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Dona Perfecta

B. Perez Galdos

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Dona Perecta

By B. Perez Galdos

Translator, Mary J. Serrano

January, 2001 [Etext #2462]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dona Perfecta, by B. Perez Galdos

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Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com

and John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz

DONA PERFECTA

by B. PEREZ GALDOS

Translated from the Spanish

Mary J. Serrano

INTRODUCTION

The very acute and lively Spanish critic who signs himself Clarin, and

is known personally as Don Leopoldo Alas, says the present Spanish

novel has no yesterday, but only a day-before-yesterday. It does not

derive from the romantic novel which immediately preceded that: the

novel, large or little, as it was with Cervantes, Hurtado de Mendoza,

Quevedo, and the masters of picaresque fiction.

Clarin dates its renascence from the political revolution of 1868,

which gave Spanish literature the freedom necessary to the fiction

that studies to reflect modern life, actual ideas, and current

aspirations; and though its authors were few at first, "they have

never been adventurous spirits, friends of Utopia, revolutionists, or

impatient progressists and reformers." He thinks that the most daring,

the most advanced, of the new Spanish novelists, and the best by far,

is Don Benito Perez Galdos.

I should myself have made my little exception in favor of Don Armando

Palacio Valdes, but Clarin speaks with infinitely more authority, and

I am certainly ready to submit when he goes on to say that Galdos is

not a social or literary insurgent; that he has no political or

religious prejudices; that he shuns extremes, and is charmed with

prudence; that his novels do not attack the Catholic dogmas--though

they deal so severely with Catholic bigotry--but the customs and ideas

cherished by secular fanaticism to the injury of the Church. Because

this is so evident, our critic holds, his novels are "found in the

bosom of families in every corner of Spain." Their popularity among

all classes in Catholic and prejudiced Spain, and not among free-

thinking students merely, bears testimony to the fact that his aim and

motive are understood and appreciated, although his stories are

apparently so often anti-Catholic.

Dona Perfecta is, first of all, a story, and a great story, but it is

certainly also a story that must appear at times potently, and even

bitterly, anti-Catholic. Yet it would be a pity and an error to read

it with the preoccupation that it was an anti-Catholic tract, for

really it is not that. If the persons were changed in name and place,

and modified in passion to fit a cooler air, it might equally seem an

anti-Presbyterian or anti-Baptist tract; for what it shows in the

light of their own hatefulness and cruelty are perversions of any

religion, any creed. It is not, however, a tract at all; it deals in

artistic largeness with the passion of bigotry, as it deals with the

passion of love, the passion of ambition, the passion of revenge. But

Galdos is Spanish and Catholic, and for him the bigotry wears a

Spanish and Catholic face. That is all.

Up to a certain time, I believe, Galdos wrote romantic or idealistic

novels, and one of these I have read, and it tired me very much. It

was called "Marianela," and it surprised me the more because I was

already acquainted with his later work, which is all realistic. But

one does not turn realist in a single night, and although the change

in Galdos was rapid it was not quite a lightning change; perhaps

because it was not merely an outward change, but artistically a change

of heart. His acceptance in his quality of realist was much more

instant than his conversion, and vastly wider; for we are told by the

critic whom I have been quoting that Galdos's earlier efforts, which

he called /Episodios Nacionales/, never had the vogue which his

realistic novels have enjoyed.

These were, indeed, tendencious, if I may Anglicize a very necessary

word from the Spanish /tendencioso/. That is, they dealt with very

obvious problems, and had very distinct and poignant significations,

at least in the case of "Dona Perfecta," "Leon Roch," and "Gloria." In

still later novels, Emilia Pardo-Bazan thinks, he has comprehended

that "the novel of to-day must take note of the ambient truth, and

realize the beautiful with freedom and independence." This valiant

lady, in the campaign for realism which she made under the title of

"La Cuestion Palpitante"--one of the best and strongest books on the

subject--counts him first among Spanish realists, as Clarin counts him

first among Spanish novelists. "With a certain fundamental humanity,"

she says, "a certain magisterial simplicity in his creations, with the

natural tendency of his clear intelligence toward the truth, and with

the frankness of his observation, the great novelist was always

disposed to pass over to realism with arms and munitions; but his

aesthetic inclinations were idealistic, and only in his latest works

has he adopted the method of the modern novel, fathomed more and more

the human heart, and broken once for all with the picturesque and with

the typical personages, to embrace the earth we tread."

For her, as I confess for me, "Dona Perfecta" is not realistic enough

--realistic as it is; for realism at its best is not tendencious. It

does not seek to grapple with human problems, but is richly content

with portraying human experiences; and I think Senora Pardo-Bazan is

right in regarding "Dona Perfecta" as transitional, and of a period

when the author had not yet assimilated in its fullest meaning the

faith he had imbibed.

Yet it is a great novel, as I said; and perhaps because it is

transitional it will please the greater number who never really arrive

anywhere, and who like to find themselves in good company /en route/.

It is so far like life that it is full of significations which pass

beyond the persons and actions involved, and envelop the reader, as if

he too were a character of the book, or rather as if its persons were

men and women of this thinking, feeling, and breathing world, and he

must recognize their experiences as veritable facts. From the first

moment to the last it is like some passage of actual events in which

you cannot withhold your compassion, your abhorrence, your admiration,

any more than if they took place within your personal knowledge. Where

they transcend all facts of your personal knowledge, you do not accuse

them of improbability, for you feel their potentiality in yourself,

and easily account for them in the alien circumstance. I am not saying

that the story has no faults; it has several. There are tags of

romanticism fluttering about it here and there; and at times the

author permits himself certain old-fashioned literary airs and poses

and artifices, which you simply wonder at. It is in spite of these,

and with all these defects, that it is so great and beautiful a book.

III

What seems to be so very admirable in the management of the story is

the author's success in keeping his own counsel. This may seem a very

easy thing; but, if the reader will think over the novelists of his

acquaintance, he will find that it is at least very uncommon. They

mostly give themselves away almost from the beginning, either by their

anxiety to hide what is coming, or their vanity in hinting what great

things they have in store for the reader. Galdos does neither the one

nor the other. He makes it his business to tell the story as it grows;

to let the characters unfold themselves in speech and action; to

permit the events to happen unheralded. He does not prophesy their

course, he does not forecast the weather even for twenty-four hours;

the atmosphere becomes slowly, slowly, but with occasional lifts and

reliefs, of such a brooding breathlessness, of such a deepening

density, that you feel the wild passion-storm nearer and nearer at

hand, till it bursts at last; and then you are astonished that you had

not foreseen it yourself from the first moment.

Next to this excellent method, which I count the supreme

characteristic of the book merely because it represents the whole, and

the other facts are in the nature of parts, is the masterly conception

of the characters. They are each typical of a certain side of human

nature, as most of our personal friends and enemies are; but not

exclusively of this side or that. They are each of mixed motives,

mixed qualities; none of them is quite a monster; though those who are

badly mixed do such monstrous things.

Pepe Rey, who is such a good fellow--so kind, and brave, and upright,

and generous, so fine a mind, and so high a soul--is tactless and

imprudent; he even condescends to the thought of intrigue; and though

he rejects his plots at last, his nature has once harbored deceit. Don

Inocencio, the priest, whose control of Dona Perfecta's conscience has

vitiated the very springs of goodness in her, is by no means bad,

aside from his purposes. He loves his sister and her son tenderly, and

wishes to provide for them by the marriage which Pepe's presence

threatens to prevent. The nephew, though selfish and little, has

moments of almost being a good fellow; the sister, though she is

really such a lamb of meekness, becomes a cat, and scratches Don

Inocencio dreadfully when he weakens in his design against Pepe.

Rosario, one of the sweetest and purest images of girlhood that I know

in fiction, abandons herself with equal passion to the love she feels

for her cousin Pepe, and to the love she feels for her mother, Dona

Perfecta. She is ready to fly with him, and yet she betrays him to her

mother's pitiless hate.

But it is Dona Perfecta herself who is the transcendent figure, the

most powerful creation of the book. In her, bigotry and its fellow-

vice, hypocrisy, have done their perfect work, until she comes near to

being a devil, and really does some devil's deeds. Yet even she is not

without some extenuating traits. Her bigotry springs from her

conscience, and she is truly devoted to her daughter's eternal

welfare; she is of such a native frankness that at a certain point she

tears aside her mask of dissimulation and lets Pepe see all the

ugliness of her perverted soul. She is wonderfully managed. At what

moment does she begin to hate him, and to wish to undo her own work in

making a match between him and her daughter? I could defy anyone to

say. All one knows is that at one moment she adores her brother's son,

and at another she abhors him, and has already subtly entered upon her

efforts to thwart the affection she has invited in him for her

daughter.

Caballuco, what shall I say of Caballuco? He seems altogether bad, but

the author lets one imagine that this cruel, this ruthless brute must

have somewhere about him traits of lovableness, of leniency, though he

never lets one see them. His gratitude to Dona Perfecta, even his

murderous devotion, is not altogether bad; and he is certainly worse

than nature made him, when wrought upon by her fury and the suggestion

of Don Inocencio. The scene where they work him up to rebellion and

assassination is a compendium of the history of intolerance; as the

mean little conceited city of Orbajosas is the microcosm of bigoted

and reactionary Spain.

I have called, or half-called, this book tendencious; but in a certain

larger view it is not so. It is the eternal interest of passion

working upon passion, not the temporary interest of condition

antagonizing condition, which renders "Dona Perfecta" so poignantly

interesting, and which makes its tragedy immense. But there is hope as

well as despair in such a tragedy. There is the strange support of a

bereavement in it, the consolation of feeling that for those who have

suffered unto death, nothing can harm them more; that even for those

who have inflicted their suffering this peace will soon come.

"Is Perez Galdos a pessimist?" asks the critic Clarin. "No, certainly;

but if he is not, why does he paint us sorrows that seem inconsolable?

Is it from love of paradox? Is it to show that his genius, which can

do so much, can paint the shadow lovelier than the light? Nothing of

this. Nothing that is not serious, honest, and noble, is to be found

in this novelist. Are they pessimistic, those ballads of the North,

that always end with vague resonances of woe? Are they pessimists,

those singers of our own land, who surprise us with tears in the midst

of laughter? Is Nature pessimistic, who is so sad at nightfall that it

seems as if day were dying forever? . . . The sadness of art, like

that of nature, is a form of hope. Why is Christianity so artistic?

Because it is the religion of sadness."

W. D. HOWELLS.

DONA PERFECTA

CHAPTER I

VILLAHORRENDA! FIVE MINUTES!

When the down train No. 65--of what line it is unnecessary to say--

stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172, almost

all the second-and third-class passengers remained in the cars,

yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did

not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class

passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of

the employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.

"We are in Villahorrenda," answered the conductor whose voice was

drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being

lifted into the freight car. "I forgot to call you, Senor de Rey. I

think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts."

"Why, how terribly cold it is here!" said the traveller, drawing his

cloak more closely about him. "Is there no place in the station where

I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey

on horseback through this frozen country?"

Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the

urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown

cavalier's question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe

was coming toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung

back and forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the

station in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower

from a watering-pot.

"Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station of Villahorrenda?"

said the traveller to the man with the lantern.

"There is nothing here," answered the latter brusquely, running toward

the men who were putting the freight on board the cars, and assuaging

them with such a volley of oaths, blasphemies, and abusive epithets

that the very chickens, scandalized by his brutality, protested

against it from their baskets.

"The best thing I can do is to get away from this place as quickly as

possible," said the gentlemen to himself. "The conductor said that the

beasts were here."

Just as he had come to this conclusion he felt a thin hand pulling him

gently and respectfully by the cloak. He turned round and saw a figure

enveloped in a gray cloak, and out of whose voluminous folds peeped

the shrivelled and astute countenance of a Castilian peasant. He

looked at the ungainly figure, which reminded one of the black poplar

among trees; he observed the shrewd eyes that shone from beneath the

wide brim of the old velvet hat; the sinewy brown hand that grasped a

green switch, and the broad foot that, with every movement, made the

iron spur jingle.

"Are you Senor Don Jose de Rey?" asked the peasant, raising his hand

to his hat.

"Yes; and you, I take it," answered the traveller joyfully, "are Dona

Perfecta's servant, who have come to the station to meet me and show

me the way to Orbajosa?"

"The same. Whenever you are ready to start. The pony runs like the

wind. And Senor Don Jose, I am sure, is a good rider. For what comes

by race- "?

"Which is the way out?" asked the traveller, with impatience. "Come,

let us start, senor -What is your name?"?

"My name is Pedro Lucas," answered the man of the gray cloak, again

making a motion to take off his hat; "but they call me Uncle Licurgo.

Where is the young gentleman's baggage?"

"There it is -there under the cloak. There are three pieces -two? ?

portmanteaus and a box of books for Senor Don Cayetano. Here is the

check."

A moment later cavalier and squire found themselves behind the

barracks called a depot, and facing a road which, starting at this

point, disappeared among the neighboring hills, on whose naked slopes

could be vaguely distinguished the miserable hamlet of Villahorrenda.

There were three animals to carry the men and the luggage. A not ill-

looking nag was destined for the cavalier; Uncle Licurgo was to ride a

venerable hack, somewhat loose in the joints, but sure-footed; and the

mule, which was to be led by a stout country boy of active limbs and

fiery blood, was to carry the luggage.

Before the caravan had put itself in motion the train had started, and

was now creeping along the road with the lazy deliberation of a way

train, awakening, as it receded in the distance, deep subterranean

echoes. As it entered the tunnel at kilometre 172, the steam issued

from the steam whistle with a shriek that resounded through the air.

From the dark mouth of the tunnel came volumes of whitish smoke, a

succession of shrill screams like the blasts of a trumpet followed,

and at the sound of its stentorian voice villages, towns, the whole

surrounding country awoke. Here a cock began to crow, further on

another. Day was beginning to dawn.

CHAPTER II

A JOURNEY IN THE HEART OF SPAIN

When they had proceeded some distance on their way and had left behind

them the hovels of Villahorrenda, the traveller, who was young and

handsome spoke thus:

"Tell me, Senor Solon- "?

"Licurgo, at your service."

"Senor Licurgo, I mean. But I was right in giving you the name of a

wise legislator of antiquity. Excuse the mistake. But to come to the

point. Tell me, how is my aunt?"

"As handsome as ever," answered the peasant, pushing his beast forward

a little. "Time seems to stand still with Senora Dona Perfecta. They

say that God gives long life to the good, and if that is so that angel

of the Lord ought to live a thousand years. If all the blessings that

are showered on her in this world were feathers, the senora would need

no other wings to go up to heaven with."

"And my cousin, Senorita Rosario?"

"The senora over again!" said the peasant. "What more can I tell you of

Dona Rosarito but that that she is the living image of her mother? You

will have a treasure, Senor Don Jose, if it is true, as I hear, that

you have come to be married to her. She will be a worthy mate for you,

and the young lady will have nothing to complain of, either. Between

Pedro and Pedro the difference is not very great."

"And Senor Don Cayetano?"

"Buried in his books as usual. He has a library bigger than the

cathedral; and he roots up the earth, besides, searching for stones

covered with fantastical scrawls, that were written, they say, by the

Moors."

"How soon shall we reach Orbajosa?"

"By nine o'clock, God willing. How delighted the senora will be when

she sees her nephew! And yesterday, Senorita Rosario was putting the

room you are to have in order. As they have never seen you, both mother

and daughter think of nothing else but what Senor Don Jose is like, or

is not like. The time has now come for letters to be silent and tongues

to talk. The young lady will see her cousin and all will be joy and

merry-making. If God wills, all will end happily, as the saying is."

"As neither my aunt nor my cousin has yet seen me," said the traveller

smiling, "it is not wise to make plans."

"That's true; for that reason it was said that the bay horse is of one

mind and he who saddles him of another," answered the peasant. "But the

face does not lie. What a jewel you are getting! and she, what a

handsome man!"

The young man did not hear Uncle Licurgo's last words, for he was

preoccupied with his own thoughts. Arrived at a bend in the road, the

peasant turned his horse's head in another direction, saying:

"We must follow this path now. The bridge is broken, and the river can

only be forded at the Hill of the Lilies."

"The Hill of the Lilies," repeated the cavalier, emerging from his

revery. "How abundant beautiful names are in these unattractive

localities! Since I have been travelling in this part of the country

the terrible irony of the names is a constant surprise to me. Some

place that is remarkable for its barren aspect and the desolate sadness

of the landscape is called Valleameno (Pleasant Valley). Some wretched

mud-walled village stretched on a barren plain and proclaiming its

poverty in diverse ways has the insolence to call itself Villarica

(Rich Town); and some arid and stony ravine, where not even the

thistles can find nourishment, calls itself, nevertheless, Valdeflores

(Vale of Flowers). That hill in front of us is the Hill of the Lilies?

But where, in Heaven's name, are the lilies? I see nothing but stones

and withered grass. Call it Hill of Desolation, and you will be right.

With the exception of Villahorrenda, whose appearance corresponds with

its name, all is irony here. Beautiful words, a prosaic and mean

reality. The blind would be happy in this country, which for the tongue

is a Paradise and for the eyes a hell."

Senor Licurgo either did not hear the young man's words, or, hearing,

he paid no attention to them. When they had forded the river, which,

turbid and impetuous, hurried on with impatient haste, as if fleeing

from its own hands, the peasant pointed with outstretched arm to some

barren and extensive fields that were to be seen on the left, and said:

"Those are the Poplars of Bustamante."

"My lands!" exclaimed the traveller joyfully, gazing at the melancholy

fields illumined by the early morning light. "For the first time, I see

the patrimony which I inherited from my mother. The poor woman used to

praise this country so extravagantly, and tell me so many marvellous

things about it when I was a child, that I thought that to be here was

to be in heaven. Fruits, flowers, game, large and small; mountains,

lakes, rivers, romantic streams, pastoral hills, all were to be found

in the Poplars of Bustamante; in this favored land, the best and most

beautiful on the earth. But what is to be said? The people of this

place live in their imaginations. If I had been brought here in my

youth, when I shared the ideas and the enthusiasm of my dear mother, I

suppose that I, too, would have been enchanted with these bare hills,

these arid or marshy plains, these dilapidated farmhouses, these

rickety norias, whose buckets drip water enough to sprinkle half a

dozen cabbages, this wretched and barren desolation that surrounds me."

"It is the best land in the country," said Senor Licurgo; "and for the

chick-pea, there is no other like it."

"I am delighted to hear it, for since they came into my possession

these famous lands have never brought me a penny."

The wise legislator of Sparta scratched his ear and gave a sigh.

"But I have been told," continued the young man, "that some of the

neighboring proprietors have put their ploughs in these estates of

mine, and that, little by little, they are filching them from me. Here

there are neither landmarks nor boundaries, nor real ownership, Senor

Licurgo."

The peasant, after a pause, during which his subtle intellect seemed to

be occupied in profound disquisitions, expressed himself as follows:

"Uncle Paso Largo, whom, for his great foresight, we call the

Philosopher, set his plough in the Poplars, above the hermitage, and

bit by bit, he has gobbled up six fanegas."

"What an incomparable school!" exclaimed the young man, smiling. "I

wager that he has not been the only--philosopher?"

"It is a true saying that one should talk only about what one knows,

and that if there is food in the dove-cote, doves won't be wanting. But

you, Senor Don Jose, can apply to your own cause the saying that the

eye of the master fattens the ox, and now that you are here, try and

recover your property."

"Perhaps that would not be so easy, Senor Licurgo," returned the young

man, just as they were entering a path bordered on either side by

wheat-fields, whose luxuriance and early ripeness gladdened the eye.

"This field appears to be better cultivated. I see that all is not

dreariness and misery in the Poplars."

The peasant assumed a melancholy look, and, affecting something of

disdain for the fields that had been praised by the traveller, said in

the humblest of tones:

"Senor, this is mine."

"I beg your pardon," replied the gentleman quickly; "now I was going to

put my sickle in your field. Apparently the philosophy of this place is

contagious."

They now descended into a canebrake, which formed the bed of a shallow

and stagnant brook, and, crossing it, they entered a field full of

stones and without the slightest trace of vegetation.

"This ground is very bad," said the young man, turning round to look at

his companion and guide, who had remained a little behind. "You will

hardly be able to derive any profit from it, for it is all mud and

sand."

Licurgo, full of humility, answered:

"This is yours."

"I see that all the poor land is mine," declared the young man,

laughing good-humoredly."

As they were thus conversing, they turned again into the high-road. The

morning sunshine, pouring joyously through all the gates and balconies

of the Spanish horizon, had now inundated the fields with brilliant

light. The wide sky, undimmed by a single cloud, seemed to grow wider

and to recede further from the earth, in order to contemplate it, and

rejoice in the contemplation, from a greater height. The desolate,

treeless land, straw-colored at intervals, at intervals of the color of

chalk, and all cut up into triangles and quadrilaterals, yellow or

black, gray or pale green, bore a fanciful resemblance to a beggar's

cloak spread out in the sun. On that miserable cloak Christianity and

Islamism had fought with each other epic battles. Glorious fields, in

truth, but the combats of the past had left them hideous!

"I think we shall have a scorching day, Senor Licurgo," said the young

man, loosening his cloak a little. "What a dreary road! Not a single

tree to be seen, as far as the eye can reach. Here everything is in

contradiction. The irony does not cease. Why, when there are no poplars

here, either large or small, should this be called The Poplars?"

Uncle Licurgo did not answer this question because he was listening

with his whole soul to certain sounds which were suddenly heard in the

distance, and with an uneasy air he stopped his beast, while he

explored the road and the distant hills with a gloomy look.

"What is the matter?" asked the traveller, stopping his horse also.

"Do you carry arms, Don Jose?"

"A revolver--ah! now I understand. Are there robbers about?"

"Perhaps," answered the peasant, with visible apprehension. "I think I

heard a shot."

"We shall soon see. Forward!" said the young man, putting spurs to his

nag. "They are not very terrible, I dare say."

"Keep quiet, Senor Don Jose," exclaimed the peasant, stopping him.

"Those people are worse than Satan himself. The other day they murdered

two gentlemen who were on their way to take the train. Let us leave off

jesting. Gasparon el Fuerte, Pepito Chispillas, Merengue, and Ahorca

Suegras shall not see my face while I live. Let us turn into the path."

"Forward, Senor Licurgo!"

"Back, Senor Don Jose," replied the peasant, in distressed accents.

"You don't know what kind of people those are. They are the same men

who stole the chalice, the Virgin's crown, and two candlesticks from

the church of the Carmen last month; they are the men who robbed the

Madrid train two years ago."

Don Jose, hearing these alarming antecedents, felt his courage begin to

give way.

"Do you see that great high hill in the distance? Well, that is where

those rascals hide themselves; there in some caves which they call the

Retreat of the Cavaliers."

"Of the Cavaliers?"

"Yes, senor. They come down to the high-road when the Civil Guards are

not watching, and rob all they can. Do you see a cross beyond the bend

of the road? Well, that was erected in remembrance of the death of the

Alcalde of Villahorrenda, whom they murdered there at the time of the

elections."

"Yes, I see the cross."

"There is an old house there, in which they hide themselves to wait for

the carriers. They call that place The Pleasaunce."

"The Pleasaunce?"

"If all the people who have been murdered and robbed there were to be

restored they would form an army."

While they were thus talking shots were again heard, this time nearer

than before, which made the valiant hearts of the travellers quake a

little, but not that of the country lad, who, jumping about for joy,

asked Senor Licurgo's permission to go forward to watch the conflict

which was taking place so near them. Observing the courage of the boy

Don Jose felt a little ashamed of having been frightened, or at least a

little disturbed, by the proximity of the robbers, and cried, putting

spurs to his nag:

"We will go forward, then. Perhaps we may be able to lend assistance to

the unlucky travellers who find themselves in so perilous a situation,

and give a lesson besides to those cavaliers."

The peasant endeavored to convince the young man of the rashness of his

purpose, as well as of the profitlessness of his generous design, since

those who had been robbed were robbed and perhaps dead also, and not in

a condition to need the assistance of any one.

The gentleman insisted, in spite of these sage counsels; the peasant

reiterated his objections more strongly than before; when the

appearance of two or three carters, coming quietly down the road

driving a wagon, put an end to the controversy. The danger could not be

very great when these men were coming along so unconcernedly, singing

merry songs; and such was in fact the case, for the shots, according

to what the carters said, had not been fired by the robbers, but by

the Civil Guards, who desired in this way to prevent the escape of

half a dozen thieves whom they were taking, bound together, to the

town jail.

"Yes, I know now what it was," said Licurgo, pointing to a light cloud

of smoke which was to be seen some distance off, to the right of the

road. "They have peppered them there. That happens every other day."

The young man did not understand.

"I assure you, Senor Don Jose," added the Lacedaemonian legislator,

with energy, "that it was very well done; for it is of no use to try

those rascals. The judge cross-questions them a little and then lets

them go. If at the end of a trial dragged out for half a dozen years

one of them is sent to jail, at the moment least expected he escapes,

and returns to the Retreat of the Cavaliers. That is the best thing to

do--shoot them! Take them to prison, and when you are passing a

suitable place--Ah, dog, so you want to escape, do you? pum! pum! The

indictment is drawn up, the witnesses summoned, the trial ended, the

sentence pronounced--all in a minute. It is a true saying that the fox

is very cunning, but he who catches him is more cunning still."

