Читать книгу The Marquis of Peñalta (Marta y María) - Armando Palacio Valdés - Страница 4

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"WHAT a shame, Isidorito, that you did not study for a doctor! I don't know why it is I imagine you must have a keen eye for diseases."

The young man turned red with pleasure.

"Doña Gertrudis, you flatter me; I have no other desert than that of sticking fast to whatever I undertake, and this seems to me absolutely necessary in whatever career one devotes himself to."

"You are quite right. The main thing is to apply one's self to what lies before him, and not go wool-gathering. Now, for example, take Don Maximo. It cannot be denied that he has great knowledge, and I wish him well, but he has the misfortune of not applying himself to anything that is said to him, and therefore he scarcely ever hits the mark. Please tell me, Isidorito, how is it possible for man to succeed in curing one, if when the invalid is telling him her sufferings, he sets himself to work sharpening lead-pencils or drumming with his fingers. You don't know how I have suffered on account of him. I pray God may not set down against him the harm he has done me. My husband is very fond of him—and so am I too, you must believe me. In spite of all, he is a good man, and it's twenty-four years since he first entered this house; but I must tell the truth though it is hard: the poor man has the misfortune of not applying himself—of not applying himself little or much."

"Just so, just so. Don Maximo, in my opinion, lacks those gifts of observation indispensable to the profession to which he belongs. Perhaps it may surprise you to know what qualifications are needed for the practice of medicine from a scientific point of view; it is my own private opinion, which I am ready to sustain anywhere, either in public or in private. Medicine, in my judgment, is nothing else whatever than an empirical profession, purely empirical. I repeat that it is my private opinion, and that I expound it as such, but I harbor the belief that very soon it will be a truth universally accepted."

"The truth is, Isidorito, that he has simply not understood me. Day before yesterday I spent the whole day with a roaring in my head as though a lot of drums were beating behind it. At the same time this left knee was so swollen that I could not even walk from my room to the dining-room. I sent a message to Don Maximo, and he did not appear till it was dark. I assure you I passed a wretched day, and if it had not been for some tallow plasters which my daughter Marta put on my temples at midnight, I should certainly have died, for Don Maximo did not think it necessary even to have a lamp lighted to see me."

"What you point out still more confirms my assertion. You see how domestic remedies, administered without other judgment than that suggested by experience, by the results obtained in a long series of cases, sometimes operate on the organism in a more successful way than scientific medicine. Such a thing could not happen in our profession, señora, where all the chances that may occur are foreseen in advance by the laws, or by jurisprudence raised into the category of the law. There is not a single litigation which does not find its adequate solution in the civil codes, nor can any crime or misdeed whatsoever be committed, without provision being made for it in some article of the penal code. And in order that nothing may even be wanting the free will of the tribunals (I except the usual interpretation), we have as a supplement the canonical law, which is an abundant source of rules for conduct, though these all are based principally on equity."

"Certainly, certainly, Isidorito. Doctors absolutely do not understand a single thing. If I could measure out into bottles, once for all, the medicine that I have taken, I could very easily open an apothecary shop. And yet here you see me just as I was at the very beginning,—at the very beginning,—without having made a single step in advance. God grants me great resignation, otherwise—Just consider! yesterday I was as usual, but to-day, my fête-day too, what I suffer I'm sure will be the death of me, the death of me;—an uneasiness throughout my body,—a crawling up and down my legs like ants,—a rumbling in my ears. You who have so much talent, don't you know what it is to have a rumbling in the ears?"

"Señora, I think—ahem—that a purely nervous state is answerable for this infirmity,—nervous alterations are so varied and extraordinary—ahem—that it is not possible to reduce them to fixed principles, and so it is much better not to lay down any rule, but to study them in detail, or let each one stand separately."

It was hard work, but at last he extricated himself from the difficulty. Isidorito was a lean, bashful young man, with deep precocious wrinkles in his cheeks, with thin hair and goggle eyes. He was regarded as one of the most serious-minded youths, or perhaps the most serious-minded youth of the town, and always served as a mirror for the fathers of families, to hold up before their rattlebrain sons. "Don't you see how well Isidorito behaves in society, and with what aplomb he talks on all sorts of subjects?" "Ah, if you were like Isidorito, what a happy old age you would make me spend!" "Shame on you for letting Isidorito be made doctor of laws these four years, while you have not succeeded in graduating as a licentiate yet, you blockhead!"

