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Updated: June 12, 2025
Blanes was entering local politics with the enthusiasm 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.
The commercial traveler was still relating everywhere his version of the event, concluding it now with his melodramatic meeting with the father, the latter'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.
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 shovels, on opening the trenches, had stumbled upon the rarest finds. One day Blanes and his companions had excavated pitchers, statuettes, and plates centuries old.
See him enduring all the hardships of military existence ... but living! In order not to be too greatly moved, he drank and paid close attention to what the three youths were saying. 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.
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.
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.
"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 numerous roads.
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 Catalunian coast. The more timid and unfortunate ones were always fishing.
Cinta assented to this resolution in painful silence, as though she had foreseen it long before. It was something inevitable and fatal that she must accept. The manufacturer, Blanes, stammered with astonishment.
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 vocation. The sea had a tight clutch upon those who followed it, and there was no power on earth that could dissuade him.
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