"Forward, then, and let us ride faster, for this road, besides being a

long one, is not at all a pleasant one," said Rey.

As they passed The Pleasaunce, they saw, a little in from the road, the

guards who a few minutes before had executed the strange sentence with

which the reader has been made acquainted. The country boy was

inconsolable because they rode on and he was not allowed to get a

nearer view of the palpitating bodies of the robbers, which could be

distinguished forming a horrible group in the distance. But they had

not proceeded twenty paces when they heard the sound of a horse

galloping after them at so rapid a pace that he gained upon them every

moment. Our traveller turned round and saw a man, or rather a Centaur,

for the most perfect harmony imaginable existed between horse and

rider. The latter was of a robust and plethoric constitution, with

large fiery eyes, rugged features, and a black mustache. He was of

middle age and had a general air of rudeness and aggressiveness, with

indications of strength in his whole person. He was mounted on a superb

horse with a muscular chest, like the horses of the Parthenon,

caparisoned in the picturesque fashion of the country, and carrying on

the crupper a great leather bag on the cover of which was to be seen,

in large letters, the word Mail.

"Hello! Good-day, Senor Caballuco," said Licurgo, saluting the horseman

when the latter had come up with them. "How is it that we got so far

ahead of you? But you will arrive before us, if you set your mind to

it."

"I will rest a little," answered Senor Caballuco, adapting his horse's

pace to that of our travellers' beasts, and attentively observing the

most distinguished of the three, "since there is such good company."

"This gentleman," said Licurgo, smiling, "is the nephew of Dona

Perfecta."

"Ah! At your service, senor."

The two men saluted each other, it being noticeable that Caballuco

performed his civilities with an expression of haughtiness and

superiority that revealed, at the very least, a consciousness of great

importance, and of a high standing in the district. When the arrogant

horseman rode aside to stop and talk for a moment with two Civil Guards

who passed them on the road, the traveller asked his guide:

"Who is that odd character?"

"Who should it be? Caballuco."

"And who is Caballuco?"

"What! Have you never heard of Caballuco?" said the countryman, amazed

at the crass ignorance of Dona Perfecta's nephew. "He is a very brave

man, a fine rider, and the best connoisseur of horses in all the

surrounding country. We think a great deal of him in Orbajosa; and he

is well worthy of it. Just as you see him, he is a power in the place,

and the governor of the province takes off his hat to him."

"When there is an election!"

"And the Governor of Madrid writes official letters to him with a great

many titles in the superscription. He throws the bar like a St.

Christopher, and he can manage every kind of weapon as easily as we

manage our fingers. When there was market inspection here, they could

never get the best of him, and shots were to be heard every night at

the city gates. He has a following that is worth any money, for they

are ready for anything. He is good to the poor, and any stranger who

should come here and attempt to touch so much as a hair of the head of

any native of Orbajosa would have him to settle with. It is very seldom

that soldiers come here from Madrid, but whenever they do come, not a

day passes without blood being shed, for Caballuco would pick a quarrel

with them, if not for one thing for another. At present it seems that

he is fallen into poverty and he is employed to carry the mail. But he

is trying hard to persuade the Town Council to have a market-

inspector's office here again and to put him in charge of it. I don't

know how it is that you have never heard him mentioned in Madrid, for

he is the son of a famous Caballuco who was in the last rebellion, and

who was himself the son of another Caballuco, who was also in the

rebellion of that day. And as there is a rumor now that there is going

to be another insurrection--for the whole country is in a ferment--we

are afraid that Caballuco will join that also, following in the

illustrious footsteps of his father and his grandfather, who, to our

glory be it said, were born in our city."

Our traveller was surprised to see the species of knight-errantry that

still existed in the regions which he had come to visit, but he had no

opportunity to put further questions, for the man who was the object of

them now joined them, saying with an expression of ill-humor:

"The Civil Guard despatched three. I have already told the commander to

be careful what he is about. To-morrow we will speak to the governor of

the province, and I----"

"Are you going to X.?"

"No; but the governor is coming here, Senor Licurgo; do you know that

they are going to send us a couple of regiments to Orbajosa?"

"Yes," said the traveller quickly, with a smile. "I heard it said in

Madrid that there was some fear of a rising in this place. It is well

to be prepared for what may happen."

"They talk nothing but nonsense in Madrid," exclaimed the Centaur

violently, accompanying his affirmation with a string of tongue-

blistering vocables. "In Madrid there is nothing but rascality. What do

they send us soldiers for? To squeeze more contributions out of us and

a couple of conscriptions afterward. By all that's holy! if there isn't

a rising there ought to be. So you"--he ended, looking banteringly at

the young man--"so you are Dona Perfecta's nephew?"

This abrupt question and the insolent glance of the bravo annoyed the

young man.

"Yes, senor, at your service."

"I am a friend of the senora's, and I love her as I do the apple of my

eye," said Caballuco. "As you are going to Orbajosa we shall see each

other there."

And without another word he put spurs to his horse, which, setting off

at a gallop, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

After half an hour's ride, during which neither Senor Don Jose nor

Senor Licurgo manifested much disposition to talk, the travellers came

in sight of an ancient-looking town seated on the slope of a hill, from

the midst of whose closely clustered houses arose many dark towers,

and, on a height above it, the ruins of a dilapidated castle. Its base

was formed by a mass of shapeless walls, of mud hovels, gray and dusty

looking as the soil, together with some fragments of turreted walls, in

whose shelter about a thousand humble huts raised their miserable adobe

fronts, like anaemic and hungry faces demanding an alms from the

passer-by. A shallow river surrounded the town, like a girdle of tin,

refreshing, in its course, several gardens, the only vegetation that

cheered the eye. People were going into and coming out of the town, on

horseback and on foot, and the human movement, although not great, gave

some appearance of life to that great dwelling place whose

architectural aspect was rather that of ruin and death than of progress

and life. The innumerable and repulsive-looking beggars who dragged

themselves on either side of the road, asking the obolus from the

passer-by, presented a pitiful spectacle. It would be impossible to see

beings more in harmony with, or better suited to the fissures of that

sepulchre in which a city was not only buried but gone to decay. As our

travellers approached the town, a discordant peal of bells gave token,

with their expressive sound, that that mummy had still a soul.

It was called Orbajosa, a city that figures, not in the Chaldean or

Coptic geography, but in that of Spain, with 7324 inhabitants, a town-

hall, an episcopal seat, a court-house, a seminary, a stock farm, a

high school, and other official prerogatives.

"The bells are ringing for high mass in the cathedral," said Uncle

Licurgo. "We have arrived sooner than I expected."

"The appearance of your native city," said the young man, examining the

panorama spread out before him, "could not be more disagreeable. The

historic city of Orbajosa, whose name is no doubt a corruption of Urbs

Augusta, looks like a great dunghill."

"All that can be seen from here is the suburbs," said the guide, in an

offended tone. "When you enter the Calle Real and the Calle de

Condestable, you will see handsome buildings, like the cathedral."

"I don't want to speak ill of Orbajosa before seeing it," said the

young man. "And you must not take what I have said as a mark of

contempt, for whether humble and mean, or stately and handsome, that

city will always be very dear to me, not only is it my mother's native

place, but because there are persons living in it whom I love without

seeing them. Let us enter the august city, then."

They were now ascending a road on the outskirts of the town, and

passing close to the walls of the gardens.

"Do you see that great house at the end of this large garden whose wall

we are now passing?" said Uncle Licurgo, pointing to a massive,

whitewashed wall belonging to the only dwelling in view which had the

appearance of a cheerful and comfortable habitation.

"Yes; that is my aunt's house?"

"Exactly so! What we are looking at is the rear of the house. The front

faces the Calle del Condestable, and it has five iron balconies that

look like five castles. The fine garden behind the wall belongs to the

house, and if you rise up in your stirrups you will be able to see it

all from here."

"Why, we are at the house, then!" cried the young man. "Can we not

enter from here?"

"There is a little door, but the senora had it condemned."

The young man raised himself in his stirrups and, stretching his neck

as far as he could, looked over the wall.

"I can see the whole of the garden," he said. "There, under the trees,

there is a woman, a girl, a young lady."

"That is Senorita Rosario," answered Licurgo.

And at the same time he also raised himself in his stirrups to look

over the wall.

"Eh! Senorita Rosario!" he cried, making energetic signs with his right

hand. "Here we are; I have brought your cousin with me."

"She has seen us," said the young man, stretching out his neck as far

as was possible. "But if I am not mistaken, there is an ecclesiastic

with her--a priest."

"That is the Penitentiary," answered the countryman, with naturalness.

"My cousin has seen us--she has left the priest, and is running toward

the house. She is beautiful."

"As the sun!"

"She has turned redder than a cherry. Come, come, Senor Licurgo."

CHAPTER III

PEPE REY

Before proceeding further, it will be well to tell who Pepe Rey was,

and what were the affairs which had brought him to Orbajosa.

When Brigadier Rey died in 1841, his two children, Juan and Perfecta,

had just married: the latter the richest land-owner of Orbajosa, the

former a young girl of the same city. The husband of Perfecta was

called Don Manuel Maria Jose de Polentinos, and the wife of Juan, Maria

Polentinos; but although they had the same surname, their relationship

was somewhat distant and not very easy to make out. Juan Rey was a

distinguished jurisconsult who had been graduated in Seville and had

practised law in that city for thirty years with no less honor than

profit. In 1845 he was left a widower with a son who was old enough to

play mischievous pranks; he would sometimes amuse himself by

constructing viaducts, mounds, ponds, dikes, and trenches of earth, in

the yard of the house, and then flooding those fragile works with

water. His father let him do so, saying, "You will be an engineer."

Perfecta and Juan had ceased to see each other from the time of their

marriage, because the sister had gone to Madrid with her husband, the

wealthy Polentinos, who was as rich as he was extravagant. Play and

women had so completely enslaved Manuel Maria Jose that he would have

dissipated all his fortune, if death had not been beforehand with him

and carried him off before he had had time to squander it. In a night

of orgy the life of the rich provincial, who had been sucked so

voraciously by the leeches of the capital and the insatiable vampire of

play, came to a sudden termination. His sole heir was a daughter a few

months old. With the death of Perfecta's husband the terrors of the

family were at an end, but the great struggle began. The house of

Polentinos was ruined; the estates were in danger of being seized by

the money-lenders; all was in confusion: enormous debts, lamentable

management in Orbajosa, discredit and ruin in Madrid.

Perfecta sent for her brother, who, coming to the distressed widow's

assistance, displayed so much diligence and skill that in a short time

the greater part of the dangers that threatened her had disappeared. He

began by obliging his sister to live in Orbajosa, managing herself her

vast estates, while he faced the formidable pressure of the creditors

in Madrid. Little by little the house freed itself from the enormous

burden of its debts, for the excellent Don Juan Rey, who had the best

way in the world for managing such matters, pleaded in the court, made

settlements with the principal creditors and arranged to pay them by

instalments, the result of this skilful management being that the rich

patrimony of Polentinos was saved from ruin and might continue, for

many years to come, to bestow splendor and glory on that illustrious

family.

Perfecta's gratitude was so profound that in writing to her brother

from Orbajosa, where she determined to reside until her daughter should

be grown up, she said to him, among other affectionate things: "You

have been more than a brother to me, more than a father to my daughter.

How can either of us ever repay you for services so great? Ah, my dear

brother? from the moment in which my daughter can reason and pronounce

a name I will teach her to bless yours. My gratitude will end only with

my life. Your unworthy sister regrets only that she can find no

opportunity of showing you how much she loves you and of recompensing

you in a manner suited to the greatness of your soul and the boundless

goodness of your heart."

At the same time when these words were written Rosarito was two years

old. Pepe Rey, shut up in a school in Seville, was making lines on

paper, occupied in proving that "the sum of all the interior angles of

any polygon is equal to twice as many right angles, wanting four, as

the figure has sides." These vexatious commonplaces of the school kept

him very busy. Year after year passed. The boy grew up, still

continuing to make lines. At last, he made one which is called "From

Tarragona to Montblanch." His first serious toy was the bridge, 120

metres in length, over the River Francoli.

During all this time Dona Perfecta continued to live in Orbajosa. As

her brother never left Seville, several years passed without their

seeing each other. A quarterly letter, as punctually written as it was

punctually answered, kept in communication these two hearts, whose

affection neither time nor distance could cool. In 1870, when Don Juan

Rey, satisfied with having fulfilled his mission in society, retired

from it and went to live in his fine house in Puerto Real, Pepe, who

had been employed for several years in the works of various rich

building companies, set out on a tour through Germany and England, for

the purpose of study. His father's fortune, (as large as it is possible

for a fortune which has only an honorable law-office for its source to

be in Spain), permitted him to free himself in a short time from the

yoke of material labor. A man of exalted ideas and with an ardent love

for science, he found his purest enjoyment in the observation and study

of the marvels by means of which the genius of the age furthers at the

same time the culture and material comfort and the moral progress of

man.

On returning from his tour his father informed him that he had an

important project to communicate to him. Pepe supposed that it

concerned some bridge, dockyard, or, at the least, the draining of some

marsh, but Don Juan soon dispelled his error, disclosing to him his

plan in the following words:

"This is March, and Perfecta's quarterly letter has not failed to come.

Read it, my dear boy, and if you can agree to what that holy and

exemplary woman, my dear sister, says in it, you will give me the

greatest happiness I could desire in my old age. If the plan does not

please you, reject it without hesitation, for, although your refusal

would grieve me, there is not in it the shadow of constraint on my

part. It would be unworthy of us both that it should be realized

through the coercion of an obstinate father. You are free either to

accept or to reject it, and if there is in your mind the slightest

repugnance to it, arising either from your inclinations or from any

other cause, I do not wish you to do violence to your feelings on my

account."

Pepe laid the letter on the table after he had glanced through it, and

said quietly:

"My aunt wishes me to marry Rosario!"

"She writes accepting joyfully my idea," said his father, with emotion.

"For the idea was mine. Yes, it is a long time, a very long time since

it occurred to me; but I did not wish to say anything to you until I

knew what your sister might think about it. As you see, Perfecta

receives my plan with joy; she says that she too had thought of it, but

that she did not venture to mention it to me, because you are--you have

seen what she says--because you are a young man of very exceptional

merit and her daughter is a country girl, without either a brilliant

education or worldly attractions. Those are her words. My poor sister!

How good she is! I see that you are not displeased; I see that this

project of mine, resembling a little the officious prevision of the

fathers of former times who married their children without consulting

their wishes in the matter, and making generally inconsiderate and

unwise matches, does not seem absurd to you. God grant that this may

be, as it seems to promise, one of the happiest. It is true that you

have never seen your cousin, but we are both aware of her virtue, of

her discretion, of her modest and noble simplicity. That nothing may be

wanting, she is even beautiful. My opinion is," he added gayly, "that

you should at once start for that out-of-the-way episcopal city, that

Urbs Augusta, and there, in the presence of my sister and her charming

Rosarito, decide whether the latter is to be something more to me or

not, than my niece."

Pepe took up the letter again and read it through carefully. His

countenance expressed neither joy nor sorrow. He might have been

examining some plan for the junction of two railroads.

"In truth," said Don Juan, "in that remote Orbajosa, where, by the way,

you have some land that you might take a look at now, life passes with

the tranquillity and the sweetness of an idyl. What patriarchal

customs! What noble simplicity! What rural and Virgilian peace! If,

instead of being a mathematician, you were a Latinist, you would

repeat, as you enter it, the /ergo tua rura manebunt/. What an

admirable place in which to commune with one's own soul and to prepare

one's self for good works. There all is kindness and goodness; there

the deceit and hypocrisy of our great cities are unknown; there the

holy inclinations which the turmoil of modern life stifles spring into

being again; there dormant faith reawakens and one feels within the

breast an impulse, vague but keen, like the impatience of youth, that

from the depths of the soul cries out: 'I wish to live!' "

A few days after this conference Pepe left Puerto Real. He had refused,

some months before, a commission from the government to survey, in its

mineralogical aspects, the basin of the River Nahara, in the valley of

Orbajosa; but the plans to which the conference above recorded gave

rise, caused him to say to himself: "It will be as well to make use of

the time. Heaven only knows how long this courtship may last, or what

hours of weariness it may bring with it." He went, then, to Madrid,

solicited the commission to explore the basin of the Nahara, which he

obtained without difficulty, although he did not belong officially to

the mining corps, set out shortly afterward, and, after a second change

of trains, the mixed train No. 65 bore him, as we have seen, to the

loving arms of Uncle Licurgo.

The age of our hero was about thirty-four years. He was of a robust

constitution, of athletic build, and so admirably proportioned and of

so commanding an appearance that, if he had worn a uniform, he would

have presented the most martial air and figure that it is possible to

imagine. His hair and beard were blond in color, but in his countenance

there was none of the phlegmatic imperturbability of the Saxon, but, on

the contrary, so much animation that his eyes, although they were not

black, seemed to be so. His figure would have served as a perfect and

beautiful model for a statue, on the pedestal of which the sculptor

might engrave the words: "Intellect, strength." If not in visible

characters, he bore them vaguely expressed in the brilliancy of his

glance, in the potent attraction with which his person was peculiarly

endowed, and in the sympathy which his cordial manners inspired.

He was not very talkative--only persons of inconstant ideas and

unstable judgment are prone to verbosity. His profound moral sense made

him sparing of words in the disputes in which the men of the day are

prone to engage on any and every subject, but in polite conversation he

displayed an eloquence full of wit and intelligence, emanating always

from good sense and a temperate and just appreciation of worldly

matters. He had no toleration for those sophistries, and

mystifications, and quibbles of the understanding with which persons of

intelligence, imbued with affected culture, sometimes amuse themselves;

and in defence of the truth Pepe Rey employed at times, and not always

with moderation, the weapon of ridicule. This was almost a defect in

the eyes of many people who esteemed him, for our hero thus appeared

wanting in respect for a multitude of things commonly accepted and

believed. It must be acknowledged, although it may lessen him in the

opinion of many, that Rey did not share the mild toleration of the

compliant age which has invented strange disguises of words and of acts

to conceal what to the general eye might be disagreeable.

Such was the man, whatever slanderous tongues may say to the contrary,

whom Uncle Licurgo introduced into Orbajosa just as the cathedral bells

were ringing for high mass. When, looking over the garden wall, they

saw the young girl and the Penitentiary, and then the flight of the

former toward the house, they put spurs to their beasts and entered the

Calle Real, where a great many idlers stood still to gaze at the

traveller, as if he were a stranger and an intruder in the patriarchal

city. Turning presently to the right and riding in the direction of the

cathedral, whose massive bulk dominated the town, they entered the

Calle del Condestable, in which, being narrow and paved, the hoofs of

the animals clattered noisily, alarming the people of the neighborhood,

who came to the windows and to the balconies to satisfy their

curiosity. Shutters opened with a grating sound and various faces,

almost all feminine, appeared above and below. By the time Pepe Rey had

reached the threshold of the house of Polentinos many and diverse

comments had been already made on his person.

CHAPTER IV

THE ARRIVAL OF THE COUSIN

When Rosarito left him so abruptly the Penitentiary looked toward the

garden wall, and seeing the faces of Licurgo and his companion, said to

himself:

"So the prodigy is already here, then."

He remained thoughtful for some moments, his cloak, grasped with both

hands, folded over his abdomen, his eyes fixed on the ground, his gold-

rimmed spectacles slipping gently toward the point of his nose, his

under-lip moist and projecting, and his iron-gray eyebrows gathered in

a slight frown. He was a pious and holy man, of uncommon learning and

of irreproachable clerical habits, a little past his sixtieth year,

affable in his manners, courteous and kind, and greatly addicted to

giving advice and counsel to both men and women. For many years past he

had been master of Latin and rhetoric in the Institute, which noble

profession had supplied him with a large fund of quotations from Horace

and of florid metaphors, which he employed with wit and opportuneness.

Nothing more need be said regarding this personage, but that, as soon

as he heard the trot of the animals approaching the Calle del

Condestable, he arranged the folds of his cloak, straightened his hat,

which was not altogether correctly placed upon his venerable head, and,

walking toward the house, murmured:

"Let us go and see this paragon."

Meanwhile Pepe was alighting from his nag, and Dona Perfecta, her face

bathed in tears and barely able to utter a few trembling words, the

sincere expression of her affection, was receiving him at the gate

itself in her loving arms.

"Pepe--but how tall you are! And with a beard. Why, it seems only

yesterday that I held you in my lap. And now you are a man, a grown-up

man. Well, well! How the years pass! This is my daughter Rosario."

As she said this they reached the parlor on the ground floor, which was

generally used as a reception-room, and Dona Perfecta presented her

daughter to Pepe.

Rosario was a girl of delicate and fragile appearance, that revealed a

tendency to pensive melancholy. In her delicate and pure countenance

there was something of the soft, pearly pallor which most novelists

attribute to their heroines, and without which sentimental varnish it

appears that no Enriquieta or Julia can be interesting. But what

chiefly distinguished Rosario was that her face expressed so much

sweetness and modesty that the absence of the perfections it lacked was

not observed. This is not to say that she was plain; but, on the other

hand, it is true that it would be an exaggeration to call her beautiful

in the strictest meaning of the word. The real beauty of Dona

Perfecta's daughter consisted in a species of transparency, different

from that of pearl, alabaster, marble, or any of the other substances

used in descriptions of the human countenance; a species of

transparency through which the inmost depths of her soul were clearly

visible; depths not cavernous and gloomy, like those of the sea, but

like those of a clear and placid river. But the material was wanting

there for a complete personality. The channel was wanting, the banks

were wanting. The vast wealth of her spirit overflowed, threatening to

wash away the narrow borders. When her cousin saluted her she blushed

crimson, and uttered only a few unintelligible words.

"You must be fainting with hunger," said Dona Perfecta to her nephew.

"You shall have your breakfast at once."

"With your permission," responded the traveller, "I will first go and

get rid of the dust of the journey."

"That is a sensible idea," said the senora. "Rosario, take your cousin

to the room that we have prepared for him. Don't delay, nephew. I am

going to give the necessary orders."

Rosario took her cousin to a handsome apartment situated on the ground

floor. The moment he entered it Pepe recognized in all the details of

the room the diligent and loving hand of a woman. All was arranged with

perfect taste, and the purity and freshness of everything in this

charming nest invited to repose. The guest observed minute details that

made him smile.

"Here is the bell," said Rosario, taking in her hand the bell-rope, the

tassel of which hung over the head of the bed. "All you have to do is

to stretch out your hand. The writing-table is placed so that you will

have the light from the left. See, in this basket you can throw the

waste papers. Do you smoke?"

"Unfortunately, yes," responded Pepe Rey.

"Well, then, you can throw the ends of your cigars here," she said,

touching with the tip of her shoe a utensil of gilt-brass filled with

sand. "There is nothing uglier than to see the floor covered with

cigar-ends. Here is the washstand. For your clothes you have a wardrobe

and a bureau. I think this is a bad place for the watch-case; it would

be better beside the bed. If the light annoys you, all you have to do

is to lower the shade with this cord; see, this way."

The engineer was enchanted.

Rosarito opened one of the windows.

"Look," she said, "this window opens into the garden. The sun comes in

here in the afternoon. Here we have hung the cage of a canary that

sings as if he was crazy. If his singing disturbs you we will take it

away."

She opened another window on the opposite side of the room.

"This other window," she continued, "looks out on the street. Look;

from here you can see the cathedral; it is very handsome, and full of

beautiful things. A great many English people come to see it. Don't

open both windows at the same time, because draughts are very bad."

"My dear cousin," said Pepe, his soul inundated with an inexplicable

joy; "in all that is before my eyes I see an angel's hand that can be

only yours. What a beautiful room this is! It seems to me as if I had

lived in it all my life. It invites to peace."

Rosarito made no answer to these affectionate expressions, and left the

room, smiling.

"Make no delay," she said from the door; "the dining-room too is down

stairs--in the centre of this hall."

Uncle Licurgo came in with the luggage. Pepe rewarded him with a

liberality to which the countryman was not accustomed, and the latter,

after humbly thanking the engineer, raised his hand to his head with a

hesitating movement, and in an embarrassed tone, and mumbling his

words, he said hesitatingly:

"When will it be most convenient for me to speak to Senor Don Jose

about a--a little matter of business?"

"A little matter of business? At once," responded Pepe, opening one of

his trunks.

"This is not a suitable time," said the countryman. "When Senor Don

Jose has rested it will be time enough. There are more days than

sausages, as the saying is; and after one day comes another. Rest now,

Senor Don Jose. Whenever you want to take a ride--the nag is not bad.

Well, good-day, Senor Don Jose. I am much obliged to you. Ah! I had

forgotten," he added, returning a few moments later. "If you have any

message for the municipal judge--I am going now to speak to him about

our little affair."

