soon as he was within the circle of pale light that 
 a hanging lamp spread upon the table Toni fixed his 
 glance on his left shoulder. 
 
 "Blood! . . ." 
 
 "It's nothing. . . . Merely a scratch. The proof of 
 it is that I can move my arm." 
 
 And he moved it, although with a certain difficulty, 
 feeling the weight of an increasing swelling. 
 
 "By-and-by I'll tell you how it happened. ... I don't 
 believe they'll be anxious to repeat it." 
 
 Then he remained thoughtful for an instant. 
 
 "At any rate, it's best for us to get away from this 
 port quickly. ... Go and see our men. Not one of them 
 is to speak about it ! ... Call Caragol." 
 
 Before Toni could go out, the shining countenance of 
 the cook surged up out of the obscurity. He was on his 
 way to the saloon, without being called, anxious to know 
 what had occurred, and fearing to find Ferragut dying. 
 Seeing the blood, his consternation expressed itself with 
 maternal vehemence. 
 
 "Cristo del Graol . . . My captain's going to 
 die! . . ." 
 
 He wanted to run to the galley in search of cotton and 
 bandages. He was something of a quack doctor and 
 always kept things necessary for such cases. 
 
 Ulysses stopped him. He would accept his services, 
 but he wished something more. 
 
 "I want to eat, Uncle Caragol," he said gayly. "I shall 
 be content with whatever you have. . . . Fright has given 
 me an appetite."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO 
 
 WHEN Ferragut left Barcelona the wound in his shoul- 
 der was already nearly healed. The rotund negative 
 given by the captain and his pilot to the questions of 
 the Carabineers freed them from further annoyance. 
 They "knew nothing, had seen nothing." The captain 
 received with feigned indifference the news that the dead 
 body of a man had been found that very night, a man 
 who appeared to be a German, but without papers, with- 
 out anything that assured his identification, on a dock 
 some distance from the berth occupied by the Mare Nos- 
 trum. The authorities had not considered it worth while 
 to investigate further, classifying it as a simple struggle 
 among refugees. 
 
 Provisioning the troops of the Orient obliged Ferra- 
 gut, in the months following, to sail as part of a convoy. 
 A cipher dispatch would sometimes summon him to 
 Marseilles, at others to an Atlantic port, Saint-Nazaire, 
 Quiberon, or Brest 
 
 Every few days ships of different class and nationality 
 were arriving. There were those that displayed their 
 aristocratic origin by the fine line of the prow, the slen- 
 derness of the smokestacks and the still white color of 
 their upper decks : they were like the high-priced steeds 
 that war had transformed into simple beasts of battle. 
 Former mail-packets, swift racers of the waves, had de- 
 scended to the humble service of transport boats. Others, 
 black and dirty, with the pitchy plaster of hasty repara- 
 
 437
 
 428 MARE NOSTRUM- 
 
 tion and a consumptive smokestack on an enormous huft, k 
 plowed along, coughing smoke, spitting ashes, panting 
 with the jangle of old iron. The flags of the Allies and 
 those of the neutral navies waved on the different ships. 
 Reuniting, they formed a convoy in the broad bay. There 
 were fifteen or twenty steamers, sometimes thirty, which 
 had to navigate together, adjusting their different speeds 
 to a common pace. The cargo boats, merchant steamers 
 that made only a few knots an hour, exacted a desperate 
 slowness of the rest of the convoy. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum had to sail at half speed, making 
 its captain very impatient with these monotonous 
 and dangerous peregrinations, extending over weeks and 
 weeks. 
 
 Before setting out, Ferraguf, like all the other cap- 
 tains, would receive sealed and stamped orders. These 
 were from the Commodore of the convoy, the com- 
 mander of a torpedo destroyer, or a simple officer of 
 the Naval Reserve in charge of a motor trawler armed 
 with a quickfiring gun. 
 
 The steamers would begin belching smoke and hoisting 
 anchors without knowing whither they were going. The 
 official document was opened only at the moment of de- 
 parture. Ulysses would break the seals and examine 
 the paper, understanding with facility its formal lan- 
 guage, written in a common cipher. The first thing that 
 he would look out for was the port of destination, then, 
 the order of formation. They were to sail in single file 
 or in a double row, according to the number of vessels. 
 The Mare Nostrum, represented by a certain number, 
 was to navigate between two other numbers which were 
 those of the nearest steamers. They were to keep be- 
 tween them a distance of about five hundred yards; it 
 was important that they should not come any nearer in 
 a moment of carelessness, nor prolong the line so that
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 429 
 
 they would be out of sight of the watchful guardians. 
 
 At the end, the general instructions for all the voyages 
 were repeated with a laconic brevity that would have 
 made other men, not accustomed to look death in the 
 face, turn pale. In case of a submarine attack, the trans- 
 ports that carried guns were to come out from the line 
 and aid the patrol of armed vessels, attacking the en- 
 emy. The others were to continue their course tranquilly, 
 without paying any attention to the attack. If the boat 
 in front of them or the one following was torpedoed, they 
 were not to stop to give it aid. The torpedo boats and 
 "chaluteros" were charged with saving the wrecked ship 
 if it were possible. The duty of the transport was 
 always to go forward, blind and deaf, without getting out 
 of line, without stopping, until it had delivered at the 
 terminal port the fortune stowed in its holds. 
 
 This march in convoy imposed by the submarine war 
 represented a leap backward in the life of the sea. It 
 recalled to Ferragut's mind the sailing fleets of other 
 centuries, escorted by navies in line, punctuating their 
 course by incessant battles, and the remote voyages of the 
 galleons of the Indies, setting forth from Seville in fleets 
 when bound for the coast of the New World. 
 
 The double file of black hulks with plumes of smoke 
 advanced very placidly in fair weather. When the day 
 was gray, the sea choppy, the sky and the atmosphere 
 foggy, they would scatter and leap about like a troop 
 of dark and frightened lambs. The guardians of the 
 convoy, three little boats that were going at full speed, 
 were the vigilant mastiffs of this marine herd, preceding 
 it in order to explore the horizon, remaining behind it, 
 or marching beside it in order to keep the formation in- 
 tact. Their lightness and their swiftness enabled them 
 to make prodigious bounds over the waves. A girdle 
 of smoke curled itself around their double smokestacks.
 
 430 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Their prows when not hidden were expelling casca3ea 
 of foam, sometimes even showing the dripping forefoot 
 of the keel. 
 
 At night time they would all travel with few lights, 
 simple lanterns at the prow, as warning to the one just 
 ahead, and another one at the stern, to point out the 
 route to the ship following. These faint lights could 
 scarcely be seen. Oftentimes the helmsman would sud- 
 denly have to turn his course and demand slackened 
 speed behind, seeing the silhouette of the boat ahead 
 looming up in the darkness. A few moments of care- 
 lessness and it would come in on the prow with a 
 deadly ram. Upon slowing down, the captain always 
 looked behind uneasily, fearing in turn to collide with 
 his following ship. 
 
 They were all thinking about the invisible submarines. 
 From time to time would sound the report of the guns ; 
 the convoy's escort was shooting and shooting, going 
 from one side to the other with agile evolutions. The 
 enemy had fled like wolves before the barking of watch- 
 dogs. On other occasions it would prove a false alarm, 
 and the shells would wound the desert water with a 
 lashing of steel. 
 
 There was an enemy more troublesome than the tem- 
 pest, more terrible than the torpedoes, that disorganized 
 the convoys. It was the fog, thick and pale as the white 
 of an egg, enshrouding the vessels, making them 
 navigate blindly in full daylight, filling space with the 
 useless moaning of their sirens, not letting them see 
 the water which sustained them nor the nearby boats 
 that might emerge at any moment from the blank atmos- 
 phere, announcing their apparition with a collision and 
 a tremendous, deadly crash. In this way the merchant 
 fleets had to proceed entire days together and when, at 
 the end, they found themselves free from this wet
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE"' 431 
 
 ! 
 
 blanket, breathing with satisfaction as though awaking 
 from a nightmare, another ashy and nebulous wall 
 would come advancing over the waters enveloping them 
 anew in its night. The most valorous and calm men 
 would swear upon seeing the endless bar of mist closing 
 off the horizon. 
 
 Such voyages were not at all to Ferragut's taste. 
 Marching in line like a soldier, and having to conform 
 to the speed of these miserable little boats irritated him 
 greatly, and it made him still more wrathful to find him- 
 self obliged to obey the Commodore of a convoy who 
 frequently was nobody but an old sailor of masterful 
 character. . 
 
 Because of all this he announced to the maritime au- 
 thorities, on one of his arrivals at Marseilles, his firm 
 intention of not sailing any more in this fashion. He 
 had had enough with four such expeditions which were 
 all well enough for timid captains incapable of leaving 
 a port unless they always had in sight an escort of 
 torpedo-boats, and whose crews at the slightest occur- 
 rence would try to lower the lifeboats and take refuge on 
 the coast. He believed that he would be more secure 
 going alone, trusting to his skill, with no other aid than 
 his profound knowledge of the routes of the Mediter- 
 ranean. 
 
 His petition was granted. He was the owner of a 
 vessel and they were afraid of losing his cooperation 
 when means of transportation were growing so very 
 scarce. Besides, the More Nostrum, on account of its 
 high speed, deserved individual employment in extraor- 
 dinary and rapid service. 
 
 He remained in Marseilles some weeks waiting for a 
 cargo of howitzers, and meandered as usual around the 
 Mediterranean capital. He passed the evenings on the 
 terrace of a cafe of the Cannebilre. The recollection of
 
 432 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 von Kramer always loomed up in his mind at such 
 times. "I wonder if they have shot him! . . ." He 
 wished to know, but his investigations did not meet with 
 much success. War Councils avoid publicity regarding 
 their acts of justice. A Marseilles merchant, a friend 
 of Ferragut, seemed to recall that some months before 
 a German spy, surprised in the harbor, had been exe- 
 cuted. Three lines, no more, in the newspapers, gave 
 an account of his death. They said that he was an of- 
 ficer. . . . And his friend went on talking about the 
 war news while Ulysses was thinking that the executed 
 man could not have been any one else but von Kramer. 
 
 On that same afternoon he had an encounter. While 
 passing through the street of Saint-Ferreol, looking at 
 the show windows, the cries of several conductors of 
 cabs and automobiles who could not manage to drive their 
 vehicles through the narrow and crowded streets, at- 
 tracted his attention. In one carriage he saw a blonde 
 lady with her back to him, accompanied by two officers 
 of the English navy. Immediately he thought of Freya. 
 . . . Her hat, her gown, everything about her person- 
 ality, was so very distinctive. And yet, when the coach 
 had passed on without his being able to get a glimpse 
 of the face of the stranger, the image of the adventuress 
 persisted in his mind. 
 
 Finally he became very much irritated with himself, 
 because of this absurd resemblance suspected with- 
 out any reason whatever. How could that English- 
 woman with the two officers be Freya? . . . How 
 could a German refugee in Barcelona manage to slip into 
 France where she was undoubtedly known by the mili- 
 tary police? . . . And still more exasperating was his 
 suspicion that this resemblance might have awakened 
 a remnant of the old love which made him see Freya 
 in every blonde woman.
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 433 
 
 At nine o'clock the following morning, while the cap- 
 tain was in his stateroom dressing to go ashore, Toni 
 opened the door. 
 
 His face was scowling and timid at the same time, as 
 though he had some bad news to give. 
 
 "That creature is here," he said laconically. 
 
 Ferragut looked at him with a questioning expression : 
 "What creature? . . ." 
 
 "Who else could it be? ... The one from Naples! 
 That blonde devil that brought us all so much trouble 1 
 . . . We'll see now if this witch is going to keep us 
 immovable for I don't know how many weeks just as she 
 did the other time." 
 
 He excused himself as though he had just failed in 
 discipline. The boat was fastened to the wharf by a 
 bridgeway and anybody could come aboard. The pilot 
 was opposed to these dockings which left the passage 
 free to the curious and the importunate. By the time he 
 had finished announcing her arrival, the lady was already 
 on deck near the staterooms. She remembered well 
 the way to the saloon. She had wished to go straight 
 in, but it had been Caragol who had stopped her, while 
 Toni went to advise the captain. 
 
 "Cristot" murmured Ulysses. "Cristo! . . ." 
 
 And his astonishment, his surprise, did not permit him 
 to utter any other exclamation. 
 
 Then he burst out furiously. "Throw her overboard! 
 . . . Let two men lay hold of her and put her back on 
 the wharf, by main force, if necessary." 
 
 But Toni hesitated, not daring to comply with such 
 commands. And the impetuous Ferragut rushed outside 
 of his cabin to do himself what had been ordered. 
 
 When he reached the saloon some one entered at the 
 same time from the deck. It was Caragol, who was 
 trying to block the passage of a woman ; but she, laughing
 
 434 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 and taking advantage of his purblind eyes, was slipping 
 little by little in between his body and the wooden par- 
 tition. 
 
 Cn seeing the captain, Freya ran toward him, throwing 
 out her arms. 
 
 "You!" she cried in a merry voice. "I knew well 
 enough that you were here, in spite of the fact that 
 these men were assuring me to the contrary. . . . My 
 heart told me so. ... How do you do, Ulysses !" 
 
 Caragol turned his eyes toward the place where he 
 supposed the mate must be, as though imploring his 
 pardon. With females he never could carry out any 
 order. . . . Toni, on his part, appeared in an agony of 
 shame before this woman who was looking at him de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 The two disappeared. Ferragut was not able to say 
 exactly how they got away, but he was glad of it. He 
 feared that the recent arrival might allude in their 
 presence to the things of the past 
 
 He remained contemplating her a long time. He had 
 believed the day before that he had recognized her back, 
 and now he was sure that he might have passed on with 
 indifference had he seen her face. Was this really the 
 same woman that the two English officials were ac- 
 companying? . . . She appeared much taller than the 
 other one, with a slenderness that made her skin appear 
 more clear, giving it a delicate transparency. The nose 
 was finer and more prominent. The eyes were sparkling, 
 hidden in bluish black circles. 
 
 These eyes began to look at the captain, humbly and 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Ulysses in wonder. "You! . . , 
 What are you coming here for ?" . . . 
 
 Freya replied with the timidity of a bondslave. Yes, 
 it was she who had recognized him the day before, long
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 435 
 
 before he had seen her, and at once had formed the 
 plan of coming in search of him. He could beat her 
 Just as at their last meeting: she was ready to suffer 
 everything . . . but with him! 
 
 "Save me, Ulysses ! Take me with you ! . . . I im- 
 plore you even more anxiously than in Barcelona." 
 
 "What are you doing here? . . ." 
 
 She understood the captain's amazement on meeting 
 her in a belligerent country, the disquietude he must 
 naturally feel upon finding a spy on his vessel. She 
 looked around in order to make sure that they were en- 
 tirely alone and spoke in a low voice. The doctor had 
 sent her to France in order that she should "operate" 
 in its ports. Only to him could she reveal the secret 
 
 Ulysses was more indignant than ever at this confi- 
 dence. 
 
 "Gear out!" he said in a wrathful voice. "I don't 
 want to know anything about you. . . . Your affairs 
 do not interest me at all. I do not wish to know them. 
 . . . Get out of here! What are you plaguing me for?" 
 
 But she did not appear disposed to comply with his 
 orders. Instead of departing, she dropped wearily down 
 on one of the divans of the stateroom. 
 
 "I have come," she said, "to beg you to save me. I 
 ask it for the last time. . . . I'm going to die; I sus- 
 pect that my end is very near if you will not hold out 
 a helping hand; I foresee the vengeance of my own 
 people. . . . Guard me, Ulysses! Do not make me go 
 back ashore ; I am afraid. ... So safe I shall feel here 
 at your side ! . . ." 
 
 Fear, sure enough, was reflected in her eyes as she 
 recalled the last months. of her life in Barcelona. 
 
 "The doctor is my enemy. . . . She who protected me 
 so in other times abandons me now like an old shoe that
 
 436 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 it is necessary to get rid of. I am positive that her 
 superior officers have condemned me. . . ." 
 
 She shuddered on remembering the doctor's wrath 
 when on her return from one of her trips she learned 
 of the death of her faithful Karl. To her, Captain Fer- 
 ragut was a species of invulnerable and victorious de- 
 mon who was escaping all dangers and murdering the 
 servants of a good cause. First von Kramer ; now Karl. 
 ... As it was necessary for her to vent her wrath on 
 somebody, she had made Freya responsible for all her 
 misfortunes. Through her she had known the captain, 
 and had mixed him up in the affairs of the "service." 
 
 Thirst for vengeance made the imposing dame smile 
 with a ferocious expression. The Spanish sailor was 
 doomed by the Highest Command. Precise orders had 
 been given out against him. "As to his accomplices! 
 . . ." Freya was figuring undoubtedly among these ac- 
 complices for having dared to defend Ferragut, for 
 remembering the tragic event of his son, for having 
 refused to join the chorus desiring his extermina- 
 tion. 
 
 Weeks afterwards the doctor again became as smiling 
 and as amiable as in other times. "My dear girl, it is 
 agreed that you should take a trip to France. We need 
 there an agent who will keep us informed of the traffic 
 of the ports, of the goings and comings of the vessels 
 in order that our submersibles may know where to await 
 them. The naval officials are very gallant, and a beauti- 
 ful woman will be able to gain their affection." 
 
 She had tried to disobey. To go to France! . . . 
 where her pre-war work was already known! . . . To 
 go back to danger when she had already become accus- 
 tomed to the safe life of a neutral country! . . . But 
 her attempts at resistance were ineffectual. She lacked
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 437 
 
 sufficient will-power; the "service" had converted Jier 
 into an automaton. 
 
 "And here I am, suspecting that probably I am going 
 to my death, but fulfilling the commissions given to me, 
 struggling to be accommodating and retard in this way 
 the fulfillment of their vengeance. ... I am like a con- 
 demned criminal who knows that he is going to die, and 
 tries to make himself so necessary that his sentence will 
 be delayed for a few months." 
 
 "How did you get into France?" he demanded, pay- 
 ing no attention to her doleful tones. 
 
 "Freya shrugged her shoulders. In her business a 
 change of nationality was easily accomplished. At pres- 
 ent she was passing for a citizen of a South American 
 republic. The doctor had arranged all the papers neces- 
 sary to enable her to cross the frontier. 
 
 "But here," she continued, "my accomplices have me 
 more securely than as though I were in prison. They 
 have given me the means of coming here and they only 
 can arrange my departure. I am absolutely in their 
 power. I wonder what they are going to do with 
 me! . . ." 
 
 At certain times terror had suggested most desperate 
 expedients to her. She had thought of denouncing her- 
 self, of appearing before the French authorities, telling 
 them her story and acquainting them with the secrets 
 which she possessed. But her past filled her with terror, 
 so many were the evils which she had brought against 
 this country. Perhaps they might pardon her life, taking 
 into account her voluntary action in giving herself up. 
 But the prison, the seclusion with shaved head, dressed 
 in some coarse serge frock, condemned to silence, per- 
 haps suffering hunger and cold, filled her with invincible 
 repulsion. . . . No, death before that! 
 