Doña Gertrudis, wife of Don Mariano Elorza, the master of the house in which we find ourselves, is seated, or, to speak more correctly, is reclining, in an easy-chair at Isidorito's side. Although she had not yet passed her forty-fifth year, she appeared to be as old as her husband, who was now approaching his sixtieth. Not entirely lacking in her cadaverous and faded face were the lines of an exceptional beauty, which had given much to talk about there from 1846 to 1848, and which had redounded to her in a multitude of ballads, sonnets, and acrostics, by the most distinguished poets of the town, inserted in a weekly journal entitled El Judio Errante, which was published at that time in Nieva. Doña Gertrudis preserved with great care a gorgeously bound collection of Judios Errantes, and was in the habit of assuring her friends that if the young man who signed his acrostics with a V and three stars had not faded away with quick consumption, he would have been by this time the fashionable poet; and that if another lad, named Ulpiano Menéndez, who disguised himself under the pseudonym of The Moor of Venice, had not gone off to America to make his fortune in business, he would have been, at least, as great as Ayola, Campoamor, or Nuño de Arce. Don Mariano, her husband, shared the same conviction, although at another epoch the lyric poet, as well as the merchant, had caused him great anxieties, and not a few times had disturbed the peaceful course of his love; but he was a just man and fond of giving every one his due.

Doña Gertrudis was wrapt up in a magnificent plush comforter, and her head was covered with a net, underneath which appeared her hair turning from auburn to white. Her features were delicate and regular, and of a singularly faded pallor. Her eyes were blue and extremely melancholy. The marks of close confinement rather than of illness were to be seen in that face.

"This roaring in my ears is killing me, killing me. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, I cannot get any rest anywhere."

"I think that you ought to stay in your room."

"That is worse, Isidorito, that is worse. In my room I cannot distract my thoughts. My mind begins to grind like a mill, and it ends by giving me a fever. I am much sicker than people give me credit for. They'll see how this will end. To-day I am so nervous, so nervous.—Feel my pulse, Isidorito, and tell me if I am not feverish."

As she drew out her thin hand and gave it to the young man, Don Mariano and Don Maximo, who were engaged in lively discussion in the recess of a balconied window, turned their faces in her direction and smiled. Doña Gertrudis blushed a little and hastened to hide her hand under her comforter.

"Your wife already has a new physician!" added Don Maximo, in a tone of irony.

"Bah, bah, bah! What cat or dog is there in town that my wife won't have taken into consultation? These days she is furious with you, and says that she is going to die without your paying any attention to her. I find her better than ever. But we shall see, Don Maximo. Do you really believe that we can accept the line from Miramar?"

"And why not?"

"Don't you comprehend that it would swamp us forever?"

"Don Mariano, it seems to me that you are blinded. What is of importance for Nieva is to have a railroad right away, right away, I say!"

"What is of importance for Nieva is to have a decent road, a decent road, I say. The line from Miramar would be our ruin, for it ties us to Sarrió, which, as you know very well, has far greater importance as a commercial town and a seaport town than we have. In a few years it would swallow us like a cherry-stone. Moreover, you must take into account that as it is fifteen kilometers from the junction to Nieva, and only twelve to Sarrió; trade would not fail to select the latter point for exportation, on account of the saving in the rate, for those three kilometers of difference. On the other hand, the line from Sotolongo offers the great advantage of uniting us to Pinarrubio, which can never enter into rivalry with us; and at the same time it decidedly shortens the distance to the junction, bringing it down to thirteen kilometers. The difference in the rates, therefore, is a mere trifle, not sufficient to induce trade to go to Sarrió. If you add to this the fact that sooner or later—"

A violent coughing fit cut short Don Mariano's discourse. He was a large, tall man, with white beard and hair, the beard very abundant. His black eyes gleamed like those of a boy, and in his ruddy cheeks time had not succeeded in ploughing deep furrows. Doubtless he had been one of the most gallant young men of his day, and even as we find him now, he still attracted attention by his genial and venerable countenance, and by his noble athletic figure. The violence of his cough had a powerful effect on his sanguine complexion, and he grew exceedingly red in the face. After he had stopped coughing, he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"If you add to the fact that sooner or later we shall have a good port, either in El Moral or in Nieva itself,—for the war isn't going to last forever, nor is the government going to leave us always in the condition of pariahs,—you will see at once what an impulse will be instantly given to the trade of the town and how soon we shall put Sarrió into the shade."