"Give him my compliments," said Pepe gayly, no better way of getting

rid of the Spartan legislator occurring to him.

"Good-by, then, Senor Don Jose."

"Good-by."

The engineer had not yet taken his clothes out of the trunk when for

the third time the shrewd eyes and the crafty face of Uncle Licurgo

appeared in the door-way.

"I beg your pardon, Senor Don Jose," he said, displaying his

brilliantly white teeth in an affected smile, "but--I wanted to say

that if you wish to settle the matter by means of friendly

arbitrations---- Although, as the saying is, 'Ask other people's

opinion of something that concerns only yourself, and some will say it

is white and others black.' "

"Will you get away from here, man?"

"I say that, because I hate the law. I don't want to have anything to

do with the law. Well, good-by, again, Senor Don Jose. God give you

long life to help the poor!"

"Good-by, man, good-by."

Pepe turned the key in the lock of the door, saying to himself:

"The people of this town appear to be very litigious."

CHAPTER V

WILL THERE BE DISSENSION?

A little later Pepe made his appearance in the dining-room.

"If you eat a hearty breakfast," said Dona Perfecta to him, in

affectionate accents, "you will have no appetite for dinner. We dine

here at one. Perhaps you may not like the customs of the country."

"I am enchanted with them, aunt."

"Say, then, which you prefer--to eat a hearty breakfast now, or to take

something light, and keep your appetite for dinner."

"I prefer to take something light now, in order to have the pleasure of

dining with you. But not even if I had found anything to eat in

Villahorrenda, would I have eaten any thing at this early hour."

"Of course, I need not tell you that you are to treat us with perfect

frankness. You may give your orders here as if you were in your own

house."

"Thanks, aunt."

"But how like your father you are!" said the senora, regarding the

young man, as he ate, with real delight. "I can fancy I am looking now

at my dear brother Juan. He sat just as you are sitting and ate as you

are eating. In your expression, especially, you are as like as two

drops of water."

Pepe began his frugal breakfast. The words, as well as the manner and

the expression, of his aunt and cousin inspired him with so much

confidence that he already felt as if he were in his own house.

"Do you know what Rosario was saying to me this morning?" said Dona

Perfecta, looking at her nephew. "Well, she was saying that, as a man

accustomed to the luxuries and the etiquette of the capital and to

foreign ways, you would not be able to put up with the somewhat rustic

simplicity and the lack of ceremony of our manner of life; for here

every thing is very plain."

"What a mistake!" responded Pepe, looking at his cousin. "No one abhors

more than I do the falseness and the hypocrisy of what is called high

society. Believe me, I have long wished to give myself a complete bath

in nature, as some one has said; to live far from the turmoil of

existence in the solitude and quiet of the country. I long for the

tranquillity of a life without strife, without anxieties; neither

envying nor envied, as the poet has said. For a long time my studies at

first, and my work afterward, prevented me from taking the rest which I

need, and which my mind and my body both require; but ever since I

entered this house, my dear aunt, my dear cousin, I have felt myself

surrounded by the peaceful atmosphere which I have longed for. You must

not talk to me, then, of society, either high or low; or of the world,

either great or small, for I would willingly exchange them all for this

peaceful retreat."

While he was thus speaking, the glass door which led from the dining-

room into the garden was obscured by the interposition between it and

the light of a dark body. The glasses of a pair of spectacles, catching

a sunbeam, sent forth a fugitive gleam; the latch creaked, the door

opened, and the Penitentiary gravely entered the room. He saluted those

present, taking off his broad-brimmed hat and bowing until its brim

touched the floor.

"It is the Senor Penitentiary, of our holy cathedral," said Dona

Perfecta: "a person whom we all esteem greatly, and whose friend you

will, I hope, be. Take a seat, Senor Don Inocencio."

Pepe shook hands with the venerable canon, and both sat down.

"If you are accustomed to smoke after meals, pray do so," said Dona

Perfecta amiably; "and the Senor Penitentiary also."

The worthy Don Inocencio drew from under his cassock a large leather

cigar-case, which showed unmistakable signs of long use, opened it, and

took from it two long cigarettes, one of which he offered to our

friend. Rosario took a match from a little leaf-shaped matchbox, which

the Spaniards ironically call a wagon, and the engineer and the canon

were soon puffing their smoke over each other.

"And what does Senor Don Jose think of our dear city of Orbajosa?"

asked the canon, shutting his left eye tightly, according to his habit

when he smoked.

"I have not yet been able to form an idea of the town," said Pepe.

"From the little I have seen of it, however, I think that half a dozen

large capitalists disposed to invest their money here, a pair of

intelligent heads to direct the work of renovating the place, and a

couple of thousands of active hands to carry it out, would not be a bad

thing for Orbajosa. Coming from the entrance to the town to the door of

this house, I saw more than a hundred beggars. The greater part of them

are healthy, and even robust men. It is a pitiable army, the sight of

which oppresses the heart."

"That is what charity is for," declared Don Inocencio. "Apart from

that, Orbajosa is not a poor town. You are already aware that the best

garlic in all Spain is produced here. There are more than twenty rich

families living among us."

"It is true, said Dona Perfecta, "that the last few years have been

wretched, owing to the drought; but even so, the granaries are not

empty, and several thousands of strings of garlic were recently carried

to market."

"During the many years that I have lived in Orbajosa," said the priest,

with a frown, "I have seen innumerable persons come here from the

capital, some brought by the electoral hurly-burly, others to visit

some abandoned site, or to see the antiquities of the cathedral, and

they all talk to us about the English ploughs and threshing-machines

and water-power and banks, and I don't know how many other absurdities.

The burden of their song is that this place is very backward, and that

it could be improved. Let them keep away from us, in the devil's name!

We are well enough as we are, without the gentlemen from the capital

visiting us; a great deal better off without hearing that continual

clamor about our poverty and the grandeurs and the wonders of other

places. The fool in his own house is wiser than the wise man in

another's. Is it not so, Senor Don Jose? Of course, you mustn't imagine,

even remotely, that I say this on your account. Not at all! Of course

not! I know that we have before us one of the most eminent young men of

modern Spain, a man who would be able to transform into fertile lands

our arid wastes. And I am not at all angry because you sing us the same

old song about the English ploughs and arboriculture and silviculture.

Not in the least. Men of such great, such very great merit, may be

excused for the contempt which they manifest for our littleness. No,

no, my friend; no, no, Senor Don Jose! you are entitled to say any

thing you please, even to tell us that we are not much better than

Kaffirs."

This philippic, concluded in a marked tone of irony, and all of it

impertinent enough, did not please the young man; but he refrained from

manifesting the slightest annoyance and continued the conversation,

endeavoring to avoid as far as possible the subjects in which the over-

sensitive patriotism of the canon might find cause of offence. The

latter rose when Dona Perfecta began to speak to her nephew about

family matters, and took a few turns about the room.

This was a spacious and well-lighted apartment, the walls of which were

covered with an old-fashioned paper whose flowers and branches,

although faded, preserved their original pattern, thanks to the

cleanliness which reigned in each and every part of the dwelling. The

clock, from the case of which hung, uncovered, the apparently

motionless weights and the voluble pendulum, perpetually repeating No,

no, occupied, with its variegated dial, the most prominent place among

the solid pieces of furniture of the dining-room, the adornment of the

walls being completed by a series of French engravings representing the

exploits of the conqueror of Mexico, with prolix explanations at the

foot of each concerning a Ferdinand Cortez, and a Donna Marine, as

little true to nature as were the figures delineated by the ignorant

artist. In the space between the two glass doors which communicated

with the garden was an apparatus of brass, which it is not necessary to

describe further than to say that it served to support a parrot, which

maintained itself on it with the air of gravity and circumspection

peculiar to those animals, taking note of everything that went on. The

hard and ironical expression of the parrot tribe, their green coats,

their red caps, their yellow boots, and finally, the hoarse, mocking

words which they generally utter, give them a strange and repulsive

aspect, half serious, half-comic. There is in their air an

indescribable something of the stiffness of diplomats. At times they

remind one of buffoons, and they always resemble those absurdly

conceited people who, in their desire to appear very superior, look

like caricatures.

The Penitentiary was very fond of the parrot. When he left Dona

Perfecta and Rosario conversing with the traveller, he went over to the

bird, and, allowing it to bite his forefinger with the greatest good

humor, said to it:

"Rascal, knave, why don't you talk? You would be of little account if

you weren't a prater. The world of birds, as well as men, is full of

praters."

Then, with his own venerable hand, he took some peas from the dish

beside him, and gave them to the bird to eat. The parrot began to call

to the maid, asking her for some chocolate, and its words diverted the

two ladies and the young man from a conversation which could not have

been very engrossing.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH IT IS SEEN THAT DISAGREEMENT MAY ARISE WHEN LEAST EXPECTED

Suddenly Don Cayetano Polentinos, Dona Perfecta's brother-in-law,

appeared at the door, and entering the room with outstretched arms,

cried:

"Let me embrace you, my dear Don Jose."

They embraced each other cordially. Don Cayetano and Pepe were already

acquainted with each other, for the eminent scholar and bibliophile was

in the habit of making a trip to Madrid whenever an executor's sale of

the stock of some dealer in old books was advertised. Don Cayetano was

tall and thin, of middle age, although constant study or ill-health had

given him a worn appearance; he expressed himself with a refined

correctness which became him admirably, and he was affectionate and

amiable in his manners, at times to excess. With respect to his vast

learning, what can be said but that he was a real prodigy? In Madrid

his name was always mentioned with respect, and if Don Cayetano had

lived in the capital, he could not have escaped becoming a member, in

spite of his modesty, of every academy in it, past, present, and to

come. But he was fond of quiet and retirement, and the place which

vanity occupies in the souls of others, a pure passion for books, a

love of solitary and secluded study, without any other aim or incentive

than the books and the study themselves, occupied in his.

He had formed in Orbajosa one of the finest libraries that is to be

found in all Spain, and among his books he passed long hours of the day

and of the night, compiling, classifying, taking notes, and selecting

various sorts of precious information, or composing, perhaps, some

hitherto unheard-of and undreamed-of work, worthy of so great a mind.

His habits were patriarchal; he ate little, drank less, and his only

dissipations consisted of a luncheon in the Alamillos on very great

occasions, and daily walks to a place called Mundogrande, where were

often disinterred from the accumulated dust of twenty centuries,

medals, bits of architecture, and occasionally an amphora or

cubicularia of inestimable value.

Don Cayetano and Dona Perfecta lived in such perfect harmony that the

peace of Paradise was not to be compared to it. They never disagreed.

It is true that Don Cayetano never interfered in the affairs of the

house nor Dona Perfecta in those of the library, except to have it

swept and dusted every Saturday, regarding with religious respect the

books and papers that were in use on the table or anywhere else in the

room.

After the questions and answers proper to the occasion had been

interchanged Don Cayetano said:

"I have already looked at the books. I am very sorry that you did not

bring me the edition of 1527. I shall have to make a journey to Madrid

myself. Are you going to remain with us long? The longer the better, my

dear Pepe. How glad I am to have you here! Between us both we will

arrange a part of my library and make an index of the writers on the

Art of Horsemanship. It is not always one has at hand a man of your

talents. You shall see my library. You can take your fill of reading

there--as often as you like. You will see marvels, real marvels,

inestimable treasures, rare works that no one but myself has a copy of.

But I think it must be time for dinner, is it not, Jose? Is it not,

Perfecta? Is it not, Rosarito? Is it not, Senor Don Inocencio? To-day

you are doubly a Penitentiary--I mean because you will accompany us in

doing penance."

The canon bowed and smiled, manifesting his pleased acquiescence. The

dinner was substantial, and in all the dishes there was noticeable the

excessive abundance of country banquets, realized at the expense of

variety. There was enough to surfeit twice as many persons as sat down

to table. The conversation turned on various subjects.

"You must visit our cathedral as soon as possible," said the canon.

"There are few cathedrals like ours, Senor Don Jose! But of course you,

who have seen so many wonders in foreign countries, will find nothing

remarkable in our old church. We poor provincials of Orbajosa, however,

think it divine. Master Lopez of Berganza, one of the prebendaries of

the cathedral, called it in the sixteenth century /pulchra

augustissima/. But perhaps for a man of your learning it would possess

no merit, and some market constructed of iron would seem more

beautiful."

The ironical remarks of the wily canon annoyed Pepe Rey more and more

every moment, but, determined to control himself and to conceal his

anger, he answered only with vague words. Dona Perfecta then took up

the theme and said playfully:

"Take care, Pepito; I warn you that if you speak ill of our holy church

we shall cease to be friends. You know a great deal, you are a man

eminent for your knowledge on every subject, but if you are going to

discover that that grand edifice is not the eighth wonder of the world

you will do well to keep your knowledge to yourself and leave us in our

ignorance."

"Far from thinking that the building is not handsome," responded Pepe,

"the little I have seen of its exterior has seemed to me of imposing

beauty. So there is no need for you to be alarmed, aunt. And I am very

far from being a savant."

"Softly; softly," said the canon, extending his hand and giving his

mouth a truce from eating in order to talk. "Stop there--don't come now

pretending modesty, Senor Don Jose; we are too well aware of your great

merit, of the high reputation you enjoy and the important part you play

wherever you are, for that. Men like you are not to be met with every

day. But now that I have extolled your merits in this way----"

He stopped to eat a mouthful, and when his tongue was once more at

liberty he continued thus:

"Now that I have extolled your merits in this way, permit me to express

a different opinion with the frankness which belongs to my character.

Yes, Senor Don Jose, yes, Senor Don Cayetano; yes, senora and senorita,

science, as the moderns study and propagate it, is the death of

sentiment and of every sweet illusion. Under its influence the life of

the spirit declines, every thing is reduced to fixed rules, and even

the sublime charms of nature disappear. Science destroys the marvellous

in the arts, as well as faith in the soul. Science says that every

thing is a lie, and would reduce every thing to figures and lines, not

only /maria ac terras/, where we are, but /coelumque profundum/, where

God is. The wonderful visions of the soul, its mystic raptures, even

the inspiration of the poets, are all a lie. The heart is a sponge; the

brain, a place for breeding maggots."

Every one laughed, while the canon took a draught of wine.

"Come, now, will Senor Don Jose deny," continued the ecclesiastic,

"that science, as it is taught and propagated to-day, is fast making of

the world and of the human race a great machine?"

"That depends," said Don Cayetano. "Every thing has its /pro/ and its

/contra/."

"Take some more salad, Senor Penitentiary," said Dona Perfecta; "it is

just as you like it--with a good deal of mustard."

Pepe Rey was not fond of engaging in useless discussions; he was not a

pedant, nor did he desire to make a display of his learning, and still

less did he wish to do so in the presence of women, and in a private

re-union; but the importunate and aggressive verbosity of the canon

required, in his opinion, a corrective. To flatter his vanity by

agreeing with his views would, he thought, be a bad way to give it to

him, and he determined therefore to express only such opinions as

should be most directly opposed to those of the sarcastic Penitentiary

and most offensive to him.

"So you wish to amuse yourself at my expense," he said to himself.

"Wait, and you will see what a fine dance I will lead you."

Then he said aloud:

"All that the Senor Penitentiary has said ironically is the truth. But

it is not our fault if science overturns day after day the vain idols

of the past: its superstitions, its sophisms, its innumerable fables

--beautiful, some of them, ridiculous others--for in the vineyard of

the Lord grow both good fruit and bad. The world of illusions, which

is, as we might say, a second world, is tumbling about us in ruins.

Mysticism in religion, routine in science, mannerism in art, are

falling, as the Pagan gods fell, amid jests. Farewell, foolish dreams!

the human race is awakening and its eyes behold the light. Its vain

sentimentalism, its mysticism, its fevers, its hallucination, its

delirium are passing away, and he who was before sick is now well and

takes an ineffable delight in the just appreciation of things.

Imagination, the terrible madwoman, who was the mistress of the house,

has become the servant. Look around you, Senor Penitentiary, and you

will see the admirable aggregation of truths which has taken the place

of fable. The sky is not a vault; the stars are not little lamps; the

moon is not a sportive huntress, but an opaque mass of stone; the sun

is not a gayly adorned and vagabond charioteer but a fixed fire; Scylla

and Charybdis are not nymphs but sunken rocks; the sirens are seals;

and in the order of personages, Mercury is Manzanedo; Mars is a clean-

shaven old man, the Count von Moltke; Nestor may be a gentleman in an

overcoat, who is called M. Thiers; Orpheus is Verdi; Vulcan is Krupp;

Apollo is any poet. Do you wish more? Well, then, Jupiter, a god who,

if he were living now, would deserve to be put in jail, does not launch

the thunderbolt, but the thunderbolt falls when electricity wills it.

There is no Parnassus; there is no Olympus; there is no Stygian lake;

nor are there any other Elysian Fields than those of Paris. There is no

other descent to hell than the descents of Geology, and this traveller,

every time he returns from it, declares that there are no damned souls

in the centre of the earth. There are no other ascents to heaven than

those of Astronomy, and she, on her return, declares that she has not

seen the six or seven circles of which Dante and the mystical dreamers

of the Middle Ages speak. She finds only stars and distances, lines,

vast spaces, and nothing more. There are now no false computations of

the age of the earth, for paleontology and prehistoric research have

counted the teeth of this skull in which we live and discovered the

true age. Fable, whether it be called paganism or Christian idealism,

exists no longer, and imagination plays only a secondary part. All the

miracles possible are such as I work, whenever I desire to do so, in my

laboratory, with my Bunsen pile, a conducting wire, and a magnetized

needle. There are now no other multiplications of loaves and fishes

than those which Industry makes, with her moulds and her machines, and

those of the printing press, which imitates Nature, taking from a

single type millions of copies. In short, my dear canon, orders have

been given to put on the retired list all the absurdities, lies,

illusions, dreams, sentimentalities, and prejudices which darken the

understanding of man. Let us rejoice at the fact."

When Pepe finished speaking, a furtive smile played upon the canon's

lips and his eyes were extraordinarily animated. Don Cayetano busied

himself in giving various forms--now rhomboidal, now prismatic--to a

little ball of bread. But Dona Perfecta was pale and kept her eyes

fixed on the canon with observant insistence. Rosarito looked with

amazement at her cousin. The latter, bending toward her, whispered

under his breath:

"Don't mind me, little cousin; I am talking all this nonsense only to

enrage the canon."

CHAPTER VII

THE DISAGREEMENT INCREASES

"Perhaps you think," said Dona Perfecta, with a tinge of conceit in her

tones, "that Senor Don Inocencio is going to remain silent and not give

you an answer to each and every one of those points."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed the canon, arching his eyebrows. "I will not

attempt to measure my poor abilities with a champion so valiant and at

the same time so well armed. Senor Don Jose knows every thing; that is

to say, he has at his command the whole arsenal of the exact sciences.

Of course I know that the doctrines he upholds are false; but I have

neither the talent nor the eloquence to combat them. I would employ

theological arguments, drawn from revelation, from faith, from the

Divine Word; but alas! Senor Don Jose, who is an eminent savant, would

laugh at theology, at faith, at revelation, at the holy prophets, at

the gospel. A poor ignorant priest, an unhappy man who knows neither

mathematics, nor German philosophy with its /ego/ and its /non ego/, a

poor dominie, who knows only the science of God and something of the

Latin poets, cannot enter into combat with so valiant a champion."

Pepe Rey burst into a frank laugh.

"I see that Senor Don Inocencio," he said, "has taken seriously all the

nonsense I have been talking. Come, Senor Canon, regard the whole

matter as a jest, and let it end there. I am quite sure that my

opinions do not in reality differ greatly from yours. You are a pious

and learned man; it is I who am ignorant. If I have allowed myself to

speak in jest, pardon me, all of you--that is my way."

"Thanks!" responded the presbyter, visibly annoyed. "Is that the way

you want to get out of it now? I am well aware, we are all well aware,

that the views you have sustained are your own. It could not be

otherwise. You are the man of the age. It cannot be denied that you

have a wonderful, a truly wonderful intellect. While you were talking,

at the same time that I inwardly deplored errors so great, I could not

but admire, I will confess it frankly, the loftiness of expression, the

prodigious fluency, the surprising method of your reasoning, the force

of your arguments. What a head, Senora Dona Perfecta, what a head your

young nephew has! When I was in Madrid and they took me to the

Atheneum, I confess that I was amazed to see the wonderful talent which

God has bestowed on the atheists and the Protestants."

"Senor Don Inocencio," said Dona Perfecta, looking alternately at her

nephew and her friend, "I think that in judging this boy you are more

than benevolent. Don't get angry, Pepe, or mind what I say, for I am

neither a savante, nor a philosopher, nor a theologian; but it seems to

me that Senor Don Inocencio has just given a proof of his great modesty

and Christian charity in not crushing you as he could have done if he

had wished."

"Oh, senora!" said the ecclesiastic.

"That is the way with him," continued Dona Perfecta, "always pretending

to know nothing. And he knows more than the seven doctors put together.

Ah, Senor Don Inocencio, how well the name you have suits you! But

don't affect an unseasonable humility now. Why, my nephew has no

pretensions. All he knows is what he has been taught. If he has been

taught error, what more can he desire than that you should enlighten

him and take him out of the limbo of his false doctrines?"

"Just so; I desire nothing more than that the Senor Penitentiary should

take me out,"--murmured Pepe, comprehending that without intending it,

he had got himself into a labyrinth.

"I am a poor priest, whose only learning is some knowledge of the

ancients," responded Don Inocencio. "I recognize the immense value,

from a worldly point of view, of Senor Don Jose's scientific knowledge,

and before so brilliant an oracle I prostrate myself and am silent."

So saying, the canon folded his hands across his breast and bent his

head. Pepe Rey was somewhat disturbed because of the turn which his

mind had chosen to give to an idle discussion jestingly followed up,

and in which he had engaged only to enliven the conversation a little.

He thought that the most prudent course to pursue would be to end at

once so dangerous a debate, and for this purpose he addressed a

question to Senor Don Cayetano when the latter, shaking off the

drowsiness which had overcome him after the dessert, offered the guests

the indispensable toothpicks stuck in a china peacock with outspread

tail.

"Yesterday I discovered a hand grasping the handle of an amphora, on

which there are a number of hieratic characters. I will show it to

you," said Don Cayetano, delighted to introduce a favorite theme.

"I suppose that Senor de Rey is very expert in archaeological matters

also," said the canon, who, still implacable, pursued his victim to his

last retreat.

"Of course," said Dona Perfecta. "What is there that these clever

children of our day do not understand? They have all the sciences at

their fingers' ends. The universities and the academics teach them

every thing in a twinkling, giving them a patent of learning."

"Oh, that is unjust!" responded the canon, observing the pained

expression of the engineer's countenance.

"My aunt is right," declared Pepe. "At the present day we learn a

little of every thing, and leave school with the rudiments of various

studies."

"I was saying," continued the canon, "that you are no doubt a great

archaeologist."

"I know absolutely nothing of that science," responded the young man.

"Ruins are ruins, and I have never cared to cover myself with dust

going among them."

Don Cayetano made an expressive grimace.

"That is not to say that I condemn archaeology," said Dona Perfecta's

nephew quickly, observing with pain that he could not utter a word

without wounding some one. "I know that from that dust issues history.

Those studies are delightful and very useful."

"You," said the Penitentiary, putting his toothpick into the last of

his back teeth, "are no doubt more inclined to controversial studies.

An excellent idea has just occurred to me, Senor Don Jose; you ought to

be a lawyer."

"Law is a profession which I abhor," replied Pepe Rey. "I know many

estimable lawyers, among them my father, who is the best of men; but,

in spite of so favorable a specimen, I could never had brought myself

to practise a profession which consists in defending with equal

readiness the /pro/ and the /contra/ of a question. I know of no

greater misjudgment, no greater prejudice, no greater blindness, than

parents show in their eagerness to dedicate their sons to the law. The

chief and the most terrible plague of Spain is the crowd of our young

lawyers, for whose existence a fabulous number of lawsuits are

necessary. Lawsuits multiply in proportion to the demand. And even

thus, numbers are left without employment, and, as a jurisconsult

cannot put his hand to the plough or seat himself at the loom, the

result is that brilliant squadron of idlers full of pretensions, who

clamor for places, embarrass the administration, agitate public

opinion, and breed revolutions. In some way they must make a living. It

would be a greater misfortune if there were lawsuits enough for all of

them."

"Pepe, for Heaven's sake, take care what you say," said Dona Perfecta,

in a tone of marked severity. "But excuse him, Senor Don Inocencio, for

he is not aware that you have a nephew who, although he has only lately

left the university, is a prodigy in the law."

"I speak in general terms," said Pepe, with firmness. "Being, as I am,

the son of a distinguished lawyer, I cannot be ignorant of the fact

that there are many men who practise that noble profession with honor

to themselves."

"No; my nephew is only a boy yet," said the canon, with affected

humility. "Far be it from me to assert that he is a prodigy of

learning, like Senor de Rey. In time, who can tell? His talents are

neither brilliant nor seductive. Of course, Jacinto's ideas are solid

and his judgment is sound. What he knows he knows thoroughly. He is

unacquainted with sophistries and hollow phrases."