 And so she was continuing her life as a spy, shutting
 
 438 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 her eyes to the future, living only in the present, trying 
 to keep from thinking, considering herself happy if she 
 could see before her even a few days of security. 
 
 The meeting with Ferragut in the street of Marseilles 
 had revived her drooping spirits, arousing new hope. 
 
 "Get me out of here; keep me with you. On your 
 ship I could live as forgotten by the world as though 
 I were dead. . . And if my presence annoys you, take 
 me far away from France, leave me in some distant 
 country !" 
 
 She was anxious to evade isolation in the enemy's 
 territory, obliged to obey her superiors like a caged 
 beast who has to take jabs through the iron grating. 
 Presentiment of her approaching death was making her 
 tremble. 
 
 "I do not want to die, Ulysses! ... I am not old 
 enough yet to die. I adore my physical charm. I am 
 my own best lover and I am terrified at the thought that 
 I might be shot." 
 
 A phosphorescent light gleamed from her eyes and 
 her teeth struck together with a chattering of terror. 
 
 "I do not want to die!" she repeated. "There are 
 moments in which I suspect that they are following me 
 and closing me in. ... Perhaps they have recognized 
 me and at this moment are waiting to surprise me 
 in the very act. ... Do help me; get me away from 
 here; my death is certain. I have done so much 
 harm! . . ." 
 
 She was silent a moment, at though calculating all the 
 crimes of her former life. 
 
 "The doctor," she continued, "depends upon her con- 
 suming patriotic enthusiasm as the impetus to her work. 
 I lack her faith. I am not a German woman, and being 
 a spy is very repugnant to me. ... I feel ashamed when 
 I think of my actual life; every night I think over the
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 439 
 
 result of my abominable work; I calculate the use to 
 which they will put my warnings and my information; 
 I can see the torpedoed boats. ... I wonder how many 
 human beings have perished through my fault! ... I 
 have visions; my conscience torments me. Save me! 
 ... I can do no more. I feel a horrible fear. I have 
 BO much to expiate ! . . ." 
 
 Little by little she had raised herself from the divan, 
 and, while begging Ferragut's protection, was going 
 toward him with outstretched arms; abject, and yet 
 at the same time caressing, through that desire of seduc- 
 tion that always predominated over all her acts. 
 
 "Leave me!" shouted the sailor. "Do not come near 
 me. . . . Do not touch me!" 
 
 He felt that same wrath that had made him so brutal 
 in their interview in Barcelona. He was greatly exasper- 
 ated at the tenacity of this adventuress who, in addition 
 to the tragic influence she had already exercised upon 
 his life, was now trying to compromise him still fur- 
 ther. 
 
 But a sentiment of cold compassion made hiai check 
 his anger and speak with a certain kindness. 
 
 If she needed money in order to make her escape, he 
 would give it to her without any haggling whatever. 
 She could name the sum. The captain was disposed to 
 satisfy all her desires except that of living with her. 
 He would give her a substantial amount in order to make 
 her fortune assured and never see her again. 
 
 Freya made a gesture of protest at the same time 
 that the sailor began repenting of his generosity. 
 . . . Why should he do such a favor to a woman 
 who reminded him of the death of his son? . . . What 
 was there in common between the two? . . . Their vile 
 love-affair in Naples had been sufficiently paid for vrith 
 his bereavement. Let each one follow his own des-
 
 440 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 tiny; they belonged to different worlds. . . . Was he 
 going to have to defend himself all his life long from 
 this insistent charmer? . . . 
 
 Moreover, he was not at all sure that even now she 
 was telling the truth. . . . Everything about her was 
 false. He did not even know with certainty her true 
 name and her past existence. . . . 
 
 "Clear out !" he roared in a threatening tone. "Leave 
 me in peace." 
 
 He raised his powerful hand against her, seeing that 
 she was going to refuse to obey. He was going to pick 
 her up roughly, carry her like a light bundle outside the 
 room, outside the boat, flinging her away as though she 
 were remorse. 
 
 But her physique, so opulent in its seductions, now 
 inspired him with an unconquerable repugnance ; he was 
 afraid of its contact and wished to avoid its electric 
 surprises. . . . Besides, he wasn't going to maltreat her 
 at every meeting like a professional Apache who mixes 
 love and blows. He recalled with disgust his violence in 
 Barcelona. 
 
 And as Freya instead of going away sank back on 
 the divan, with a faintness that seemed to challenge his 
 wrath, it was he who fled in order to bring the inter- 
 view to an end. 
 
 He rushed into his stateroom, locking the door with a 
 bang. This flight brought her out of her inertia. She 
 wished to follow him with the leap of a young panther, 
 but her hands collided with an obstacle that became im- 
 passable, while from within sounded the noise of keys 
 and bolts. 
 
 She pounded the door desperately, injuring her fists 
 with her fruitless efforts. 
 
 "Ulysses, open it! ... Listen to me." 
 
 In vain she shrieked as though she were giving an
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 441 
 
 order, exasperated at finding that she was not obeyed. 
 Her fury spent itself unavailingly against the solid im- 
 movability of the wood. Suddenly she began to cry, mod- 
 ifying her purpose upon finding herself as weak and de- 
 fenseless as an abandoned creature. All her life appeared 
 concentrated in her tears and in her pleading voice. 
 
 She passed her fingers over the door, groping over the 
 moldings, slipping them over the varnished surface as 
 though seeking at random a crevice, a hole, something 
 that would permit her to get to the man that was on the 
 other side. 
 
 Instinctively she fell upon her knees, putting her mouth 
 to the keyhole. 
 
 "My lord, my master 1" she murmured in the voice of 
 a beggar. "Open the door. ... Do not abandon me. 
 Remember that I am going to my death if you do not 
 save me." 
 
 Ferragut heard her, and, in order to evade her moan- 
 ing, was getting as near as possible to the end of his 
 stateroom. Then he unfastened the round window that 
 opened on the deck, ordering a seaman to go after the 
 mate. 
 
 "Don Antoni! Don Antoni!" various voices cried 
 the whole length of the ship. 
 
 Toni appeared, putting his face in the circular open- 
 ing only to receive the furious vituperation of his cap- 
 tain. 
 
 Why had they left him alone with that woman? . . . 
 They must take her off the boat at once, even if it had to 
 be done by main force. . . . He commanded it. 
 
 The mate went off with a confounded air, scratching 
 his beard as though he had received an order very diffi- 
 cult -to execute. 
 
 "Save me, my love !" the imploring whisper kept moan- 
 ing. "Forget who I am. . . . Think only of the one
 
 442 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 of Naples. . . . Of the one whom you knew at Pompeii. 
 . . . Remember our happiness alone together in the days 
 when you swore never to abandon me. . . . You are a 
 gentleman! . . ." 
 
 Her voice ceased for a moment. Ferragut heard foot- 
 steps on the other side of the door. Toni was carrying 
 out his orders. 
 
 But in a few seconds the pleading again burst forth, 
 reconcentrated, tenacious, bent only upon carrying its 
 point, scorning the new obstacles about to interpose 
 between her and the captain. 
 
 "Do you hate me so? ... Remember the bliss tha* I 
 gave you. You yourself swore to me that you had never 
 been so happy. I can revive that past. You do not 
 know of what things I am capable in order to make 
 your existence sweet. . . . And you wish to lose and to 
 ruin me! . . ." 
 
 A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of 
 bodies that were pushing each other, the friction of a 
 scuffle against the wood. 
 
 Toni had entered followed by Caragol. 
 
 "Enough of that now, Sefiora," said the mate in a 
 grim voice in order to hide his emotion. "Can't you see 
 that the captain doesn't want to see you ? . . . Don't you 
 understand that you are disturbing him? . . . Come, 
 now. . . . Get up !" 
 
 He tried to help her to stand up, separating her mouth 
 from the keyhole. But Freya repelled the vigorous sailor 
 with facility. He appeared to be lacking in force, with- 
 out the courage to repeat his rough action. The beauty 
 of this woman made him afraid. He was still thrilled 
 by the contact of her firm body which he had just touched 
 during their short struggle. His drowsing virtue had 
 suffered the torments of a fruitless resurrection. "AH,
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 443 
 
 no! ... Let somebody else take charge of putting her 
 off. 
 
 "Ulysses, they're taking me away!" she cried, again 
 putting her mouth to the keyhole. "And you, my love, 
 will you permit it? . . . You who used to love me 
 so? . . ." 
 
 After this desperate call, she remained silent for a 
 few instants. The door maintained its immobility; be- 
 hind it there seemed to be no living being. 
 
 "Farewell!" she continued in a low voice, her throat 
 choked with sobs, "you will see me no more. ... I 
 am soon going to die ; my heart tells me so. ... To die 
 because of you! . . . Perhaps some day you will weep 
 on recalling that you might have saved me." 
 
 Some one had intervened to force Freya from hei? 
 rebellious standstill. It was Caragol, solicited by the 
 mate's imploring eyes. 
 
 His great hairy hands helped her to arise, without 
 making her repeat the protest that had repelled Toni. 
 Conquered and bursting into tears, she appeared to yield 
 to the paternal aid and counsel of the cook. 
 
 "Up now, my good lady!" said Caragol. "A little 
 more courage and don't cry any more. . . . There is 
 some consolation for everything in this world." 
 
 In his bulky right hand he imprisoned her two, and, 
 passing his other arm around her waist, he was guid- 
 ing her little by little toward the exit from the salon. 
 
 "Trust in God," he added. "Why do you seek the 
 captain who has his own wife ashore? . . . Other men 
 who are free are still in existence, and you could make 
 some arrangement with them without falling into mortal 
 sin." 
 
 Freya was not listening to him. Near the door she 
 again turned her head, beginning her return toward the 
 captain's stateroom.
 
 444 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "Ulysses ! . . . Ulysses !" she cried. 
 
 "Trust in God, Sefiora," said Caragol again, while he 
 was pushing her along with his flabby abdomen and 
 shaggy breast. 
 
 A charitable idea was taking possession of his thoughts. 
 He had the remedy for the grief of this handsome 
 Woman whose desperation but made her more inter- 
 tsting. 
 
 "Come along, Senora. . . . Leave it to me, my child." 
 
 Upon reaching the deck he continued driving her 
 towards his dominions. Freya found herself seated in 
 the galley, without knowing just exactly where she was. 
 Through her tears she saw this obese old man of sacer- 
 dotal benevolence, going from side to side gathering bot- 
 tles together and mixing liquids, stirring the spoon 
 around in a glass with a joyous tinkling. 
 
 "Drink without fear. . . . There is no trouble that 
 resists this medicine." 
 
 The cook offered her a glass and she, vanquished, 
 drank and drank, making a wry face because of the alco- 
 holic intensity of the liquid. She continued weeping at 
 the same time that her mouth was relishing the heavy 
 sweetness. Her tears were mingled with the beverage 
 that was slipping between her lips. 
 
 A comfortable warmth began making itself felt in her 
 stomach, drying up the moisture in her eyes and giving 
 new color to her cheeks. Caragol was keeping up his 
 chat, satisfied with the outcome of his handiwork, making 
 signs to the glowering Toni, who was passing and re- 
 passing before the door, with the vehement desire of 
 seeing the intruder march away, and disappear forever. 
 
 "Don't cry any more, my daughter. . . . Cristo del 
 Grao! The very idea! A lady as pretty as you, who 
 can find sweethearts by the dozen, crying! . . . Believe 
 me ; find somebody else. This world is just full of men
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE 1 * 445 
 
 with nothing to do. . . . And always for every disap- 
 pointment that you suffer, have recourse to my cordial, 
 ... I am going to give you the recipe." 
 
 He was about to note down on a bit of paper the 
 proportions of brandy and sugar, when she arose, sud- 
 denly invigorated, looking around her in wonder. . . , 
 But where was she? What had she to do with this 
 good, kind, half-dressed man, who was talking to her as 
 though he were her father ? . . . 
 
 "Thanks! Many thanks!" she said on leaving the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Then on deck she stopped, opening her gold-mesh 
 bag, in order to take out the little glass and powder box. 
 In the beveled edge of the oval glass she saw the faun- 
 like countenance of Toni hovering behind her with 
 glances of impatience. 
 
 "Tell Captain Ferragut that I shall never trouble 
 him again. . . . All has ended. . . . Perhaps he may 
 hear me spoken of some time, but he will never see me 
 again." 
 
 And she left the boat without turning her head, with 
 quickened step as though, fired by a sudden suggestion, 
 she were hastening to put it into effect. 
 
 Toni ran also, but toward Ulysses' stateroom window. 
 
 "Has she gone yet?" asked the captain impatiently. 
 
 The mate nodded his head. She had promised not 
 to return. 
 
 "Be it so!" said Ferragut. 
 
 Toni experienced the same desire. Would to God 
 they might never again see this blonde who always 
 brought them misfortune! . . . 
 
 In the days following, the captain rarely left his ship. 
 He did not wish to run the risk of meeting her in the 
 city streets for he was a little doubtful of the hardness of 
 his character. He feared that upon seeing her again,
 
 446 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 weeping and pleading, he might yield to her beseeching. 
 
 Ulysses' uneasiness vanished as soon as the loading of 
 the vessel was finished. This trip was going to be shorter 
 than the others. The Mare Nostrum went to Corfu 
 with war material for the Serbs who were reorganizing 
 their battalions destined for Salonica. 
 
 On the return trip Ferragut was attacked by the en- 
 emy. One day at dawn just as he mounted the bridge 
 to relieve Toni, the two spied at the same time 
 the tangible form that they were always seeing in im- 
 agination. Within the circle of their glasses there 
 framed itself the end of a stick, black and upright, that 
 was cutting the waters rosy in the sunrise, leaving a wake 
 of foam. 
 
 "Submarine !" shouted the captain. 
 
 Toni said nothing, but shoving aside the helmsman with 
 a stroke of his paw, he grasped the wheel, making the 
 boat swerve in another direction. The movement was 
 opportune. Only a few seconds had passed by when 
 there began to be seen upon the water a black back of 
 dizzying speed headed directly for the steamer. 
 
 "Torpedo !" shouted the captain. 
 
 The anxious waiting lasted but a few Seconds. The 
 projectile, hidden in the water, passed some six yards 
 from the stern, losing itself in space. Had it not been 
 for Toni's rapid tacking, the boat would have been hit 
 squarely in the side. 
 
 Through the speaking tube connecting with the en- 
 gine-room the captain shouted energetic orders to put 
 on full speed. Meanwhile the mate, clamped to the 
 wheel, ready to die rather than leave it, was directing 
 the boat in zigzags so as not to offer a fixed point to 
 the submarine. 
 
 All the crew were watching from the rail the dis- 
 tant and insignificant upright periscope. The third of-
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 447 
 
 ficer had rushed out of his stateroom, almost naked, 
 rubbing his sleepy eyes. Caragol was in the stern, 
 his loose shirt-tail flapping away as he held one hand 
 to his eyebrows like a visor. 
 
 "I see it ! ... I see it perfectly. . . . Ah, the bandit, 
 the heretic !" 
 
 And he extended his threatening fist toward a point 
 in the horizon exactly opposite to the one upon which the 
 periscope was appearing. 
 
 Through the blue circle of the glasses Ferragut saw 
 this tube climbing up and up, growing larger and larger. 
 It was no longer a stick, it was a tower; and from be- 
 neath this tower was coming up on the sea a base of 
 steel spouting cascades of smoke, a gray whale-back 
 that appeared little by little to be taking the form of a 
 sailing vessel, long and sharp-pointed. 
 
 A flag was suddenly run up upon the submarine, 
 Ulysses recognized it. 
 
 "They are going to shell us !" he yelled to Ton!. "It's 
 useless to keep up the zigzagging. The thing to do now 
 is to outspeed them, to go forward in a straight line." 
 
 The mate, skillful helmsman that he was, obeyed the 
 captain. The hull vibrated under the force of the en- 
 gines taxed to their utmost. Their prow was cutting 
 the waters with increasing noise. The submersible upon 
 augmenting its volume by emersion appeared, neverthe- 
 less, to be falling behind on the horizon. Two streaks 
 of foam began to spring up on both sides of its prow. 
 It was running with all its possible surface speed; but 
 the M are Nostrum was also going at the utmost limit of 
 its engines and the distance was widening between the 
 two boats. 
 
 "They are shooting !" said Ferragut with the glasses to 
 his eyes. 
 
 A column of water spouted near the prow. That was
 
 448 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the only thing that Caragol was able to see clearly and 
 he burst into applause with a childish joy. Then he 
 waved on high his palm-leaf hat. "Viva el Santo 
 Cristo del Grao! . . ." 
 
 Other projectiles were falling around the Mare Nos- 
 trum, spattering it with jets of foam. Suddenly it trem- 
 bled from poop to prow. Its plates trembled with the 
 vibration of an explosion. 
 
 "That's nothing!" yelled the captain, bending himself 
 double over the bridge in order to see better the hull of 
 his ship. "A shell in the stern. Steady, Toni! . . ." 
 
 The mate, always grasping the wheel, kept turning his 
 head from time to time to measure the distance separating 
 them from the submarine. Every time that he saw an 
 aquatic column of spray, forced up by a projectile, he 
 would repeat the same counsel. 
 
 "Lie down, Ulysses! . . . They are going to fire at 
 the bridge !" 
 
 This was a recollection of his far-away youth when, 
 as a contrabandist, he used to stretch himself flat on 
 the deck of his bark, manipulating the wheel and the 
 sail under the fire of the custom-house officers on watch. 
 He feared for the life of his captain while he was stand- 
 ing, constantly offering himself to the shots of the en- 
 
 Ferragut was storming from side to side, cursing his 
 lack of means for returning the aggression. "This will 
 never happen another time! . . . They won't get an-; 
 other chance to amuse themselves chasing me!" 
 
 A second projectile opened another breach in the poop, 
 "If it only won't hit the engines !" the captain was think- 
 ing. After that the Mare Nostrum received no more 
 damage, the following shots merely raising up columns 
 of water in the steamer's wake. Every time now, these 
 white phantasms leaped up further and further away.
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 449 
 
 Although out of the range of the enemy's gun, it con- 
 tinued shooting and shooting uselessly. Finally the fir- 
 ing ceased and the submarine disappeared from the view 
 of the glasses and completely submerged, tired of vain 
 pursuit. 
 
 "That'll never happen again!" the captain kept re- 
 peating. "They'll never attack me another time with 
 impunity 1" 
 
 Then it occurred to him that this submarine had at- 
 t-ck him knowing just who he was. On the side of 
 Lis vessel were painted the colors of Spain. At the 
 first shot from the gun, the third officer had hoisted 
 the flag, but the shots did not cease on that account 
 They had wished to sink it "without leaving any 
 crace." lie believed that Freya, in her relations with 
 the directors of the submarine campaign, must have ad- 
 vised them of his trip. 
 