"Well, well, I agree that the line from Sotolongo offers certain advantages; but you very well know that neither at the present time, nor for many days to come, can we do anything but dream about that one, while the road from Miramar is in our very hands. The government is deeply interested in it because there is no other means of protecting our gun-factory. You certainly realize that if the Carlists succeeded in breaking the line of Somosierra, they would overrun us and make themselves at home; they would take the arms on hand, dismantle the factory, and without the slightest risk they could set out for the valley of Cañedo. At present there is no danger of their breaking the line; I grant that, but who can guarantee what the future may bring forth? Moreover, may not the day come when the Carlist element which we have here will raise its head? Then if there were a railroad, no matter from what point, nothing would be more easy than to set down here in a couple of hours four or five thousand men—"

"In the first place, Don Maximo, a military railroad, as you yourself confess that the one from Miramar is to be, is not such as we have the right to ask of the nation. We need a genuine railroad, suitable for the promotion of our interests, and not to serve merely for the protection of a factory. Just consider that it is a work to last for all time, and that if from its very inception it suffers from a gross mistake, this mistake will hang forever over our town. In the second place, the Carlists will never get beyond Somosierra. As to their raising their heads here, you understand perfectly well that it is impossible because they have very few elements to rely on—and, as to their doing this—"

"I have reason to believe that they are! We must be on the watch, and not be found napping. And, as a final reason, a sparrow in the hand is worth more than a hundred flying.—But tell me, Don Mariano, to change the subject, have the stables been put in order yet?"

Don Mariano, instead of replying, felt in all the pockets of his coat with a distracted air, and not finding what he was looking for, turned towards a corner of the room.

"Martita, come here!"

A young girl who was seated at one end of a sofa, not talking to anybody, came running to him. She might have been thirteen or fourteen years old, but the proportions of a woman grown were very distinctly observable in her. Nevertheless, she wore short dresses. She had a light complexion, with black hair and eyes, but her countenance did not offer the exasperating expression so commonly met with in faces of that kind. The features could not have been more regular and their tout ensemble could not have been more harmonious; nevertheless, her beauty lacked animation. It was what is commonly called a cold face.

"Listen, daughter: go to my room, open the second drawer on the left-hand side of my writing-table, and bring me the cigar-case which you'll find there."

The girl went off on the run, and quickly returned with the article.

"Let us go and have a smoke in the dining-room," said Don Mariano, taking Don Maximo by the arm.

And the two left the parlor by one of the side doors.

Marta sat down again in the same place. The ladies on one side were engaged in lively conversation, but she took no share in it. She kept her seat, casting her eyes indifferently from one part of the parlor to the other, now resting them on one group of bystanders, now on another, and more particularly dwelling on the pianist, who at that moment was executing an arrangement of Semiramide.

Scarcely ever had the parlors of the Elorza mansion presented a more brilliant appearance; all the sofas of flowered damask were occupied by richly dressed ladies with bare arms and bosoms. The chandelier suspended from the middle, reflected the light in beautiful hues which fell upon smooth skins, making them look like milk and roses. Those fair bosoms were infinitely multiplied by the mirrors on both sides: the severe bottle-green paper of the parlor brought out all their whiteness. Marta turned to look at the Señoras de Delgado; three sisters: one, a widow, the other two, old maids. All were upwards of forty; the old maids did not trust to their youthfulness, but they had absolute confidence in the power of their shining shoulders and their fat and unctuous arms. Near them was the Señorita de Morí, round-faced, sprightly, with mischievous eyes, an orphan and rich. At a little distance was the Señora de Ciudad, napping peacefully until the hour should come for her to collect the six daughters whom she had scattered about in different parts of the parlor. Yonder in a corner her sister Maria was holding a confidential talk with a young man. The girl's eyes wandered slowly from one point to another. The music interested her very slightly. She seemed to be sure of not being noticed by any one, and her face kept the icy expression of indifference of one alone in a room.