Pepe Rey appeared every moment more and more disturbed. The idea that,

without desiring it, his opinions should be in opposition to those of

the friends of his aunt, vexed him, and he resolved to remain silent

lest he and Don Inocencio should end by throwing the plates at each

other's heads. Fortunately the cathedral bell, calling the canon to the

important duties of the choir, extricated him from his painful

position. The venerable ecclesiastic rose and took leave of every one,

treating Rey with as much amiability and kindness as if they had been

old and dear friends. The canon, after offering his services to Pepe

for all that he might require, promised to present his nephew to him in

order that the young man might accompany him to see the town, speaking

in the most affectionate terms and deigning, on leaving the room, to

pat him on the shoulder. Pepe Rey, accepting with pleasure these

formulas of concord, nevertheless felt indescribably relieved when the

priest had left the dining-room and the house.

CHAPTER VIII

IN ALL HASTE

A little later the scene had changed. Don Cayetano, finding rest from

his sublime labors in a gentle slumber that had overcome him after

dinner, reclined comfortably in an arm-chair in the dining-room.

Rosarito, seated at one of the windows that opened into the garden,

glanced at her cousin, saying to him with the mute eloquence of her

eyes:

"Cousin, sit down here beside me and tell me every thing you have to

say to me."

Her cousin, mathematician though he was, understood.

"My dear cousin," said Pepe, "how you must have been bored this

afternoon by our disputes! Heaven knows that for my own pleasure I

would not have played the pedant as I did; the canon was to blame for

it. Do you know that that priest appears to me to be a singular

character?"

"He is an excellent person!" responded Rosarito, showing the delight

she felt at being able to give her cousin all the data and the

information that he might require.

"Oh, yes! An excellent person. That is very evident!"

"When you know him a little better, you will see that."

"That he is beyond all price! But it is enough for him to be your

friend and your mamma's to be my friend also," declared the young man.

"And does he come here often?"

"Every day. He spends a great deal of his time with us," responded

Rosarito ingenuously. "How good and kind he is! And how fond he is of

me!"

"Come! I begin to like this gentleman."

"He comes in the evening, besides, to play tresillo," continued the

young girl; "for every night some friends meet here--the judge of the

lower court, the attorney-general, the dean, the bishop's secretary,

the alcalde, the collector of taxes, Don Inocencio's nephew----"

"Ah! Jacintito, the lawyer."

"Yes; he is a simple-hearted boy, as good as gold. His uncle adores

him. Since he returned from the university with his doctor's tassel--

for he is a doctor in two sciences, and he took honors besides--what do

you think of that?--well, as I was saying, since his return, he has

come here very often with his uncle. Mamma too is very fond of him. He

is a very sensible boy. He goes home early with his uncle; he never

goes at night to the Casino, nor plays nor squanders money, and he is

employed in the office of Don Lorenzo Ruiz, who is the best lawyer in

Orbajosa. They say Jacinto will be a great lawyer, too."

"His uncle did not exaggerate when he praised him, then," said Pepe. "I

am very sorry that I talked all that nonsense I did about lawyers. I

was very perverse, was I not, my dear cousin?"

"Not at all; for my part, I think you were quite right."

"But, really, was I not a little--"

"Not in the least, not in the least!"

"What a weight you have taken off my mind! The truth is that I found

myself constantly, and without knowing why, in distressing opposition

to that venerable priest. I am very sorry for it."

"What I think," said Rosarito, looking at him with eyes full of

affection, "is that you will not find yourself at home among us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know whether I can make myself quite clear, cousin. I mean

that it will not be easy for you to accustom yourself to the society

and the ideas of the people of Orbajosa. I imagine so--it is a

supposition."

"Oh, no! I think you are mistaken."

"You come from a different place, from another world, where the people

are very clever, and very learned, and have refined manners, and a

witty way of talking, and an air--perhaps I am not making myself clear.

I mean that you are accustomed to live among people of refinement; you

know a great deal. Here there is not what you need; here the people are

not learned or very polished. Every thing is plain, Pepe. I imagine you

will be bored, terribly bored, and that in the end you will have to go

away."

The expression of sadness which was natural in Rosarito's countenance

here became so profound that Pepe Rey was deeply moved.

"You are mistaken, my dear cousin. I did not come here with the ideas

you fancy, nor is there between my character and my opinions and the

character and opinions of the people here the want of harmony you

imagine. But let us suppose for a moment that there were."

"Let us suppose it."

"In that case I have the firm conviction that between you and me,

between us two, dear Rosarito, perfect harmony would still exist. On

this point I cannot be mistaken. My heart tells me that I am not

mistaken."

Rosarito blushed deeply, but making an effort to conceal her

embarrassment under smiles and fugitive glances, she said:

"Come, now, no pretences. But if you mean that I shall always approve

of what you say, you are right."

"Rosario," exclaimed the young man, "the moment I saw you my soul was

filled with gladness; I felt at the same time a regret that I had not

come before to Orbajosa."

"Now, that I am not going to believe," she said, affecting gayety to

conceal her emotion. "So soon? Don't begin to make protestations

already. See, Pepe, I am only a country girl, I can talk only about

common things; I don't know French; I don't dress with elegance; all I

know is how to play the piano; I----"

"Oh, Rosario!" cried the young man, with ardor; "I believed you to be

perfect before; now I am sure you are so."

Her mother at this moment entered the room. Rosarito, who did not know

what to say in answer to her cousin's last words, was conscious,

however, of the necessity of saying something, and, looking at her

mother, she cried:

"Ah! I forgot to give the parrot his dinner."

"Don't mind that now. But why do you stay in here? Take your cousin for

a walk in the garden."

Dona Perfecta smiled with maternal kindness at her nephew, as she

pointed toward the leafy avenue which was visible through the glass

door.

"Let us go there," said Pepe, rising.

Rosarito darted, like a bird released from its cage, toward the glass

door.

"Pepe, who knows so much and who must understand all about trees," said

Dona Perfecta, "will teach you how to graft. Let us see what he thinks

of those young pear-trees that they are going to transplant."

"Come, come!" called Rosarito to her cousin impatiently from the

garden.

Both disappeared among the foliage. Dona Perfecta watched them until

they were out of sight and then busied herself with the parrot. As she

changed its food she said to herself with a contemplative air:

"How different he is! He has not even given a caress to the poor bird."

Then, thinking it possible that she had been overheard by her brother-

in-law, she said aloud:

"Cayetano, what do you think of my nephew? Cayetano!"

A low grunt gave evidence that the antiquary was returning to the

consciousness of this miserable world.

"Cayetano!"

"Just so, just so!" murmured the scientist in a sleepy voice. "That

young gentleman will maintain, as every one does, that the statues of

Mundogrande belong to the first Phoenician immigration. But I will

convince him -"?

"But, Cayetano!"

"But, Perfecta! There! Now you will insist upon it again that I have

been asleep."

"No, indeed; how could I insist upon any thing so absurd! But you

haven't told me what you think about that young man."

Don Cayetano placed the palm of his hand before his mouth to conceal a

yawn; then he and Dona Perfecta entered upon a long conversation. Those

who have transmitted to us the necessary data for a compilation of this

history omit this dialogue, no doubt because it was entirely

confidential. As for what the engineer and Rosarito said in the garden

that afternoon, it is evident that it was not worthy of mention.

On the afternoon of the following day, however, events took place

which, being of the gravest importance, ought not to be passed over in

silence. Late in the afternoon the two cousins found themselves alone,

after rambling through different parts of the garden in friendly

companionship and having eyes and ears only for each other.

"Pepe," Rosario was saying, "all that you have been telling me is pure

fancy, one of those stories that you clever men know so well how to put

together. You think that because I am a country girl I believe every

thing I am told."

"If you understood me as well as I think I understand you, you would

know that I never say any thing I do not mean. But let us have done

with foolish subtleties and lovers' sophistries, that lead only to

misunderstandings. I will speak to you only in the language of truth.

Are you by chance a young lady whose acquaintance I have made on the

promenade or at a party, and with whom I propose to spend a pleasant

hour or two? No, you are my cousin. You are something more. Rosario,

let us at once put things on their proper footing. Let us drop

circumlocutions. I have come here to marry you."

Rosario felt her face burning, and her heart was beating violently.

"See, my dear cousin," continued the young man. "I swear to you that if

you had not pleased me I should be already far away from this place.

Although politeness and delicacy would have obliged me to make an

effort to conceal my disappointment, I should have found it hard to do

so. That is my character."

"Cousin, you have only just arrived," said Rosarito laconically, trying

to laugh.

"I have only just arrived, and I already know all that I wanted to

know; I know that I love you; that you are the woman whom my heart has

long been announcing to me, saying to me night and day, 'Now she is

coming, now she is near; now you are burning.' "

These words served Rosario as an excuse for breaking into the laugh

that had been dimpling her lips. Her soul swelled with happiness; she

breathed an atmosphere of joy.

"You persist in depreciating yourself," continued Pepe, "but for me you

possess every perfection. You have the admirable quality of radiating

on all around you the divine light of your soul. The moment one sees

you one feels instinctively the nobility of your mind and the purity of

your heart. To see you is to see a celestial being who, through the

forgetfulness of Heaven, remains upon the earth; you are an angel, and

I adore you."

When he had said this it seemed as if he had fulfilled an important

mission. Rosarito, overcome by the violence of her emotion, felt her

scant strength suddenly fail her; and, half-fainting, she sank on a

stone that in those pleasant solitudes served as a seat. Pepe bent over

her. Her eyes were closed, her forehead rested on the palm of her hand.

A few moments later the daughter of Dona Perfecta Polentinos gave her

cousin, amid happy tears, a tender glance followed by these words:

"I loved you before I had ever seen you."

Placing her hands in those of the young man she rose to her feet, and

their forms disappeared among the leafy branches of an oleander walk.

Night was falling and soft shadows enveloped the lower end of the

garden, while the last rays of the setting sun crowned the tree-tops

with fleeting splendors. The noisy republic of the birds kept up a

deafening clamor in the upper branches. It was the hour in which, after

flitting about in the joyous regions of the sky, they were all going to

rest, and they were disputing with one another the branches they had

selected for sleeping-places. Their chatter at times had a sound of

recrimination and controversy, at times of mockery and merriment. In

their voluble twitter the little rascals said the most insulting things

to each other, pecking at each other and flapping their wings, as

orators wave their arms when they want to make their hearers believe

the lies they are telling them. But words of love were to be heard

there too, for the peace of the hour and the beauty of the spot invited

to it. A sharp ear might have distinguished the following:

"I loved you before I had even seen you, and if you had not come I

should have died of grief. Mamma used to give me your father's letters

to read, and he praised you so much in them that I used to say, 'That

is the man who ought to be my husband.' For a long time your father

said nothing about our marrying, which seemed to me great negligence.

Uncle Cayetano, whenever he spoke of you, would say, 'There are not

many men like him in the world. The woman who gets him for a husband

may think herself fortunate.' At last your father said what he could

not avoid saying. Yes, he could not avoid saying it--I was expecting it

every day."

Shortly after these words the same voice added uneasily: "Some one is

following us."

Emerging from among the oleanders, Pepe, turning round, saw two men

approaching them, and touching the leaves of a young tree near by, he

said aloud to his companion:

"It is not proper to prune young trees like this for the first time

until they have taken firm root. Trees recently planted have not

sufficient strength to bear the operation. You know that the roots can

grow only by means of the leaves, so that if you take the leaves from a

tree--"

"Ah, Senor Don Jose," cried the Penitentiary, with a frank laugh,

approaching the two young people and bowing to them, "are you giving

lessons in horticulture? /Insere nunc Meliboee piros; pone ordine

vites/, as the great singer of the labors of the field said. 'Graft the

pear-tree, dear Meliboeus, trim the vines.' And how are we now, Senor

Don Jose?"

The engineer and the canon shook hands. Then the latter turned round,

and indicating by a gesture a young man who was behind him, said,

smiling:

"I have the pleasure of presenting to you my dear Jacintillo--a great

rogue, a feather-head, Senor Don Jose."

CHAPTER IX

THE DISAGREEMENT CONTINUES TO INCREASE, AND THEREAFTER TO BECOME

DISCORD

Close beside the black cassock was a fresh and rosy face, that seemed

fresher and rosier from the contrast. Jacinto saluted our hero, not

without some embarrassment.

He was one of those precocious youths whom the indulgent university

sends prematurely forth into the arena of life, making them fancy that

they are men because they have received their doctor's degree. Jacinto

had a round, handsome face with rosy cheeks, like a girl's, and without

any beard save the down which announced its coming. In person he was

plump and below the medium height. His age was a little over twenty. He

had been educated from childhood under the direction of his excellent

and learned uncle, which is the same as saying that the twig had not

become crooked in the growing. A severe moral training had kept him

always straight, and in the fulfilment of his scholastic duties he had

been almost above reproach. Having concluded his studies at the

university with astonishing success, for there was scarcely a class in

which he did not take the highest honors, he entered on the practice of

his profession, promising, by his application and his aptitude for the

law, to maintain fresh and green in the forum the laurels of the

lecture-hall.

At times he was as mischievous as a boy, at times as sedate as a man.

In very truth, if Jacinto had not had a little, and even a great deal

of liking for pretty girls, his uncle would have thought him perfect.

The worthy man preached to him unceasingly on this point, hastening to

clip the wings of every audacious fancy. But not even this mundane

inclination of the young man could cool the great affection which our

worthy canon bore the charming offspring of his dear niece, Maria

Remedios. Where the young lawyer was concerned, every thing else must

give way. Even the grave and methodical habits of the worthy

ecclesiastic were altered when they interfered with the affairs of his

precocious pupil. That order and regularity, apparently as fixed as the

laws of a planetary system, were interrupted whenever Jacinto was ill

or had to take a journey. Useless celibacy of the clergy! The Council

of Trent prohibits them from having children of their own, but God--and

not the Devil, as the proverb says--gives them nephews and nieces in

order that they may know the tender anxieties of paternity.

Examining impartially the qualities of this clever boy, it was

impossible not to recognize that he was not wanting in merit. His

character was in the main inclined to uprightness, and noble actions

awakened a frank admiration in his soul. With respect to his

intellectual endowments and his social knowledge, they were sufficient

to enable him to become in time one of those notabilities of whom there

are so many in Spain; he might be what we take delight in calling

hyperbolically a distinguished patrician, or an eminent public man;

species which, owing to their great abundance, are hardly appreciated

at their just value. In the tender age in which the university degree

serves as a sort of solder between boyhood and manhood, few young men--

especially if they have been spoiled by their masters--are free from an

offensive pedantry, which, if it gives them great importance beside

their mamma's arm-chair, makes them very ridiculous when they are among

grave and experienced men. Jacinto had this defect, which was excusable

in him, not only because of his youth, but also because his worthy

uncle stimulated his puerile vanity by injudicious praise.

When the introduction was over they resumed their walk. Jacinto was

silent. The canon, returning to the interrupted theme of the /pyros/

which were to be grafted and the /vites/ which were to be trimmed,

said:

"I am already aware that Senor Don Jose is a great agriculturist."

"Not at all; I know nothing whatever about the subject," responded the

young man, observing with no little annoyance the canon's mania of

supposing him to be learned in all the sciences.

"Oh, yes! a great agriculturist," continued the Penitentiary; 'but on

agricultural subjects, don't quote the latest treatises to me. For me

the whole of that science, Senor de Rey, is condensed in what I call

the Bible of the Field, in the 'Georgics' of the immortal Roman. It is

all admirable, from that grand sentence, /Nec vero terroe ferre omnes

omnia possunt/--that is to say, that not every soil is suited to every

tree, Senor Don Jose--to the exhaustive treatise on bees, in which the

poet describes the habits of those wise little animals, defining the

drone in these words:

" 'Ille horridus alter

Desidia, latamque trahens inglorius alvum.'

'Of a horrible and slothful figure, dragging along the ignoble weight

of the belly,' Senor Don Jose."

"You do well to translate it for me," said Pepe, "for I know very

little Latin."

"Oh, why should the men of the present day spend their time in studying

things that are out of date?" said the canon ironically. "Besides, only

poor creatures like Virgil and Cicero and Livy wrote in Latin. I,

however, am of a different way of thinking; as witness my nephew, to

whom I have taught that sublime language. The rascal knows it better

than I do. The worst of it is, that with his modern reading he is

forgetting it; and some fine day, without ever having suspected it, he

will find out that he is an ignoramus. For, Senor Don Jose, my nephew

has taken to studying the newest books and the most extravagant

theories, and it is Flammarion here and Flammarion there, and nothing

will do him but that the stars are full of people. Come, I fancy that

you two are going to be very good friends. Jacinto, beg this gentleman

to teach you the higher mathematics, to instruct you concerning the

German philosophers, and then you will be a man."

The worthy ecclesiastic laughed at his own wit, while Jacinto,

delighted to see the conversation turn on a theme so greatly to his

taste, after excusing himself to Pepe Rey, suddenly hurled this

question at him:

"Tell me, Senor Don Jose, what do you think of Darwinism?"

Our hero smiled at this inopportune pedantry, and he felt almost

tempted to encourage the young man to continue in this path of childish

vanity; but, judging it more prudent to avoid intimacy, either with the

nephew or the uncle, he answered simply:

"I can think nothing at all about the doctrines of Darwin, for I know

scarcely any thing about him. My professional labors have not permitted

me to devote much of my time to those studies."

"Well," said the canon, laughing, "it all reduces itself to this, that

we are descended from monkeys. If he had said that only in the case of

certain people I know, he would have been right."

"The theory of natural selection," said Jacinto emphatically, "has,

they say, a great many partisans in Germany."

"I do not doubt it," said the ecclesiastic. "In Germany they would have

no reason to be sorry if that theory were true, as far as Bismarck is

concerned."

Dona Perfecta and Senor Don Cayetano at this moment made their

appearance.

"What a beautiful evening!" said the former. "Well, nephew, are you

getting terribly bored?"

"I am not bored in the least," responded the young man.

"Don't try to deny it. Cayetano and I were speaking of that as we came

along. You are bored, and you are trying to hide it. It is not every

young man of the present day who would have the self-denial to spend

his youth, like Jacinto, in a town where there are neither theatres,

nor opera bouffe, nor dancers, nor philosophers, nor athenaeums, nor

magazines, nor congresses, nor any other kind of diversions or

entertainments."

"I am quite contented here," responded Pepe. "I was just now saying to

Rosario that I find this city and this house so pleasant that I would

like to live and die here."

Rosario turned very red and the others were silent. They all sat down

in a summer-house, Jacinto hastening to take the seat on the left of

the young girl.

"See here, nephew, I have a piece of advice to give you," said Dona

Perfecta, smiling with that expression of kindness that seemed to

emanate from her soul, like the aroma from the flower. "But don't

imagine that I am either reproving you or giving you a lesson--you are

not a child, and you will easily understand what I mean."

"Scold me, dear aunt, for no doubt I deserve it," replied Pepe, who was

beginning to accustom himself to the kindnesses of his father's sister.

"No, it is only a piece of advice. These gentlemen, I am sure, will

agree that I am in the right."

Rosario was listening with her whole soul.

"It is only this," continued Dona Perfecta, "that when you visit our

beautiful cathedral again, you will endeavor to behave with a little

more decorum while you are in it."

"Why, what have I done?"

"It does not surprise me that you are not yourself aware of your

fault," said his aunt, with apparent good humor. "It is only natural;

accustomed as you are to enter athenaeums and clubs, and academies and

congresses without any ceremony, you think that you can enter a temple

in which the Divine Majesty is in the same manner."

"But excuse me, senora," said Pepe gravely, "I entered the cathedral

with the greatest decorum."

"But I am not scolding you, man; I am not scolding you. If you take it

in that way I shall have to remain silent. Excuse my nephew, gentlemen.

A little carelessness, a little heedlessness on his part is not to be

wondered at. How many years is it since you set foot in a sacred place

before?"

"Senora, I assure you---- But, in short, let my religious ideas be what

they may, I am in the habit of observing the utmost decorum in church."

"What I assure you is---- There, if you are going to be offended I

won't go on. What I assure you is that a great many people noticed it

this morning. The Senores de Gonzalez, Dona Robustiana, Serafinita--in

short, when I tell you that you attracted the attention of the

bishop---- His lordship complained to me about it this afternoon when

I was at my cousin's. He told me that he did not order you to be put

out of the church only because you were my nephew."

Rosario looked anxiously at her cousin, trying to read in his

countenance, before he uttered it, the answer he would make to these

charges.

"No doubt they mistook me for some one else."

"No, no! it was you. But there, don't get angry! We are talking here

among friends and in confidence. It was you. I saw you myself."

"You saw me!"

"Just so. Will you deny that you went to look at the pictures, passing

among a group of worshippers who were hearing mass? I assure you that

my attention was so distracted by your comings and goings that--well,

you must not do it again. Then you went into the chapel of San

Gregorio. At the elevation of the Host at the high altar you did not

even turn around to make a gesture of reverence. Afterward you

traversed the whole length of the church, you went up to the tomb of

the Adelantado, you touched the altar with your hands, then you passed

a second time among a group of worshippers, attracting the notice of

every one. All the girls looked at you, and you seemed pleased at

disturbing so finely the devotions of those good people."

"Good Heavens! How many things I have done!" exclaimed Pepe, half

angry, half amused. "I am a monster, it seems, without ever having

suspected it."

"No, I am very well aware that you are a good boy," said Dona Perfecta,

observing the canon's expression of unalterable gravity, which gave his

face the appearance of a pasteboard mask. "But, my dear boy, between

thinking things and showing them in that irreverent manner, there is a

distance which a man of good sense and good breeding should never

cross. I am well aware that your ideas are---- Now, don't get angry! If

you get angry, I will be silent. I say that it is one thing to have

certain ideas about religion and another thing to express them. I will

take good care not to reproach you because you believe that God did not

create us in his image and likeness, but that we are descended from the

monkeys; nor because you deny the existence of the soul, asserting that

it is a drug, like the little papers of rhubarb and magnesia that are

sold at the apothecary's--"

"Senora, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Pepe, with annoyance. "I see

that I have a very bad reputation in Orbajosa."

The others remained silent.

"As I said, I will not reproach you for entertaining those ideas. And,

besides, I have not the right to do so. If I should undertake to argue

with you, you, with your wonderful talents, would confute me a thousand

times over. No, I will not attempt any thing of that kind. What I say

is that these poor and humble inhabitants of Orbajosa are pious and

good Christians, although they know nothing about German philosophy,

and that, therefore, you ought not publicly to manifest your contempt

for their beliefs."

"My dear aunt," said the engineer gravely, "I have shown no contempt

for any one, nor do I entertain the ideas which you attribute to me.

Perhaps I may have been a little wanting in reverence in the church. I

am somewhat absent-minded. My thoughts and my attention were engaged

with the architecture of the building and, frankly speaking, I did not

observe---- But this was no reason for the bishop to think of putting

me out of the church, nor for you to suppose me capable of attributing

to a paper from the apothecary's the functions of the soul. I may

tolerate that as a jest, but only as a jest."

The agitation of Pepe Rey's mind was so great that, notwithstanding his

natural prudence and moderation, he was unable to conceal it.

"There! I see that you are angry," said Dona Perfecta, casting down her

eyes and clasping her hands. "I am very sorry. If I had known that you

would have taken it in that way, I should not have spoken to you. Pepe,

I ask your pardon."

Hearing these words and seeing his kind aunt's deprecating attitude,

Pepe felt ashamed of the sternness of his last words, and he made an

effort to recover his serenity. The venerable Penitentiary extricated

him from his embarrassing position, saying with his accustomed

benevolent smile:

"Senora Dona Perfecta, we must be tolerant with artists. Oh, I have

known a great many of them! Those gentlemen, when they have before them

a statue, a piece of rusty armor, a mouldy painting, or an old wall,

forget every thing else. Senor Don Jose is an artist, and he has

visited our cathedral as the English visit it, who would willingly

carry it away with them to their museums, to its last tile, if they

could. That the worshippers were praying, that the priest was elevating

the Sacred Host, that the moment of supreme piety and devotion had

come--what of that? What does all that matter to an artist? It is true

that I do not know what art is worth, apart from the sentiments which

it expresses, but, in fine, at the present day, it is the custom to

adore the form, not the idea. God preserve me from undertaking to

discuss this question with Senor Don Jose, who knows so much, and who,

reasoning with the admirable subtlety of the moderns, would instantly

confound my mind, in which there is only faith."

"The determination which you all have to regard me as the most learned

man on earth annoys me exceedingly," said Pepe, speaking in his former

hard tone. "Hold me for a fool; for I would rather be regarded as a

fool than as the possessor of that Satanic knowledge which is here

attributed to me."

Rosarito laughed, and Jacinto thought that a highly opportune moment

had now arrived to make a display of his own erudition.