 "Ah, . . . tall If I meet her another time! . . ." 
 
 He hud to remain several weeks in Marseilles while 
 the damage to his steamer was being repaired. 
 
 As Toni lacked occupation during this enforced idle- 
 ness, he accompanied him many times on his strolls. 
 They liked to seat themselves on the terrace of a cafe 
 in order to comment upon the picturesque differences 
 in the cosmopolitan crowd. 
 
 "Look ; people from our own country !" said the cap- 
 tain one evening. 
 
 And he pointed to three seamen drawn into the cur- 
 rent of dLTerent uniforms and types of various race* 
 flowing familiarly around the tables of the cafe". 
 
 He had recognized them by their silk caps with visor*, 
 their blue jackets and their heavy obesity of Mediter- 
 ranean sailors enjoying a certain prosperity. They must 
 be skippers of small boats. 
 
 As though Ferragut's looks and gestures had mys-
 
 450 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 teriously notified them, the three turned, fixing their 
 eyes on the captain. Then they began to discuss among 
 themselves with a vehemence which made it easy to 
 guess their words. 
 
 "It is he! . . ." "No, it isn't! . . ." 
 
 Those men knew him but couldn't believe that they 
 were really seeing him. 
 
 They went a little way off with marked indecisfon, 
 turning repeatedly to look at him once more. In a few 
 moments one of them, the oldest, returned, approaching 
 the table timidly. 
 
 "Excuse me, but aren't you Captain Ferragut? . . ." 
 He asked this question in Valencian, with his right hand 
 at his cap, ready to take it off. 
 
 Ulysses stopped his salutation and offered him a seat. 
 Yes, he was Ferragut. What did he want? . . . 
 
 The man refused to sit down. He wished to tell him 
 privately two special things. When the captain pre- 
 sented to him his mate as a man in whom they could 
 have complete confidence, he then sat down. The two 
 companions, breaking through the human current, were 
 standing on the edge of the sidewalk, turning their backs 
 to the cafe. 
 
 He was skipper of a small craft; Ferragut had not 
 been mistaken. He was speaking slowly, as though taken 
 up with his final revelation to which all that he was 
 saying was merely an introduction. 
 
 "The times are not so bad. . . . Money is to be 
 gained in the sea ; more than ever. I am from Valencia. 
 . . . We have brought three boats from there with wine 
 and rice. A good trip, but it was necessary to navigate 
 close to the coast, following the curve of the gulf, with- 
 out venturing to pass from cape to cape for fear of the 
 submarine. ... I have met a submarine." 
 
 Ulysses suspected that these last words contained the
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 451 
 
 real motive which had made the man, overcoming his 
 timidity, venture to address him. 
 
 "It was not on this trip nor on the one before," con- 
 tinued the man of the sea. "I met it two days before 
 last Christmas. In the winter I devote myself to fishing. 
 I am the owner of a pair of fishing smacks. . . . We 
 were near the island Columbretas when suddenly we 
 saw a submarine appear near us. The Germans did 
 not do us any harm; the only vexatious thing was that 
 we had to give them a part of our fish for what they 
 wished to give us. Then they ordered me to come 
 aboard the deck of a submarine in order to meet the com- 
 mander. He was a young fellow who could talk Cas- 
 tilian as I have heard it spoken over there in the Ameri- 
 cas when I was a youngster sailing on a brigantine." 
 
 The man stopped, rather reserved, as though doubtful 
 whether to continue his story. 
 
 "And what did the German say?" asked Ferragut, in 
 order to encourage him to continue. 
 
 "Upon learning that I was a Valencian, he asked me 
 if I was acquainted with you. He asked me about your 
 steamer, wanting to know if it generally sailed along 
 the Spanish coast. I replied that I knew you by name, 
 no more, and then he . . ." 
 
 The captain encouraged him with a smile on seeing 
 that he was beginning to hesitate again. 
 
 "He spoke badly about me. Isn't that so? . . ." 
 
 "Yes, sir; very badly. He used ugly words. He said 
 that he had an account to adjust with you and that he 
 wished to be the first one to meet you. According to 
 what he gave me to understand, the other submarines 
 are hunting for you, too. ... It is an order without 
 doubt." 
 
 Ferragut and his mate exchanged a long look. Mean- 
 while the captain continued his explanations.
 
 4S2 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The two friends who were waiting a few steps off 
 had seen the captain in Valencia and Barcelona many 
 times. One of them had recognized him immediately; 
 but the other was doubtful whether it might be he, and, 
 as a matter of conscience, the old skipper had come back 
 to give him this warning. 
 
 "We countrymen must help one another. . . . These 
 are bad times !" 
 
 Seeing him standing, his two comrades now came up 
 to Ferragut. "What would you like to drink?" He in- 
 vited them to seat themselves at the table, but they were 
 in a hurry. They were on their way to see the con- 
 signees of their boats. 
 
 "Now you know it, Captain," said the skipper on 
 bidding him farewell. "These demons are after you 
 in order to pay you up for something in the past. You 
 know what for. ... Be very careful!" 
 
 The rest of the evening Ferragut and Toni talked 
 very little together. The two had exactly the same 
 thought in their brain, but avoided putting it in shape 
 because, as energetic men, they feared that some cow- 
 ardly construction might be put upon such thoughts. 
 
 At nightfall when they returned to the steamer the 
 pilot ventured to break the silence. 
 
 "Why do you not quit the sea? ... You are rich. 
 Besides, they'll give you whatever you ask for your 
 ship. To-day boats are worth their weight in gold." 
 
 Ulysses shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't thinking 
 of money. What good would that do him? . . . He 
 wanted to pass the rest of his life on the sea, giving aid 
 to the enemies of his enemies. He had a vengeance to 
 fulfill. . . . Living on land, he would be abandoning 
 this vengeance, though remembering his son with even 
 greater intensity. 
 
 The mate was silent for a few moments.
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 453 
 
 **The enemies are so many," he then said in dismay. 
 "We are so insignificant ! . . . \Ve on!y escaped by a few 
 yards being sent to the bottom on our last trip. What 
 has not happened yet will surely happen some day. . . . 
 They have sworn to do away with you; and they arc 
 many . . . and they are at war. What could we do, 
 we poor peaceable sailors? . . ." 
 
 Toni did not add anything further but his silent 
 thoughts were divined by Ulysses. 
 
 He was thinking about his family over there in the 
 Marina, enduring an existence of continual anxiety while 
 he was aboard a vessel for which irresistible menace was 
 lying in wait. He was thinking also of the wives and 
 mothers of all the men of the crew who were suffering 
 the same anguish. And Toni was asking himself for 
 the first time whether Captain Ferragut had the right to 
 drag them all to a sure death just because of his vengeful 
 and crazy stubbornness. 
 
 "No ; I have not the right," Ulysses told himself men- 
 tally. 
 
 But at the same time his mate, repentant of his former 
 reflection, was affirming in a loud voice with heroic sim- 
 plicity : 
 
 "If I counsel you to retire, it is for your own good; 
 don't think it is because I am afraid. ... I will follow 
 you wherever you sail. I've got to die some time and 
 it would be far better that it should be in the sea. The 
 only thing that troubles me is worrying about my wife 
 and children." 
 
 The captain continued walking in silence and, upon 
 reaching his ship, spoke with brevity. "I was thinking 
 of doing something that perhaps you would all like. 
 Before next week your future will have been decided." 
 
 He passed the following day on land. Twice he re- 
 turned with some gentlemen who examined the steamer
 
 454 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 minutely, going down into the engine room and the holds. 
 Some of these visitors appeared to be experts in mat' 
 ters pertaining to the sea. 
 
 "He wants to sell the boat," said Toni to himself. 
 
 And the mate began to repent of his counsels. Aban- 
 don the Mare Nostrum, the best of all the ships on which 
 he had ever sailed ! . . . He accused himself of coward- 
 ice, believing that it was he who had impelled the cap- 
 tain to reach this decision. What were the two going to 
 do on land when the steamer was the property of others? 
 . . . Would he not have to sail on an inferior boat, run- 
 ning the same risks ? . . . He decided to undo his work, 
 and was about to counsel Ferragut again, declaring that 
 his ideas were mere conjecture and that he must continue 
 living as he was at present, when the captain gave the 
 order for departure. The repairs were not yet entirely 
 completed. 
 
 "We are going to Brest/' said Ferragut laconically, 
 "It's the last trip." 
 
 And the steamer put to sea without cargo as though 
 going to fulfill a special mission. 
 
 "The last trip!" Toni admired his ship as though 
 seeing it under a new light, discovering beauties 
 hitherto unsuspected, lamenting like a lover the days 
 that were running by so swiftly and the sad moment of 
 separation that was approaching. 
 
 Never had the mate been so active in his vigilance. 
 His seaman's superstition filled him with a certain ter- 
 ror. Just because it was the last voyage something hor- 
 rible might occur to them. He paced the bridge for entire 
 days, examining the sea, fearing the apparition of a peri- 
 scope, varying the course in agreement with the captain, 
 who was seeking less- frequented waters where the sub- 
 marines could not expect to find any prey. 
 
 He breathed more freely upon entering one of the
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 455 
 
 three semi-circular sea-ledges which enclose the road- 
 stead of Brest. When they were anchored in this bit 
 of sea, foggy and insecure, surrounded with black moun- 
 tains, Toni awaited with anxiety the result of the cap- 
 tain's excursions ashore. 
 
 During the entire course of the trip Ferragut had not 
 been inclined to be confidential. The mate only knew 
 that this voyage to Brest was the last. Who was going 
 to be the new owner of the Mare Nostrum? . . . 
 
 One rainy evening, upon returning to the boat, Ulysses 
 gave orders that they should hunt up the mate while he 
 was shaking out his waterproof in the entry to the state- 
 room. 
 
 The roadstead was dark with its foamy waves, choppy 
 and thick, leaping like sheep. The men-of-war were send- 
 ing out smoke from their triple chimneys ready to con- 
 front the bad weather with their steam engines. 
 
 The ship, anchored in the commercial port, was danc- 
 ing restlessly, tugging at its hawsers, with a mournful 
 croaking. All the nearby boats were tossing in the same 
 way, just as though they were out on the high seas. 
 
 Toni entered the saloon, and one look at the captain's 
 face made him suspect that the moment for knowing the 
 truth had arrived. Avoiding his glance, Ulysses told him 
 curtly, trying to evade by the conciseness of his language 
 all signs of emotion. 
 
 He had sold the ship to the French: a rapid and 
 magnificent piece of business. . . . Whoever would have 
 said when he bought the Mare Nostrum that some day 
 they would give him such an enormous sum for it? ... 
 In no country could they find any vessels for sale. The 
 invalids of the sea, rusting in the harbors as old iron, 
 were now bringing fabulous prices. Boats, aground and 
 forgotten on remote coasts, were placed afloat for en- 
 terprises that were gaining millions by this resurrection.
 
 456 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Others, submerged in tropical seas, had been brought 
 up to the surface after a ten years' stay under the water, 
 renewing their voyages. Every month a new shipyard 
 sprang into existence, but the world war could never find 
 enough vessels for the transportation of food and instru- 
 ments of death. 
 
 Without any bargaining whatever, they had given Fer- 
 ragut the price that he had exacted; fifteen hundred 
 francs per ton, four million and a half for the boat. 
 And to this must be added the nearly two millions that 
 it had gained in its voyages since the beginning of the 
 war. 
 
 "I am rotten with money," concluded the captain. 
 
 And he said it sadly, remembering with a homesick 
 longing the days of peace when he was wrestling with 
 the problems of a badly paying business. But then his 
 son was living. Of what avail was all this wealth that 
 was assaulting him on all sides as though it were going 
 to crush him with its weight? . . . His wife would be 
 able to lavish money with full hands on works of char- 
 ity; she would be able to give her nieces the dowry suit- 
 able for daughters of high-born personages. . . . Noth- 
 ing more ! Neither he nor she could for one moment 
 resuscitate their past. These useless riches could only 
 bring him a certain tranquillity in thinking of the future 
 of his wife, who was his entire family. She was at lib- 
 erty henceforth to dispose freely of her existence. Cinta, 
 on his death, would fall heir to millions. 
 
 In order to evade the emotions of farewell, he spoke 
 to Toni very authoritatively. A chart of the Atlantic 
 was lying on the table and with his index finger he 
 marked ont the mate's course ; this course was not across 
 the ?ea, but far from it, following an inland route. 
 
 "To-morrow," he said, "the French are coming to 
 take possession. You may leave whenever you please,
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 457 
 
 but it will be convenient to have you go as soon as pos- 
 sible. . . ." 
 
 He explained his return trip to Toni, just as though he 
 were giving him a lesson in geography. This sea-rover 
 became timid and downhearted when they talked to him 
 about railroad time-tables and changing trains. 
 
 "Here is Brest. . . . Follow this line to Bordeaux; 
 from Bordeaux to the frontier. And once there, turn 
 to Barcelona or go to Madrid, and from Madrid to 
 Valencia." 
 
 The mate contemplated the map silently, scratching 
 his beard. Then he raised his canine eyes slowly until 
 he fixed them upon Ulysses. 
 
 "And you?" he asked. 
 
 "I remain here. The captain of the Mare Nostrum, 
 has sold himself with his vessel." 
 
 Toni made a distressed gesture. For a moment he 
 almost believed that Ferragut wanted to get rid of him 
 and was discontented with his services. But Uie captain 
 hastened to explain further. 
 
 Because the Mare Nostrum belonged to a neutral coun- 
 try, it could not be sold to one of the belligerent nations 
 while hostilities lasted. Because of this, he had trans- 
 ferred it in a way that would not make it necessary to 
 change the flag. Although no longer its owner, he would 
 stay on board as its captain, and the ship would con- 
 tinue to be Spanish the same as before. 
 
 "And why must I go away?" asked Toni in a tremu- 
 lous tone, believing himself overlooked. 
 
 "We are going to sail armed," replied Ulysses ener- 
 getically. "I have made the sale on that account more 
 than for the money. We are going to carry a quickfirer 
 lit the stern, wireless installation, a crew of men from 
 the naval reserves, everything necessary to defend our- 
 selves. We shall make our voyages without hunting for
 
 458 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 the enemy, carrying freight as before; but if the enemy 
 comes out to attack us, it will find some one who will an- 
 swer." 
 
 He was ready to die, if that was to be his fate, but 
 attacking whoever attacked him. 
 
 "And may I not go, too ?" persisted the pilot. 
 
 "No; back of you there is a family that needs you. 
 You do not belong to a nation at war, nor have you 
 anything to avenge. ... I am the only one of the former 
 crew that remains on board. All the rest of you are to 
 go. The captain has a reason for exposing his life, and 
 he does not wish to assume the responsibility of dragging 
 all of you into his last adventure." 
 
 Toni understood that it would be useless to insist. 
 His eyes became moist. . . . Was it possible that within 
 a few hours they would be bidding each other a last 
 good-by? . . . Should he never again see Ulysses and 
 the ship on which he had spent the greater part of his 
 past? . . . 
 
 In order to maintain his serenity, the captain tried to 
 bring this interview promptly to an end. 
 
 "The first thing to-morrow morning," he said, "you 
 will call the crew together. Adjust all the accounts. 
 Each one must receive as an extra bonus a year's pay. 
 I wish them to have pleasant memories of Captain Fer- 
 ragut." 
 
 The mate attempted to oppose this generosity by a 
 remnant of the keen interest that the business affairs of 
 the boat had always inspired in him. But his superior 
 officer would not let him continue. 
 
 "I am rotten with money, I tell you," he repeated as 
 though uttering a complaint. "I have more than I need. 
 ... I can do foolish things with it if I wish to." 
 
 Then for the first time he looked his mate square 
 in the face.
 
 'FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 459 
 
 "As for you," he continued, "I have thought what you 
 must do. . . . Here, take this !" 
 
 He gave him a sealed envelope and the pilot mechani- 
 cally tried to open it 
 
 "No, don't open it at present. You will find out what 
 it contains when you are in Spain. Within it is enclosed 
 the future of your own folks." 
 
 Toni looked with astonished eyes at the light scrap of 
 paper which he held between his fingers. 
 
 "I know you," continued Ferragut. "You are going 
 to protest at the quantity. What to me is insignificant, 
 to you will appear excessive. . . . Do not open the en- 
 velope until you are in our country. In it you will find 
 the name of the bank to which you must go. I wish 
 you to be the richest man in your village that your sons 
 may remember Captain Ferragut when he is dead." 
 
 The mate made a gesture of protest before this pos- 
 sible death, and at the same time rubbed his eyes as 
 though he felt in them an intolerable itching. 
 
 Ulysses continued his instructions. He had rashly 
 sold the home of his ancestors there in the 'Marina, the 
 vineyards, all his legacy from the Triton, when he had 
 acquired the Mare Nostrum. It was his wish that Toni 
 should redeem the property, installing himself in the 
 ancient domicile of the Ferraguts. 
 
 He had money to spare for that and much mofe. 
 
 "I have no children and I like to feel that yours are 
 occupying the house that was mine. . . . Perhaps when 
 I get to be an old man if they do not kill me, I will 
 come to spend the summers with you. Courage now, 
 Toni! . . . We shall yet go fishihg together, as I used 
 to go fishing with my uncle, the doctor." 
 
 But the mate did not regain his spirits on hearing 
 these optimistic affirmations. His eyes were swollen 
 with tears that sparkled in the corners of his eyes. He
 
 460 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 was swearing between his teeth, protesting against the 
 coming separation. . . . Never to see him again, after 
 so many years of brotherly companionship 1 . . , 
 Cristo! . . . 
 
 The captain was afraid that he, too, might burst into 
 tears and again ordered his mate to present the accounts 
 of the crew. 
 
 An hour later Toni reentered the saloon, carrying 
 in his hand the opened letter. He had not been able 
 to resist the temptation of forcing the secret, fearing that 
 Ferragut's generosity might prove excessive, and im- 
 possible to consider. He protested, handing to Ulysses 
 the check taken from the envelope. 
 
 *'I could not accept it ! ... It's a crazy idea ! . . ." 
 
 He had read with terror the amount made out to him in 
 the letter of credit, first in figures then in long hand. 
 Two hundred and fifty thousand pesetas ! ... fifty thou- 
 sand dollars! 
 
 "That is not for me," he said again. "I do not deserve 
 it. ... What could I ever do with so much money?" 
 
 The captain pretended to be irritated by his disobedi- 
 ence. 
 
 "You take that paper, you brute! ... I was just 
 afraid that you were going to protest. . . . It's for your 
 children, and so that you can take a rest. Now we 
 won't talk any more about it or I shall get angry." 
 
 Then, in order to conquer Toni's scruples, he aban- 
 doned his violent tone, and said sadly: 
 
 "I have no heirs. ... I don't know what to do with 
 my useless fortune." 
 