The gentlemen in black dress-coats properly buttoned, languidly clustered about the doors of the library and dining-room, staring persistently at the arms and bosoms occupying the sofas. Others stood behind the piano, waiting till a period of silence gave them time to express by subdued exclamations the admiration with which their souls were overflowing. Only a very few, well beloved by fortune, had received the flattering compliment of having some lady calm with her hand the exuberant inclinations of her silken skirts and make a bit of room for them beside her. Puffed up with such a privilege, they gesticulated without ceasing, and spread their talents for the sake of entertaining the magnanimous señora, and the three or four other ladies who took part in the conversation. The torrent of demisemiquavers and double demisemiquavers pouring from the piano which was situated in one corner of the parlor, filled its neighborhood and entirely quenched the buzzing of the conversation. At times, however, when in some passage the pianist's fingers struck the keys softly, the distressing clatter of the opening and shutting of fans was heard, and above the dull, confused murmur of the thoughtless chatterers some word or entire sentence would suddenly become perceptible, making those who were drawn up behind the piano shake their heads in disgust. The heat was intense, although the balconied windows were thrown open. The atmosphere was stifling and heavy with an indistinct and disagreeable odor, compounded of the perfume of pomades and colognes and the effluvia of perspiring bodies. In this confusion of smells pre-eminent was the sharp scent of rice-powder.

Doña Gertrudis according to her daily habit had gone sound asleep in her easy-chair. She asserted an invalid's right, and no one took it amiss. Isidorito, getting up noiselessly, went and stood by the library door. From that impregnable coigne of vantage he began to shoot long, deep, and passionate glances upon the Señorita de Morí, who received the fires of the battery with heroic calmness. Isidorito had been in love with the Señorita de Morí ever since he knew what dowry and paraphernalia[2] meant, rousing the admiration of the whole town by his loyalty. This passion had taken such possession of his soul that never had he been known to exchange a word with or speed an incendiary look towards any other woman except the señorita aforesaid. But Isidorito, contrary to what might have been believed, considering his vast legal attainments and his gravity no less vast, met with a slight contrariety in his love-making. Señorita de Morí was in the habit of lavishing fascinating smiles on everybody, of squandering warm and languishing glances on all the young men of the community; all—except Isidorito. This incomprehensible conduct did not fail to cause him some disquietude, compelling him to meditate often on the shrewdness of the Roman legislators who were always unwilling to grant women legal capacity. He had lately been appointed municipal attorney of the district, and this, by the authority conferred upon him, gave him great prestige among his fellow-citizens. But, indeed, the Señorita de Morí, far from allowing herself to be fascinated by her suitor's new position, seemed to regard his appointment as ridiculous, judging by the pains she took from that time forth to avoid all visual communication with him. Still our young friend was not going to be cast down by these clouds, which are so common among lovers, and he continued to lay siege to the restless damsel's chubby face and three thousand duros income, sometimes by means of learned discourses, and sometimes by languishing and romantic actions.

At one side of Marta a certain young engineer who had just arrived from Madrid, turned the listening circle (tertulia) gathered around him into an Eden by his wheedling and graceful conversation. It was a tertulia, or petit comité, as the engineer called it, consisting exclusively of ladies, the nucleus of which was made up by three of the De Ciudad girls.

"That's only one of your gallant speeches, Suárez," said one lady.

"Of course it is," echoed several.

"It is absolute truth, and whoever has lived here any length of time will say so. In Madrid there's no halfway about it; the women are either perfectly beautiful or perfectly hideous. That union of charming and attractive faces which I see here is not to be found there; and so don't let it surprise you when I tell you that the hideous are much more numerous than the beautiful."

"Oh, pshaw! Madrid is where the prettiest women are to be seen, and especially the most elegant."

"Ah! that is quite a different matter; elegant, certainly; but pretty, I don't agree with you!"

"It is so, though you don't agree with us!"

"Ladies, there is one reason why you are more beautiful than the Madrileñas; it is a reason which can be better appreciated by those who, like myself, have devoted themselves to the fine arts: here there is color and form, and there they do not exist. By good fortune, this very evening, I have the opportunity of noticing it and of making comparisons, which show most favorably for you. Now that we are allowed to contemplate what is ordinarily draped with great care, I can take my oath that you have those beautiful forms which we admire so much in Grecian statues and Flemish paintings, soft, white, transparent; while if you enter a Madrid drawing-room, you don't stumble upon anything else than skeletons in ball dresses—"

The ladies broke into laughter, hiding their faces behind their fans.

"What a tongue, what a tongue you have, Suárez!"