"Pantheism or panentheism," he said, "is condemned by the Church, as

well as by the teachings of Schopenhauer and of the modern Hartmann."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the canon gravely, "men who pay so fervent

a worship to art, though it be only to its form, deserve the greatest

respect. It is better to be an artist, and delight in the contemplation

of beauty, though this be only represented by nude nymphs, than to be

indifferent and incredulous in every thing. The mind that consecrates

itself to the contemplation of beauty, evil will not take complete

possession of. /Est Deus in nobis/. /Deus/, be it well understood. Let

Senor Don Jose, then, continue to admire the marvels of our church; I,

for one, will willingly forgive him his acts of irreverence, with all

due respect for the opinions of the bishop."

"Thanks, Senor Don Inocencio," said Pepe, feeling a bitter and

rebellious sentiment of hostility springing up within him toward the

canon, and unable to conquer his desire to mortify him. "But let none

of you imagine, either, that it was the beauties of art, of which you

suppose the temple to be full, that engaged my attention. Those

beauties, with the exception of the imposing architecture of a portion

of the edifice and of the three tombs that are in the chapel of the

apse, I do not see. What occupied my mind was the consideration of the

deplorable decadence of the religious arts; and the innumerable

monstrosities, of which the cathedral is full, caused me not

astonishment, but disgust."

The amazement of all present was profound.

"I cannot endure," continued Pepe, "those glazed and painted images

that resemble so much--God forgive me for the comparison--the dolls

that little girls pay with. And what am I to say of the theatrical

robes that cover them? I saw a St. Joseph with a mantle whose

appearance I will not describe, out of respect for the holy patriarch

and for the church of which he is the patron. On the altar are crowded

together images in the worst possible taste; and the innumerable

crowns, branches, stars, moons, and other ornaments of metal or gilt

paper have an air of an ironmongery that offends the religious

sentiment and depresses the soul. Far from lifting itself up to

religious contemplation, the soul sinks, and the idea of the ludicrous

distracts it. The great works of art which give sensible form to ideas,

to dogmas, to religious faith, to mystic exaltation, fulfil a noble

mission. The caricatures, the aberrations of taste, the grotesque works

with which a mistaken piety fills the church, also fulfil their object;

but this is a sad one enough: They encourage superstition, cool

enthusiasm, oblige the eyes of the believer to turn away from the

altar, and, with the eyes, the souls that have not a very profound and

a very firm faith turn away also."

"The doctrine of the iconoclasts, too," said Jacinto, "has, it seems,

spread widely in Germany."

"I am not an iconoclast, although I would prefer the destruction of all

the images to the exhibition of buffooneries of which I speak,"

continued the young man. "Seeing it, one may justly advocate a return

of religious worship to the august simplicity of olden times. But no;

let us not renounce the admirable aid which all the arts, beginning

with poetry and ending with music, lend to the relations between man

and God. Let the arts live; let the utmost pomp be displayed in

religious ceremonies. I am a partisan of pomp."

"An artist, an artist, and nothing more than an artist!" exclaimed the

canon, shaking his head with a sorrowful air. "Fine pictures, fine

statues, beautiful music; pleasure for the senses, and let the devil

take the soul!"

"Apropos of music," said Pepe Rey, without observing the deplorable

effect which his words produced on both mother and daughter, "imagine

how disposed my mind would be to religious contemplation on entering

the cathedral, when just at that moment, and precisely at the offertory

at high mass, the organist played a passage from 'Traviata.' "

"Senor de Rey is right in that," said the little lawyer emphatically.

"The organist played the other day the whole of the drinking song and

the waltz from the same opera, and afterward a rondeau from the 'Grande

Duchesse.' "

"But when I felt my heart sink," continued the engineer implacably,

"was when I saw an image of the Virgin, which seems to be held in great

veneration, judging from the crowd before it and the multitude of

tapers which lighted it. They have dressed her in a puffed-out garment

of velvet, embroidered with gold, of a shape so extraordinary that it

surpasses the most extravagant of the fashions of the day. Her face is

almost hidden under a voluminous frill, made of innumerable rows of

lace, crimped with a crimping-iron, and her crown, half a yard in

height, surrounded by golden rays, looks like a hideous catafalque

erected over her head. Of the same material, and embroidered in the

same manner, are the trousers of the Infant Jesus. I will not go on,

for to describe the Mother and the Child might perhaps lead me to

commit some irreverence. I will only say that it was impossible for me

to keep from smiling, and for a short time I contemplated the profaned

image, saying to myself: 'Mother and Lady mine, what a sight they have

made of you!' "

As he ended Pepe looked at his hearers, and although, owing to the

gathering darkness, he could not see their countenances distinctly, he

fancied that in some of them he perceived signs of angry consternation.

"Well, Senor Don Jose!" exclaimed the canon quickly, smiling with a

triumphant expression, "that image, which to your philosophy and

pantheism appears so ridiculous, is Our Lady of Help, patroness and

advocate of Orbajosa, whose inhabitants regard her with so much

veneration that they would be quite capable of dragging any one through

the streets who should speak ill of her. The chronicles and history,

Senor Don Jose, are full of the miracles which she has wrought, and

even at the present day we receive constantly incontrovertible proofs

of her protection. You must know also that your aunt, Dona Perfecta, is

chief lady in waiting to the Most Holy Virgin of Help, and that the

dress that to you appears so grotesque--went out from this house, and

that the trousers of the Infant are the work of the skilful needle and

the ardent piety combined of your cousin Rosarito, who is now listening

to us."

Pepe Rey was greatly disconcerted. At the same instant Dona Perfecta

rose abruptly from her seat, and, without saying a word, walked toward

the house, followed by the Penitentiary. The others rose also.

Recovering from his stupefaction, the young man was about to beg his

cousin's pardon for his irreverence, when he observed that Rosarito was

weeping. Fixing on her cousin a look of friendly and gentle reproof,

she said:

"What ideas you have!"

The voice of Dona Perfecta was heard crying in an altered accent:

"Rosario! Rosario!"

The latter ran toward the house.

CHAPTER X

THE EVIDENCE OF DISCORD IS EVIDENT

Pepe Rey was disturbed and perplexed, enraged with himself and every

one else; he tried in vain to imagine what could be the conflict that

had arisen, in spite of himself, between his ideas and the ideas of his

aunt's friends. Thoughtful and sad, foreseeing future discord, he

remained for a short time sitting on the bench in the summer-house, his

chin resting on his breast, his forehead gathered in a frown, his hands

clasped. He thought himself alone.

Suddenly he heard a gay voice humming the refrain of a song from a

zarzuela. He looked up and saw Don Jacinto sitting in the opposite

corner of the summer-house.

"Ah, Senor de Rey!" said the youth abruptly, "one does not offend with

impunity the religious sentiments of the great majority of a nation. If

you doubt it, consider what happened in the first French revolution."

When Pepe heard the buzzing of this insect his irritation increased.

Nevertheless there was no anger in his soul toward the youthful doctor

of laws. The latter annoyed him, as a fly might annoy him, but nothing

more. Rey felt the irritation which every importunate being inspires,

and with the air of one who brushes away a buzzing drone, he answered:

"What has the French revolution to do with the robe of the Virgin?"

He got up and walked toward the house, but he had not taken half a

dozen steps before he heard again beside him the buzzing of the

mosquito, saying:

"Senor Don Jose, I wish to speak to you about an affair in which you

are greatly interested and which may cause you some trouble."

"An affair?" said the young man, drawing back. "Let us hear what affair

is that."

"You suspect what it is, perhaps," said Jacinto, approaching Pepe, and

smiling with the air of a man of business who has some unusually

important matter on hand; "I want to speak to you about the lawsuit."

"The lawsuit! My friend, I have no lawsuits. You, as a good lawyer,

dream of lawsuits and see stamped paper everywhere."

"What! You have not heard of your lawsuit?" exclaimed the youth, with

amazement.

"Of my lawsuit! But I have no lawsuits, nor have I ever had any."

"Well, if you have not heard of it, I am all the better pleased to have

spoken to you about it, so that you may be on your guard. Yes, senor,

you are going to have a suit at law."

"And with whom?"

"With Uncle Licurgo and other land-owners whose property borders on the

estate called The Poplars."

Pepe Rey was astounded.

"Yes, senor," continued the little lawyer. "To-day Uncle Licurgo and I

had a long conference. As I am such a friend of the family, I wanted to

let you know about it, so that, if you think well of it, you may hasten

to arrange the matter."

"But what have I to arrange? What do those rascals claim from me?"

"It seems that a stream of water which rises in your property has

changed its course and flows over some tile-works of the aforesaid

Uncle Licurgo and the mill of another person, occasioning considerable

damage. My client--for he is determined that I shall get him out of

this difficulty--my client, as I said, demands that you shall restore

the water to its former channel, so as to avoid fresh injuries, and

that you shall indemnify him for the damage which his works have

already sustained through the neglect of the superior proprietor."

"And I am the superior proprietor! If I engage in a lawsuit, that will

be the first fruit that those famous Poplars, which were mine and which

now, as I understand, belong to everybody, will have ever produced me,

for Licurgo, as well as some of the other farmers of the district, have

been filching from me, little by little, year after year, pieces of

land, and it will be very difficult to re-establish the boundaries of

my property."

"That is a different question."

"That is not a different question. The real suit," exclaimed the

engineer, unable to control his anger, "will be the one that I will

bring against that rabble who no doubt propose to themselves to tire me

out and drive me to desperation--so that I may abandon every thing and

let them continue in possession of what they have stolen. We shall see

if there are lawyers and judges who will uphold the infamous conduct of

those village legists, who are forever at law, and who waste and

consume the property of others. I am obliged to you, young gentleman,

for having informed me of the villanous intentions of those boors, who

are more perverse than Satan himself. When I tell you that that very

tile-yard and that very mill on which Licurgo bases his claim are

mine--"

"The title-deeds of the property ought to be examined, to see if

possession may not constitute a title in this case."

"Possession! Those scoundrels are not going to have the pleasure of

laughing at me in that way. I suppose that justice is honestly and

faithfully administered in the city of Orbajosa."

"Oh, as to that!" exclaimed the little lawyer, with an approving look,

"the judge is an excellent person! He comes here every evening. But it

is strange that you should have received no notice of Senor Licurgo's

claims. Have you not yet been summoned to appear before the tribunal of

arbitration?"

"No."

"It will be to-morrow, then. Well, I am very sorry that Senor Licurgo's

precipitation has deprived me of the pleasure and honor of defending

you, but what is to be done? Licurgo was determined that I should take

him out of his troubles. I will study the matter with the greatest

care. This vile slavery is the great drawback of jurisprudence."

Pepe entered the dining-room in a deplorable state of mind. Dona

Perfecta was talking with the Penitentiary, as he entered, and Rosarito

was sitting alone, with her eyes fixed on the door. She was no doubt

waiting for her cousin.

"Come here, you rascal," said his aunt, smiling with very little

spontaneity. "You have insulted us, you great atheist! but we forgive

you. I am well aware that my daughter and myself are two rustics who

are incapable of soaring to the regions of mathematics where you dwell,

but for all that it is possible that you may one day get down on your

knees to us and beg us to teach you the Christian doctrine."

Pepe answered with vague phrases and formulas of politeness and

repentance.

"For my part," said Don Inocencio, with an affected air of meekness and

amiability, "if in the course of these idle disputes I have said any

thing that could offend Senor Don Jose, I beg his pardon for it. We are

all friends here."

"Thanks. It is of no consequence."

"In spite of every thing," said Dona Perfecta, smiling with more

naturalness than before, "I shall always be the same for my dear

nephew; in spite of his extravagant and anti-religious ideas. In what

way do you suppose I am going to spend this evening? Well, in trying to

make Uncle Licurgo give up those obstinate notions which would

otherwise cause you annoyance. I sent for him, and he is waiting for me

now in the hall. Make yourself easy, I will arrange the matter; for

although I know that he is not altogether without right on his side--"

"Thanks, dear aunt," responded the young man, his whole being invaded

by a wave of the generous emotion which was so easily aroused in his

soul.

Pepe Rey looked in the direction of his cousin, intending to join her,

but some wily questions of the canon retained him at Dona Perfecta's

side. Rosario looked dejected, and was listening with an air of

melancholy indifference to the words of the little lawyer, who, having

installed himself at her side, kept up a continuous stream of fulsome

flatteries, seasoned with ill-timed jests and fatuous remarks in the

worst possible taste.

"The worst of it is," said Dona Perfecta to her nephew--surprising the

glance which he cast in the direction of the ill-assorted pair--"the

worst of it is, that you have offended poor Rosario. You must do all in

your power to make your peace with her. The poor child is so good!"

"Oh, yes! so good," added the canon, "that I have no doubt that she

will forgive her cousin."

"I think that Rosario has already forgiven me," affirmed Rey.

"And if not, angelic breasts do not harbor resentment long," said Don

Inocencio mellifluously. "I have a great deal of influence with the

child, and I will endeavor to dissipate in her generous soul whatever

prejudice may exist there against you. As soon as I say a word or two

to her----"

Pepe Rey felt a cloud darken his soul and he said with meaning:

"Perhaps it may not be necessary."

"I will not speak to her now," added the capitular, "because she is

listening entranced to Jacinto's nonsense. Ah, those children! When

they once begin there is no stopping them."

The judge of the lower court, the alcalde's lady, and the dean of the

cathedral now made their appearance. They all saluted the engineer,

manifesting in their words and manner, on seeing him, the satisfaction

of gratified curiosity. The judge was one of those clever and

intelligent young men who every day spring into notice in official

circles; aspiring, almost before they are out of the shell, to the

highest political and administrative positions. He gave himself airs of

great importance, and in speaking of himself and of his juvenile toga,

he seemed indirectly to manifest great offence because he had not been

all at once made president of the supreme court. In such inexpert

hands, in a brain thus swollen with vanity, in this incarnation of

conceit, had the state placed the most delicate and the most difficult

functions of human justice. His manners were those of a perfect

courtier, and revealed a scrupulous and minute attention to all that

concerned his own person. He had the insufferable habit of taking off

and putting on every moment his gold eye-glasses, and in his

conversation he manifested with frequency the strong desire which he

had to be transferred to Madrid, in order that he might give his

invaluable services to the Department of Grace and Justice.

The alcalde's lady was a good-natured woman, whose only weakness was to

fancy that she had a great many acquaintances at the court. She asked

Pepe Rey various questions about the fashions, mentioning

establishments in which she had had a mantle or a skirt made on her

last journey to the capital, contemporaneous with the visit of Muley-

Abbas, and she also mentioned the names of a dozen duchesses and

marchionesses; speaking of them with as much familiarity as if they had

been friends of her school-days. She said also that the Countess of M.

(famous for her parties) was a friend of hers and that in '60 she had

paid her a visit, when the countess had invited her to her box at the

Teatro Real, where she saw Muley-Abbas in Moorish dress and accompanied

by his retinue of Moors. The alcalde's wife talked incessantly and was

not wanting in humor.

The dean was a very old man, corpulent and red-faced, plethoric and

apoplectic looking, a man so obese that he seemed bursting out of his

skin. He had belonged to one of the suppressed religious orders; he

talked only of religious matters; and from the very first manifested

the most profound contempt for Pepe Rey. The latter appeared every

moment more unable to accommodate himself to a society so little to his

taste. His disposition--not at all malleable, hard, and very little

flexible--rejected the duplicities and the compromises of language to

simulate concord when it did not exist. He remained, then, very grave

during the whole of the tiresome evening, obliged as he was to endure

the oratorical vehemence of the alcalde's wife, who, without being

Fame, had the privilege of fatiguing with a hundred tongues the ears of

men. If, in some brief respite which this lady gave her hearers, Pepe

Rey made an attempt to approach his cousin, the Penitentiary attached

himself to him instantly, like the mollusk to the rock; taking him

apart with a mysterious air to propose to him an excursion with Senor

Don Cayetano to Mundogrande, or a fishing party on the clear waters of

the Nahara.

At last the evening came to an end, as every thing does in this world.

The dean retired, leaving the house, as it seemed, empty, and very soon

there remained of the alcalde's wife only an echo, like the buzz which

remains in the air after a storm has passed away. The judge also

deprived the company of his presence, and at last Don Inocencio gave

his nephew the signal for departure.

"Come, boy, come; for it is late," he said, smiling. "How you have

tormented poor Rosarito, has he not, child? Home, you rogue, home,

without delay."

"It is time to go to bed," said Dona Perfecta.

"Time to go to work," responded the little lawyer.

"I am always telling him that he ought to get through with his business

in the day-time, but he will not mind me."

"There is so much, so very much business to be got through."

"No, say rather, that confounded work which you have undertaken. He

does not wish to say it, Senor Don Jose, but the truth is that he is

writing a book on 'The Influence of Woman in Christian Society,' and,

in addition to that, 'A Glance at the Catholic Movement in'--somewhere

or other. What do you know about glances or influences? But these

youths of the present day have audacity enough for any thing. Oh, what

boys! Well, let us go home. Good-night, Senora Dona Perfecta--good-

night, Senor Don Jose--Rosarito."

"I will wait for Senor Don Cayetano," said Jacinto, "to ask him to give

me the Augusto Nicolas."

"Always carrying books. Why, sometimes you come into the house laden

like a donkey. Very well, then, let us wait."

"Senor Don Jacinto does not write hastily," said Pepe Rey; "he prepares

himself well for his work, so that his books may be treasures of

learning."

"But that boy will injure his brain," objected Dona Perfecta. "For

Heaven's sake be careful! I would set a limit to his reading."

"Since we are going to wait," said the little doctor, in a tone of

insufferable conceit, "I will take with me also the third volume of

Concilios. What do you think, uncle?"

"Take that, of course. It would never do to leave that behind you."

Fortunately Senor Don Cayetano (who generally spent his evenings at the

house of Don Lorenzo Ruiz) soon arrived, and the books being received,

uncle and nephew left the house.

Rey read in his cousin's sad countenance a keen desire to speak to him.

He approached her while Dona Perfecta and Don Cayetano were discussing

some domestic matter apart.

"You have offended mamma," said Rosarito.

Her features expressed something like terror.

"It is true," responded the young man; "I have offended your mamma--I

have offended you."

"No, not me. I already imagined that the Infant Jesus ought not to wear

trousers."

"But I hope that you will both forgive me. Your mamma was so kind to me

a little while ago."

Dona Perfecta's voice suddenly vibrated through the dining-room, with

so discordant a tone that her nephew started as if he had heard a cry

of alarm. The voice said imperiously:

"Rosario, go to bed!"

Startled, her mind filled with anxious fears, the girl lingered in the

room, going here and there as if she was looking for something. As she

passed her cousin she whispered softly and cautiously these words:

"Mamma is angry."

"But--"

"She is angry--be on your guard, be on your guard."

Then she left the room. Her mother, for whom Uncle Licurgo was waiting,

followed her, and for some time the voices of Dona Perfecta and the

countryman were heard mingled together in familiar conference. Pepe was

left with Don Cayetano, who, taking a light, said;

"Good-night, Pepe. But don't suppose that I am going to sleep, I am

going to work. But why are you so thoughtful? What is the matter with

you?--Just as I say, to work. I am making notes for a 'Memorial

Discourse on the Genealogies of Orbajosa.' I have already found data

and information of the utmost value. There can be no dispute about it.

In every period of our history the Orbajosans have been distinguished

for their delicate sense of honor, their chivalry, their valor, their

intellectuality. The conquest of Mexico, the wars of the Emperor, the

wars of Philip against the heretics, testify to this. But are you ill?

What is the matter with you? As I say, eminent theologians, valiant

warriors, conquerors, saints, bishops, statesmen--all sorts of

illustrious men--have flourished in this humble land of the garlic. No,

there is not in Christendom a more illustrious city than ours. Its

virtues and its glories are in themselves enough and more than enough

to fill all the pages of our country's history. Well, I see that it is

sleepy you are--good-night. As I say, I would not exchange the glory of

being a son of this noble city for all the gold in the world. Augusta,

the ancients called it; Augustissima, I call it now; for now, as then,

high-mindedness, generosity, valor, magnanimity, are the patrimony of

all. Well, good-night, dear Pepe. But I fancy you are not well. Has the

supper disagreed with you?--Alonzo Gonzalez de Bustamante was right

when he said in his 'Floresta Amena' that the people of Orbajosa

suffice in themselves to confer greatness and honor on a kingdom. Don't

you think so?"

"Oh, yes, senor; undoubtedly," responded Pepe Rey, going abruptly

toward his room.

CHAPTER XI

THE DISCORD GROWS

During the following days Pepe Rey made the acquaintance of several of

the people of the place; he visited the Casino, and formed friendships

with some of the individuals who spend their lives in the rooms of that

corporation.

But the youth of Orbajosa did not spend all their time in the Casino,

as evil-minded people might imagine. In the afternoons there were to be

seen at the corner of the cathedral, and in the little plaza formed by

the intersection of the Calle del Condestable and the Calle de la

Triperia, several gentlemen who, gracefully enveloped in their cloaks,

stood there like sentinels, watching the people as they passed by. If

the weather was fine, those shining lights of the Urbs Augustan culture

bent their steps, still enveloped in the indispensable cloak, toward

the promenade called the Paseo de las Descalzas, which was formed by a

double row of consumptive-looking elms and some withered bushes of

broom. There the brilliant Pleiad watched the daughters of this fellow-

townsman or that, who had also come there for a walk, and the afternoon

passed tolerably. In the evening, the Casino filled up again; and while

some of the members gave their lofty minds to the delights of monte,

others read the newspapers, while the majority discussed in the coffee-

room subjects of the various kinds, such as the politics, horses,

bulls, or the gossip of the place. The result of every discussion was

the renewed conviction of the supremacy of Orbajosa and its inhabitants

over all the other towns and peoples on the face of the earth.

These distinguished men were the cream of the illustrious city; some

rich landowners, others very poor, but all alike free from lofty

aspirations. They had the imperturbable tranquillity of the beggar who

desires nothing more so long as he has a crust of bread with which to

cheat hunger, and the sun to warm him. What chiefly distinguished the

Orbajosans of the Casino was a sentiment of bitter hostility toward all

strangers, and whenever any stranger of note appeared in its august

halls, they believed that he had come there to call in question the

superiority of the land of the garlic, or to dispute with it, through

envy, the incontestable advantages which nature had bestowed upon it.

When Pepe Rey presented himself in the Casino, they received him with

something of suspicion, and as facetious persons abounded in it, before

the new member had been there a quarter of an hour, all sorts of jokes

had been made about him. When in answer to the reiterated questions of

the members he said that he had come to Orbajosa with a commission to

explore the basin of the Nahara for coal, and to survey a road, they

all agreed that Senor Don Jose was a conceited fellow who wished to

give himself airs, discovering coalbeds and planning railroads. Some

one added:

"He has come to a bad place for that, then. Those gentlemen imagine

that here we are all fools, and that they can deceive us with fine

words. He has come to marry Dona Perfecta's daughter, and all that he

says about coalbeds is only for the sake of appearances."

"Well, this morning," said another, a merchant who had failed, "they

told me at the Dominguez' that the gentleman has not a peseta, and that

he has come here in order to be supported by his aunt and to see if he

can catch Rosarito."

"It seems that he is no engineer at all," added an olive-planter, whose

plantations were mortgaged for double their value. "But it is as you

say: those starvelings from Madrid think they are justified in

deceiving poor provincials, and as they believe that here we all wear

tails--"

"It is plain to be seen that he is penniless--"

"Well, half-jest and the whole earnest, he told us last night that we

were lazy barbarians."

"That we spent our time sunning ourselves, like the Bedouins."

"That we lived with the imagination."

"That's it; that we lived with the imagination."

"And that this city was precisely like a city in Morocco."

"Well! one has no patience to listen to those things. Where else could

he see (unless it might be in Paris) a street like the Calle del

Condestable, that can show seven houses in a row, all of them

magnificent, from Dona Perfecta's house to that of Nicolasita

Hernandez? Does that fellow suppose that one has never seen any thing,

or has never been in Paris?"

"He also said, with a great deal of delicacy, that Orbajosa was a city

of beggars; and he gave us to understand that in his opinion we live in

the meanest way here without being ourselves aware of it."

"What insolence! If he ever says that to me, there will be a scene in

the Casino," exclaimed the collector of taxes. "Why didn't they tell

him how many arrobas of oil Orbajosa produced last year? Doesn't the

fool know that in good years Orbajosa produces wheat enough to supply

all Spain, and even all Europe, with bread? It is true that the crops

have been bad for several years past, but that is not the rule. And the

crop of garlic! I wager the gentleman doesn't know that the garlic of

Orbajosa made the gentleman of the jury in the Exposition of London

stare!"

These and other conversations of a similar kind were to be heard in the

rooms of the Casino in those days. Notwithstanding this boastful talk,

so common in small towns, which, for the very reason that they are

small, are generally arrogant, Rey was not without finding sincere

friends among the members of the learned corporation, for they were not

all gossips, nor were there wanting among them persons of good sense.

But our hero had the misfortune--if misfortune it can be called--to be

unusually frank in the manifestation of his feelings, and this awakened

some antipathy toward him.