 And he repeated once more like a complaint against 
 destiny : "I am rotten with money I ..." 
 
 The following morning, while Toni was in his cabin 
 adjusting the accounts of the crew, astonished by the
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 461 
 
 munificence of their paying-off, Uncle Caragol came 
 into the saloon, asking to speak to Ferragut 
 
 He had placed an old cape over his flapping and 
 scanty clothing, more as a decoration for the visit than 
 because the cold of Brittany was really making him suf- 
 fer. 
 
 He removed from his shaved head his everlasting palm- 
 leaf hat, fixing his bloodshot eyes on the captain who 
 continued writing after replying to his greeting. 
 
 "What does this mean, this order that I've just re- 
 ceived to prepare to leave the boat within a few hours? 
 ... It must be some kind of a joke of Toni's ; he's an 
 excellent fellow but an enemy to holy things and likes 
 to tease me because of my piety. . . ." 
 
 Ferragut laid aside his pen, swinging around toward 
 the cook whose fate had troubled him as much as the 
 first mate's. 
 
 "Uncle Caragol, we are growing old and we must 
 think about retiring. ... I am going to give you a paper ; 
 you will guard it just as though it were a sacred picture, 
 and when you present it in Valencia they will give you 
 ten thousand dollars. Do you know how much ten 
 thousand dollars are? . . ." 
 
 Bringing his mentality down to the level of this simple- 
 minded man, he enjoyed tracing out for him a plan of 
 living. He could invest his capital in whatever modest 
 enterprise in the port of Valencia might appeal to his 
 fancy ; he could establish a restaurant which would soon 
 become famous for its Olympian rice dishes. His 
 nephews who were fishermen would receive him like a 
 god. He could also be partner in a couple of barks, 
 dedicated to fishing for the bou. There was awaiting 
 him a happy and honorable old age; his former sailing 
 companions were going to look upon him with envy. 
 He could get up late in the morning ; he could go to the
 
 462 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 cafes ; as a rich devotee he could figure in all the religious 
 processions of the Grau and of the Cabanal; he could 
 have a place of honor in the holy processions. . . . 
 
 Heretofore, when Feragut was talking, Uncle Caragol 
 had always mechanically interrupted him, saying: "That 
 is so, my captain." For the first time he was not nodding 
 his head nor smiling with his sun-like face. He was 
 pale and gloomy. He shook his round head energetically 
 and said laconically: 
 
 "No, my captain." 
 
 Before the glance of astonishment which Ulysses 
 flashed upon him, he found it necessary to explain him- 
 self. 
 
 "What am I ever going to do ashore? . . . Who is 
 expecting me there? ... Or what business with my 
 family would have any interest for me? . . ." 
 
 Ferragut seemed to be hearing an echo of his own 
 thoughts. He, like the cook, would have nothing to do 
 on land. . . . He was mortally bored when far from the 
 sea, just as in those months when, still young, he had be- 
 lieved that he could create for himself a new profession 
 in Barcelona. Besides, it was impossible to return to his 
 home, taking up life again with his wife; it would be 
 simply losing his last illusions. It would be better to 
 view from afar all that remained of his former existence. 
 
 Caragol, meanwhile, was going on talking. His 
 nephews would not remember the poor old cook and he 
 had no reason to trouble himself about their fate, making 
 them rich. He would prefer to remain just where he 
 Was, without money but happy. 
 
 "Let the others go!" he said with childish selfishness. 
 "Let Toni go! ... I'm going to stay. . . . I've got to 
 stay. When the captain goes, then Uncle Caragol will 
 go." 
 
 Ulysses enumerated the great dangers that the boat
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 463 
 
 was about to face. The German submarines were lying 
 in wait for it with deadly determination; there would 
 be combats . . . they would be torpedoed. . . . 
 
 The old man's smile showed contempt of all such dan- 
 gers. He was certain that nothing bad could possibly 
 happen to the Mare Nostrum. The furies of the sea 
 were unavailing against it and still less could the wick- 
 edness of man injure it. 
 
 "I know what I'm talking about, Captain. ... I am 
 sure that we shall come out safe and sound from all 
 dangers." 
 
 He thought of his miracle-working amulets, of his 
 sacred pictures, of the supernatural protection that his 
 pious prayers were bringing him. Furthermore, he was 
 taking into consideration the Latin name of the ship 
 which had always inspired him with religious respect. 
 It belonged to the language used by the Church, to the 
 idiom which brought about miracles and expelled the 
 devil, making him run away aghast. 
 
 "The Mare Nostrum will not suffer any misfortune. 
 If it should change its title . . . perhaps. But while it is 
 called Mare Nostrum, how could anything happen to 
 it? . . ." 
 
 Smiling before this faith, Ferragut brought forth his 
 last argument. The entire crew was going to be made 
 up of Frenchmen ; how could they ever understand each 
 other if he were ignorant of their language ? . . . 
 
 "I know it all," affirmed the old man superbly. 
 
 He had made himself understood with men in all the 
 different ports of the world. He was counting on some- 
 thing more than mere language, on his eyes, his hands, 
 the expressive cunning of an exuberant and gesticulating 
 meridional. 
 
 "I am just like San Vicente Ferrer" he added with 
 pride.
 
 464 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 His saint had spoken only the Valencian dialect, and 
 yet had traveled throughout half Europe preaching to 
 throngs of different tongues, making them weep with 
 mystic emotion and repent of their sins. 
 
 While Ferragut retained the command, he was going 
 to stay. If he didn't want him for a cook, he would 
 be the cabin boy, washing up the pots and pans. The 
 important thing for him was to continue treading the 
 deck of the vessel. 
 
 The captain had to give in. This old fellow repre- 
 sented a remnant of his past. He could betake himself 
 from time to time to the galley to talk over the far-away 
 days in which they first met. 
 
 And Caragol retired, content with his success. 
 
 "As for those Frenchmen," he said before departing, 
 "just leave them to me. They must be good people. . . . 
 We'll just see what they say about my rice dishes." 
 
 In the course of the week the Mare Nostrum was de- 
 organized and re-manned. Its former crew went march- 
 ing away in groups. Toni was the last to leave, and 
 Ulysses did not wish to see him, fearing to show his 
 emotion. They'd surely write to each other. 
 
 A sympathetic curiosity impelled the cook toward the 
 new marine force. He saluted the officers affably, re- 
 gretting not to know their language sufficiently to begin 
 a friendly conversation with them. The captain had 
 accustomed him to such familiarity. 
 
 There were two mates that the mobilization had con- 
 verted into auxiliary lieutenants of the navy. The first 
 day they presented themselves on board arrayed in their 
 uniform; then they returned in civilian clothes in order 
 to habituate themselves to being simple merchant officers 
 on a neutral steamer. The two knew, by hearsay, of 
 Ferragut's former voyages and his services to the Allies, 
 and they understood each other sympathetically without
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 465 
 
 the slightest national prejudice. Caragol achieved equal 
 success with the forty-five men who had taken possession 
 of the machinery and the messrooms in the forecastle. 
 They were dressed like seamen of the fleet, with a broad 
 blue collar and a cap topped by a red pompom. Some 
 displayed on the breast military medals and the recent 
 Croix de Guerre. From their canvas bags which served 
 them for valises, they unpacked their regulation suits, 
 worn when they were working on the freight steamers, 
 on the schooners plying to Newfoundland, or on the 
 simple coasting smacks. 
 
 The galley at certain hours was full of men listening 
 to the old cook. Some knew the Spanish tongue on, 
 account of having sailed in brigs from Saint-Malo and 
 Saint-Nazaire, going to the ports of the Argentine, Chili 
 and Peru. Those who could not understand the old fel- 
 low's words, could guess at them from his gesticulations. 
 They were all laughing, finding him bizarre and interest- 
 ing. And this general gayety induced Caragol to bring 
 forth liquid treasures that had been piling up in former 
 voyages under Ferragut's careless and generous admin- 
 istration. 
 
 The strong alcoholic wine of the coast of the Levant 
 began falling into the glasses like ink crowned with a cir- 
 cle of rubies. The old man poured it forth with a 
 prodigal hand. "Drink away, boys; in your land you 
 don't have anything like this. . . ." At other times he 
 would concoct his famous "refrescoes," smiling with the 
 satisfaction of an artist at seeing the sensuous grin that 
 began flashing across their countenances. 
 
 "When did you ever drink anything like that? What 
 would ever become of you all without your Uncle Cara- 
 gol? .. ." 
 
 These Bretons, accustomed to the discipline and so- 
 briety of other vessels, admired greatly the extraordi-
 
 466 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 nary privileges of a cook who could display as much 
 generosity as the captain himself. He frequently com- 
 municated to Ferragut his opinion regarding his new 
 comrades. With good reason he had said that they 
 would understand each other! . . . They were serious 
 and religious men, and he preferred them to the former 
 Mediterranean crews, blasphemers and incapable of 
 resignation, who at the slightest vexation would rip out 
 God's name, trying to affront him with their curses. 
 
 They were all muscular and well set-up with blue eyes 
 and blonde mustaches, and were wearing hidden medal- 
 lions. One of them had presented to the cook one of his 
 religious charms which he had bought on a pilgrimage to 
 Ste. Anne d'Auray. Caragol was wearing it upon his 
 hairy chest, and experiencing a new-born faith in the 
 miracles of this foreign image. 
 
 "To her sanctuary, Captain, the pilgrims go in thou- 
 sands. Every day she performs a miracle. . . . There's 
 a holy staircase there which the devout climb on their 
 knees and many of these lads have mounted it. I should 
 like . . ." 
 
 On some of their voyages to Brest he was hoping that 
 Ferragut would permit him to go to Auray long enough 
 to climb that same stairway on his knees, to see Ste. Anne 
 and return aboard ship. 
 
 The vessel was no longer in a commercial harbor. It 
 had gone to a military harbor, a narrow river wind- 
 ing through the interior of the city, dividing it in two. 
 A great drawbridge put in communication the two shores 
 bordered with vast constructions and high chimneys, 
 naval shops, warehouses, arsenals, and dry-docks for 
 cleaning up the boats. Tug-boats were continually stir^ 
 ring up its green and miry waters. Steamers under- 
 going repairs were lined up the length of the break- 
 waters undergoing a continual pounding that made their
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 467 
 
 plates resound. Lighters topped with hills of pit coal 
 were going slowly to take their position along the flanks 
 of the ships. Under the drawbridge launches were com- 
 ing and going from the warships, leaving on the floating 
 piers the crews celebrating their shore-leave with scan- 
 dalous uproar. 
 
 The Mare Nostrum remained isolated while the work- 
 men from the arsenal were installing on the poop rapid- 
 fire guns and the wireless telegraph apparatus. No one 
 could come aboard that did not belong to the crew. 
 
 The sailors' families were waiting for them on the 
 wharf, and Caragol had occasion to become acquainted 
 with many Breton women, mothers, sisters, or fiancees 
 of his new friends. He liked these women: they were 
 dressed in black with full skirts, and white, stiff caps 
 which brought to his mind the wimples of the nuns. . . . 
 Some tall, stout girls with blue and candid eyes laughed 
 at the Spaniard without understanding a single word. 
 The old womefl with faces as dark and wrinkled as 
 winter apples touched glasses with Caragol in the low 
 cafes near the port. They all could do honor to a goblet 
 in an opportune moment, and had great faith in the 
 saints. The cook did not require anything more. . . . 
 Most excellent and charming people ! 
 
 Certain lads decorated with the Croix de Guerre used 
 to relate their experiences to him. They were survivors 
 of the battalion of marines who defended Dixmude. After 
 the battle of the Marne they had been sent to intercept 
 the enemy on the side of Flanders. There were not 
 more than six thousand of them and, aided by a Belgian 
 division, they had sustained the onrush of an entire army. 
 Their resistance had lasted for weeks: a combat of 
 barricades in the street, of struggles the length of the 
 canal with the bloodiness of the ancient piratical forays. 
 The officers had shouted their orders with broken swords
 
 468 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 and bandaged heads. The men had fought on without 
 thinking of their wounds, covered with blood, until they; 
 fell down dead. 
 
 Caragol, hitherto little interested in military affairs, 
 became most enthusiastic when relating this heroic strug- 
 gle to Ferragut, simply because his new friends had 
 taken part in it. 
 
 "Many died, Captain. . . . Almost half of them. But 
 the Germans couldn't make any headway. . , . Then, on 
 learning that the marines had been no more than six 
 thousand, the generals tore their hair. So great was 
 their wrath! They had supposed that they were con- 
 fronted by dozens of thousands. ... It was just great 
 to hear the lads relate what they did there." 
 
 Among these "lads" wounded in the war, who had 
 passed to the naval reserve and were manning the Mare 
 Nostrum, one was especially distinguished by the old 
 man's partiality. He could talk to him in Spanish, be- 
 cause of his transatlantic voyages, and besides he had 
 been born in Vannes. 
 
 If the youth ever approached the cook's dominions 
 he was invariably met with a smile of invitation. "A re- 
 fresco, Vicente?" The best seat was for him. Caragol 
 had forgotten his name as not worth while. Since he 
 came from Vannes, he could not have any other name 
 but Vicente. 
 
 The first day that they chatted together, the marine, 
 in love with his country, described to the cook the beau- 
 ties of Morbihan, a great interior sea surrounded with 
 groves and with islands covered with pines. Among the 
 venerable antiquities of the city was the Gothic cathedral 
 with its many tombs, among them that of a Spanish saint, 
 St. Vicente Ferrer. 
 
 This gave a tug at Caragol's heart-Strings. He had 
 never before bothered to find out where the famous
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 469 
 
 apostle of Valencia was entombed. . . . He recalled sud- 
 denly a strophe of the songs of praise that the devotees 
 of his land used to sing before the altars of this saint. 
 Sure enough he had gone to die in "Vannes, in Brit- 
 tainy," a mere geographical name which until then 
 had lacked any significance for him. . . . And so this 
 lad was from Vannes? Nothing more was needed to 
 make Caragol regard him with the respect due to one 
 born in a miraculous country. 
 
 He made him describe many times the tomb of the 
 saint, the only one in the transept of the cathedral, the 
 inoth-eaten tapestries that perpetuated his miracles, the 
 silver bust which guarded his heart. . . . Furthermore, 
 the principal portal of Vannes was called the gate of 
 St. Vicente and recollections of the saint were still alive 
 in their chronicles. 
 
 Caragol proposed to visit this city also when the ship 
 should return to Brest. Brittainy must be very holy 
 ground, the holiest in the world, since the miracle-work- 
 ing Valencian, after traversing so many nations, had 
 wished to die there. 
 
 It, therefore, did not produce the slightest astonish- 
 ment that this slip of a boy who had been picked up at 
 Dixmude covered with wounds, was now showing him- 
 self sane and vigorous. . . . On board the Mare Nostrum 
 he was the head gunner. He and two comrades had 
 charge of the quickfirers. For Caragol there was not the 
 slightest doubt as to the fate of every submarine that 
 should venture to attack them; the "lad from Vannes" 
 would send them to smithereens at the first shot. A 
 picture post-card, a gift of the lad from Brittany, show- 
 ing the tomb of the saint, occupied the position of honor 
 in the galley. The old man used to pray before it as 
 though it were a miracle-working print, and the Cristo 
 del Crao was relegated to second place.
 
 470 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 One morning Caragol went in search of the Captain 
 and found him writing in his stateroom. He had just 
 come from making purchases in the shore market. 
 While passing through the rue de Siam, the most im- 
 portant road in Brest, where the theaters are, the moving- 
 picture shows, and the cafes, he had had an encounter. 
 
 "An unexpected meeting," he continued with a mys- 
 terious smile. "Who do you suppose it was with ? . . ." 
 
 Ferragut shrugged his shoulders. And, noting his in- 
 difference, the old man could not keep the secret any 
 longer. 
 
 "The lady-bird!" he added. "That handsome, per 
 fumed lady-bird that used to come to see you. . . . The 
 one from Naples. . . . The one from Barcelona. . . ." 
 
 The captain turned pale, first with surprise and then 
 with anger. Freya in Brest! . . , Her spy work was 
 reaching even here? . , . 
 
 Caragol went on with his story. He was returning to 
 the ship, and she, who was walking through the rue de 
 Siam, had recognized hjni, speaking to him affection- 
 ately. 
 
 "She asked to be remembered to you. . . . She has 
 been informed that no foreigner can come aboard. She 
 told me that she had tried to come to see you." 
 
 The cook began a search through his pockets, ex- 
 tricating a bit of wrinkled paper, a white sheet snatched 
 from an old letter. 
 
 "She also gave me this paper, written right there in the 
 street with a lead pencil. You will know what it says. 
 I did not wish to look at it." 
 
 Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately 
 her handwriting, although uneven, nervous and scrib- 
 bled with great precipitation. Six words^ np more: 
 "Farewell, I am going to die."
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 471 
 
 "Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in 
 his brain. 
 
 He tore up the paper and passed the rest of the 
 morning very much preoccupied. ... It was his duty 
 to defend himself against this espionage that had even 
 established its base in a port of war. . . . Every boat 
 anchored near the Mare Nostrum was menaced by 
 Freya's power to give information. Who knew but what 
 her mysterious communications would bring about their 
 attack by a submarine on going out from the roadstead 
 of Brest! . . . 
 
 His first impulse was to denounce her. Then he 
 repented because of his absurd scruples of chivalry. . . . 
 Besides, he would have to explain his past to the head 
 officers at Brest who knew him very slightly. He was 
 far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so 
 well understood his passional errors. 
 
 He wished to watch her for himself, and in the even- 
 ing he went ashore. He detested Brest as one of the 
 dullest cities of the Atlantic. It was always raining 
 there, and there was no diversion except the eternal 
 promenade through the rue de Siam, or a bored stay in 
 the cafes full of seamen and English and Portuguese 
 land-officers. 
 
 He went through the public establishments night and 
 day; he made investigations in the hotels; he hired car- 
 riages in order to visit the more picturesque suburbs. 
 For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any 
 result. 
 
 He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity. Perhaps 
 he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had 
 made up such an encounter. But the recollection of 
 that paper written by her discounted such a supposition. 
 . . . Freya was in Brest.
 
 472 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The cook explained it all simply enough when the 
 captain besieged him with fresh questions. 
 
 "The lady-bird must just be passing through. Perhaps 
 she flitted away that same evening. . . . That meeting 
 was just a chance encounter." 
 
 Ferragut had to give up his investigations. The de- 
 fensive work on the ship was about terminated and the 
 holds contained their cargo of projectiles for the army 
 of the Orient and various unmounted guns. He re- 
 ceived his sailing orders, and one gray and rainy morn- 
 ing they lifted anchor and steamed out of the bay of 
 Brest. The fog made even more difficult the passage 
 between the reefs that obstruct this port. They passed 
 before the lugubrious Bay of the Dead, ancient cemetery 
 of sailboats, and continued their navigation toward the 
 south in search of the strait in order to enter the Medi- 
 terranean. 
 
