The Shadow

The Shadow by Pio Baroja

Translated by Kroum Kroumov

Because he who praises himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be praised. Matthew 23.12.

She left the hospital on Corpus Christi day, and was going back, aged and gaunt but now cured, home of her mother, to continue her miserable life of prostitution. On her face, all destitution, in her heart, all ignominy.

Not the slightest idea crossed her mind; she only had a desire to end it all, to rest her tired bones forever. Perhaps she would have liked to die in that filthy hospital, where the detritus of vice converged, rather than return to life.

In one hand, she carried a small bundle with her tattered clothing, a few rags to wear. Her eyes, used to semi-darkness, were bothered by the daylight.

The bitter, inexorable sun was shining in the blue sky.

Suddenly, she found herself surrounded by people, and she stopped to see the procession walking by on the street. It had been so long since she had seen it! There in the village, when she was young and happy, and not despised! But that was so long ago!…

She saw the procession moving on the street, when a man, whom she had not disturbed, insulted her and pushed her; the others near her cursed and mocked her.

She tried to use her former smile as a response to the insults, but she could only form her lips into a painful grimace, and she continued walking with her head down and eyes brimming with tears.

On her face, all destitution, in her heart, all ignominy.

And the inexorable sun was shining in the blue sky.

In the procession, under the bright sun, sparkled the gold-lined robes of virgins, the silver crosses, and the precious stones of velvet banners. Then came the priests wearing their chasubles, the rich, the soldiers with their shiny uniforms, all the elites, and they came walking, guided by majestic music, and surrounded by bayonets, swords, and sabers.

And she tried to run away; some boys followed her, yelling, hounding her. She tripped and felt dismayed. Now hurt and crushed by everyone, she continued walking with her head down and eyes brimming with tears.

On her face, all destitution, in her heart, all ignominy.

Suddenly, in her soul, she felt an infinite tenderness, and she turned around and felt dazzled, and she saw a white majestic shadow following her, carrying its wounded heart, pierced with thorns, outside of its chest.

And the white majestic shadow, with its dazzling gaze and its smile full of irony, contemplated the priests, the soldiers, the rich, and all the elites, and moving its stare away from them, and coming near the miserable woman, kissed her on her forehead, with the most pure of kisses.

Mari Belcha

Mari Belcha by Pio Baroja

Translated by Kroum Kroumov

When left alone by the farmhouse door with your little brother in your arms, what do you think about, Mari Belcha? What do you think about when looking at the distant mountains and the pallid sky? 

They call you Mari Belcha, Maria the Black, because you were born on the Day of Three Kings, and not for any other reason; and you are white, as white as the lambskins taken out of the wash, and as blond as ripe summer corn…

When I pass in front of your house on my horse, you disappear as soon as you see me; you hide from me, the old doctor who was the first person to take you in his arms, on that cold morning on which you were born. 

If you only knew how well I remember it! We were waiting in the kitchen beside the fireplace. Your grandmother, with tears in her eyes, warmed the clothing that you would wear while she pensively stared at the fire; your aunt and uncle, the Aristondos, spoke about the weather and the harvest. With every step taken around the bedroom, a small room which had braided cobs of corn hanging from the ceiling, I watched your mother. And while your mother moaned the kind-hearted Jose Ramon, your father, took care of her, and I saw out the windows the snow-covered mountain and the flocks of thrushes flying through the air. 

Finally, after we had all waited, you came into the world crying desperately. Why do people cry when they are born? Is it that the nothing from which they come is much sweeter than the life being offered? 

As I told you, you came into the world screeching violently, and the Kings, aware of your arrival, placed a coin, a duro, in the hat that would have to cover your head. Perhaps it was the same one that had been given to me for helping your mother. 

And now you hide when I come near, when I pass by with my old horse! Ah! But I also look at you secretly from between the trees; and do you know why?... If I were to tell you, you would laugh… I, the old doctor, who could be your grandfather; yes, it’s true. If I were to tell you, you would laugh. 

You look so beautiful! They say that your face is browned from the sun; that your chest has no relief; perhaps it is true; but on the other hand, your eyes have the tranquility of an autumnal dawn, and your lips, the colors of poppies in yellow wheat fields. 

Then, you’re kind and affectionate. Do you remember, a few days ago, on the Tuesday when there was a fair? Your parents had gone down to the village, and you passed by the estate with your little brother in your arms. 

The boy was in a bad mood, and you wanted to distract him and you showed him the cows: la Gorriya (the Red) and la Beltza (the Black) were grazing the field, snorting joyously while running from one side to the other with a heavy step, and their long tails would whip your legs. 

And to make the boy feel guilty you said: 

Look at la Gorriya…, that silly being…, with those horns; ask her, maitia,: why do you close your eyes, those large silly eyes?... Don’t move your tail. 

And la Gorriya came close to you and looked at you with the sad gaze of a ruminant, and she stretched forward her head so that you would caress her curly neck. 

Then you went near the other cow, and, pointing her out with your finger, you said: 

This one is la Beltza… Hum!... How black she is!... How bad!... We don’t care for this one. But we do care for la Gorriya!

And the boy repeated with you:

We do care for la Gorriya!

But then he remembered that he was in a bad mood and began to cry. 

I also cried and I don’t know why. The truth is that the aged have children’s hearts inside.

And to quiet your brother you turned to the rowdy little dog; to the hens that pecked the ground followed by the gracious rooster; to the stupid pigs that ran from one side to another.

When the boy calmed down, you became pensive. Your eyes would look towards the bluish mountains in the distance, but without seeing them; they would look at the white clouds that drifted in the pale sky, the dry leaves that covered the mountain, the stripped tree branches, and would still not see anything. 

They did see something; but it was in the depths of the soul, in those mysterious regions where love and dreams sprout… 

Today, passing by you, I saw that you were even more worried. 

Sitting on a tree trunk, in a mood of abandonment, you nervously chewed a mint leaf. 

Tell me, Mari Belcha, what do you think about when you look at the distant mountains and the pallid sky? The hearse went by the Ronda towards the Prado. It was of a third grade, coarse, rickety, and small; painted black and the four pillars on its sides, which held up the roof, and the cross that crowned it, had live yellows, like the uniforms of doormen or the civil guard.