Days passed. In addition to the natural disgust which the social

customs of the episcopal city produced in him, various causes, all of

them disagreeable, began to develop in his mind a profound sadness,

chief among these causes being the crowd of litigants that swarmed

about him like voracious ants. Many others of the neighboring

landowners besides Uncle Licurgo claimed damages from him, or asked him

to render accounts for lands managed by his grandfather. A claim was

also brought against him because of a certain contract of partnership

entered into by his mother and which, as it appeared, had not been

fulfilled; and he was required in the same way to acknowledge a

mortgage on the estate of The Poplars executed in an irregular form by

his uncle. Claims swarmed around him, multiplying with ant-like

rapidity. He had come to the determination to renounce the ownership of

his lands, but meanwhile his dignity required that he should not yield

to the wily manoeuvres of the artful rustics; and as the town-council

brought a claim against him also on account of a pretended confusion of

the boundary lines of his estate with those of an adjoining wood

belonging to the town-lands, the unfortunate young man found himself at

every step obliged to prove his rights, which were being continually

called in question. His honor was engaged, and he had no alternative

but to defend his rights to the death.

Dona Perfecta had promised in her magnanimity to help him to free

himself from these disgraceful plots by means of an amicable

arrangement; but the days passed, and the good offices of the exemplary

lady had produced no result whatever. The claims multiplied with the

dangerous swiftness of a violent disease. Pepe Rey passed hour after

hour at court, making declarations and answering the same questions

over and over again, and when he returned home tired and angry, there

appeared before him the sharp features and grotesque face of the

notary, who had brought him a thick bundle of stamped papers full of

horrible formulas--that he might be studying the question.

It will be easily understood that Pepe Rey was not a man to endure such

annoyances when he might escape from them by leaving the town. His

mother's noble city appeared to his imagination like a horrible monster

which had fastened its ferocious claws in him and was drinking his

blood. To free himself from this monster nothing more was necessary, he

believed, than flight. But a weighty interest--an interest in which his

heart was concerned--kept him where he was; binding him to the rock of

his martyrdom with very strong bonds. Nevertheless, he had come to feel

so dissatisfied with his position; he had come to regard himself as so

utterly a stranger, so to say, in that gloomy city of lawsuits, of old-

fashioned customs and ideas, of envy and of slander, that he resolved

to leave it without further delay, without, however, abandoning the

project which had brought him to it. One morning, finding a favorable

occasion, he opened his mind to Dona Perfecta on this point.

"Nephew," responded that lady, with her accustomed gentleness, "don't

be rash. Why! you are like fire. Your father was just the same--what a

man he was! You are like a flash--I have already told you that I will

be very glad to call you my son. Even if you did not possess the good

qualities and the talents which distinguish you (in spite of some

little defects, for you have those, too); even if you were not as good

as you are; it is enough that this union has been proposed by your

father, to whom both my daughter and myself owe so much, for me to

accept it. And Rosarito will not oppose it since I wish it. What is

wanting, then? Nothing; there is nothing wanting but a little time. The

marriage cannot be concluded with the haste you desire and which might,

perhaps, give ground for interpretations discreditable to my dear

daughter's reputation. But as you think of nothing but machines, you

want every thing done by steam. Wait, man, wait; what hurry are you in?

This hatred that you have taken to our poor Orbajosa is nothing but a

caprice. But of course you can only live among counts and marquises and

orators and diplomats--all you want is to get married and separate me

forever from my daughter," she added, wiping away a tear. "Since that

is the case, inconsiderate boy, at least have the charity to delay for

a little this marriage, for which you are so eager. What impatience!

What ardent love! I did not suppose that a poor country girl like my

daughter could inspire so violent a passion."

The arguments of his aunt did not convince Pepe Rey, but he did not

wish to contradict her. A fresh cause of anxiety was soon added to

those which already embittered his existence. He had now been in

Orbajosa for two weeks, and during that time he had received no letter

from his father. This could not be attributed to carelessness on the

part of the officials of the post-office of Orbajosa, for the

functionary who had charge of that service being the friend and

/prot g / of Dona Perfecta, the latter every day recommended him to? ?

take the greatest care that the letters addressed to her nephew did not

go astray. The letter-carrier, named Cristoval Ramos, and nicknamed

Caballuco--a personage whose acquaintance we have already made--also

visited the house, and to him Dona Perfecta was accustomed to address

warnings and reprimands as energetic as the following:

"A pretty mail service you have! How is it that my nephew has not

received a single letter since he has been in Orbajosa? When the

carrying of the mail is entrusted to such a giddy-pate, how can things

be expected to go well? I will speak to the governor of the province so

that he may be careful what kind of people he puts in the post-office."

Caballuco, shrugging his shoulders, looked at Rey with the most

complete indifference.

One day he entered the house with a letter in his hand.

"Thank Heaven!" said Dona Perfecta to her nephew. "Here are letters

from your father. Rejoice, man! A pretty fright we have had through my

brother's laziness about writing. What does he say? He is well, no

doubt," she added, seeing that Pepe Rey opened the letter with feverish

impatience.

The engineer turned pale as he glanced over the first lines.

"Good Heavens! Pepe, what is the matter?" exclaimed Dona Perfecta,

rising in alarm. "Is your father ill?"

"This letter is not from my father," responded Pepe, revealing in his

countenance the greatest consternation.

"What is it, then?"

"An order from the Minister of Public Works, relieving me from the

charge which was confided to me."

"What! Can it be possible!"

"A dismissal pure and simple, expressed in terms very little flattering

to me."

"Was there ever any thing so unjust!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta, when she

had recovered from her amazement.

"What a humiliation!" exclaimed the young man. "It is the first time in

my life that I have received an affront like this."

"But the Government is unpardonable! To put such a slight upon you! Do

you wish me to write to Madrid? I have very good friends there, and I

may be able to obtain satisfaction for you from the Government and

reparation for this brutal affront."

"Thanks, senora, I desire no recommendations," said the young man, with

ill-humor.

"But what a piece of injustice! what a high-handed proceeding! To

discharge in this way a young man of your merit, an eminent scientist.

Why, I cannot contain my anger!"

"I will find out," said Pepe, with energy, "who it is that occupies

himself in injuring me."

"That minister--but what is to be expected from those infamous

politicasters?"

"In this there is the hand of some one who is determined to drive me to

desperation," declared the young man, visibly disturbed. "This is not

the act of the minister; this and other contrarieties that I am

experiencing are the result of a revengeful plot, of a secret and well-

laid plan of some implacable enemy, and this enemy is here in Orbajosa,

this plot has been hatched in Orbajosa, doubt it not, dear aunt."

"You are out of your mind," replied Dona Perfecta, with a look of

compassion. "You have enemies in Orbajosa, you say? Some one wishes to

revenge himself upon you? Come, Pepillo, you have lost your senses. The

reading of those books in which they say that we have for ancestors

monkeys or parrots has turned your brain."

She smiled sweetly as she uttered the last words, and taking a tone of

familiar and affectionate admonition, she added:

"My dear boy, the people of Orbajosa may be rude and boorish rustics,

without learning, or polish, or fine manners; but in loyalty and good

faith we yield to no one--to no one, I say, no one."

"Don't suppose," said the young man, "that I accuse any one in this

house. But that my implacable and cruel enemy is in this city, I am

persuaded."

"I wish you would show me that stage villain," responded Dona Perfecta,

smiling again. "I suppose you will not accuse Uncle Licurgo, nor any of

the others who have brought suits against you; for the poor people

believe they are only defending their rights. And between ourselves,

they are not altogether wanting in reason in this case. Besides, Uncle

Licurgo likes you greatly. He has told me so himself. From the moment

he saw you, you took his fancy, and the poor old man has conceived such

an affection for you--"

"Oh, yes--a profound affection!" murmured Pepe.

"Don't be foolish," continued his aunt, putting her hand on his

shoulder and looking at him closely. "Don't imagine absurdities;

convince yourself that your enemy, if you have one, is in Madrid, in

that centre of corruption, of envy and rivalry, not in this peaceful

and tranquil corner, where all is good-will and concord. Some one, no

doubt, who is envious of your merit---- There is one thing I wish to

say now--and that is, that if you desire to go there to learn the cause

of this affront and ask an explanation of it from the Government, you

must not neglect doing so on our account."

Pepe Rey fixed his eyes on his aunt's countenance, as if he wished to

penetrate with his glance the inmost depths of her soul.

"I say that if you wish to go, do so," repeated Dona Perfecta, with

admirable serenity, while her countenance expressed the most complete

and unaffected sincerity.

"No, senora: I do not wish to go."

"So much the better; I think you are right. You are more tranquil here,

notwithstanding the suspicions with which you are tormenting yourself.

Poor Pepillo! We poor rustics of Orbajosa live happy in our ignorance.

I am very sorry that you are not contented here. But is it my fault if

you vex and worry yourself without a cause? Do I not treat you like a

son? Have I not received you as the hope of my house? Can I do more for

you? If in spite of all this you do not like us, if you show so much

indifference toward us, if you ridicule our piety, if you insult our

friends, is it by chance because we do not treat you well?"

Dona Perfecta's eyes grew moist.

"My dear aunt," said Pepe, feeling his anger vanish, "I too have

committed some faults since I have been a guest in this house."

"Don't be foolish. Don't talk about committing faults. Among the

persons of the same family every thing is forgiven."

"But Rosarito--where is she?" asked the young man, rising. "Am I not to

see her to-day, either?"

"She is better. Do you know that she did not wish to come down stairs?"

"I will go up to her then."

"No, it would be of no use. That girl has some obstinate notions--

to-day she is determined not to leave her room. She has locked herself

in."

"What a strange idea!"

"She will get over it. Undoubtedly she will get over it. We will see

to-night if we cannot put these melancholy thoughts out of her head. We

will get up a party to amuse her. Why don't you go to Don Inocencio's

and ask him to come here to-night and bring Jacintillo with him?"

"Jacintillo!"

"Yes, when Rosarito has these fits of melancholy, the only one who can

divert her is that young man."

"But I will go upstairs----"

"No, you must not."

"What etiquette there is in this house!"

"You are ridiculing us. Do as I ask you."

"But I wish to see her."

"But you cannot see her. How little you know the girl!"

"I thought I knew her well. I will stay here, then. But this solitude

is horrible."

"There comes the notary."

"Maledictions upon him!"

"And I think the attorney-general has just come in too--he is an

excellent person."

"He be hanged with his goodness!"

"But business affairs, when they are one's own, serve as a distraction.

Some one is coming. I think it is the agricultural expert. You will

have something to occupy you now for an hour or two."

"An hour or two of hell!"

"Ah, ha! if I am not mistaken Uncle Licurgo and Uncle Paso Largo have

just entered. Perhaps they have come to propose a compromise to you."

"I would throw myself into the pond first!"

"How unnatural you are! For they are all very fond of you. Well, so

that nothing may be wanting, there comes the constable too. He is

coming to serve a summons on you."

"To crucify me."

All the individuals named were now entering the parlor one by one.

"Good-by, Pepe; amuse yourself," said Dona Perfecta.

"Earth, open and swallow me!" exclaimed the young man desperately.

"Senor Don Jose."

"My dear Don Jose."

"Esteemed Don Jose."

"My dearest Don Jose."

"My respected friend, Don Jose."

Hearing these honeyed and insinuating preliminaries, Pepe Rey exhaled a

deep sigh and gave himself up. He gave himself up, soul and body, to

the executioners, who brandished horrible leaves of stamped paper while

the victim, raising his eyes to heaven with a look of Christian

meekness, murmured:

"Father, why hast thou forsaken me?"

CHAPTER XII

HERE WAS TROY

Love, friendship, a wholesome moral atmosphere, spiritual light,

sympathy, an easy interchange of ideas and feelings, these were what

Pepe Rey's nature imperatively demanded. Deprived of them, the darkness

that shrouded his soul grew deeper, and his inward gloom imparted a

tinge of bitterness and discontent to his manner. On the day following

the scenes described in the last chapter, what vexed him more than any

thing was the already prolonged and mysterious seclusion of his cousin,

accounted for at first by a trifling indisposition and then by caprices

and nervous feelings difficult of explanation.

Rey was surprised by conduct so contrary to the idea which he had

formed of Rosarito. Four days had passed during which he had not seen

her; and certainly it was not because he did not desire to be at her

side; and his situation threatened soon to become humiliating and

ridiculous, if, by boldly taking the initiative, he did not at once put

an end to it.

"Shall I not see my cousin to-day, either?" he said to his aunt, with

manifest ill-humor, when they had finished dining.

"No, not to-day, either. Heaven knows how sorry I am for it. I gave her

a good talking to this morning. This afternoon we will see what can be

done."

The suspicion that in this unreasonable seclusion his adorable cousin

was rather the helpless victim than the free and willing agent, induced

him to control himself and to wait. Had it not been for this suspicion

he would have left Orbajosa that very day. He had no doubt whatever

that Rosario loved him, but it was evident that some unknown influence

was at work to separate them, and it seemed to him to be the part of an

honorable man to discover whence that malign influence proceeded and to

oppose it, as far as it was in his power to do so.

"I hope that Rosarito's obstinacy will not continue long," he said to

Dona Perfecta, disguising his real sentiments.

On this day he received a letter from his father in which the latter

complained of having received none from Orbajosa, a circumstance which

increased the engineer's disquietude, perplexing him still further.

Finally, after wandering about alone in the garden for a long time, he

left the house and went to the Casino. He entered it with the desperate

air of a man about to throw himself into the sea.

In the principal rooms he found various people talking and discussing

different subjects. In one group they were solving with subtle logic

difficult problems relating to bulls; in another, they were discussing

the relative merits of different breeds of donkeys of Orbajosa and

Villahorrenda. Bored to the last degree, Pepe Rey turned away from

these discussions and directed his steps toward the reading-room, where

he looked through various reviews without finding any distraction in

the reading, and a little later, passing from room to room, he stopped,

without knowing why, at the gaming-table. For nearly two hours he

remained in the clutches of the horrible yellow demon, whose shining

eyes of gold at once torture and charm. But not even the excitement of

play had power to lighten the gloom of his soul, and the same tedium

which had impelled him toward the green cloth sent him away from it.

Shunning the noise, he found himself in an apartment used as an

assembly-room, in which at the time there was not a living soul, and

here he seated himself wearily at a window overlooking the street.

This was very narrow, with more corners and salient angles than houses,

and was overshaded throughout its whole extent by the imposing mass of

the cathedral that lifted its dark and time-corroded walls at one end

of it. Pepe Rey looked up and down and in every direction; no sign of

life--not a footstep, not a voice, not a glance, disturbed the

stillness, peaceful as that of a tomb, that reigned everywhere.

Suddenly strange sounds, like the whispering of feminine voices, fell

on his ear, and then the rustling of curtains that were being drawn, a

few words, and finally the humming of a song, the bark of a lap-dog,

and other signs of social life, which seemed very strange in such a

place. Observing attentively, Pepe Rey perceived that these noises

proceeded from an enormous balcony with blinds which displayed its

corpulent bulk in front of the window at which he was sitting. Before

he had concluded his observations, a member of the Casino suddenly

appeared beside him, and accosted him laughingly in this manner:

"Ah, Senor Don Pepe! what a rogue you are! So you have shut yourself in

here to ogle the girls, eh?"

The speaker was Don Juan Tafetan, a very amiable man, and one of the

few members of the Casino who had manifested for Pepe Rey cordial

friendship and genuine admiration. With his red cheeks, his little dyed

mustache, his restless laughing eyes, his insignificant figure, his

hair carefully combed to hide his baldness, Don Juan Tafetan was far

from being an Antinous in appearance, but he was very witty and very

agreeable and he had a happy gift for telling a good story. He was much

given to laughter, and when he laughed his face, from his forehead to

his chin, became one mass of grotesque wrinkles. In spite of these

qualities, and of the applause which might have stimulated his taste

for spicy jokes, he was not a scandal-monger. Every one liked him, and

Pepe Rey spent with him many pleasant hours. Poor Tafetan, formerly an

employe in the civil department of the government of the capital of the

province, now lived modestly on his salary as a clerk in the bureau of

charities; eking out his income by gallantly playing the clarionet in

the processions, in the solemnities of the cathedral, and in the

theatre, whenever some desperate company of players made their

appearance in those parts with the perfidious design of giving

representations in Orbajosa.

But the most curious thing about Don Juan Tafetan was his liking for

pretty girls. He himself, in the days when he did not hide his baldness

with half a dozen hairs plastered down with pomade, when he did not dye

his mustache, when, in the freedom from care of youthful years, he

walked with shoulders unstooped and head erect, had been a formidable

/Tenorio/. To hear him recount his conquests was something to make one

die laughing; for there are /Tenorios/ and Tenorios/, and he was one of

the most original.

"What girls? I don't see any girls," responded Pepe Rey.

"Yes, play the anchorite!"

One of the blinds of the balcony was opened, giving a glimpse of a

youthful face, lovely and smiling, that disappeared instantly, like a

light extinguished by the wind.

"Yes, I see now."

"Don't you know them?"

"On my life I do not."

"They are the Troyas--the Troya girls. Then you don't know something

good. Three lovely girls, the daughters of a colonel of staff, who died

in the streets of Madrid in '54."

The blind opened again, and two faces appeared.

"They are laughing at me," said Tafetan, making a friendly sign to the

girls.

"Do you know them?"

"Why, of course I know them. The poor things are in the greatest want.

I don't know how they manage to live. When Don Francisco Troya died a

subscription was raised for them, but that did not last very long."

"Poor girls! I imagine they are not models of virtue."

"And why not? I do not believe what they say in the town about them."

Once more the blinds opened.

"Good-afternoon, girls!" cried Don Juan Tafetan to the three girls, who

appeared, artistically grouped, at the window. "This gentleman says

that good things ought not to hide themselves, and that you should

throw open the blinds."

But the blind was closed and a joyous concert of laughter diffused a

strange gayety through the gloomy street. One might have fancied that a

flock of birds was passing.

"Shall we go there?" said Tafetan suddenly.

His eyes sparkled and a roguish smile played on his discolored lips.

"But what sort of people are they, then?"

"Don't be afraid, Senor de Rey. The poor things are honest. Bah! Why,

they live upon air, like the chameleons. Tell me, can any one who

doesn't eat sin? The poor girls are virtuous enough. And even if they

did sin, they fast enough to make up for it."

"Let us go, then."

A moment later Don Juan Tafetan and Pepe Rey were entering the parlor

of the Troyas. The poverty he saw, that struggled desperately to

disguise itself, afflicted the young man. The three girls were very

lovely, especially the two younger ones, who were pale and dark, with

large black eyes and slender figures. Well-dressed and well shod they

would have seemed the daughters of a duchess, and worthy to ally

themselves with princes.

When the visitors entered, the three girls were for a moment abashed:

but very soon their naturally gay and frivolous dispositions became

apparent. They lived in poverty, as birds live in confinement, singing

behind iron bars as they would sing in the midst of the abundance of

the forest. They spent the day sewing, which showed at least honorable

principles; but no one in Orbajosa, of their own station in life, held

any intercourse with them. They were, to a certain extent, proscribed,

looked down upon, avoided, which also showed that there existed some

cause for scandal. But, to be just, it must be said that the bad

reputation of the Troyas consisted, more than in any thing else, in the

name they had of being gossips and mischief-makers, fond of playing

practical jokes, and bold and free in their manners. They wrote

anonymous letters to grave personages; they gave nicknames to every

living being in Orbajosa, from the bishop down to the lowest vagabond;

they threw pebbles at the passers-by; they hissed behind the window

bars, in order to amuse themselves with the perplexity and annoyance of

the startled passer-by; they found out every thing that occurred in the

neighborhood; to which end they made constant use of every window and

aperture in the upper part of the house; they sang at night in the

balcony; they masked themselves during the Carnival, in order to obtain

entrance into the houses of the highest families; and they played many

other mischievous pranks peculiar to small towns. But whatever its

cause, the fact was that on the Troya triumvirate rested one of those

stigmas that, once affixed on any one by a susceptible community,

accompanies that person implacably even beyond the tomb.

"This is the gentleman they say has come to discover the gold-mines?"

said one of the girls.

"And to do away with the cultivation of garlic in Orbajosa to plant

cotton or cinnamon trees in its stead?"

Pepe could not help laughing at these absurdities.

"All he has come for is to make a collection of pretty girls to take

back with him to Madrid," said Tafetan.

"Ah! I'll be very glad to go!" cried one.

"I will take the three of you with me," said Pepe. "But I want to know

one thing; why were you laughing at me when I was at the window of the

Casino?"

These words were the signal for fresh bursts of laughter.

"These girls are silly things," said the eldest.

"It was because we said you deserved something better than Dona

Perfecta's daughter."

"It was because this one said that you are only losing your time, for

Rosarito cares only for people connected with the Church."

"How absurd you are! I said nothing of the kind! It was you who said

that the gentleman was a Lutheran atheist, and that he enters the

cathedral smoking and with his hat on."

"Well, I didn't invent it; that is what Suspiritos told me yesterday."

"And who is this Suspiritos who says such absurd things about me?"

"Suspiritos is--Suspiritos."

"Girls," said Tafetan, with smiling countenance, "there goes the

orange-vender. Call him; I want to invite you to eat oranges."

One of the girls called the orange-vender.

The conversation started by the Troyas displeased Pepe Rey not a

little, dispelling the slight feeling of contentment which he had

experienced at finding himself in such gay and communicative company.

He could not, however, refrain from smiling when he saw Don Juan

Tafetan take down a guitar and begin to play upon it with all the grace

and skill of his youthful years.

"I have been told that you sing beautifully," said Rey to the girls.

"Let Don Juan Tafetan sing."

"I don't sing."

"Nor I," said the second of the girls, offering the engineer some

pieces of the skin of the orange she had just peeled.

"Maria Juana, don't leave your sewing," said the eldest of the Troyas.

"It is late, and the cassock must be finished to-night."

"There is to be no work to-day. To the devil with the needles!"

exclaimed Tafetan.

And he began to sing a song.

"The people are stopping in the street," said the second of the girls,

going out on the balcony. "Don Juan Tafetan's shouts can be heard in

the Plaza--Juana, Juana!"

"Well?"

"Suspiritos is walking down the street."

"Throw a piece of orange-peel at her."

Pepe Rey looked out also; he saw a lady walking down the street at whom

the youngest of the Troyas, taking a skilful aim, threw a large piece

of orange-peel, which struck her straight on the back of the head. Then

they hastily closed the blinds, and the three girls tried to stifle

their laughter so that it might not be heard in the street.

"There is no work to-day," cried one, overturning the sewing-basket

with the tip of her shoe.

"That is the same as saying, to-morrow there is to be no eating," said

the eldest, gathering up the sewing implements.

Pepe Rey instinctively put his hand into his pocket. He would gladly

have given them an alms. The spectacle of these poor orphans, condemned

by the world because of their frivolity, saddened him beyond measure.

If the only sin of the Troyas, if the only pleasure which they had to

compensate them for solitude, poverty, and neglect, was to throw

orange-peels at the passers-by, they might well be excused for doing

it. The austere customs of the town in which they lived had perhaps

preserved them from vice, but the unfortunate girls lacked decorum and

good-breeding, the common and most visible signs of modesty, and it

might easily be supposed that they had thrown out of the window

something more than orange-peels. Pepe Rey felt profound pity for them.

He noted their shabby dresses, made over, mended, trimmed, and

retrimmed, to make them look like new; he noted their broken shoes--and

once more he put his hand in his pocket.

"Vice may reign here," he said to himself, "but the faces, the

furniture, all show that this is the wreck of a respectable family. If

these poor girls were as bad as it is said they are, they would not

live in such poverty and they would not work. In Orbajosa there are

rich men."

The three girls went back and forward between him and the window,

keeping up a gay and sprightly conversation, which indicated, it must

be said, a species of innocence in the midst of all their frivolity and

unconventionality.

"Senor Don Jose, what an excellent lady Dona Perfecta is!"

"She is the only person in Orbajosa who has no nickname, the only

person in Orbajosa who is not spoken ill of."

"Every one respects her."

"Every one adores her."

To these utterances the young man responded by praises of his aunt, but

he had no longer any inclination to take money from his pocket and say,

"Maria Juana, take this for a pair of boots." "Pepa, take this to buy a

dress for yourself." "Florentina, take this to provide yourself with a

week's provisions," as he had been on the point of doing. At a moment

when the three girls had run out to the balcony to see who was passing,

Don Juan Tafetan approached Rey and whispered to him:

"How pretty they are! Are they not? Poor things! It seems impossible

that they should be so gay when it may be positively affirmed that they

have not dined to-day."

"Don Juan, Don Juan!" cried Pepilla. "Here comes a friend of yours,

Nicolasito Hernandez, in other words, Cirio Pascual, with this three-

story hat. He is praying to himself, no doubt, for the souls of those

whom he has sent to the grave with his extortion."

"I wager that neither of you will dare to call him by his nickname."

"It is a bet."

"Juana, shut the blinds, wait until he passes, and when he is turning

the corner, I will call out, 'Cirio, Cirio Pascual!' "

Don Juan Tafetan ran out to the balcony.

"Come here, Don Jose, so that you may know this type," he called.