 Ferragut felt increased pride in examining the new as- 
 pect of the Mare Nostrum. The wireless telegraph was 
 going to keep him in contact with the world. He was no 
 longer a merchant captain, slave of destiny, trusting to 
 good luck, and incapable of repelling an attack. The 
 radiographic stations were watching for him the entire 
 length of the coast, advising him of changes in his course 
 that he might avoid the ambushed enemy. The ap- 
 paratus was constantly hissing and sustaining invisible 
 dialogues. Besides, mounted on the stern was a cannon 
 covered with a canvas hood, ready to begin work. 
 
 The dreams of his childhood when he used to devour 
 stones of corsairs and novels of maritime adventures 
 seemed about to be realized. He was now entitled to 
 call himself "Captain of Sea and War" like the ancient 
 navigators. If a submarine should pass before him, he 
 would attack it from the prow ; if it should try to pursue 
 him, he would respond with the cannon.
 
 "FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE" 473 
 
 His adventurous humor actually made him anxious 
 for one of these encounters. A maritime combat had not 
 yet occurred in his life, and he wished to see how these 
 modest and silent men who had made war on land and 
 contemplated death at close range, would demean them- 
 selves. 
 
 It was not long before his desire was realized. One 
 morning on the high seas near Lisbon, when he had 
 just fallen asleep after a night on the bridge, the shout* 
 and runnings of the crew awakened him. 
 
 A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen him* 
 dred yards astern and was coming toward the Mare Nos- 
 trum, evidently fearing that the merchant-boat would 
 try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop, its gun 
 fired two shells which fell into the water. 
 
 The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself 
 in a more favorable position and to maneuver with more 
 sea room, with its arms at the stern. At the first shot 
 the submarine began to recede, keeping a more prudent 
 distance, surprised to receive an answer to its aggres- 
 sion. 
 
 The combat lasted half an hour. The shots repeated 
 themselves on both sides with the speed of rapid fire ar- 
 tillery. Ferragut was near the gun, admiring the calm 
 coolness with which its servants manipulated it. One 
 always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to 
 his companion who rapidly introduced it into the smok- 
 ing chamber. The gunner was concentrating all his life 
 in his eyes, and bending over the cannon, moved it care- 
 fully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and pro- 
 longed body that was rising to the surface of the water 
 as though it were a whale. 
 
 Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steam- 
 er's prow. An enemy's projectile had just hit the edge 
 of the roofs that covered the galley and mess rooms.
 
 474 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 Caragol, who was standing in the door of his dominions, 
 raised his hands to his hat. When the yellowish and 
 evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing 
 there, scratching the top of his head, bare and red. 
 
 "It's nothing!" he cried. "Just a bit of wood that 
 drew a little of my blood. Fire away! . . . FireF' 
 
 He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting. 
 The drug-like smell of the smokeless powder, the dull 
 thud of the detonations appeared to intoxicate him. He 
 was leaping and wringing his hands with the ardor of 
 a. war-dancer. 
 
 The gunners redoubled their activity ; the shots became 
 continuous. 
 
 "There it is V yelled Caragol. "They have hit it ... 
 They have hit it !" 
 
 Of all those aboard, he was the one who could least 
 appreciate the effects of the shots for he could scarcely 
 discern the silhouette of the submersible. But in spite 
 of that he continued bellowing jrith all the force of his 
 faith. 
 
 "Now you've hit it ! . . . Hurrah! Hurrah!" 
 
 And the strange thing was that the enemy instantly 
 disappeared from the blue surface. The gunners still 
 sent some shots against their periscope. Then there 
 was left in the place which they had occupied only a white 
 and glistening expanse. 
 
 The steamer went toward this enormous spot of oil 
 whose undulations were twinkling with sunflower-like re- 
 flections. 
 
 The marines uttered shouts of enthusiasm. They were 
 sure of having sent the submersible to the bottom. The 
 officers were less optimistic. They had never seen one 
 raise itself up vertically, tilting its stern high in the air 
 before sinking. Perhaps it simply had been damaged 
 and obliged to hide.
 
 475 
 
 The loss of the submarine was a sure thing in Cara- 
 gol's estimation, and he considered it entirely unneces- 
 sary to ask the name of the one who had blown it to 
 smithereens. 
 
 "It must have been that lad from Vannes. . . . He's 
 the only one who could have done it." 
 
 For him the other gunners simply did not exist. And, 
 inflamed by his enthusiasm, he wriggled out of the hands 
 of the two seamen who had begun to bandage his head 
 with a deftness learned in land combats. 
 
 Ferragut was entirely satisfied with this encounter. 
 Although he could not be absolutely certain of the de- 
 struction of the enemy, the fact that his boat had saved 
 itself would spread abroad the fact that the Mare Nas* 
 truM was entirely capable of self-defense. 
 
 His joy took him to Caragol's domains. 
 
 "Well done, old man! We're going to write to the 
 Ministry of Marine to give you the Croix de Guerre." 
 
 The cook, taking his words in all seriousness, declined 
 the honor. If such recompense were to be given to any 
 one, let it be handed to "that lad from Vannes." Then ho 
 added as though reflecting the captain's thoughts: 
 
 "I like to sail in this fashion. . . . Our steamer has 
 gotten its teeth, and now it will not have to run like a 
 frightened rabbit. . . . They'll have to let it go on its 
 Way in peace because now it can bite." 
 
 The rest of the journey toward Salonica was without 
 incident. Telegraphy kept it in contact with the instruc- 
 tions arriving from the shore. Gibraltar advised it to 
 sail close to the African coast ; Malta and Bizerta pointed 
 out that it could continue forward since the passage 
 between Tunis and Sicily was clear of enemies. From 
 distant Egypt tranquillizing messages came to meet them 
 while they were sailing among the Grecian Islands with 
 the prow toward Salonica.
 
 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 On their return, they were to take freight to the har- 
 bor of Marseilles. 
 
 Ferragut did not have to bother about the boat while 
 it was at anchor. The French officials were the ones 
 who made arrangements with the harbor authorities. 
 He merely had to be the justification for the flag, a cap- 
 tain of a neutral country, whose presence certified to the 
 nationality of the vessel. Only on the sea did he recover 
 command, every one becoming obedient to those on the 
 bridge. 
 
 He wandered through Marseilles as at other times, 
 passing the first hours of the evening on the terraces of 
 the Cannebiere. 
 
 An old Marseillaise, captain of a merchant steamer, 
 used to chat with him before returning to his office. 
 One afternoon, while Ferragut was absent-mindedly 
 glancing at a certain Paris daily that his friend was 
 carrying, his attention was suddenly attracted by a name 
 printed at the head of a short article. Surprise made 
 him turn pale while at the same time something con- 
 tracted within his breast. Again he spelled out the 
 name, fearing that he had been under an hallucination. 
 Doubt was impossible : it was very clear, Freya Talberg. 
 He took the paper from his comrade's hand, disguising 
 his impatience by an assumption of curiosity. 
 
 "What is the war news to-day? . . ." 
 
 And while the old sailor was giving him the news, 
 he read feverishly the few lines grouped beneath that 
 name. 
 
 He was bewildered. The heading told little to one 
 ignorant of the preceding facts to which the periodical 
 alluded. These lines were simply voicing a protest 
 against the government for not having made the famous 
 Freya Talberg pay the penalty to which she had been 
 sentenced. The paragraph terminated with mention of
 
 477 
 
 the beauty and elegance of the delinquent as though 
 to these qualities might be attributed the delay in pun- 
 ishment. 
 
 Ferragut put forth all his efforts to give his voice a 
 tone of indifference. 
 
 "Who is this individual?" he said, pointing to the 
 heading of the article. 
 
 His companion had some difficulty in recalling her. 
 So many things were happening because of the war. . . . 
 
 "She is a loche, a spy, sentenced to death. ... It ap- 
 pears that she did a great deal of work here and in other 
 ports, sending word to the German submarines about the 
 departure of our transports. . . . They arrested her in 
 Paris two months ago when she was returning from 
 Brest." 
 
 His friend said this with a certain indifference. These 
 spies were so numerous ! . . . The newspapers were con- 
 stantly publishing notices of their shooting: two lines, 
 no more, as though treating of an ordinary casualty. 
 
 "This Freya Talberg," he continued, "has had enough 
 said about her personality. It seems that she is a chic 
 woman, a species of lady from a novel. Many are pro- 
 testing because she has not yet been executed. It is 
 sad to have to kill one of her sex, to kill a woman and 
 especially a beautiful woman ! . . . But nevertheless it is 
 very necessary. ... I believe that she is to be shot at 
 any moment."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 
 
 THE Mare Nostrum made another trip from Marseilles 
 to Salonica. 
 
 Before sailing, Ferragut hunted vainly through the 
 Paris periodicals for fresh news of Freya. For some 
 days past, the attention of the public had been so dis- 
 tracted by various other events t&at for the time being the 
 spy was forgotten. 
 
 On arriving at Salonica, h* made discreet mcjmries 
 among his military and marine friends in the harfapr 
 cafes. Hardly any one had ever heard the name of 
 Freya Talberg. Those who had read it in the news- 
 papers merely replied with indifference. 
 
 "I know who she is : she is a spy who was an actreps, 
 a Woman with a certain chic. I think that they've shot 
 her. ... I don't know certainly, but they ought to have 
 shof her." 
 
 They had more important things to think about. A 
 spy! . . . On all sides they were discovering the in- 
 trigues of German espionage. They had to shoot a great 
 many. . . . And immediately they forgot this affair in 
 order to speak of the difficulties of the war that were 
 threatening them and their comrades-at-arms. 
 
 When Ferragut returned to Marseilles two months 
 afterwards, he was still ignorant as to whether his 
 former mistress was yet among the living. 
 
 The first evening that he met his old comrade, the 
 captain, in the cafe of the Cannebicre, he skillfully guided 
 
 478
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 479 
 
 the conversation around until he could bring out natur- 
 ally the question in the back of his mind : "What was the 
 fate of that Freya Talberg that there was so much talk 
 about in the newspapers before I went to Salonica ? . . ." 
 
 The Marseillaise had to make an effort to recall her. 
 
 "Ah, yes! . . . The bocht spy," he said after a long 
 pause. "They shot her some weeks ago. The papers 
 said little of her death, just a few lines. Such people 
 don't deserve any more. . . ." 
 
 Ferragut's friend had two sons in the army ; a nephew 
 had died in the trenches, another, a mate aboard a trans- 
 port, had just perished in a torpedo attack. The old man 
 was passing many nights without sleeping thinking of his 
 sons battling at the front. And this uneasiness gave a 
 hard and ferocious tone to his patriotic enthusiasm. 
 
 "It's a good thing she is dead. . . . She was a woman, 
 and shooting a woman is a painful thing. It is always 
 repugnant to be obliged to treat them like men. . . . But 
 according to what they tell me, this individual with her 
 spy-information brought about the torpedoing of six- 
 teen vessels. . . . Ah, the wicked beast! . . ." 
 
 And he said no more, changing the subject. Every one 
 evinced the same revulsion on recalling the spy. 
 
 Ferragut eventually shared the same sentiments, his 
 brain having divested itself of the contradictory duality 
 which had attended all the critical moments of his exist- 
 ence. Remembering only her crimes, he hated Freya. As 
 a man of the sea, he recalled his nameless fellow-sailors 
 killed by torpedoes. This woman had indirectly prepared 
 the ground for many assassinations. . . . And at the same 
 time he recalled another image of her as the mistress who 
 knew so well how to keep him spellbound by her artifices 
 in the old palace of Naples, making that voluptuous 
 prison her best souvenir. 
 
 "Let's think no more about her," he said to himself
 
 480 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 energetically. "She has died. . . . She does not exist." 
 
 But not even after her death did she kave him in 
 peace. Remembrance of her soon came surging back, 
 binding her to him with a tragic interest. 
 
 The very evening that he was talking with his friend 
 in the cafe of the Cannebihe, he went to the post office to 
 get the mail which had been forwarded to him at Mar- 
 seilles. They gave him a great package of letters and 
 newspapers. By the handwriting on the envelopes, and 
 the postmarks on the postals, he tried to make out who 
 was writing to him: one letter only from his wife, evi- 
 dently but a single sheet, judging from its slender flexi- 
 bility, three very bulky ones from Toni, a species of 
 diary in which he continued relating his purchases, his 
 crops, his hope of seeing the captain, all this mixed 
 in with abundant news about the war, and the wretched 
 condition of the people. There were, besides, various 
 sheets from the banking establishments at Barcelona, 
 rendering Ferragut an account of the investment of 
 his capital. 
 
 At the foot of tlie staircase he completed his ex- 
 amination of the outside of his correspondence. It was 
 just what was always awaiting him on his return from 
 his voyages. 
 
 He was about to put the package in his pocket and 
 continue on his way when his attention was attracted 
 by a voluminous envelope in an unknown handwriting, 
 registered in Paris. . . . 
 
 Curiosity made him open it immediately and he found 
 in his hand a regular sheaf of loose leaves, a long ac- 
 count that far exceeded the limits of a letter. He looked 
 at the engraved letter-head and then at the signature. 
 The writer was a lawyer in Paris, and Ferragut sus- 
 pected by the luxurious paper and address that he 
 must be a celebrated maitre. He even recalled having
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 481 
 
 run across his name somewhere in the newspapers. 
 
 Then and there he began reading the first page, anx- 
 ious to know why this distinguished personage had writ- 
 ten to him. But he had scarcely run his eyes over some of 
 the sheets before he stopped his reading. He had come 
 across the name of Freya Talberg. This lawyer had 
 been her defender before the Council of War. 
 
 Ferragut hastened to put the letter in a safe place, 
 and curb his impatience. He felt that necessity for 
 silent isolation and absolute solitude which a reader, 
 anxious to delve into a new book, experiences. This 
 bundle of papers doubtless contained for him the most 
 interesting of stories. 
 
 Returning to his ship, the road seemed to him far 
 longer than at other times. He longed to lock himself 
 in his stateroom, away from all curiosity as though he 
 were about to perform some mysterious rite? 
 
 Freya was not in existence. She had disappeared 
 from the world in the infamous manner in which crimi- 
 nals disappear, doubly condemned since even her mem- 
 ory was hateful to the people; and Ferragut within 
 a few moments was going to resurrect her like a ghost, 
 in the floating house that she had visited on two occa- 
 sions. He now might know the last hours of her ex- 
 istence wrapped in disreputable mystery; he could vio- 
 late the will of her judges who had condemned her to 
 lose her life and after death to perish from every one's 
 memory. With eager avidity he seated himself before 
 his cabin table, arranging the contents of the envelope 
 in order ; more than twelve sheets, written on both sides, 
 and several newspaper clippings. In these clippings he 
 saw portraits of Freya, a hard and blurred likeness which 
 he could recognize only by her name underneath. 
 He also beheld the portrait of her defender, an old
 
 482 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 lawyer of fastidious aspect with white locks carefully 
 combed, and sharp eyes. 
 
 From the very first lines', Ferragut suspected that the 
 maitre could neither write nor speak except in the most 
 approved literary form. His letter was a moderated and 
 correct account in which all emotion, however keen it 
 might have been, was discreetly controlled so as not to 
 disorganize the sweep of a majestic style. 
 
 He began by explaining that his professional duty had 
 made him decide to defend this spy. She was in need 
 of a lawyer; she was a foreigner; public opinion, influ- 
 enced by the exaggerated accounts given by the news- 
 papers of her beauty and her jewels, was ferociously in- 
 imical, demanding her immediate punishment. Nobody 
 had wished to take charge of her defense. And for this 
 very reason he had accepted it without fear of unpopu- 
 larity. 
 
 Ferragut believed that this sacrifice might be attributed 
 to the impulse of a gallant old beau, attracted to Freya 
 because of her beauty. Besides, this criminal process 
 represented a typical Parisian incident and might give 
 a certain romantic notoriety to the one intervening in 
 its developments. 
 
 A few paragraphs further on the sailor became con- 
 vinced that the maitre had fallen in love with his 
 client. This woman even in her dying moments shed 
 around her most amazing powers of seduction. The pro- 
 fessional success anticipated by the lawyer disappeared 
 on his first questioning. Defense of Freya would be 
 impossible. When he questioned her regarding the events 
 of her former life, she either wept for every answer, or 
 else remained silent, immovable, with as unconcerned a 
 glance as though the fate of some other woman were at 
 stake. 
 
 The military judges did not need her confessions : they
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 483 
 
 knew, detail for detail, all her existence during the war 
 and in the last years of peace. Never had the police 
 agents abroad worked with such rapidity and success. 
 Mysterious and omnipotent good fortune had crowned 
 every investigation. They knew all of Freya's doings. 
 They had even received from a secret agent exact data 
 regarding her personality, the number by which she was 
 represented in the director's office at Berlin, the salary 
 that she was paid, as well as her reports during the past 
 month. Documents written by her personally, of an 
 irrefutable culpability, had poured in without any one's 
 knowing from what point they were sent or by whom. 
 
 Every time that the judge had placed before Freya's 
 eyes one of these proofs, she looked at her lawyer in 
 desperation. 
 
 "It is they!" she moaned. "They who desire my 
 death!" 
 
 Her defender was of the same opinion. The police 
 had learned of her presence in France by a letter that her 
 superiors in Barcelona had sent, stupidly disguised, 
 written with regard to a code whose mystery had been 
 discovered some time before by the French counter-spies. 
 To the vnoAtre it was only too evident that some myste- 
 rious power had wished to rid itself of this woman, 
 dispatching her to an enemy's country, intending to 
 send her to death. 
 
 Ulysses suspected in the defender a state of mind 
 similar to his own, the same duality that had tormented 
 him in all his relations with Freya. 
 
 "I, sir," wrote the lawyer, "have suffered much. One 
 of my sons, an officer, died in the battle of the Aisne. 
 Others very close to me, nephews and pupils, died in 
 Verdun and with the expeditionary army of the 
 Orient. . . ." 
 
 As a Frenchman, he had felt an irresistible aversion
 
 484 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 upon becoming convinced that Freya was a spy who had 
 done great harm to his country. . . . Then as a man, ha 
 had commiserated her inconsequence, her contradictory 
 and frivolous character, amounting almost to a crime, 
 and her egoism as a beautiful woman and lover of 
 luxury that had made her willing to suffer moral vileness 
 in exchange for creature comfort. 
 
 Her story had attracted the lawyer with the palpitating 
 interest of a novel of adventure. Commiseration had fi- 
 nally developed the vehemence of a love affair. Besides, 
 the knowledge that the exploiters of this woman were the 
 ones that had denounced her, had aroused his knightly 
 enthusiasm in the defense of her indefensible cause. 
 