"It only serves me to tell the truth. The Madrid girls have the effect upon me of shadow-pantomimes. In you I find visible, palpable, and even delectable beings—"

Marta noticed that the wax of a candelabrum was burning out, and that the glass socket was in danger of cracking. She got up and went to puff it out. Then when she sat down again, she took a different position.

The pianist ended his fantasy without stumbling. The conversations stopped abruptly; some clapped their hands, and others said, "Very good, very good." No one had been listening to him, but the pianist felt himself rewarded for his fatigues, and raising his blushing face above the piano, he acknowledged his thanks to the company with a triumphant smile. A young fellow who wore his hair banged like the dandies of Madrid, profited by this blissful moment to beg him to play a waltz-polka.

At the very first chords an extraordinary commotion was observable among the young men near the doors, who were evidently suffering from lack of exercise. A few began to draw on their gloves hastily; others smoothed back their hair with their hands, and straightened their cravats. One asked, with constrained voice,—

"It's a mazurka, isn't it?"

"No, a waltz-polka."

"What! a waltz-polka?"

"Can't you tell by your ears?"

"Ah, yes. You're right. But then, señor, this wretched fellow at the piano will prevent me from dancing with Rosario this evening."

All seemed restless and nervous as though they were about to pass through the fire. The boldest crossed the drawing-room with rapid steps, and joined the young ladies, hiding their trepidation behind a supercilious smile. As soon as the señorita who had been invited stood up and took the proffered arm, they began to feel that they were masters of themselves. Others, less courageous, gave three or four long pulls to their cigars, puffing the smoke out toward the entry, and having keyed themselves up to the right pitch, slowly directed their steps to some young lady less fascinating than the others, receiving for their attention a smile full of tender promises. The more cowardly struggled a long while with their gloves, and finally had to ask some grave señor to fasten the buttons for them. When this operation was finished, and they were ready to dance, they discovered that there were no girls sitting down. Thereupon they resigned themselves to dance with some mamma.

One after another all the couples took the floor. Marta remained sitting. Two or three very complaisant and patronizing young fellows came to invite her, but she replied that she did not know how to dance. The real motive of her refusal was that her father did not like to have her take part in society while she was so young. She sat, therefore, attentively watching how the others went round. Her great black eyes rested with placid expression on each one of the couples who went up and down before her. Some interested her more than others, and she followed them with her glance. Their ways, their movements, and their looks were so different, that they made a curious study. A tall, lean youth was bending his back as near double as possible, so as to put his arm around the waist of a diminutive señorita who was endeavoring to keep on her very tip-toes. An elderly and portly lady was leaning languidly over a boy's shoulder, besmearing his coat with Matilde Díez's wax-white. Some, like Isidorito, did not succeed in steering, and frequently stepped on their partners, who soon declared that they were weary and asked to be excused. Others put down their heels with such force that they scratched the floor. Marta looked at these with considerable severity, like a true housewife. After a while the faces began to show signs of weariness, some becoming flushed, others pallid, according to the temperament of each. With mouths open, cheeks aglow, and brows bathed in perspiration, they gave evidence of no other expression than that of absolute stupidity. At first they smiled and even dropped from their lips a compliment or two; but very soon gallantries ceased, and the smile faded away; all ended by skipping about silent and solemn, as if some unseen hand were laying on the lash in order to make them do so. Marta from time to time shut her eyes, and thus she avoided the dizziness which began to attack her.

At last the piano suddenly ceased to sound. The couples, in virtue of the momentum which they had acquired, gave three or four hops unaccompanied by the music, and this made Marta smile. Before they took their seats the girls walked around the drawing-room for a few moments arm in arm with their partners, engaged in lively and interesting discourse. The pianist accepted the effusive thanks of the smart young man with the bangs. At length the ladies were all seated in their respective places, and the gentlemen fell back once again to the doors, mopping their brows with their handkerchiefs. Those who had danced with the beauties of the drawing-room showed faces shining with beatitude, and smilingly received the jests of their friends, while those who had pressed the less favored to their bosoms, praised to the skies their partners' Terpsichorean skill.

The youth with the hair over his forehead conceived the idea of Don Serapio singing a song, and he went from group to group around the room, making an instantaneous and satisfactory propaganda with his happy thought.

"Yes, yes, Don Serapio must sing!"