Pepe Rey, availing himself of the moment in which the three girls and

Don Juan were making merry in the balcony, calling Nicolasito Hernandez

the nickname which so greatly enraged him, stepped cautiously to one of

the sewing baskets in the room and placed in it a half ounce which he

had left after his losses at play.

Then he hurried out to the balcony just as the two youngest cried in

the midst of wild bursts of laughter, "Cirio, Cirio Pascual!"

CHAPTER XIII

A CASUS BELLI

After this prank the Troyas commenced a conversation with their

visitors about the people and the affairs of the town. The engineer,

fearing that his exploit might be discovered while he was present,

wished to go, which displeased the Troyas greatly. One of them who had

left the room now returned, saying:

"Suspiritos is now in the yard; she is hanging out the clothes."

"Don Jose will wish to see her," said another of the girls.

"She is a fine-looking woman. And now she arranges her hair in the

Madrid fashion. Come, all of you."

They took their visitors to the dining-room--an apartment very little

used--which opened on a terrace, where there were a few flowers in pots

and many broken and disused articles of furniture. The terrace

overlooked the yard of an adjoining house, with a piazza full of green

vines and plants in pots carefully cultivated. Every thing about it

showed it to be the abode of neat and industrious people of modest

means.

The Troyas, approaching the edge of the roof, looked attentively at the

neighboring house, and then, imposing silence by a gesture on their

cavaliers, retreated to a part of the terrace from which they could not

see into the yard, and where there was no danger of their being seen

from it.

"She is coming out of the kitchen now with a pan of peas," said Maria

Juana, stretching out her neck to look.

"There goes!" cried another, throwing a pebble into the yard.

The noise of the projectile striking against the glass of the piazza

was heard, and then an angry voice crying:

"Now they have broken another pane of glass!"

The girls, hidden, close beside the two men, in a corner of the

terrace, were suffocating with laughter.

"Senora Suspiritos is very angry," said Rey. "Why do they call her by

that name?"

"Because, when she is talking, she sighs after every word, and although

she has every thing she wants, she is always complaining."

There was a moment's silence in the house below. Pepita Troya looked

cautiously down.

"There she comes again," she whispered, once more imposing silence by a

gesture. "Maria, give me a pebble. Give it here--bang! there it goes!"

"You didn't hit her. It struck the ground."

"Let me see if I can. Let us wait until she comes out of the pantry

again."

"Now, now she is coming out. Take care, Florentina."

"One, two, three! There it goes!"

A cry of pain was heard from below, a malediction, a masculine

exclamation, for it was a man who uttered it. Pepe Rey could

distinguish clearly these words:

"The devil! They have put a hole in my head, the---- Jacinto, Jacinto!

But what an abominable neighborhood this is!"

"Good Heavens! what have I done!" exclaimed Florentina, filled with

consternation. "I have struck Senor Don Inocencio on the head."

"The Penitentiary?" said Pepe Rey.

"Yes."

"Does he live in that house?"

"Why, where else should he live?"

"And the lady of the sighs----"

"Is his niece, his housekeeper, or whatever else she may be. We amuse

ourselves with her because she is very tiresome, but we are not

accustomed to play tricks on his reverence, the Penitentiary."

While this dialogue was being rapidly carried on, Pepe Rey saw, in

front of the terrace and very near him, a window belonging to the

bombarded house open; he saw a smiling face appear at it--a familiar

face--a face the sight of which stunned him, terrified him, made him

turn pale and tremble. It was that of Jacinto, who, interrupted in his

grave studies, appeared at it with his pen behind his ear. His modest,

fresh, and smiling countenance, appearing in this way, had an auroral

aspect.

"Good-afternoon, Senor Don Jose," he said gayly.

"Jacinto, Jacinto, I say!"

"I am coming. I was saluting a friend."

"Come away, come away!" cried Florentina, in alarm. "The Penitentiary

is going up to Don Nominative's room and he will give us a blessing."

"Yes, come away; let us close the door of the dining-room."

They rushed pell-mell from the terrace.

"You might have guessed that Jacinto would see you from his temple of

learning," said Tafetan to the Troyas.

"Don Nominative is our friend," responded one of the girls. "From his

temple of science he says a great many sweet things to us on the sly,

and he blows us kisses besides."

"Jacinto?" asked the engineer. "What the deuce is that name you gave

him?"

"Don Nominative."

The three girls burst out laughing.

"We call him that because he is very learned."

"No, because when we were little he was little too. But, yes, now I

remember. We used to play on the terrace, and we could hear him

studying his lessons aloud."

"Yes, and the whole blessed day he used to spend singling."

"Declining, girl! That is what it was. He would go like this:

'Nominative, rosa, Genitive, Dative, Accusative.' "

"I suppose that I have my nickname too," said Pepe Rey.

"Let Maria Juana tell you what it is," said Florentina, hiding herself.

"I? Tell it to him you, Pepa."

"You haven't any name yet, Don Jose."

"But I shall have one. I promise you that I will come to hear what it

is and to receive confirmation," said the young man, making a movement

to go.

"What, are you going?"

"Yes. You have lost time enough already. To work, girls! Throwing

stones at the neighbors and the passers-by is not the most suitable

occupation for girls as pretty and as clever as you are. Well, good-

by."

And without waiting for further remonstrances, or answering the

civilities of the girls, he left the house hastily, leaving Don Juan

Tafetan behind him.

The scene which he had just witnessed, the indignity suffered by the

canon, the unexpected appearance of the little doctor of laws, added

still further to the perplexities, the anxieties, and the disagreeable

presentiments that already disturbed the soul of the unlucky engineer.

He regretted with his whole soul having entered the house of the

Troyas, and, resolving to employ his time better while his

hypochondriasm lasted, he made a tour of inspection through the town.

He visited the market, the Calle de la Triperia, where the principal

stores were; he observed the various aspects presented by the industry

and commerce of the great city of Orbajosa, and, finding only new

motives of weariness, he bent his steps in the direction of the Paseo

de las Descalzas; but he saw there only a few stray dogs, for, owing to

the disagreeable wind which prevailed, the usual promenaders had

remained at home. He went to the apothecary's, where various species of

ruminant friends of progress, who chewed again and again the cud of the

same endless theme, were accustomed to meet, but there he was still

more bored. Finally, as he was passing the cathedral, he heard the

strains of the organ and the beautiful chanting of the choir. He

entered, knelt before the high altar, remembering the warnings which

his aunt had given him about behaving with decorum in church; then

visited a chapel, and was about to enter another when an acolyte,

warden, or beadle approached him, and with the rudest manner and in the

most discourteous tone said to him:

"His lordship says that you are to get out of the church."

The engineer felt the blood rush to his face. He obeyed without a word.

Turned out everywhere, either by superior authority or by his own

tedium, he had no resource but to return to his aunt's house, where he

found waiting for him:

First, Uncle Licurgo, to announce a second lawsuit to him; second,

Senor Don Cayetano, to read him another passage from his discourse on

the "Genealogies of Orbajosa"; third, Caballuco, on some business which

he had not disclosed; fourth, Dona Perfecta and her affectionate smile,

for what will appear in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DISCORD CONTINUES TO INCREASE

A fresh attempt to see his cousin that evening failed, and Pepe Rey

shut himself up in his room to write several letters, his mind

preoccupied with one thought.

"To-night or to-morrow," he said to himself, "this will end one way or

another."

When he was called to supper Dona Perfecta, who was already in the

dining-room, went up to him and said, without preface:

"Dear Pepe, don't distress yourself, I will pacify Senor Don Inocencio.

I know every thing already. Maria Remedios, who has just left the

house, has told me all about it."

Dona Perfecta's countenance radiated such satisfaction as an artist,

proud of his work, might feel.

"About what?"

"Set your mind at rest. I will make an excuse for you. You took a few

glasses too much in the Casino, that was it, was it not? There you have

the result of bad company. Don Juan Tafetan, the Troyas! This is

horrible, frightful. Did you consider well?"

"I considered every thing," responded Pepe, resolved not to enter into

discussions with his aunt.

"I shall take good care not to write to your father what you have

done."

"You may write whatever you please to him."

"You will exculpate yourself by denying the truth of this story, then?"

"I deny nothing."

"You confess then that you were in the house of those----"

"I was."

"And that you gave them a half ounce; for, according to what Maria

Remedios has told me, Florentina went down to the shop of the

Extramaduran this afternoon to get a half ounce changed. They could not

have earned it with their sewing. You were in their house to-day;

consequently--"

"Consequently I gave it to her. You are perfectly right."

"You do not deny it?"

"Why should I deny it? I suppose I can do whatever I please with my

money?"

"But you will surely deny that you threw stones at the Penitentiary."

"I do not throw stones."

"I mean that those girls, in your presence--"

"That is another matter."

"And they insulted poor Maria Remedios, too."

"I do not deny that, either."

"And how do you excuse your conduct! Pepe in Heaven's name, have you

nothing to say? That you are sorry, that you deny--"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing, senora!"

"You don't even give me any satisfaction."

"I have done nothing to offend you."

"Come, the only thing there is left for you to do now is--there, take

that stick and beat me!"

"I don't beat people."

"What a want of respect! What, don't you intend to eat any supper?"

"I intend to take supper."

For more than a quarter of an hour no one spoke. Don Cayetano, Dona

Perfecta, and Pepe Rey ate in silence. This was interrupted when Don

Inocencio entered the dining-room.

"How sorry I was for it, my dear Don Jose! Believe me, I was truly

sorry for it," he said, pressing the young man's hand and regarding him

with a look of compassion.

The engineer was so perplexed for a moment that he did not know what to

answer.

"I refer to the occurrence of this afternoon."

"Ah, yes!"

"To your expulsion from the sacred precincts of the cathedral."

"The bishop should consider well," said Pepe Rey, "before he turns a

Christian out of the church."

"That is very true. I don't know who can have put it into his

lordship's head that you are a man of very bad habits; I don't know who

has told him that you make a boast of your atheism everywhere; that you

ridicule sacred things and persons, and even that you are planning to

pull down the cathedral to build a large tar factory with the stones. I

tried my best to dissuade him, but his lordship is a little obstinate."

"Thanks for so much kindness."

"And it is not because the Penitentiary has any reason to show you

these considerations. A little more, and they would have left him

stretched on the ground this afternoon."

"Bah!" said the ecclesiastic, laughing. "But have you heard of that

little prank already? I wager Maria Remedios came with the story. And I

forbade her to do it--I forbade her positively. The thing in itself is

of no consequence, am I not right, Senor de Rey?"

"Since you think so----"

"That is what I think. Young people's pranks! Youth, let the moderns

say what they will, is inclined to vice and to vicious actions. Senor

de Rey, who is a person of great endowments, could not be altogether

perfect--why should it be wondered at that those pretty girls should

have captivated him, and, after getting his money out of him, should

have made him the accomplice of their shameless and criminal insults to

their neighbors? My dear friend, for the painful part that I had in

this afternoon's sport," he added, raising his hand to the wounded

spot, "I am not offended, nor will I distress you by even referring to

so disagreeable an incident. I am truly sorry to hear that Maria

Remedios came here to tell all about it. My niece is so fond of

gossiping! I wager she told too about the half ounce, and your romping

with the girls on the terrace, and your chasing one another about, and

the pinches and the capers of Don Juan Tafetan. Bah! those things ought

not to be told."

Pepe Rey did not know which annoyed him most--his aunt's severity or

the hypocritical condescension of the canon.

"Why should they not be told?" said Dona Perfecta. "He does not seem

ashamed of his conduct himself. I assure you all that I keep this from

my dear daughter only because, in her nervous condition, a fit of anger

might be dangerous to her."

"Come, it is not so serious as all that, senora," said the

Penitentiary. "I think the matter should not be again referred to, and

when the one who was stoned says that, the rest may surely be

satisfied. And the blow was no joke, Senor Don Jose. I thought they had

split my head open and that my brains were oozing out."

"I am truly sorry for the occurrence!" stammered Pepe Rey. "It gives me

real pain, although I had no part in it--"

"Your visit to those Senoras Troyas will be talked about all over the

town," said the canon. "We are not in Madrid, in that centre of

corruption, of scandal--"

"There you can visit the vilest places without any one knowing it,"

said Dona Perfecta.

"Here we are very observant of one another," continued Don Inocencio.

"We take notice of everything our neighbors do, and with such a system

of vigilance public morals are maintained at a proper height. Believe

me, my friend, believe me,--and I do not say this to mortify you,--you

are the first gentleman of your position who, in the light of day--the

first, yes, senor--/Trojoe qui primus ab oris/."

And bursting into a laugh, he clapped the engineer on the back in token

of amity and good-will.

"How grateful I ought to be," said the young man, concealing his anger

under the sarcastic words which he thought the most suitable to answer

the covert irony of his interlocutors, "to meet with so much generosity

and tolerance, when my criminal conduct would deserve--"

"What! Is a person of one's own blood, one who bears one's name," said

Dona Perfecta, "to be treated like a stranger? You are my nephew, you

are the son of the best and the most virtuous of men, of my dear

brother Juan, and that is sufficient. Yesterday afternoon the secretary

of the bishop came here to tell me that his lordship is greatly

displeased because I have you in my house."

"And that too?" murmured the canon.

"And that too. I said that in spite of the respect which I owe the

bishop, and the affection and reverence which I bear him, my nephew is

my nephew, and I cannot turn him out of my house."

"This is another singularity which I find in this place," said Pepe

Rey, pale with anger. "Here, apparently, the bishop governs other

people's houses."

"He is a saint. He is so fond of me that he imagines--he imagines that

you are going to contaminate us with your atheism, your disregard for

public opinion, your strange ideas. I have told him repeatedly that, at

bottom, you are an excellent young man."

"Some concession must always be made to superior talent," observed Don

Inocencio.

"And this morning, when I was at the Cirujedas'--oh, you cannot imagine

in what a state they had my head! Was it true that you had come to pull

down the cathedral; that you were commissioned by the English

Protestants to go preaching heresy throughout Spain; that you spent the

whole night gambling in the Casino; that you were drunk in the streets?

'But, senoras,' I said to them, 'would you have me send my nephew to

the hotel?' Besides, they are wrong about the drunkenness, and as for

gambling--I have never yet heard that you gambled."

Pepe Rey found himself in that state of mind in which the calmest man

is seized by a sudden rage, by a blind and brutal impulse to strangle

some one, to strike some one in the face, to break some one's head, to

crush some one's bones. But Dona Perfecta was a woman and was, besides,

his aunt; and Don Inocencio was an old man and an ecclesiastic. In

addition to this, physical violence is in bad taste and unbecoming a

person of education and a Christian. There remained the resource of

giving vent to his suppressed wrath in dignified and polite language;

but this last resource seemed to him premature, and only to be employed

at the moment of his final departure from the house and from Orbajosa.

Controlling his fury, then, he waited.

Jacinto entered as they were finishing supper.

"Good-evening, Senor Don Jose," he said, pressing the young man's hand.

"You and your friends kept me from working this afternoon. I was not

able to write a line. And I had so much to do!"

"I am very sorry for it, Jacinto. But according to what they tell me,

you accompany them sometimes in their frolics."

"I!" exclaimed the boy, turning scarlet. "Why, you know very well that

Tafetan never speaks a word of truth. But is it true, Senor de Rey,

that you are going away?"

"Is that the report in the town?"

"Yes. I heard it in the Casino and at Don Lorenzo Ruiz's."

Rey contemplated in silence for a few moments the fresh face of Don

Nominative. Then he said:

"Well, it is not true; my aunt is very well satisfied with me; she

despises the calumnies with which the Orbajosans are favoring me--and

she will not turn me out of her house, even though the bishop himself

should try to make her do so."

"As for turning you out of the house--never. What would your father

say?"

"Notwithstanding all your kindness, dearest aunt, notwithstanding the

cordial friendship of the reverend canon, it is possible that I may

myself decide to go away."

"To go away!"

"To go away--you!"

A strange light shone in Dona Perfecta's eyes. The canon, experienced

though he was in dissimulation, could not conceal his joy.

"Yes, and perhaps this very night."

"Why, man, how impetuous you are; Why don't you at least wait until

morning? Here--Juan, let some one go for Uncle Licurgo to get the nag

ready. I suppose you will take some luncheon with you. Nicolasa, that

piece of veal that is on the sideboard! Librada, the senorito's linen."

"No, I cannot believe that you would take so rash a resolution," said

Don Cayetano, thinking himself obliged to take some part in the

question.

"But you will come back, will you not?" asked the canon.

"At what time does the morning train pass?" asked Dona Perfecta, in

whose eyes was clearly discernible the feverish impatience of her

exaltation.

"I am going away to-night."

"But there is no moon."

In the soul of Dona Perfecta, in the soul of the Penitentiary, in the

little doctor's youthful soul echoed like a celestial harmony the word,

"To-night!"

"Of course, dear Pepe, you will come back. I wrote to-day to your

father, your excellent father," exclaimed Dona Perfecta, with all the

physiognomic signs that make their appearance when a tear is about to

be shed.

"I will trouble you with a few commissions," said the savant.

"A good opportunity to order the volume that is wanting in my copy of

the Abbe Gaume's work," said the youthful lawyer.

"You take such sudden notions, Pepe; you are so full of caprices,"

murmured Dona Perfecta, smiling, with her eyes fixed on the door of the

dining-room. "But I forgot to tell you that Caballuco is waiting to

speak to you."

CHAPTER XV

DISCORD CONTINUES TO GROW UNTIL WAR IS DECLARED

Every one looked toward the door, at which appeared the imposing figure

of the Centaur, serious-looking and frowning; embarrassed by his

anxiety to salute the company politely; savagely handsome, but

disfigured by the violence which he did himself in smiling civilly and

treading softly and holding his herculean arms in a correct posture.

"Come in, Senor Ramos," said Pepe Rey.

"No, no!" objected Dona Perfecta. "What he has to say to you is an

absurdity."

"Let him say it."

"I ought not to allow such ridiculous questions to be discussed in my

house."

"What is Senor Ramos' business with me?"

Caballuco uttered a few words.

"Enough, enough!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta. "Don't trouble my nephew any

more. Pepe, don't mind this simpleton. Do you wish me to tell you the

cause of the great Caballuco's anger?" she said, turning to the others.

"Anger? I think I can imagine," said the Penitentiary, leaning back in

his chair and laughing with boisterous hilarity.

"I wanted to say to Senor Don Jose--" growled the formidable horseman.

"Hold your tongue, man, for Heaven's sake! And don't tire us any more

with that nonsense."

"Senor Caballuco," said the canon, "it is not to be wondered at that

gentlemen from the capital should cut out the rough riders of this

savage country."

"In two words, Pepe, the question is this: Caballuco is--"

She could not go on for laughing.

"Is--I don't know just what," said Don Inocencio, "of one of the Troya

girls, of Mariquita Juana, if I am not mistaken."

"And he is jealous! After his horse, the first thing in creation for

him is Mariquilla Troya."

"A pretty insinuation that!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta. "Poor Cristobal!

Did you suppose that a person like my nephew--let us hear, what were

you going to say to him? Speak."

"Senor Don Jose and I will talk together presently," responded the

bravo of the town brusquely.

And without another word he left the room.

Shortly afterward Pepe Rey left the dining-room to retire to his own

room. In the hall he found himself face to face with his Trojan

antagonist, and he could not repress a smile at the sight of the fierce

and gloomy countenance of the offended lover.

"A word with you," said the latter, planting himself insolently in

front of the engineer. "Do you know who I am?"

As he spoke he laid his heavy hand on the young man's shoulder with

such insolent familiarity that the latter, incensed, flung him off with

violence, saying:

"It is not necessary to crush one to say that."

The bravo, somewhat disconcerted, recovered himself in a moment, and

looking at Rey with provoking boldness, repeated his refrain:

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes; I know now that you are a brute."

He pushed the bully roughly aside and went into his room. As traced on

the excited brain of our unfortunate friend at this moment, his plan of

action might be summed up briefly and definitely as follows: To break

Caballuco's head without loss of time; then to take leave of his aunt

in severe but polite words which should reach her soul; to bid a cold

adieu to the canon and give an embrace to the inoffensive Don Cayetano;

to administer a thrashing to Uncle Licurgo, by way of winding up the

entertainment, and leave Orbajosa that very night, shaking the dust

from his shoes at the city gates.

But in the midst of all these mortifications and persecutions the

unfortunate young man had not ceased to think of another unhappy being,

whom he believed to be in a situation even more painful and distressing

than his own. One of the maid-servants followed the engineer into his

room.

"Did you give her my message?" he asked.

"Yes, senor, and she gave me this."

Rey took from the girl's hand a fragment of a newspaper, on the margin

of which he read these words:

"They say you are going away. I shall die if you do."

When he returned to the dining-room Uncle Licurgo looked in at the door

and asked:

"At what hour do you want the horse?"

"At no hour," answered Rey quickly.

"Then you are not going to-night?" said Dona Perfecta. "Well, it is

better to wait until to-morrow."

"I am not going to-morrow, either."

"When are you going, then?"

"We will see presently," said the young man coldly, looking at his aunt

with imperturbable calmness. "For the present I do not intend to go

away."

His eyes flashed forth a fierce challenge.

Dona Perfecta turned first red, then pale. She looked at the canon, who

had taken off his gold spectacles to wipe them, and then fixed her eyes

successively on each of the other persons in the room, including

Caballuco, who, entering shortly before, had seated himself on the edge

of a chair. Dona Perfecta looked at them as a general looks at his

trusty body-guard. Then she studied the thoughtful and serene

countenance of her nephew--of that enemy, who, by a strategic movement,

suddenly reappeared before her when she believed him to be in shameful

flight.

Alas! Bloodshed, ruin, and desolation! A great battle was about to be

fought.

CHAPTER XVI

NIGHT

Orbajosa slept. The melancholy street-lamps were shedding their last

gleams at street-corners and in by-ways, like tired eyes struggling in

vain against sleep. By their dim light, wrapped in their cloaks, glided

past like shadows, vagabonds, watchmen, and gamblers. Only the hoarse

shout of the drunkard or the song of the serenader broke the peaceful

silence of the historic city. Suddenly the "Ave Maria Purisima" of some

drunken watchman would be heard, like a moan uttered in its sleep by

the town.

In Dona Perfecta's house also silence reigned, unbroken but for a

conversation which was taking place between Don Cayetano and Pepe Rey,

in the library of the former. The savant was seated comfortably in the

arm-chair beside his study table, which was covered with papers of

various kinds containing notes, annotations, and references, all

arranged in the most perfect order. Rey's eyes were fixed on the heap

of papers, but his thoughts were doubtless far away from this

accumulated learning.

"Perfecta," said the antiquary, "although she is an excellent woman,

has the defect of allowing herself to be shocked by any little act of

folly. In these provincial towns, my dear friend, the slightest slip is

dearly paid for. I see nothing particular in your having gone to the

Troyas' house. I fancy that Don Inocencio, under his cloak of piety, is

something of a mischief-maker. What has he to do with the matter?"

"We have reached a point, Senor Don Cayetano, in which it is necessary

to take a decisive resolution. I must see Rosario and speak with her."

"See her, then!"

"But they will not let me," answered the engineer, striking the table

with his clenched hand. "Rosario is kept a prisoner."

"A prisoner!" repeated the savant incredulously. "The truth is that I

do not like her looks or her hair, and still less the vacant expression

in her beautiful eyes. She is melancholy, she talks little, she weeps--

friend Don Jose, I greatly fear that the girl may be attacked by the

terrible malady to which so many of the members of my family have

fallen victims."

"A terrible malady! What is it?"

"Madness--or rather mania. Not a single member of my family has been

free from it. I alone have escaped it."

"You! But leaving aside the question of madness," said Rey, with

impatience, "I wish to see Rosario."

"Nothing more natural. But the isolation in which her mother keeps her

is a hygienic measure, dear Pepe, and the only one that has been

successfully employed with the various members of my family. Consider

that the person whose presence and voice would make the strongest

impression on Rosarillo's delicate nervous system is the chosen of her

heart."

"In spite of all that," insisted Pepe, "I wish to see her."

"Perhaps Perfecta will not oppose your doing so," said the savant,

giving his attention to his notes and papers. "I don't want to take any

responsibility in the matter."

The engineer, seeing that he could obtain nothing from the good

Polentinos, rose to retire.

"You are going to work," he said, "and I will not trouble you any

longer."