 Appearance before the Council of War had proved 
 painful and dramatic. Freya, who until then, had 
 seemed brutalized by the regime of the prison, roused 
 herself upon being confronted by a dozen grave and 
 uniformed men. 
 
 Her first moves were those of every handsome and 
 coquettish female. She knew perfectly well her physical 
 influence. These soldiers transformed into judges were 
 recalling those other flirts that she had seen at the teas 
 and grand balls at the hotels. . . . What Frenchman 
 can resist feminine attraction? . . . 
 
 She had smiled, she had replied to the first questions 
 with graceful modesty, fixing her wickedly guileless eyes 
 upon the officials seated behind the presidential table, 
 and on those other men in blue uniform, charged with 
 accusing her or reading the documents of her pros- 
 ecution. 
 
 But something cold and hostile existed in the atmos- 
 phere and paralyzed her smiles, leaving her words 
 without echo and making ineffectual the splendors of her 
 eyes. All foreheads were bowed under the weight of 
 severe thought: all the men in that instant appeared
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 485 
 
 thirty years older. They simply would not see such a 
 one as she was, however much effort she might make. 
 They had left their admiration and their desires on the 
 other side of the door. 
 
 Freya perceived that she had ceased to be a woman 
 and was no more than one accused. Another of her sex, 
 an irresistible rival, was now engrossing everything, 
 binding these men with a profound and austere love. 
 Instinct made her regard fixedly the white matron of 
 grave countenance whose vigorous bust appeared over 
 the head of the president. She was Patriotism, Justice, 
 the Republic, contemplating with her vague and hollow 
 eyes this female of flesh and blood who was beginning 
 to tremble upon realizing her situation. 
 
 "I do not want to diel" cried Freya, suddenly 
 abandoning her seductions and becoming a poor, 
 wretched creature crazed by fear. "I am innocent." 
 
 She lied with the absurd and barefaced illogicalness 
 of one finding herself in danger of death. It was neces- 
 sary to re-read her first declarations, which she was now 
 denying, of presenting afresh the material proofs whose 
 existence she did not wish to admit, of making her entire 
 past file by supported by that irrefutable data of 
 anonymous origin. 
 
 "It is they who have done it all ! ... They have mis- 
 represented me ! ... Since they have brought about my 
 ruin, I am going to tell what I know." 
 
 In his account the lawyer passed lightly over what had 
 occurred in the Council of War. Professional secrecy 
 and patriotic interest prevented greater explicitness. 
 The session had lasted from morning till night, Freya 
 revealing to her judges all that she knew. . . . Then her 
 defender had spoken for five hours, trying to establish 
 a species of interchange in the application of the penalty, 
 guilt of this woman was undeniable and the wicked-
 
 486 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 ness that she had carried through was very great, but 
 they should spare her life in exchange for her important 
 confessions. . . . Besides, the inconsequence of her 
 character should be taken into consideration . . . also, 
 that vengeance of which the enemy had made her the 
 victim. . . . 
 
 With Freya he had waited, until well on into the night, 
 the decision of the tribunal. The defendant appeared ani- 
 mated by hope. She had become a woman again: she 
 was talking placidly with him and smiling at the gen- 
 darmes and eulogizing the army. . . . "Frenchmen, gen- 
 tlemen, were incapable of killing a woman. . . ." 
 
 The maitre was not surprised at the sad and furrowed 
 brows of the officers as they came out from their 
 deliberations. They appeared discontented with their 
 recent vote, and yet at the same time showed the serenity 
 of a tranquil countenance. They were soldiers who had 
 just fulfilled their full duty, suppressing every purely 
 masculine instinct. The one deputed to read the sentence 
 swelled his voice with a fictitious energy. . . . "Death! 
 . . ." After a long enumeration of crimes Freya was 
 condemned to be shot : she had given information to the 
 enemy that represented the loss of thousands of men and 
 boats, torpedoed because of her reports, on which had 
 perished defenseless families. 
 
 The spy nodded her head upon listening to her own 
 acts, for the first time appreciating their enormity and 
 recognizing the justice of their tremendous punishment. 
 But at the same time she was relying upon a good- 
 natured reprieve in exchange for all which she had 
 revealed, upon a gallant clemency . . . because she was 
 she. 
 
 As the fatal word sounded, she uttered a cry, became 
 ashy pale, and leaned upon the lawyer for support.
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 487 
 
 "I do not want to die! ... I ought not to die! ... 
 I am innocent." 
 
 She continued shrieking her innocence, without giving 
 any other proof of it than the desperate instinct of self- 
 preservation. With the credulity of one who wishes to 
 save herself, she accepted all the problematical conso- 
 lations of her defender. There remained the last re- 
 course of appealing to the mercy of the President of the 
 Republic: perhaps he might pardon her. . . . And she 
 signed this appeal with sudden hope. 
 
 The lawyer managed to delay the fulfillment of the 
 sentence for two months, visiting many of his colleagues 
 who were political personages. The desire of saving the 
 life of his client was tormenting him as an obsession. He 
 had devoted all his activity and his personal influence to 
 this affair. 
 
 "In love! ... In love, as you were!" said, with 
 scornful accent, the voice of Ferragut's prudent coun- 
 selor. 
 
 The periodicals were protesting against this delay in 
 the execution of the sentence. The name of Freya 
 Talberg was beginning to be heard in conversation as an 
 argument against the weakness of the government. The 
 women were the most implacable. 
 
 One day, in the Palace of Justice, the mcntre Became 
 convinced of this general animosity that was pushing the 
 defendant toward the day of execution. The woman 
 who had charge of the gowns, a verbose old wife, on a 
 familiar footing with the illustrious lawyers, had rudely 
 made known their opinions. 
 
 "I wonder when they're going to execute that spy ! . . . 
 If she were a poor woman with children and needed to 
 earn their bread, they would have shot her long ago. . . . 
 But she is an elegant cocotte and with jewels. Perhaps 
 she has bewitched some of the cabinet ministers. We
 
 488 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 are going to see her on the street now almost any 
 day. . . . And my son who died at Verdun! . . ." 
 
 The prisoner, as though divining this public indigna- 
 tion, began to consider her death very near losing, little 
 by little, that love of existence which had made her burst 
 forth into lies and delirious protests. In vain the mcfitre 
 held out hopes of pardon. 
 
 "It is useless : I must die. ... I ought to be shot. . . . 
 I have done so much mischief. ... It horrifies even me 
 to remember all the crimes named in that sentence. . . . 
 And there are still others that they don't know! . . . 
 Solitude has made me see myself just as I am. What 
 shame! ... I ought to perish; I have ruined every- 
 thing. . . . What is there left for me to do in the 
 world? . . ." 
 
 "And it was then, my dear sir," continued the attorney, 
 in his letter, "that she spoke to me of you, of the way in 
 which you had known each other, of the harm which she 
 had done you unconsciously." 
 
 Convinced of the uselessness of his efforts to save her 
 life, the mditre had solicited one last favor of the tribunal. 
 Freya was very desirous that he should accompany her 
 at the moment of her execution, as this would maintain 
 her serenity. Those in the government had promised 
 their colleague in the forum, to send opportune notice 
 that he might be present at the fulfillment of the sen- 
 tence. 
 
 It was at three o'clock in the morning and vhile he 
 was in the deepest sleep that some messengers, i ;nt by 
 the prefecture of police, awakened him. The execu- 
 tion was to take place at daybreak : this was a decision 
 reached at the last moment in order that the reporters 
 might learn too late of the event. 
 
 An automobile took him with the messengers to the 
 prison of St. Lazare, across silent and shadowy Paris.
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITEJ 489 
 
 Only a few hooded street lamps were cutting with their 
 sickly light the darkness of the streets. In the prison 
 they were joined by other functionaries and many chiefs 
 and officers who represented military justice. The con- 
 demned woman was still sleeping in her cell, ignorant of 
 what was about to occur. 
 
 Those charged with awakening her, gloomy and timid, 
 were marching in line through the corridors of the jail, 
 bumping into one another in their nervous precipitation. 
 
 The door was opened. Under the regulation light 
 Freya was on her bed, with closed eyes. Upon opening 
 them and finding herself surrounded by men, her face 
 was convulsed with terror. 
 
 "Courage, Freya!" said the prison warden. "The 
 appeal for pardon has been denied." 
 
 "Courage, my daughter," added the priest of the 
 establishment, starting the beginning of a discourse. 
 
 Her terror, due to the rude surprise of awakening with 
 the brain still paralyzed, lasted but a few seconds. Upon 
 collecting her thoughts, serenity returned to her face. 
 
 "I must die?" she asked. "The hour has already 
 come? . . . Very well, then: let them shoot me. Here 
 I am." 
 
 Some of the men turned their heads, and so averted 
 their glance. . . . She had to get out of the bed in the 
 presence of the two watchmen. This precaution was so 
 that she might not attempt to take her life. She even 
 asked the lawyer to remain in the cell as though in this 
 way she wished to lessen the annoyance of dressing her- 
 self before strangers. 
 
 Upon reaching this passage in his letter, Ferraguf 
 realized the pity and admiration of the maitre who had 
 seen her preparing the last toilet of her life. 
 
 "Adorable creature ! So beautiful ! . . She was born
 
 490 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 for love and luxury, yet was going to die, torn by bullets 
 like a rude soldier. . . ." 
 
 The precautions adopted by her coquetry appeared to 
 him admirable. She wanted to die as she had lived, 
 placing on her person the best that she possessed. 
 Therefore, suspecting the nearness of her execution, she 
 had a few days before reclaimed the jewels and the gown 
 that she was wearing when arrest prevented her return- 
 ing to Brest. 
 
 Her defender described her "with a dress of pearl gray 
 silk, bronze stockings and low shoes, a great-coat of furs, 
 and a large hat with plumes. Besides, the necklace of 
 pearls was on her bosom, emeralds in her ears and 
 all her diamonds on her fingers." 
 
 A sad smile curled her lips upon trying to look at 
 herself in the window panes, still black with the darkness 
 of night, which served her as a mirror. 
 
 "I die in my uniform like a soldier," she said to her 
 lawyer. 
 
 Then in the ante-chamber of the prison, under the 
 crude artificial light, this plumed woman, covered with 
 jewels, her clothing exhaling a subtle perfume, memory 
 of happier days, turned without any embarrassment 
 toward the men clad in black and in blue uniforms. 
 
 Two religious sisters who accompanied her appeared 
 more moved than she. They were trying to exhort her 
 and at the same time were struggling to keep 
 back the tears. . . . The priest was no less touched. 
 He had attended other criminals, but they were men. 
 . . . To assist to a decent death a beautiful per- 
 fumed woman scintillating with precious stones, as 
 though she were going to ride in an automobile to a fash- 
 ionable tea ! . . . 
 
 The week before she had been in doubt as to whether 
 to receive a Calvinist pastor or a Catholic priest. In her
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 49? 
 
 cosmopolitan life of uncertain nationality she had never 
 taken the time to decide about any religion for herself. 
 Finally she had selected the latter on account of its 
 being more simple intellectually, more liberal and ap- 
 proachable. . . . 
 
 Several times when the priest was trying to console 
 her, she interrupted him as though she were the one 
 charged with inspiring courage. 
 
 "To die is not so terrible as it appears when seen afar 
 off ! ... I feel ashamed when I think of the fears that 
 I have passed through, of the tears that I have shed. . . . 
 It turns out to be much more simple than I had believed. 
 ... We all have to die !" 
 
 They read to her the sentence refusing the appeal for 
 pardon. Then they offered her a pen that she might 
 sign it. 
 
 A colonel told her that there were still a few moments 
 at her disposition in which to write to her family, her 
 friends, or to make her last will. . . . 
 
 "To whom shall I write?" said Freya. "I haven't a 
 single friend in the world. . . ." 
 
 "Then it was," continued the lawyer, "that she took the 
 pen as if a recollection had occurred to her, and traced 
 some few lines. . . . Then she tore up the paper and 
 came toward me. She was thinking of you, Captain : her 
 last letter was for you and she left it unfinished, fearing 
 that it might never reach your hands. Besides, she 
 wasn't equal to writing; her pulse was nervous: she 
 preferred to talk. . . . She asked me to send you a long, 
 very long letter, telling about her last moments, and I had 
 to swear to her that I would carry out her request." 
 
 From that time on the maitre had seen things badly. 
 Emotion was perturbing his sensibilities, but there yet 
 lived in his mind Freya's last words on coming out of the 
 jail.
 
 492 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "I am not a German," she said repeatedly to the men 
 in uniform. "I am not German !" 
 
 For her the least important thing was to die. She was 
 only worried for fear they might believe her of that odi- 
 ous nationality. 
 
 The attorney found himself in an automobile with 
 many men whom he scarcely knew. Other vehicles were 
 before and behind theirs. In one of them was Freya 
 with the nuns and the priest. 
 
 A faint streak was whitening the sky, marking the 
 points of the roofs. Below, in the deep blackness of the 
 streets, the renewed life of daybreak was slowly begin- 
 ning. The first laborers going to their work with their 
 hands in their pockets, and the market women returning 
 from market pushing their carts, turned their heads, 
 following with interest this procession of swift vehicles 
 almost all of them with men in the box seat beside the 
 conductor. To the working- folk, this was perhaps a 
 morning wedding. . . . Perhaps these were gay people 
 coming from a nocturnal fiesta. . . . Several times the 
 cortege slackened its speed, blocked by a row of heavy 
 carts with mountains of garden-stuff. 
 
 The vnaltre, in spite of his emotions, recognized the 
 road that the automobile was following. In the place de 
 la Nation he caught glimpses of the sculptured group, 
 le Triomphe de la Republique, piercing the dripping 
 mistiness of dawn ; then the grating of the enclosure ; then 
 the long cours de Vincennes and its historic fortress. 
 
 They went still further on until they reached the field 
 of execution. 
 
 Upon getting down from the automobile, he saw an 
 extensive plain covered with grass on which were drawn 
 up two companies of soldiers. Other vehicles had arrived 
 before them. Freya detached herself from the group 
 of persons descending from the automobile, leaving be-
 
 AMPHITRITE! 7. . AMPHITRITE! 493 
 
 hind the nuns and the officers who were escorting her. 
 
 The light of daybreak, blue and cold as the reflection 
 of steel, threw into relief the two masses of armed men 
 who formed a narrow passageway. At the end of this 
 impromptu lane there was a post planted in the ground 
 and beyond that, a dark van drawn by two horses, and 
 various men clad in black. 
 
 The woman's approach was signalized by a voice of 
 command, and immediately sounded the drums and 
 trumpets at the head of the two formations. There 
 was a rattle of guns; the soldiers were presenting 
 arms. The martial instruments delivered the triumphal 
 salute due to the presence of the head of a state, a gen- 
 eral, a flag-raising. ... It was an homage to Justice, 
 majestic and severe, a hymn to Patriotism, implacable in 
 defense. 
 
 Recalling the white woman with deep bosom and 
 hollow eyes that she had seen over the head of the 
 President of the Council, the spy for a moment recog- 
 nized that all this was in her honor ; but afterwards, she 
 wished to believe that the triumphal reception was for 
 herself. . . . She was marching between guns, accom- 
 panied by bugle-call and drum-beat, like a queen. 
 
 To her defender, she appeared taller than ever. She 
 seemed to have grown a palm higher because of her 
 intense, emotional uplift. Her theatrical soul was moved 
 just as when she used to present herself on the boards 
 to receive applause. All these men had arisen in the 
 middle of the night and were there on her account: the 
 horns and the drums were sounding in order to greet her. 
 Discipline was keeping their countenances grave and cold 
 but she had the certain consciousness that they were 
 finding her beautiful, and that back of many immovable 
 eyes, desire was asserting itself. 
 
 If there remained a shred of fear of losing her life, ft
 
 494 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 disappeared under the caress of this false glory. 5 . * 
 To die contemplated by so many valiant men who were 
 rendering her the greatest of honors! She felt the 
 necessity of being adorable, of falling into an artistic 
 pose as though she were on a stage. 
 
 She was passing between the two masses of men, head 
 erect, stepping firmly with the high-spirited tread of a 
 goddess-huntress, sometimes casting a glance on some 
 of the hundreds of eyes fixed upon her. The illusion of 
 her triumph made her advance as upright and serene aa 
 though passing the troops in review. 
 
 "Good heavens! . . . What poise!" exclaimed a 
 young officer behind the lawyer, admiring Freya's 
 serenity. 
 
 Upon approaching the post, some one read a brief 
 document, a summary of the sentence, three lines to 
 apprise her that justice was about to be fulfilled. 
 
 The only thing about this rapid notification that 
 annoyed her was the fear that the trumpets and drum? 
 would cease. But they continued sounding and their 
 martial music was as conforting to her ears as a very 
 intoxicating wine slipping through her lips. 
 
 A platoon of corporals and soldiers (twelve rifles) 
 detached themselves from the double, military mass. A 
 sub-officer with a blond beard, small, delicate, was com- 
 manding it with an unsheathed sword. Freya contem- 
 plated him a moment, finding him interesting, while the 
 young man avoided her glance. 
 
 With the gesture of a tragedy queen, she repelled the 
 white handkerchief that they were offering her to bandage 
 her eyes. She did not need it. The nuns took leave of 
 her forever. As soon as she was alone, two gendarmes 
 commenced to tie her with the back supported against 
 the post. 
 
 "They say,'* her defender continued writing, "that one
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 495 
 
 of her hands waved to me for the last time just before it 
 was fastened down by the rope. ... I saw nothing. I 
 could not see ! ... It was too much for me ! . . ." 
 
 The rest of the execution he knew only by hearsay. 
 The trumpets and drums continued sounding. Freya, 
 bound and intensely pale, smiled as tEough she were 
 drunk. The early morning breeze waved the plumes of 
 her hat. 
 
 When the twelve f usileers advanced placing themselves 
 in a horizontal line eight yards distant, all of them aiming 
 toward her heart, she appeared to wake up. She 
 shrieked, her eyes abnormally dilated by the horror of 
 the reality that so soon was to take place. Her cheeks 
 were covered with tears. She tugged at the ligatures 
 with the vigor of an epileptic. 
 
 "Pardon! . . . Pardon! I do not want to die!" 
 
 The sub-lieutenant raised his sword, and lowered it 
 again rapidly. ... A shot. 
 
 Freya collapsed, her body slipping the entire length of 
 the post until it fell forward on the ground. The bullets 
 had cut the cords that bound her. 
 
 As though it had acquired sudden life, her hat leaped 
 from her head, flying off to fall about four yards further 
 on. A corporal with a revolver in his right hand came 
 forward from the shooting picket: "the death-blow." 
 He checked his step before the puddle of blood that was 
 forming around the victim, pressing his lips together and 
 averting his eyes. He then bent over her, raising with 
 the end of the barrel the ringlets which had fallen over 
 one of her ears. She was still breathing. ... A shot 
 in the temple. Her body contracted with a final shudder, 
 then remained immovable with the rigidity of a corpse. 
 