"Don Serapio must sing! Don Serapio must sing!"

"Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake—I have a very bad cold!"

"No matter; you will sing well enough, Don Serapio."

"A thousand thanks, ladies, a thousand thanks. I should wish at this moment that I had the voice of an angel, for angels only ought to sing to angels."

This compliment produced an excellent impression upon the feminine element of the company. The masculine element received it with derisive smiles.

"We always enjoy great pleasure in listening to you; you know it very well."

"Because generosity ever goes in company with beauty. The face is the mirror of the soul, they say, and if that is true, how could you help being benevolent toward me?"

The second compliment was likewise received with a laugh of complacency by the ladies. The men continued to smile scornfully.

"Sing, sing, Don Serapio!"

"But supposing I am not in practice—I don't know how I can repay such kindness. Besides, I have lost my voice entirely."

Don Serapio let himself be urged for some time. At last he went toward the piano, escorted by a circle of ladies, to whom he addressed smiles and words full of honeyed sweetness, and managed to extract clandestinely a roll of music which he carried in the inner pocket of his coat. The pianist instantly saw through this manœuvre, and came to his assistance by quietly taking the music from his hand.

"Don Serapio is going to sing—you are going to sing the romance Lontano a te," he said as he spread it out on the rack.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! it is too sentimental, and these ladies are not now in favor of romanticism—"

"On the contrary, Don Serapio!" exclaimed one of the Delgado girls; "we women in this age of selfishness and calculation are the very ones who ought to worship sentiment and heart."

"Always as graceful as you are felicitous!" declared the vocalist, bowing to the floor.

The pianoforte introduction began. Don Serapio, before he uttered a note, kept arching his eyebrows, and he stretched his neck as much as possible, as a token of his feeling. He was upwards of fifty, although pomades, dyes, and cosmetics gave him from a distance the appearance of a young man. Near at hand, his mustachios, though waxed to perfection, were not sufficient to make up for the crows'-feet and wrinkles of every sort which lined his face. He was a manufacturer of canned goods, and a confirmed old bachelor; not because he failed to honor the fair sex and hold it in esteem, but because he thought that marriage was death to love and its illusions. Never was there a man more soft and honeyed in his conversation with ladies, and never was there a gallant who had a more abundant assortment of flatteries to lavish upon them. He made great use of such expressions as the fire of passion, the loss of will power, perfumed breath, palpitations of the heart, and other like elegancies, all sure of hitting the mark. This was as regards society women. As for work-girls and serving-maids, Don Serapio's gallantries did not stop with compliments. He was regarded as one of the most formidable and successful of seducers among such, and it was a matter of common knowledge in Nieva that more than one, and more than two, had had seriously to complain of his behavior, so that it brought about his head a tremendous scandal which he had hastened to hush with the fulness of his locker. As a general thing he led a regular life, rising very early, going to his factory to attend to his accounts and to inspect the spicing of his fish and oysters, and coming home about five o'clock in the afternoon to wash himself and dress for his promenade or his calls, which were not few, and which always ended at eleven o'clock in the evening. The only reading for which he cared was that of detective stories.

Don Serapio's voice was a trifle disagreeable. As one of the young wags among those clustering about the door said, no one could tell for a certainty if it were tenor, baritone, or bass. In compensation, he sang with sentiment fit to melt the rocks, as could be judged by the infinite movements of his eyebrows, and by the expression of disconsolateness which came over his face as soon as he stood in front of the piano; no one ever saw a face so wrinkled, so long drawn, so full of compunction. The romanza Lontano a te, better than any other, had the power of exciting his sensibility and giving his eyes an exceedingly hopeless expression.

While the proprietor of the canning factory was expressing in Italian his grief at finding himself far from his lady love, the elder daughter of the family was in the most retired part of the room still engaged in conversation with a youth of a pleasant, open countenance, with swarthy complexion, black eyes, and a young mustache.

"Enrique misunderstood my commission," said the youth. "I asked him to send me some jewelry worth something, but what he sent me is just about as commonplace as could be; so much so that I am thinking of sending it back to-morrow without showing it to you."

"Don't trouble about it any more; it's all the same one way or the other."

"What do you mean, 'all the same'? Since when, señorita, have you grown so indifferent to matters of the toilet? I am certain that if I were to bring you this jewelry, you would laugh me to scorn."

