The Torrent

The Torrent

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Torrent, by Vicente Blasco
Ibañez This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Torrent Entre Naranjos
Author: Vicente Blasco Ibañez
Release Date: March 22, 2004 [EBook #11674]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
TORRENT ***

Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Sjaani and PG Distributed
Proofreaders

THE TORRENT
(ENTRE NARANJOS)
By VICENTE BLASCO IBAÑEZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY
ISAAC GOLDBERG
AND
ARTHUR LIVINGSTON
1921

THE TORRENT

PART ONE
I
"Your friends are waiting for you at the Club. They saw you for a
moment only, this morning; they'll be wanting to hear all your stories
about life in Madrid."
Doña Bernarda fixed upon the young deputy a pair of deep, scrutinizing,
severely maternal eyes that recalled to Rafael all the roguish anxieties
of his childhood.
"Are you going directly to the Club?..." she added. "Andrés will be
starting too, right away."
Rafael, in reply, wished a blunt "good-afternoon" to his mother and don
Andrés, who were still at table sipping their coffee, and strode out of
the dining-room.
Finding himself on the broad, red-marble staircase in the silence of that
ancient mansion, of such princely magnificence, he experienced the
sudden sense of comfort and wellbeing that a traveler feels on plunging
into a bath after a tedious journey.

Ever since he had arrived, with the noisy reception at the station, the
hurrahs, the deafening music, handshakes here, crowding there, the
pushing and elbowing of more than a thousand people who had
thronged the streets of Alcira to get a close look at him, this was the
first moment he had found himself alone, his own master, able to do
exactly as he pleased, without needing to smile automatically in all
directions and welcome with demonstrations of affection persons
whose faces he could scarcely recall.
What a deep breath of relief he drew as he went down the deserted
staircase, which echoed his every footstep! How large and beautiful the
patio was! How broad and lustrous the leaves of the plantains
flourishing in their green boxes! There he had spent the best years of
his childhood. The little boys who in those days used to be hiding
behind the wide portal, waiting for a chance to play with the son of the
powerful don Ramón Brull, were now the grown men, the sinewy
orchard workers, who had been parading from the station to his house,
waving their arms, and shouting vivas for their deputy--Alcira's
"favorite son."
This contrast between the past and present flattered Rafael's conceit,
though, in the background of his thoughts, the suspicion lurked that his
mother had been not a little instrumental in the preparation of his noisy
reception, not to mention don Andrés, and numerous other friends, ever
loyal to anyone connected with the greatness of the Brulls,
caciques--political bosses--and leading citizens of the district.
To enjoy these recollections of childhood and the pleasure of finding
himself once more at home, after several months in Madrid, he stood
for some time motionless in the patio, looking up at the balconies of the
first story, then at the attic windows--from which in mischievous years
gone by he had many a time withdrawn his head at the sound of his
mother's scolding voice--and lastly, at the veil of luminous blue
above--a patch of sky drenched in that Spanish sunlight which ripens
the oranges to clusters of flaming gold.
He thought he could still see his father--the imposing, solemn don
Ramón--sauntering about the patio, his hands behind his back,

answering in a few impressive words the questions flung at him by his
party adherents, who followed him about with idolatrous eyes. If the
old man could only have come back to life that morning to see how his
son had been acclaimed by the entire city!...
A barely perceptible sound like the buzzing of two flies broke the deep
silence of the mansion. The deputy looked toward the only balcony
window that was open, though but slightly. His mother and don Andrés
were still talking in the dining-room--and of him, as usual, without a
doubt! And, lest they should call him, and suddenly deprive him of his
keen enjoyment at being alone, he left the patio and went out into the
street.
It was only the month of March; but at two in the afternoon the air was
almost uncomfortably hot. Accustomed to the cold wind of Madrid and
to the winter rains, Rafael inhaled, with a sense of voluptuous pleasure,
the warm breeze that