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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 recriminations when the accounts were settled. Cristo del Grao!... would that the war would last forever!...
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.
Equally Flemish are the pictures at Vizeu, whether any of them be by the Grão Vasco or not. Tradition has it that he was born at a mill not far off, still called Moinho do Pintor, the Painter's Mill, and that Dom Manoel sent him to study in Italy. Now, wherever the painter of the Vizeu pictures had
But you say things oh, I don't know you say things, diplomatic-like, so's they don't come down on a fellow like a thousand of brick! Oh, I remember, I do! On the way home through the Grao, that day! Other people, they just rub it in, till you're ready to damn your soul. But it's what you've got up here, up here! Brains you've got, brains! You were right all these years.
The old man used to pray before it as though it were a miracle-working print, and the Cristo del Grao was relegated to second place. 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.
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.
As background to the whole scene, the tall buildings of the Grao, warehouses, office buildings, the aristocracy and money of the port; and then a long straight line of roofs, the Cabañal, the Cañamelar, the Cap de Fransa, a rambling agglomeration of many colored houses, less close together as they left the water, summer places in front with many stories and slender cupolas, white cabins behind, where the farm land began, the thatched coverings of the huts rumpled by the strong sea winds.
The captain had to return to the port of Grao where his steamer was awaiting 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.
They took the Grao road, Pascualo moving his sea-legs frantically to keep up with that devil of a girl who never walked but she ran, though with an attractive swaying of her body which made her skirt go up and down like the marking buoy in a yacht race. Shouldn't he carry her lunch-box for her? Thanks! She was used to having it on her arm. Didn't think she could walk so fast without it!
And every trip with a lamp on board, lighted at the wick floating in the oil bowl before the Christ of the Grao! And a rosary every night on board, without fail, unless you wanted something awful to happen! Those were the days, according to tio Batiste, the real days, for sailormen.
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