 Voices were heard. The firing-squad re-formed in 
 line, and to the rhythm of their instruments went filing
 
 496 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 past the body of the dead. From the funeral wagon two 
 black-robed men drew out a bier of white wood. 
 
 Turning their backs upon their work, the double mili- 
 tary mass marched toward the encampment. The ends 
 of Justice had been served. Trumpets and drums were 
 lost on the horizon but their sounds were still magnified 
 by the fresh echoes of the coming morn. The corpse was 
 despoiled of its jewels and then deposited in that poor 
 coffin which looked so like a packing-box. The two 
 nuns took with timidity the gems which the dead woman 
 had given them for their works of charity. Then the 
 lid was fastened down, shutting away forever the one 
 who a few moments before was a woman of sumptuous 
 charm upon whom men could not look unmoved. The 
 four planks now guarded merely bloody rags, mutilated 
 flesh, broken bones. 
 
 The vehicle went to the cemetery of Vincennes, to 
 the corner in which the executed were buried. . . . Not 
 a flower, not an inscription, not a cross. The lawyer 
 liimself could not be sure of finding her burial place if at 
 any time it was necessary to seek it. ... Such was the 
 last scene in the career of this luxurious and pleasure- 
 loving creature ! . . . Thus had that body gone to disso- 
 lution in an unknown hole in the ground like any aban- 
 doned beast of burden! . . . 
 
 "She was good," said her defender, "and yet at the 
 same time, she was a criminal. Her education was to 
 blame. Poor woman ! . . . They had brought her up to 
 live in riches, and riches had always fled before her." 
 , Then in his last lines the old mctitre said with 
 melancholy, "She died thinking of you and a little of 
 me. . . . We have been the last men of her existence." 
 : This reading left Ulysses in a mournful state of 
 stupefaction. Freya was no longer living! . . . He was
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 497 
 
 no longer running the danger of seeing her appear on 
 his ship at whatever port he might touch! . . . 
 
 The duality of his sentiments again surged up with 
 violent contradiction. 
 
 "It was a good thing !" said the sailor, "how many men 
 have died through her fault! . . . Her execution was 
 inevitable. The sea must be cleared of such bandits." 
 
 And at the same time the remembrance of the delights 
 of Naples, of that long imprisonment in a harem per- 
 vaded with unlimited sensuousness was reborn in his 
 mind. He saw her in all the majesty of her marvelous 
 body, just as when she was dancing or leaping from side 
 to side of the old salon. And now this form, molded 
 by nature in a moment of enthusiasm, was no longer in 
 existence. ... It was nothing but a mass of liquid flesh 
 and pestilent pulp! . . . 
 
 He recalled her kiss, that kiss that had so electrified 
 him, making him sink down and down through an ocean 
 of ecstasy, like a castaway, content with his fate. . . . 
 And he would never know her more! . . . And her 
 mouth, with its perfume of cinnamon and incense, of 
 Asiatic forests haunted with sensuousness and intrigue, 
 was now . . . ! Ah, misery! 
 
 Suddenly he saw the profile of the dead woman with 
 one eye turned toward him, graciously and malignly, 
 just as the "eye of the morning" must have looked at 
 its mistress while uncoiling her mysterious dances in her 
 Asiatic dwelling. 
 
 Ulysses concentrated his attention on the Phantasm's 
 pallid brow touched by the silky caress of her curls. 
 There he had placed his best kisses, kisses of tenderness 
 and gratitude. ... But the smooth skin that had 
 appeared made of petals of the camellia was growing 
 dark before his eyes. It became a dark green and was 
 oozing with blood. . . . Thus he had seen her that other
 
 498 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 time. . . . And he recalled with remorse his blow in 
 Barcelona. . . . Then it opened, forming a deep hole, 
 angular in shape like a star. Now it was the mark of the 
 gunshot wound, the coup de grace that brought the death- 
 agony of the executed girl to its end. 
 
 Poor Freya, implacable warrior, unnerved by the 
 battle of the sexes! . . . She had passed her existence 
 hating men yet needing them in order to live, doing 
 them all the harm possible and receiving it from them in 
 sad reciprocity until finally she had perished at their 
 hands. 
 
 It could not end in any other way. A masculine hand 
 had opened the orifice through which was escaping the 
 last bubble of her existence. . . . And the horrified 
 captain, poring over her sad profile with its purpling 
 temple, thought that he never would be able to blot that 
 ghastly vision from his memory. The phantasm would 
 diminish, becoming invisible in order to deceive him, but 
 would surely come forth again in all his hours of pensive 
 solitude ; it was going to embitter his nights on watch, to 
 follow him through the years like remorse. 
 
 Fortunately the exactions of real life kept repelling 
 these sad memories. 
 
 "It was a good thing she was shot I" affirmed authori- 
 tatively widiin him the energetic official accustomed to 
 command men. "What would you hare done in forming 
 a part of the tribunal that condemned her? . . . Just 
 what the others did. Think of those who have died 
 through her deviltry! . . . Remember what Toni said!" 
 A letter from his former mate, received in the same 
 mail with the one from Freya's defender, spoke of the 
 abominations that submarine aggression was committing 
 in the Mediterranean. 
 
 News of some of the crimes was beginning to be 
 received from shipwrecked sailors who had succeeded in
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 499 
 
 reaching the coast after long hours of struggle, or when 
 picked up by other boats. The most of the victims, 
 however, would remain forever unknown in the mystery 
 of the waves. Torpedoed boats had gone to the bottom 
 with their crews and passengers, "without leaving any 
 trace," and only months afterwards a part of the tragedy 
 had become evident when the surge flung up on the coast 
 numberless bodies impossible of identification, without 
 even a recognizable human face. 
 
 Almost every week Toni contemplated some of these 
 funereal gifts of the sea. At daybreak the fishermen 
 used to find corpses tossed on the beach where the 
 water swept the sand, resting there a few moments on the 
 moist ground, only to be snatched back again by another 
 and stronger wave. Finally their backs had become 
 imbedded on land, holding them motionless while, from 
 their clothing and their flesh, swarms of little fishes 
 came forth fleeing back to the sea in search of new pas- 
 tures. The revenue guards had discovered among the 
 rocks mutilated bodies in tragic positions, with glassy 
 eyes protruding from their sockets. 
 
 Many of them were recognized as soldiers by the tatters 
 that revealed an old uniform, or the metal identification 
 tags on their wrists. The shore folks were always 
 talking of a transport that had been torpedoed coming 
 from Algiers. . . . And mixed with the men, they were 
 constantly finding bodies of women so disfigured that it 
 was almost impossible to judge of their age: mothers 
 who had their arms arched as though putting forth their 
 utmost efforts to guard the babe that had disappeared. 
 Many whose virginal modesty had been violated by the 
 sea, showed naked limbs swollen and greenish, with deep 
 bites from flesh-eating fishes. The tide had even tossed 
 ashore the headless body of a child a few years old. 
 
 It was more horrible, according to Toni, to contem-
 
 plate this spectacle from land than when in a boat. Those 
 on ships are not able to see the ultimate consequences of 
 the torpedoings as vividly as do those who live on the 
 shore, receiving as a gift of the waves this continual 
 Consignment of victims. 
 
 The pilot had ended his letter with his Usual suppli- 
 cations : "Why do you persist in following the sea ? . . . 
 You want a vengeance that is impossible. You are one 
 man, and your enemies are millions. . . . You are going 
 to die if you persist in disregarding them. You already 
 know that they have been hunting you for a long time. 
 And you will not always succeed in eluding their clutches. 
 Remember what the people say, *He who courts 
 
 danger !' Give up the sea; return to your wife or 
 
 come to us* Such. a. rich life as you might lead 
 ashore! . . ." 
 
 For a few hours Ferragut was of Toni's opinion. 
 His reckless undertaking was bound to come to a bad end. 
 His enemies knew him, were lying in wait for him, and 
 were many arrayed against one who was living alone on 
 his ship with a crew of men of a different nationality. 
 Aside from the few who had always loved him, nobody 
 would lament his death. He did not belong to any of the 
 nations at war; he was a species of privateer bound not 
 to begin an attack. He was even less, an officer 
 carrying supplies under the protection of a neutral flag. 
 This flag was not deceiving anybody. His enemies knew 
 the ship, seeking for it with more determination than if 
 he were with the Allied fleets. Even in his own country, 
 there were many people in sympathy with the German 
 Empire who would celebrate joyously the disappearance 
 of the Mare Nostrum and its captain. 
 
 Freya's death had depressed his spirits more than he 
 had imagined possible. He had gloomy presentiments; 
 perhaps his next journey might be his last
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 501 
 
 "You are going to die !" cried an anguished voice in his 
 brain, "You'll die very soon if you do not retire from 
 the sea." j; 
 
 And to Ferragut the queerest thing about the warning 
 was that this counselor had the voice of the one who had 
 always egged him on to foolish adventures, the one that 
 had hurled him into danger for the mere pleasure of 
 discounting it, the one that had made him follow Freya 
 even after knowing her vile profession. 
 
 On the other hand the voice of prudence, always 
 cautious and temperate, was now showing an heroic 
 tranquillity, speaking like a man of peace who considers 
 his obligations superior to his life. 
 
 "Be calm, Ferragut; you have sold your person with 
 your boat, and they have given you millions for it. You 
 must carry through what you have promised even though 
 it may send you out of existence. . . . The Mare 
 Nostrum cannot sail without a Spanish captain. If you 
 abandon it, you will have to find another captain. You 
 will run away through fear and put in your place a man 
 who has to face death in order to maintain his family. 
 Glorious achievement, that! . . . while you would be 
 on land, rich and safe ! . . . And what are you going to 
 do on land, you coward?" 
 
 His egoism hardly knew how to reply to such a ques- 
 tion. He recalled with antipathy his bourgeois existence 
 over there in Barcelona, before buying the steamer. He 
 was a man of action and could live only when occupied in 
 risky enterprises. 
 
 He would be bored to death on land and at the 
 same time would be considered belittled, degraded, like 
 one who comes down to an inferior grade in a country 
 of hierarchies. The captain of a romantic, adventurous 
 life would be converted into a real estate proprietor, 
 knowing no other struggles than those which he migh
 
 502 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 sustain with his tenants. Perhaps, in order to avoid a 
 commonplace existence, he might invest his capital in 
 navigation, the only business that he knew well. He 
 might become a ship-owner acquiring new vessels and, 
 little by little, because of the necessity of keeping a sharp 
 watch over them, would eventually renew his voy- 
 ages. . . . Well, then, why should he abandon the Mare 
 Nostrum? 
 
 Upon asking himself anxiously what his life had so 
 far amounted to, he underwent a profound moral rev- 
 olution. 
 
 All his former existence appeared to him like a desert. 
 He had lived without knowing why nor wherefore, 
 challenging countless dangers and adventures for the 
 mere pleasure of coming out victorious. Neither did he 
 know with certainty what he had wanted until then. If it 
 was money, it had flowed into his hands in the last 
 months with overwhelming abundance. . . . He had it 
 to spare and it had not made him happy. As to pro- 
 fessional glory, he could not desire anything greater than 
 he already had. His name was celebrated all over the 
 Spanish Mediterranean. Even the rudest and most un- 
 governable of sailors would admit his exceptional ability. 
 
 "Love remained! . . ." But Ferragut made a wry 
 face when thinking of that He had known it and did 
 not wish to meet it again. The gentle love of a good 
 companion, capable of surrounding the latter part of his 
 existence with congenial comfort, he had just lost 
 forever. The other, impassioned, fantastic, voluptuous, 
 giving to life the crude interest of conflicts and contrasts, 
 had left him with no desire of recommencing it. 
 
 Paternity, stronger and more enduring than love, 
 might have filled the rest of his days had his son not 
 died. . . . There only remained vengeance, the savage 
 task of returning evil to those who had done him so
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 503 
 
 much evil. But he was so powerless to struggle against 
 all of them ! .. . This final act appeared to be turning out 
 so small and selfish in comparison with that other patriotic 
 enthusiasm which was now dragging to sacrifice such 
 great masses of men { . . . 
 
 While he was thinking it all over, a phrase which he 
 had somewhere heard formed perhaps from the residu- 
 um of old readings began to chant in his brain : "A life 
 without ideals is not worth the trouble of living." 
 
 Ferragut mutely assented. It was true: in order to 
 live, an ideal is necessary. But where could he find 
 it? ... 
 
 Suddenly, in his mind's eye, he saw Toni, just as 
 when he used to try to express his confused thoaghts. 
 With all his credulity and simplicity, his captain now 
 considered his humble mate his superior. In his own 
 way Toni had his ideal : he was concerned with something 
 besides his own selfishness. He wished for other men 
 what he considered good for himself, and he defended his 
 convictions with the mystical enthusiasm of all those 
 historic personages who have tried to impose a belief ; 
 with the faith of the warriors of the Cross and those of 
 the Prophet, with the tenacity of the Inquisition and of 
 the Jacobins. 
 
 He, a man of reason, had only known how to ridicule 
 the generous and disinterested enthusiasms of other 
 men, detecting at once their weak points and lack of 
 adaptation to the reality of the moment. . . . What right 
 had he to laugh at his mate who was a believer, 
 dreaming, with the pure-mindedness of a child, of a free 
 and happy humanity? . . . Aside from his stupid jeers, 
 what could he oppose to that faith? . . . 
 
 Life began to appear to him under a new light, as 
 something serious and mysterious that was exacting a 
 bridge toll, a tribute of courage from all the beings who
 
 5 Q4 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 pass over it, leaving the cradle behind them and 
 having the grave as a final resting-place. 
 
 It did not matter at a!l that their ideals mi^ht appear 
 false. Where is the truth, the only and genuine truth? 
 . . . Who is there that can demonstrate that he exists, 
 and is not an illusion ? . . . 
 
 The necessary tiling was to believe in something, to 
 have hope. The multitudes had never been touched by 
 impulses of argument and criticism. They had only gone 
 forward when some one had caused hopes and halluci- 
 nations to be born in their souls. Philosophers might 
 vainly seek the truth by the light of logic, but the rest of 
 mankind would always prefer the chimerical ideals that 
 become transformed into powerful motives of action. 
 
 All religions were becoming beautifully less upon 
 being subjected to cold examination. Yet, nevertheless, 
 they were producing saints and martyrs, true super-men 
 of morality. All revolutions had proved imperfect and 
 ineffectual when submitted to scientific revision. Yet, 
 notwithstanding, they had brought forth the greatest 
 individual heroes, the most astonishing collective move- 
 ments of history. 
 
 "To believe ! ... To dream !" a mysterious voice kept 
 chanting in his brain. "To have an ideal ! . . ." 
 
 He did not fancy living, like the mummies of the great 
 Pharaohs, in a luxurious tomb, anointed with perfume 
 and surrounded with everything necessary for nourish- 
 ment and sleep. To be born, to grow up, to reproduce 
 oneself was not enough to form a history: all the 
 animals do the same. Man ought to add something 
 more which he alone possesses, the faculty of framing 
 a future. . . . To dream! To the heritage of idealism 
 left by our forebears should be added a new ideal, or the 
 power of bringing it about. 
 
 Ferragut realized that in normal times, he woul4 have
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 505 
 
 gene to his death just as he had lived, continuing a 
 monotonous and uniform existence. Now the violent 
 changes around him were resuscitating the dormant 
 personalities which we all carry within us as souvenirs of 
 our ancestors, revolving around a central and keen per- 
 sonality the only one that has existed until then. 
 
 The world was in a state of war. The men of Middle 
 Europe were clashing with the other half on the battle- 
 fields. Both sides had a mystic ideal, affirming it with 
 violence and slaughter just as the multitudes have 
 always done when moved by religious or revolutionary 
 certainty accepted as the only truth. . . . 
 
 But the sailor recognized a profound difference in the 
 two masses struggling at the present day. One was 
 placing its ideal in the past, wishing to rejuvenate the 
 sovereignty of Force, the divinity of war, and adapt it to 
 actual life. The other throng was preparing for the 
 future, dreaming of a world of free democracy, of 
 nations at peace, tolerant and without jealousy. 
 
 Upon adjusting himself to this new atmosphere, 
 Ferragut began to feel within him ideas and aspirations 
 that were, perhaps, an ancestral legacy. He fancied he 
 could hear his uncle, the Triton, describing the 
 impact of the men of the North upon the men of the 
 South when trying to make themselves masters of the 
 blue mantle of Amphitrite. He was a Mediterranean, 
 but just because the country in which he had been born 
 happened to be uninterested in the fate of the world, 
 he was not going to remain indifferent. 
 
 He ought to continue just where he was. Whatever 
 Toni had told him of Latinism and Mediterranean civil- 
 ization, he now accepted as great truths. Perhaps they 
 might not be exact when examined in the light of pure 
 reason, but they were worth as much as the assurances 
 of the others.
 
 5o5 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 He was going to continue his life of navigation with 
 new enthusiasm. He had faith, the ideals, the illusions 
 that heroes are made of. While the war lasted he 
 would assist in his own way, acting as an auxiliary to 
 those who were fighting, transporting all that was 
 necessary to the struggle. He began to look with greater 
 respect upon the sailors obedient to his orders, simple 
 folk who had given their blood without fine phrases and 
 without arguments. 
 
 When peace should come he would not, therefore, 
 retire from the sea. There would still be much to be 
 done. Then would begin the commercial war, the sharp 
 rivalry to conquer the markets of the younger nations 
 of America. Audacious and enormous plans were out- 
 lining themselves in his brain. In this war he might 
 perhaps become a leader. He dreamed of the creation 
 of a fleet of steamers that might reach even to the coast 
 of the Pacific ; he wished to contribute his means to the 
 victorious re-birth of the race which had discovered 
 the greater part of the planet. 
 
 His new faith made him more friendly with the ship's 
 cook, feeling the attraction of his invincible illusions. 
 From time to time he would amuse himself consulting 
 the old fellow as to the future fate of the steamer; he 
 wished to know if the submarines were causing him any 
 fear. 
 
 "There's nothing to worry about," affirmed Caragol. 
 "We have good protectors. Whoever presents himself 
 before us is lost." 
 
 And he showed his captain the religious engravings and 
 postal cards which he had tacked on the walls of the 
 galley. 
 
 One morning Ferragut received his sailing orders. 
 For the moment they were going to Gibraltar, to pick up 
 ;the cargo of a steamer that had not been able to continue
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 507 
 
 its voyage. From the strait they might turn their course 
 to Salonica once more. 
 
 The captain of the Mare Nostrum had never under- 
 taken a journey with so much joy. He believed that he 
 was going to leave on land forever the recollection of that 
 executed woman whose corpse he was seeing so many 
 nights in his dreams. From all the past, the only thing 
 that he wished to transplant to his new existence was the 
 image of his son. Henceforth he was going to live, 
 concentrating all his enthusiasm and ideals on the mission 
 which he had imposed on himself. 
 
