Read Online Essential Stories by V.S. Pritchett - Free Book Online
Authors: V.S. Pritchett
Tags: Fiction
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blind man remembering:
“My God—but what a very beautiful woman she was,” he said. “I remember her. I have never in my life,” he said speaking all his words slowly and with grave concern, “seen such a beautiful woman.”
Fernando and Angel, who had been standing, sat down. We all looked in awe at the huge, old-shouldered Caesar with his big pale face and the pockets under his little grey eyes, who was speaking of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“She was there all that summer,” Caesar said. “She was no longer young.” He leaned forward with his hands on the table. “What must she have been when she was young?”
A beach, the green sea dancing down white upon it, that Mexican woman walking over the floor of a restaurant, the warm white houses, the night glossy black like the toe of a patent shoe, her hair black. We tried to think how many years ago this was. Brought by his voice to silence us, she was already fading.
The proprietor took his opportunity in our silence. “The bacalao is done in the Basque fashion with peppers and potatoes. Bring a bacalao,” he snapped to a youth in the kitchen.
Suddenly Juan brought his fists on the table, pushed back his chair and beat his chest with one fist and then the other. He swore in his enormous voice by his private parts.
“It’s eleven o’clock. Eat! For God’s sake. Fernando stands there talking and talking and no one listens to anybody. It is one of the evils of Spain. Someone stop him. Eat.”
We all woke up and glared with the defiance of the bewildered, rejecting everything he said. Then what he said to us penetrated. A wave roared over us and we were with him. We agreed with what he said. We all stood up and, by our private parts, swore that he was right. It was one of the evils of Spain.
The soup arrived. White wine arrived.
“I didn’t order soup,” some shouted.
“I said ‘Red wine,’ ” others said.
“It is a mistake,” the proprietor said. “I’ll take it away.” An argument started about this.
“No,” we said. “Leave it. We want it.” And then we said the soup was bad, and the wine was bad and everything he brought was bad, but the proprietor said the soup was good and the wine was good and we said in the end it was good. We told the proprietor the restaurant was good, but he said not very good, indeed bad. And then we asked Angel to explain about the pyjamas.
THE TWO BROTHERS
The two brothers went to Ballady to look at the house. It was ruinous but cheap, there were miles of bog and mountain alive with birds, there was the sea and not a soul living within two miles of it. As had always happened in their childhood and as had repeatedly happened since the war when “the Yank” had returned to the Old Country to look after his sick brother, “the Yank,” with his voracious health, had his way.
“Sure it’s ideal,” yelled the Yank.
The time was the Spring.
“We’ll take it for six months,” he exclaimed.
“And after that?” asked Charlie, watching him like a woman for plans and motives he had not got.
“Och, we’ll see. We’ll see. Sure what’s the use of worrying about the future?” said the Yank.
He knew and Charlie knew the question hung over them; the future watching them like an eagle on a rock, waiting to shadow them with its wing. In six months he would be left alone. He knew how the Yank, his brother, dealt with time. Out came his gun and he took a pot shot at it, went after it, destroyed it and then laughed at his own skill and forgot.
In the sky and land at Ballady there was the rugged wildness of farewell. This was the end of the land, prostrating itself in rags before the Atlantic. The wind stripped the soil so that there was no full-grown tree upon it, and rocks stood out like gravestones in the bigoted little fields. A few black cattle grazed, a few fields of oats were grown, the rest was mountain and the wide empty pans of bog broken into eyes of water. The house lay in
“My God—but what a very beautiful woman she was,” he said. “I remember her. I have never in my life,” he said speaking all his words slowly and with grave concern, “seen such a beautiful woman.”
Fernando and Angel, who had been standing, sat down. We all looked in awe at the huge, old-shouldered Caesar with his big pale face and the pockets under his little grey eyes, who was speaking of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“She was there all that summer,” Caesar said. “She was no longer young.” He leaned forward with his hands on the table. “What must she have been when she was young?”
A beach, the green sea dancing down white upon it, that Mexican woman walking over the floor of a restaurant, the warm white houses, the night glossy black like the toe of a patent shoe, her hair black. We tried to think how many years ago this was. Brought by his voice to silence us, she was already fading.
The proprietor took his opportunity in our silence. “The bacalao is done in the Basque fashion with peppers and potatoes. Bring a bacalao,” he snapped to a youth in the kitchen.
Suddenly Juan brought his fists on the table, pushed back his chair and beat his chest with one fist and then the other. He swore in his enormous voice by his private parts.
“It’s eleven o’clock. Eat! For God’s sake. Fernando stands there talking and talking and no one listens to anybody. It is one of the evils of Spain. Someone stop him. Eat.”
We all woke up and glared with the defiance of the bewildered, rejecting everything he said. Then what he said to us penetrated. A wave roared over us and we were with him. We agreed with what he said. We all stood up and, by our private parts, swore that he was right. It was one of the evils of Spain.
The soup arrived. White wine arrived.
“I didn’t order soup,” some shouted.
“I said ‘Red wine,’ ” others said.
“It is a mistake,” the proprietor said. “I’ll take it away.” An argument started about this.
“No,” we said. “Leave it. We want it.” And then we said the soup was bad, and the wine was bad and everything he brought was bad, but the proprietor said the soup was good and the wine was good and we said in the end it was good. We told the proprietor the restaurant was good, but he said not very good, indeed bad. And then we asked Angel to explain about the pyjamas.
THE TWO BROTHERS
The two brothers went to Ballady to look at the house. It was ruinous but cheap, there were miles of bog and mountain alive with birds, there was the sea and not a soul living within two miles of it. As had always happened in their childhood and as had repeatedly happened since the war when “the Yank” had returned to the Old Country to look after his sick brother, “the Yank,” with his voracious health, had his way.
“Sure it’s ideal,” yelled the Yank.
The time was the Spring.
“We’ll take it for six months,” he exclaimed.
“And after that?” asked Charlie, watching him like a woman for plans and motives he had not got.
“Och, we’ll see. We’ll see. Sure what’s the use of worrying about the future?” said the Yank.
He knew and Charlie knew the question hung over them; the future watching them like an eagle on a rock, waiting to shadow them with its wing. In six months he would be left alone. He knew how the Yank, his brother, dealt with time. Out came his gun and he took a pot shot at it, went after it, destroyed it and then laughed at his own skill and forgot.
In the sky and land at Ballady there was the rugged wildness of farewell. This was the end of the land, prostrating itself in rags before the Atlantic. The wind stripped the soil so that there was no full-grown tree upon it, and rocks stood out like gravestones in the bigoted little fields. A few black cattle grazed, a few fields of oats were grown, the rest was mountain and the wide empty pans of bog broken into eyes of water. The house lay in
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