"Don't imagine such a thing."

"Perhaps you think I don't remember how you made fun of that hat that your aunt Carmen presented you a few days ago!"

"It was very wrong of me to make fun of it; but you are just as bad when you throw it in my face. The truth is that in the end one hat or one set of jewelry is as good as another."

"Be it so! Keep it up! I know you well, and you can't cheat me. The jewelry shall be sent back, and in its place we'll have another set to my taste and yours. But let's drop the subject. I had something to tell you, and I can't remember what it was. Oh, yes! we must write to your uncle Rodrigo, for judging by the note I have just received from him, he doesn't know yet the day on which we are to be married. I think we ought to write him both of us in the same letter; doesn't it seem so to you?"

"Just as you like."

"All right; I'll come round to-morrow before dinner, and we'll write it."

Both remained silent a few moments and listened to the singing of Don Serapio, who was lamenting always with a more and more pathetic accent the solitude and sadness in which his mistress kept him. One of the Delgado señoritas lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, declaring in a low voice to those standing near that hitherto there had been few things that ever brought the tears into her eyes.

"What a bore that wretched Don Serapio is! he wrinkles up his forehead so that his wig is almost lifted off behind."

"Don't be so unkind. Have a little charity, and let the poor man enjoy himself without harming God or his neighbor."

"As far as I am concerned he may sing till doomsday. But I notice, lassie, that for some time you have been becoming a great preacher. Are you thinking of entering into competition with the curé of the parish?"

"What I am anxious for is that you shouldn't be a backbiter. If you love me as you say you do, my good advice ought not to make you vexed."

"It doesn't make me vexed, loveliest; quite the contrary. I always listen to it with pleasure and follow it—when I can. You surely are acquainted with my ways, and know that I can't help making fun. However, you'll have time enough to preach to me all you want, won't you? Not only time enough but space enough. You can go on giving me sermons from Nieva to Madrid, then from Madrid to Paris, and from Paris to Milan, and from Milan to Venice, and thence to Rome and Naples, and back by Geneva, Brussels, Paris, and Madrid, home again. With what delight I shall travel through all these foreign countries listening to a preacher so devoted! How do you like the itinerary of our journey?"

"Well enough."

"Well enough! That isn't saying anything. One would think the subject didn't interest you as much as it did me. I won't fix it definitely till you have made such changes as you like in it, or vary it entirely, if it seem good to you. I am just as much interested in going to Berlin or London as to Paris and Rome. You can imagine how much difference it makes to me, if I go with you, which way we travel!"

"Whatever you decide upon will be well."

"Let us have it decided. Do you like the plan I propose? Yes or no?"

"I have told you yes already."

"But, lassie, what is the matter with you? You have scarcely allowed yourself to smile this whole evening, and you haven't said a word more than was strictly necessary. What is the reason of such solemnity? Are you put out with me?"

"What reason should I have to be?"

"Then I'll ask you why you are. You must be, since there's no other way of explaining the curt way in which you have been answering me this long time."

"That's your own imagination. I answer you just as I always do."

Ricardo, without speaking, looked at his betrothed, who turned away her eyes, fixing them on Don Serapio.

"It must be so, but I don't understand it. If you are really angry with me, it would be very unkind of you not to tell me why, so that I could repair my mistake, if perchance I had committed any. My conscience does not accuse me of anything—"

"I tell you that I am not angry; don't be so tiresome!"

Maria said these words with evident asperity, not turning her face from the singer. Ricardo again looked at her for a long time.

"Very good—it is better so—still I thought—"

Both kept silence for some moments. Ricardo broke it, saying,—

"When Don Serapio has finished, they are going to make you sing; I am sure—all get good out of it except me."

"Why?"

"For two reasons: the first is, because much as I enjoy hearing you when we are alone, I don't like it when you sing before people; the second is, because they will take you away from me."

"I don't see why you should dislike it because I sing before people. I am the one not to like it—and I don't at all. As to the separation, that's nonsense, because we are together much more than we ought to be."

"It would be a long and difficult task for me to explain why I don't like you to sing in public. As to the separation which you call nonsense, it's the solemn truth. In spite of our being together several hours a day it seems to me very little. I could wish that we were together all the time. For a man who is going to be married inside of a month and a half, I don't think that such a wish is very extraordinary."

And lowering his voice, he added in a passionate tone:—