 He took the boat directly from Marseilles to the Cape 
 of San Antonio far from the coast, keeping to the mid- 
 Mediterranean, without passing the Gulf of Lyons. One 
 twilight evening the crew saw some bluish mountains in 
 the hazy distance, the island of Mallorca. During the 
 night the lighthouses of Ibiza and Formentera slipped 
 past the dark horizon. When the sun arose a vertical 
 spot of rose color like a tongue of flame, appeared above 
 the sea line. It was the high mountain of Mongo, the 
 Ferrarian promontory of the ancients. At the foot of its 
 abrupt steeps was the village of Ulysses' grandparents, 
 the house in which he had passed the best part of his 
 childhood. Thus it must have looked in the distance to 
 the Greeks of Massalia, exploring the desert Mediter- 
 ranean in ships which were leaping the foam like wooden 
 horses. 
 
 All the rest of the day, the Mare Nostrum sailed very 
 close to the shore. The captain knew this sea as though 
 it were a lake on his own property. He took the steamer 
 through shallow depths, seeing the reefs so near to the 
 surface that it appeared almost a miracle that the boat 
 did not crash upon them. Sometimes the space between 
 the keel and the sunken rocks was hardly two yards wide. 
 Then the gilded water would take on a dark tone and the
 
 506 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 steamer would continue its advance over the greater 
 depths. 
 
 Along the shore, the autumn sun was reddening the 
 yellowing mountains, now dry and fragrant, covered 
 with pasturage of strong odor which could be smelt at 
 great distances. In all the windings of the coast, little 
 coves, beds of dry torrents or gorges between two 
 peaks were visible white groups of hamlets. 
 
 Ferragut contemplated carefully the native land of his 
 grandparents. Toni must be there now: perhaps from 
 the door of his dwelling he was seeing them pass by; 
 perhaps he was recognizing the ship with surprise and 
 emotion. 
 
 A French official, motionless near Ulysses on the 
 bridge, was admiring the beauty of the day and the sea. 
 Not a single cloud was in the sky. All was blue above 
 and below, with no variation except where the bands of 
 foam were combing themselves on the jutting points of 
 the coast, and the restless gold of the sunlight was 
 forming a broad roadway over the waters. A flock of 
 dolphins frisked around the boat like a cortege of oceanic 
 divinities. 
 
 "If the sea were always like this!" exclaimed the 
 captain, "what delight to be a sailor!" 
 
 The crew could s,ee the people on land running together 
 and forming groups, attracted by the novelty of a steamer 
 that was passing within reach of their voice. On each 
 of the jutting points of the shore was a low and ruddy 
 tower, last vestige of the thousand-year war of the 
 Mediterranean. Accustomed to the rugged shores of 
 the ocean and its eternal surf, the Breton sailors were 
 marveling at this easy navigation, almost touching the 
 coast whose inhabitants looked like a swarm of bees. 
 Had the boat been directed by another captain, so close a 
 journey would have resulted most disastrously: but
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 509 
 
 Ferragut was laughing", throwing out gloomy hints to the 
 officers who were on the bridge, merely to accentuate his 
 professional confidence. He pointed out the rocks hidden 
 in the deeps. Here an Italian liner that was going to 
 Buenos Ayres had been lost. ... A little further on, a 
 swift four-masted sailboat had run aground, losing its 
 cargo. . . . He could tell by the fraction of an inch the 
 amount of water permissible between the treacherous 
 rocks and the keel of his boat. 
 
 He usually sought the roughest waters by preference, 
 but they were in the danger-zone of the Mediterranean 
 where the German submarines were lying in wait for the 
 French and English convoys navigating in the shelter of 
 the Spanish coast. The obstacles of the submerged 
 coast were for him now the best defense against invisible 
 attacks. 
 
 Behind him, the Ferrarian promontory was growing 
 more and more shadowy, becoming a mere blur on the 
 horizon. By nightfall the Mare Nostrum was in front of 
 Cape Palos and he had to sail in the outer waters in order 
 to double it, leaving Cartagena in the distance. From 
 there, he turned his course to the southwest, to the cape 
 where the Mediterranean was beginning to grow narrow, 
 forming the funnel of the strait. Soon they would pass 
 before Almeria and Malaga, reaching Gibraltar the fol- 
 lowing day. 
 
 "Here is where the enemy is oftentimes waiting," said 
 Ferragut to one of the officers. "If we have no bad luck 
 before night, we shall have safely concluded our voyage." 
 
 The boat had withdrawn from the shore route, and it 
 was no longer possible to distinguish the lower coast. 
 Only from the prow could be seen the jutting hump of 
 the cape, rising up like an island. 
 
 Caragol appeared with a tray on which were smoking 
 two cups of coffee. He would not yield to any cabin-
 
 510 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 boy the honor of serving the captain when on the 
 bridge. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of the trip?" asked Ferragut 
 gayly, before drinking. "Shall we arrive in good con- 
 dition? . . ." 
 
 The cook made as scornful a gesture as though the 
 Germans could see him. 
 
 "Nothing will befall us; I am sure of that. . . . We 
 have One who is watching over us, and ..." 
 
 He was suddenly interrupted in his affirmations. The 
 tray leaped from his hands and he went staggering about 
 like a drunken man, even banging his abdomen against the 
 balustrade of the bridge. "Cristo del Grao! . . ." 
 
 The cup that Ferragut was carrying to his mouth fell 
 with a crash, and the French officer, seated on a bench, 
 was almost thrown on his knees. The helmsman had to 
 clutch the wheel with a jerk of surprise and terror. 
 
 The entire ship trembled from keel to masthead, from 
 quarter-deck to forecastle, with a deadly shuddering as 
 though invisible claws had just checked it at full speed. 
 
 The captain tried to account for this accident. "We 
 must be aground," he said to himself, "a reef that I did 
 not know, a shoal not marked on the charts. ..." 
 
 But a second had not passed before something else 
 was added to the first shock, refuting Ferragut's sup- 
 positions. The blue and luminous air was rent with the 
 thud of a thunderclap. Near the prow, appeared a col- 
 umn of smoke, of expanding gases of yellowish and ful- 
 minating steam and, coming up through its center in the 
 form of a fan, a spout of black objects, broken wood, 
 bits of metallic plates and flaming ropes turning to ashes. 
 
 Ulysses was no longer in doubt. They must have just 
 been struck by a torpedo. His anxious look scanned the 
 waters. 
 
 "Jhere ! . . . There !" he said, pointing with his hand.
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 511 
 
 His keen seaman's eyes had just discovered the light 
 outline of a periscope that nobody else was able to see. 
 
 He ran down from the bridge or rather he slid down 
 the midship ladder, running toward the stern. 
 
 "There! . . . There!" 
 
 The three gunners were near the cannon, calm and 
 phlegmatic, putting a hand to their eyes, in order to see 
 better the almost invisible speck which the captain was 
 pointing out. 
 
 None of them noticed the slant that the deck was 
 slowly beginning to take. They thrust the first projectile 
 into the breech of the cannon while the gunner made an 
 effort to distinguish that small black cane hardly per- 
 ceptible among the tossing waves. 
 
 Another shock as rude as the first one! Everything 
 groaned with a dying shudder. The plates were 
 trembling and falling apart, losing the cohesion that had 
 made of them one single piece. The screws and rivets 
 sprang out, moved by the general shaking-up. A second 
 crater had opened in the middle of the ship, this time 
 bearing in its fan-shaped explosion the limbs of human 
 beings. 
 
 The captain saw that further resistance was useless. 
 His feet warned him of the cataclysm that was develop- 
 ing beneath them the liquid water-spout invading 
 with a foamy bellowing the space between keel and deck, 
 destroying the metal screens, knocking down the bulk- 
 heads, upsetting every object, dragging them forth with 
 all the violence of. an inundation, with the ramming force 
 of a breaking dyke. The hold was rapidly becoming 
 converted into a watery and leaden coffin fast going 
 to the bottom. 
 
 The aft gun hurled its first shot. To Ferragut its 
 report seemed mere irony. No one knew as he did the 
 ship's desperate condition.
 
 512 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 "To the life boats!" he shouted. "Every one to the 
 boats !" 
 
 The steamer was tipping up in an alarming way as 
 the men calmly obeyed his orders without losing their 
 self-control. 
 
 A desperate vibration was jarring the deck. It was 
 the engines that were sending out death-rattles at the 
 same time that a torrent of steam as thick as ink was 
 pouring from the smokestack. The firemen were coming 
 up to the light with eyes swollen with the terror stamp- 
 ing their blackened faces. The inundation had begun 
 to invade their dominions, breaking their steel com- 
 partments. 
 
 "To the boats! . . . Lower the life boats!" 
 
 The captain repeated his shouts of command, anxious 
 to see the crew embark, without thinking for one 
 moment of his own safety. 
 
 It never even occurred to him that his fate might be 
 different from that of his ship. Besides, hidden in the 
 sea, was the enemy who would soon break the surface to 
 survey its handiwork. * . . Perhaps they might hunt for 
 Captain Ferragut among the boatloads of survivors, wish- 
 ing to bear him off as their triumphant booty. . . . 
 No, he would far rather give up his life ! . . . 
 
 The seamen had unfastened the life boats and were 
 beginning to lower them, when something brutal suddenly 
 occurred with the annihilating rapidity of a cataclysm of 
 Nature. 
 
 There sounded a great explosion as though the world 
 had gone to pieces, and Ferragut felt the floor vanishing 
 from beneath his feet. He looked around him. The 
 prow no longer existed; it had disappeared under the 
 water, and a bellowing wave was rolling over the deck 
 crushing everything beneath its roller of foam. On the 
 other hand, the poop was climbing higher and higher,
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 513 
 
 becoming almost vertical. It was soon a cliff, a moun- 
 tain steep, on whose peak the white flagstaff was stick- 
 ing up like a weather-vane. 
 
 In order not to fall he had to grasp a rope, a bit of 
 wood, any fixed object. But the effort was useless. He 
 felt himself dragged down, overturned, lashed about in a 
 moaning and whirling darkness. A deadly chill para- 
 lyzed his limbs. His closed eyes saw a red heaven, a 
 sky of blood with black stars. His ear drums were 
 buzzing with a roaring glu-glu, while his body was turn- 
 ing somersaults through the darkness. His confused 
 brain imagined that an infinitely deep hole had opened 
 in the depths of the sea, that all the waters of the ocean 
 were passing through it, forming a gigantic vortex, and 
 that he was swirling in the center of this revolving 
 tempest. 
 
 "I am going to (lie ! ... I am already dead !" said his 
 thoughts. 
 
 And in spite of the fact that he was resigned to death, 
 he moved his legs desperately, wishing to bring himself 
 up to the yielding, treacherous surface. Instead of con- 
 tinuing to descend, he noticed that he was going up, and 
 in a little while he was able to open his eyes and to 
 breathe, judging from the atmospheric contact that he had 
 reached the top. 
 
 He was not sure of the length of time he had passed 
 in the abyss, surely not more than a few minutes, since 
 his breathing capacity as a swimmer could not exceed 
 that limit. . . . He, therefore, experienced great aston- 
 ishment upon discovering the tremendous changes which 
 had taken place in so short a parenthesis. 
 
 He thought it was already night. Perhaps in the upper 
 strata of the atmosphere were still shining the last rays of 
 the sun, but at the water's level, there was no more tharj 
 a twilight gray, like the dim glimmer of a cellar.
 
 514 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 The almost even surface seen a few minutes before 
 from the height of the bridge was now moved by broad 
 swells that plunged him in momentary darkness. Each 
 one of these appeared a hillock interposed before his 
 eyes, leaving free only a few yards of space. When he 
 was raised upon their crests he could take in with rapid 
 vision the solitary sea that lacked the gallant mass of the 
 ship, astir with dark objects. These objects were slipping 
 inertly by or moving along, waving pairs of black anten- 
 nae. Perhaps they were imploring help, but the wet desert 
 was absorbing the most furious cries, converting them 
 into distant bleating. 
 
 Of the Mare 1 Nostrum there was no longer visible 
 either the mouth of the smokestack nor the point of a 
 mast; the abyss had swallowed it all. . . . Ferragut be- 
 gan to doubt if his ship had ever really existed. 
 
 He swam toward a plank that came floating near, rest- 
 ing his arms upon it. He used to be able to remain en- 
 tire hours in the sea, when naked and within sight of the 
 coast, with the assurance of returning to terra firma 
 whenever he might wish. . . . But now he had to keep 
 himself up, completely dressed ; his shoes were tugging at 
 him with a constantly increasing force as though made 
 of iron . . . and water on all sides ! Not a boat on the 
 horizon that could come to his aid ! . . . The wireless op- 
 erator, surprised by the swiftness of the catastrophe, had 
 not been able to send out the S. O. S. 
 
 He also had to defend himself from the debris of the 
 shipwreck. After having grasped the raft as his last 
 means of salvation, he had to avoid the floating casks, 
 rolling toward him on the swelling billows, which might 
 send him to the bottom with one of their blows. 
 
 Suddenly there loomed up between two waves a spe- 
 cies of blind monster that was agitating the waters furi- 
 ously with the strokes of its swimming. Upon coming
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE! 515 
 
 close to it, he saw that it was a man ; as it drifted away, 
 he recognized Uncle Caragol. 
 
 He was swimming like a drunken man with a super- 
 human force which made half of his body come out of 
 the water at each stroke. He was looking before him 
 as though he could see, as if he had a fixed destination, 
 without hesitating a moment, yet going further out to 
 sea when he imagined that he was heading toward the 
 coast. 
 
 "Padre Sm 'Vicente!"- he moaned. "Cristo del 
 Grao! . . /' 
 
 In vain the captain shouted. The cook could not hear 
 him, and continued swimming on with all the force of his 
 faith, repeating his pious invocations between his noisy 
 snortings. 
 
 A cask climbed the crest of a wave, rolling down on 
 the opposite side. The head of the blind swimmer came 
 in its way. ... A thudding crash. "Padre San Vi- 
 cente! . . ." And Caragol disappeared with bleeding 
 head and a mouth full of salt. 
 
 Ferragut did not wish to imitate that kind of swim- 
 ming. The land was very far off for a man's arms; it 
 would be impossible to reach it. Not a single one of the 
 ship's boats had remained afloat. . . . His only hope, a 
 remote and whimsical one, was that some vessel might 
 discover the shipwrecked men and save them. 
 
 In a little while this hope was almost realized. From 
 the crest of a wave he could see a black bark, long and 
 low, without smokestack or mast, that was nosing 
 slowly among the debris. He recognized a subma- 
 rine. The dark silhouettes of several men were so 
 plainly visible that he believed he heard them shout- 
 ing, 
 
 "Ferragut! . . . Where is Captain Ferragut? . ," 
 
 "Ah, nol . . . Better to die!"
 
 5i6 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 And he clung to his raft, hanging his head as though 
 drowning. Then as night closed down upon him he 
 heard still other shouts, but these were cries of help, 
 cries of anguish, cries of death. Tlie rescuers were 
 searching for him only, leaving the others to their fate. 
 
 He lost all notion of time. An agonizing cold was 
 paralyzing his entire frame. His stiffened and swollen 
 hands were loosening from the raft and grasping it 
 again only by a supreme effort of his will. 
 
 The other shipwrecked men had taken the precaution 
 to put on their life preservers when the ship began to 
 sink. Thanks to this apparatus, their death agony was 
 going to be prolonged a few hours more. Perhaps if 
 they could hold out until daybreak, they might be dis- 
 covered by some boat ! But he ! ... 
 
 Suddenly he remembered the Triton. . . . His uncle 
 also had died in the sea ; all the most vigorous members 
 of the family had finally perished in its bosom. For 
 centuries and centuries it had been the tomb of the Fer- 
 raguts; with good reason they had called it "mare nos- 
 trum/' 
 
 He fancied that the currents might possibly have 
 dragged his uncle's dead body from the other promon- 
 tory to the place over which he was floating. Perhaps 
 he might be now beneath his feet. . . . An irresistible 
 force was pulling at them ; his paralyzed hands loosened 
 their hold on the wood. 
 
 "Uncle! . . . Uncle!" 
 
 In his thoughts he was shrieking to his relative with 
 the timorous plaint of the little fellow taking his first 
 swimming lesson. But his agonized hands again en- 
 countered the cold and weak support of the raft instead 
 of that island of hard muscles crowned with a hairy and 
 smiling face. 
 
 He continue^ his tenacious floating, struggling against
 
 AMPHITRITE! . . . AMPHITRITE1 
 
 the drowsiness that was urging him to relax from his 
 drifting support and let himself go to the bottom, to 
 sleep ... to sleep forever ! His shoes and clothing were 
 continuing to pull and tug with even greater force. 
 They became an undulating shroud, growing heavier 
 and heavier, surging and dragging down and down to the 
 uttermost depths. His desperation made him raise his 
 eyes and look at the stars. ... So high! . . . Only to* 
 be able to grasp one of them, as his hands were now; 
 clutching the wood ! . . . 
 
 At the same time he made instinctively a movement 
 of repulsion. His head had sunk in the water without 
 his being conscious of it. A bitter liquid was beginning 
 to filter through his mouth. . . . 
 
 He made a mighty effort to keep himself in a vertical 
 position, looking again at the sky, still black as ink, and 
 all the stars as red as drops of blood. 
 
 Suddenly he felt a certain consciousness that he was 
 not alone, and he closed his eyes. . . . Yes, somebody 
 was near him. It was a woman! . . . 
 
 It was a woman white as the clouds, white as the 
 sail, white as the foam. Her sea-green tresses were 
 adorned with pearls and phosphorescent corals; her 
 proud smile was that of a goddess, in keeping with the 
 majesty of her diadem. 
 
 She stretched her pearly arms around him, pressing 
 him close against her life-giving and eternally virginal 
 bosom. A dense and greenish atmosphere was giving 
 her whiteness a reflection like that of the light of the 
 caves of the sea. . . . 
 
 Her pale mouth then pressed against the sailor's, mak- 
 ing him feel as though all the light of this white appari- 
 tion had liquefied and was passing into his body by 
 means of her impelling kiss. 
 
 He could no longer see, he could no longer speak.
 
 518 MARE NOSTRUM 
 
 His eyes had closed, never to open again ; a bitter river 
 of salt was flowing down his throat. 
 
 Nevertheless he continued looking at her, more lumi- 
 nous, pressed closer and closer, with a sad expression 
 of love in his glassy eyes. . . . And thus he went down 
 and down the infinite levels of the abyss, inert, and 
 without volition, while a voice within him was crying, 
 as though just recognizing her : 
 
 "Ampjiitrite!, . ,
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 APR 2 1 1970 
 
 PL. Ul 
 
 ,OT - 
 
 HAY 
 
 2 2 '81 H DAY 
 
 NAV 1 6 81 RC CL 
 
 Book Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280
 
 
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 ALLEGE LIBRARY 
 
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