Of late, Spain had been much in his mind. He wanted to
go back there. Nostalgia had possessed him ever since he had come again
to the Manor Cartier after Zoe had left. He thought much of Spain, and
but little of his daughter. Memory of her was only poignant, in so far
as it was associated with the days preceding the wreck of the Antoine.
He had had far more than enough of the respectable working life of the
New World; but there never was sufficient money to take him back to
Europe, even were it safe to go. Of late, however, he felt sure that he
might venture, if he could only get cash for the journey. He wanted to
drift back to the idleness and adventure and the "easy money" of the old
anarchist days in Cadiz and Madrid. He was sick for the patio and the
plaza, for the bull-fight, for the siesta in the sun, for the lazy
glamour of the gardens and the red wine of Valladolid, for the redolent
cigarette of the roadside tavern. This cold iron land had spoiled him,
and he would strive to get himself home again before it was too late. In
Spain there would always be some woman whom he could cajole; some comrade
whom he could betray; some priest whom he could deceive, whose pocket he
could empty by the recital of his troubles.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79