"No, there is time enough. See the amount of precious information that

I collected to-day. Listen: 'In 1537 a native of Orbajosa, called

Bartolome del Hoyo, went to Civita-Vecchia in one of the galleys of the

Marquis of Castel Rodrigo.' Another: 'In the same year two brothers

named Juan and Rodrigo Gonzalez del Arco embarked in one of the six

ships which sailed from Maestricht on the 20th of February, and which

encountered in the latitude of Calais an English vessel and the Flemish

fleet commanded by Van Owen.' That was truly an important exploit of

our navy. I have discovered that it was an Orbajosan, one Mateo Diaz

Coronel, an ensign in the guards, who, in 1709, wrote and published in

Valencia the 'Metrical Encomium, Funeral Chant, Lyrical Eulogy,

Numerical Description, Glorious Sufferings, and Sorrowful Glories of

the Queen of the Angels.' I possess a most precious copy of this work,

which is worth the mines of Peru. Another Orbajosan was the author of

that famous 'Treatise on the Various Styles of Horsemanship' which I

showed you yesterday; and, in short, there is not a step I take in the

labyrinth of unpublished history that I do not stumble against some

illustrious compatriot. It is my purpose to draw all these names out of

the unjust obscurity and oblivion in which they have so long lain. How

pure a joy, dear Pepe, to restore all their lustre to the glories, epic

and literary, of one's native place! And how could a man better employ

the scant intellect with which Heaven has endowed him, the fortune

which he has inherited, and the brief period of time on earth allowed

to even the longest life. Thanks to me it will be seen that Orbajosa is

the illustrious cradle of Spanish genius. But what do I say? Is not its

illustrious ancestry evident in the nobleness and high-mindedness of

the present Urbs Augustan generation? We know few places where all the

virtues, unchoked by the malefic weeds of vice, grow more luxuriantly.

Here all is peace, mutual respect, Christian humility. Charity is

practised here as it was in Biblical times; here envy is unknown; here

the criminal passions are unknown, and if you hear thieves and

murderers spoken of, you may be sure that they are not the children of

this noble soil; or, that if they are, they belong to the number of

unhappy creatures perverted by the teachings of demagogues. Here you

will see the national character in all its purity--upright, noble,

incorruptible, pure, simple, patriarchal, hospitable, generous.

Therefore it is that I live so happy in this solitude far from the

turmoil of cities where, alas! falsehood and vice reign. Therefore it

is that the many friends whom I have in Madrid have not been able to

tempt me from this place; therefore it is that I spend my life in the

sweet companionship of my faithful townspeople and my books, breathing

the wholesome atmosphere of integrity, which is gradually becoming

circumscribed in our Spain to the humble and Christian towns that have

preserved it with the emanations of their virtues. And believe me, my

dear Pepe, this peaceful isolation has greatly contributed to preserve

me from the terrible malady connatural in my family. In my youth I

suffered, like my brothers and my father, from a lamentable propensity

to the most absurd manias; but here you have me so miraculously cured

that all I know of the malady is what I see of it in others. And it is

for that reason that I am so uneasy about my little niece."

"I am rejoiced that the air of Orbajosa has proved so beneficial to

you," said Rey, unable to resist the jesting mood that, by a strange

contradiction, came over him in the midst of his sadness. "With me it

has agreed so badly that I think I shall soon become mad if I remain in

it. Well, good-night, and success to your labors."

"Good-night."

Pepe went to his room, but feeling neither a desire for sleep or the

need of physical repose,--on the contrary, a violent excitation of mind

which impelled him to move, to act,--he walked up and down the room,

torturing himself with useless cavilling. After a time he opened the

window which overlooked the garden and, leaning his elbows on the

parapet, he gazed out on the limitless darkness of the night. Nothing

could be seen, but he who is absorbed in his own thoughts sees with the

mental vision, and Pepe Rey, his eyes fixed on the darkness, saw the

varied panorama of his misfortunes unroll itself upon it before him.

The obscurity did not permit him to see the flowers of the earth, nor

those of the heavens, which are the stars. The very absence of light

produced the effect of an illusory movement in the masses of foliage,

which seemed to stretch away, to recede slowly, and come curling back

like the waves of a shadowy sea. A vast flux and reflux, a strife

between forces vaguely comprehended, agitated the silent sky. The

mathematician, contemplating this strange projection of his soul upon

the night, said to himself:

"The battle will be terrible. Let us see who will come out of it

victorious."

The nocturnal insects whispered in his ear mysterious words. Here a

shrill chirp; there a click, like the click made with the tongue;

further on, plaintive murmurs; in the distance a tinkle like that of

the bell on the neck of the wandering ox. Suddenly Rey heard a strange

sound, a rapid note, that could be produced only by the human tongue

and lips. This sibilant breathing passed through the young man's brain

like a flash of lightning. He felt that swift "s-s-s" dart snake-like

through him, repeated again and then again, with augmented intensity.

He looked all around, then he looked toward the upper part of the

house, and he fancied that in one of the windows he could distinguish

an object like a white bird flapping its wings. Through Pepe Rey's

excited mind flashed instantly the idea of the phoenix, of the dove, of

the regal heron, and yet the bird he saw was noting more than a

handkerchief.

The engineer sprang from the balcony into the garden. Observing

attentively, he saw the hand and the face of his cousin. He thought he

could perceive the gesture commonly employed of imposing silence by

laying the finger on the lips. Then the dear shade pointed downward and

disappeared. Pepe Rey returned quickly to this room, entered the hall

noiselessly, and walked slowly forward. He felt his heart beat with

violence. He waited for a few moments, and at last he heard distinctly

light taps on the steps of the stairs. One, two, three--the sounds were

produced by a pair of little shoes.

He walked in the direction whence they proceeded, and stretched out his

hands in the obscurity to assist the person who was descending the

stairs. In his soul there reigned an exalted and profound tenderness,

but--why seek to deny it--mingling with this tender feeling, there

suddenly arose within him, like an infernal inspiration, another

sentiment, a fierce desire for revenge. The steps continued to descend,

coming nearer and nearer. Pepe Rey went forward, and a pair of hands,

groping in the darkness, came in contact with his own. The two pairs of

hands were united in a close clasp.

CHAPTER XVII

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

The hall was long and broad. At one end of it was the door of the room

occupied by the engineer, in the centre that of the dining-room, and at

the other end were the staircase and a large closed door reached by a

step. This door opened into a chapel in which the Polentinos performed

their domestic devotions. Occasionally the holy sacrifice of the mass

was celebrated in it.

Rosario led her cousin to the door of the chapel and then sank down on

the doorstep.

"Here?" murmured Pepe Rey.

From the movements of Rosarito's right hand he comprehended that she

was blessing herself.

"Rosario, dear cousin, thanks for allowing me to see you!" he

exclaimed, embracing her ardently.

He felt the girl's cold fingers on his lips, imposing silence. He

kissed them rapturously.

"You are frozen. Rosario, why do you tremble so?"

Her teeth were chattering, and her whole frame trembled convulsively.

Rey felt the burning heat of his cousin's face against his own, and he

cried in alarm:

"Your forehead is burning! You are feverish."

"Very."

"Are you really ill?"

"Yes."

"And you have left your room----"

"To see you."

The engineer wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the cold,

but it was not enough.

"Wait," he said quickly, rising. "I am going to my room to bring my

travelling rug."

"Put out the light, Pepe."

Rey had left the lamp burning in his room, through the door of which

issued a faint streak of light, illuminating the hall. He returned in

an instant. The darkness was now profound. Groping his way along the

wall he reached the spot where his cousin was sitting, and wrapped the

rug carefully around her.

"You are comfortable now, my child."

"Yes, so comfortable! With you!"

"With me--and forever!" exclaimed the young man, with exaltation.

But he observed that she was releasing herself from his arms and was

rising.

"What are you doing?"

A metallic sound was heard. Rosario had put the key into the invisible

lock and was cautiously opening the door on the threshold of which they

had been sitting. The faint odor of dampness, peculiar to rooms that

have been long shut up, issued from the place, which was as dark as a

tomb. Pepe Rey felt himself being guided by the hand, and his cousin's

voice said faintly:

"Enter!"

They took a few steps forward. He imagined himself being led to an

unknown Elysium by the angel of night. Rosario groped her way. At last

her sweet voice sounded again, murmuring:

"Sit down."

They were beside a wooden bench. Both sat down. Pepe Rey embraced

Rosario again. As he did so, his head struck against a hard body.

"What is this?" he asked.

"The feet."

"Rosario--what are you saying?"

"The feet of the Divine Jesus, of the image of Christ crucified, that

we adore in my house."

Pepe Rey felt a cold chill strike through him.

"Kiss them," said the young girl imperiously.

The mathematician kissed the cold feet of the holy image.

"Pepe," then cried the young girl, pressing her cousin's hand ardently

between her own, "do you believe in God?"

"Rosario! What are you saying? What absurdities are you imagining?"

responded her cousin, perplexed.

"Answer me."

Pepe Rey felt drops of moisture on his hands.

"Why are you crying?" he said, greatly disturbed. "Rosario, you are

killing me with your absurd doubts. Do I believe in God? Do you doubt

it?"

"I do not doubt it; but they all say that you are an atheist."

"You would suffer in my estimation, you would lose your aureole of

purity--your charm--if you gave credit to such nonsense."

"When I heard them accuse you of being an atheist, although I could

bring no proof to the contrary, I protested from the depths of my soul

against such a calumny. You cannot be an atheist. I have within me as

strong and deep a conviction of your faith as of my own."

"How wisely you speak! Why, then, do you ask me if I believe in God?"

"Because I wanted to hear it from your own lips, and rejoice in hearing

you say it. It is so long since I have heard the sound of your voice!

What greater happiness than to hear it again, saying: 'I believe in

God?' "

"Rosario, even the wicked believe in him. If there be atheists, which I

doubt, they are the calumniators, the intriguers with whom the world is

infested. For my part, intrigues and calumnies matter little to me; and

if you rise superior to them and close your heart against the discord

which a perfidious hand would sow in it, nothing shall interfere with

our happiness."

"But what is going on around us? Pepe, dear Pepe, do you believe in the

devil?"

The engineer was silent. The darkness of the chapel prevented Rosario

from seeing the smile with which her cousin received this strange

question.

"We must believe in him," he said at last.

"What is going on? Mamma forbids me to see you; but, except in regard

to the atheism, she does not say any thing against you. She tells me to

wait, that you will decide; that you are going away, that you are

coming back---- Speak to me with frankness--have you formed a bad

opinion of my mother?"

"Not at all," replied Rey, urged by a feeling of delicacy.

"Do you not believe, as I do, that she loves us both, that she desires

only our good, and that we shall in the end obtain her consent to our

wishes?"

"If you believe it, I do too. Your mama adores us both. But, dear

Rosario, it must be confessed that the devil has entered this house."

"Don't jest!" she said affectionately. "Ah! Mamma is very good. She has

not once said to me that you were unworthy to be my husband. All she

insists upon is the atheism. They say, besides, that I have manias, and

that I have the mania now of loving you with all my soul. In our family

it is a rule not to oppose directly the manias that are hereditary in

it, because to oppose them aggravates them."

"Well, I believe that there are skilful physicians at your side who

have determined to cure you, and who will, in the end, my adored girl,

succeed in doing so."

"No, no; a thousand times no!" exclaimed Rosario, leaning her forehead

on her lover's breast. "I am willing to be mad if I am with you. For

you I am suffering, for you I am ill; for you I despise life and I risk

death. I know it now--to-morrow I shall be worse, I shall be

dangerously ill, I shall die. What does it matter to me?"

"You are not ill," he responded, with energy; "there is nothing the

matter with you but an agitation of mind which naturally brings with it

some slight nervous disturbances; there is nothing the matter with you

but the suffering occasioned by the horrible coercion which they are

using with you. Your simple and generous soul does not comprehend it.

You yield; you forgive those who injure you; you torment yourself,

attributing your suffering to baleful, supernatural influences; you

suffer in silence; you give your innocent neck to the executioner, you

allow yourself to be slain, and the very knife which is plunged into

your breast seems to you the thorn of a flower that has pierced you in

passing. Rosario, cast those ideas from your mind; consider our real

situation, which is serious; seek its cause where it really is, and do

not give way to your fears; do not yield to the tortures which are

inflicted upon you, making yourself mentally and physically ill. The

courage which you lack would restore you to health, because you are not

really ill, my dear girl, you are--do you wish me to say it?--you are

frightened, terrified. You are under what the ancients, not knowing how

to express it, called an evil spell. Courage, Rosario, trust in me!

Rise and follow me. That is all I will say."

"Ah, Pepe--cousin! I believe that you are right," exclaimed Rosario,

drowned in tears. "Your words resound within my heart, arousing in it

new energy, new life. Here in this darkness, where we cannot see each

other's faces, an ineffable light emanates from you and inundates my

soul. What power have you to transform me in this way? The moment I saw

you I became another being. In the days when I did not see you I

returned to my former insignificance, my natural cowardice. Without

you, my Pepe, I live in Limbo. I will do as you tell me, I will arise

and follow you. We will go together wherever you wish. Do you know that

I feel well? Do you know that I have no fever: that I have recovered my

strength; that I want to run about and cry out; that my whole being is

renewed and enlarged, and multiplied a hundred-fold in order to adore

you? Pepe, you are right. I am not sick, I am only afraid; or rather,

bewitched."

"That is it, bewitched."

"Bewitched! Terrible eyes look at me, and I remain mute and trembling.

I am afraid, but of what? You alone have the strange power of calling

me back to life. Hearing you, I live again. I believe if I were to die

and you were to pass by my grave, that deep under the ground I should

feel your footsteps. Oh, if I could see you now! But you are here

beside me, and I cannot doubt that it is you. So many days without

seeing you! I was mad. Each day of solitude appeared to me a century.

They said to me, to-morrow and to-morrow, and always to-morrow. I

looked out of the window at night, and the light of the lamp in your

room served to console me. At times your shadow on the window was for

me a divine apparition. I stretched out my arms to you, I shed tears

and cried out inwardly, without daring to do so with my voice. When I

received the message you sent me with the maid, when I received your

letter telling me that you were going away, I grew very sad, I thought

my soul was leaving my body and that I was dying slowly. I fell, like

the bird wounded as it flies, that falls and, falling, dies. To-night,

when I saw that you were awake so late, I could not resist the longing

I had to speak to you; and I came down stairs. I believe that all the

courage of my life has been used up in this single act, and that now I

can never be any thing again but a coward. But you will give me

courage; you will give me strength; you will help me, will you not?

Pepe, my dear cousin, tell me that you will; tell me that I am strong,

and I will be strong; tell me that I am not ill, and I will not be ill.

I am not ill now. I feel so well that I could laugh at my ridiculous

maladies."

As she said this she felt herself clasped rapturously in her cousin's

arms. An "Oh!" was heard, but it came, not from her lips, but from his,

for in bending his head, he had struck it violently against the feet of

the crucifix. In the darkness it is that the stars are seen.

In the exalted state of his mind, by a species of hallucination natural

in the darkness, it seemed to Pepe Rey not that his head had struck

against the sacred foot, but that this had moved, warning him in the

briefest and most eloquent manner. Raising his head he said, half

seriously, half gayly:

"Lord, do not strike me; I will do nothing wrong."

At the same moment Rosario took the young man's hand and pressed it

against her heart. A voice was heard, a pure, grave, angelic voice,

full of feeling, saying:

"Lord whom I adore, Lord God of the world, and guardian of my house and

of my family; Lord whom Pepe also adores; holy and blessed Christ who

died on the cross for our sins; before thee, before thy wounded body,

before thy forehead crowned with thorns, I say that this man is my

husband, and that, after thee, he is the being whom my heart loves

most; I say that I declare him to be my husband, and that I will die

before I belong to another. My heart and my soul are his. Let not the

world oppose our happiness, and grant me the favor of this union, which

I swear to be true and good before the world, as it is in my

conscience."

"Rosario, you are mine!" exclaimed Pepe Rey, with exaltation. "Neither

your mother nor any one else shall prevent it."

Rosario sank powerless into her cousin's arms. She trembled in his

manly embrace, as the dove trembles in the talons of the eagle.

Through the engineer's mind the thought flashed that the devil existed;

but the devil then was he. Rosario made a slight movement of fear; she

felt the thrill of surprise, so to say, that gives warning that danger

is near.

"Swear to me that you will not yield to them," said Pepe Rey, with

confusion, observing the movement.

"I swear it to you by my father's ashes that are--"

"Where?"

"Under our feet."

The mathematician felt the stone rise under his feet--but no, it was

not rising; he only fancied, mathematician though he was, that he felt

it rise.

"I swear it to you," repeated Rosario, "by my father's ashes, and by

the God who is looking at us---- May our bodies, united as they are,

repose under those stones when God wills to take us out of this world."

"Yes," repeated the Pepe Rey, with profound emotion, feeling his soul

filled with an inexplicable trouble.

Both remained silent for a short time. Rosario had risen.

"Already?" he said.

She sat down again.

"You are trembling again," said Pepe. "Rosario, you are ill; your

forehead is burning."

"I think I am dying," murmured the young girl faintly. "I don't know

what is the matter with me."

She fell senseless into her cousin's arms. Caressing her, he noticed

that her face was covered with a cold perspiration.

"She is really ill," he said to himself. "It was a piece of great

imprudence to have come down stairs."

He lifted her up in his arms, endeavoring to restore her to

consciousness, but neither the trembling that had seized her nor her

insensibility passed away; and he resolved to carry her out of the

chapel, in the hope that the fresh air would revive her. And so it was.

When she recovered consciousness Rosario manifested great disquietude

at finding herself at such an hour out of her own room. The clock of

the cathedral struck four.

"How late it is!" exclaimed the young girl. "Release me, cousin. I

think I can walk. I am really very ill."

"I will go upstairs with you."

"Oh, no; on no account! I would rather drag myself to my room on my

hands and feet. Don't you hear a noise?"

Both were silent. The anxiety with which they listened made the silence

intense.

"Don't you hear any thing, Pepe?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Pay attention. There, there it is again. It is a noise that sounds as

if it might be either very, very distant, or very near. It might either

be my mother's breathing or the creaking of the vane on the tower of

the cathedral. Ah! I have a very fine ear."

"Too fine! Well, dear cousin, I will carry you upstairs in my arms."

"Very well; carry me to the head of the stairs. Afterward I can go

alone. As soon as I rest a little I shall be as well as ever. But don't

you hear?"

They stopped on the first step.

"It is a metallic sound."

"Your mother's breathing?"

"No, it is not that. The noise comes from a great distance. Perhaps it

is the crowing of a cock?"

"Perhaps so."

"It sounds like the words, 'I am going there, I am going there!' "

"Now, now I hear," murmured Pepe Rey.

"It is a cry."

"It is a cornet."

"A cornet!"

"Yes. Let us hurry. Orbajosa is going to wake up. Now I hear it

clearly. It is not a trumpet but a clarionet. The soldiers are coming."

"Soldiers!"

"I don't know why I imagine that this military invasion is going to be

advantageous to me. I feel glad. Up, quickly, Rosario!"

"I feel glad, too. Up, up!"

In an instant he had carried her upstairs, and the lovers took a

whispered leave of each other.

"I will stand at the window overlooking the garden, so that you may

know I have reached my room safely. Good-by."

"Good-by, Rosario. Take care not to stumble against the furniture."

"I can find my way here perfectly, cousin. We shall soon see each other

again. Stand at your window if you wish to receive my telegraphic

despatch."

Pepe Rey did as he was bade; but he waited a long time, and Rosario did

not appear at the window. The engineer fancied he heard agitated voices

on the floor above him.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SOLDIERS

The inhabitants of Orbajosa heard in the twilight vagueness of their

morning slumbers the same sonorous clarionet, and they opened their

eyes, saying:

"The soldiers!"

Some murmured to themselves between sleeping and waking:

"At last they have sent us that rabble."

Others got out of bed hastily, growling:

"Let us go take a look at those confounded soldiers."

Some soliloquized in this way:

"It will be necessary to hurry up matters. They say drafts and

contributions; we will say blows and more blows."

In another house were heard these words uttered joyfully:

"Perhaps my son is coming! Perhaps my brother is coming!"

Everywhere people were springing out of bed, dressing hastily, opening

the windows to see the regiment that caused all this excitement

entering the city in the early dawn. The city was gloom, silence, age;

the army gayety, boisterousness, youth. As the army entered the city it

seemed as if the mummy received by some magic art the gift of life and

sprang with noisy gayety from its damp sarcophagus to dance around it.

What movement, what shouting, what laughter, what merriment! There is

nothing so interesting as a regiment. It is our country in its youthful

and vigorous aspect. All the ineptitude, the turbulence, the

superstition at times, and at times the impiety of the country as

represented in the individual, disappears under the iron rule of

discipline, which of so many insignificant figures makes an imposing

whole. The soldier, or so to say, the corpuscle, separating at the

command "Break ranks!" from the mass in which he has led a regular and

at times a sublime life, occasionally preserves some of the qualities

peculiar to the army. But this is not the general rule. The separation

is most often accompanied by a sudden deterioration, with the result

that if an army is the glory and honor of a nation, an assemblage of

soldiers may be an insupportable calamity; and the towns that shed

tears of joy and enthusiasm when they see a victorious battalion enter

their precincts, groan with terror and tremble with apprehension when

they see the same soldiers separate and off duty.

This last was what happened in Orbajosa, for in those days there were

no glorious deeds to celebrate, nor was there any motive for weaving

wreaths or tracing triumphal inscriptions, or even for making mention

of the exploits of our brave soldiers, for which reason all was fear

and suspicion in the episcopal city, which, although poor, did not lack

treasures in chickens, fruits, money, and maidenhood, all of which ran

great risk from the moment when the before-mentioned sons of Mars

entered it. In addition to this, the native town of Polentinos, as a

city remote from the movement and stir brought with them by traffic,

the newspapers, railroads, and other agents which it is unnecessary now

to specify, did not wish to be disturbed in its tranquil existence.

Besides which, it manifested on every favorable occasion a strong

aversion to submitting to the central authority which, badly or well,

governs us; and calling to mind its former privileges and ruminating

upon them anew, as the camel chews the cud of the grass which it ate

yesterday, it would occasionally display a certain rebellious

independence, and vicious tendencies much to be deplored, which at

times gave no little anxiety to the governor of the province.

It must also be taken into account that Orbajosa had rebellious

antecedents, or rather ancestry. Doubtless it still retained some of

those energetic fibres which, in remote ages, according to the

enthusiastic opinion of Don Cayetano, impelled it to unexampled epic

deeds; and, even in its decadence, occasionally felt an eager desire to

do great things, although they might be only barbarities and follies.

As it had given to the world so many illustrious sons, it desired, no

doubt, that its actual scions, the Caballucos, Merengues, and

Pelosmalos, should renew the glorious /Gesta/ of their predecessors.

Whenever there was disaffection in Spain, Orbajosa gave proof that it

was not in vain that it existed on the face of the earth, although it

is true that it was never the theatre of a real war. The spirit of the

town, its situation, its history, all reduced it to the secondary part

of raising guerillas. It bestowed upon the country this national

product in 1827, at the time of the Apostolics, during the Seven Years'

War, in 1848, and at other epochs of less resonance in the national

history. The guerillas and their chiefs were always popular, a fatal

circumstance due to the War of Independence, one of those good things

which have been the origin of an infinite number of detestable things.

/Corruptio optimi pessima/. And with the popularity of the guerillas

and their chiefs coincided, in ever-increasing proportion, the

unpopularity of every one who entered Orbajosa in the character of a

delegate or instrument of the central power. The soldiers were held in

such disrepute there that, whenever the old people told of any crime,

any robbery, assassination, or the like atrocity, they added: "This

happened when the soldiers were here."

And now that these important observations have been made, it will be

well to add that the battalions sent there during the days in which the

events of our story took place did not go to parade through the

streets, but for another purpose which will be clearly and minutely set

forth later on. As a detail of no little interest, it may be noted that

the events here related took place at a period neither very remote nor

very recent. It may also be said that Orbajosa (called by the Romans

Urbs Augusta, although some learned moderns, enquiring into the

etymology of the termination /ajosa/[*] are of the opinion that it

comes by it from being the richest garlic-growing country in the world)

is neither very near Madrid nor very far from it; nor can we say whether

its glorious foundations are laid toward the north or toward the south,

toward the east or toward the west; but that it may be supposed to be

in any part of Spain where the pungent odor of its garlic is to be

perceived.

[*] Rich in garlic.

The billets of residence being distributed by the authorities, each

soldier went to seek his borrowed home. They were received by their

hosts with a very ill grace and assigned the most atrociously

uninhabitable parts of the houses. The girls of the city were not

indeed among those who were most dissatisfied, but a strict watch was

kept over them, and it was considered not decent to show pleasure at

the visit of such rabble. The few soldiers who were natives of the

district only were treated like kings. The others were regarded as

invaders.

At eight in the morning a lieutenant-colonel of cavalry entered the

house of Dona Perfecta Polentinos with his billet. He was received by

the servants, by order of its mistress, who, being at the time in a

deplorable state of mind, did not wish to go down stairs to meet the

soldier, and by them he was shown to the only room in the house which,

it seemed, was disposable, the room occupied by Pepe Rey.

"Let them settle themselves as best they can," said Dona Perfecta, with

an expression of gall and vinegar. "And if they have not room enough,

let them go into the street."

Was it her intention to annoy in this way her detested nephew, or was

there really no other unoccupied room in the house? This we do not

know, nor do the chronicles from which this true history is taken say a

word on this important point. What we know positively is that, far from

displeasing the two guests to be thus boxed up together, it gave them

great pleasure, as they happened to be old friends. They were greatly

surprised and delighted when they met, and they were never tired of

asking each other questions and uttering exclamations, dwelling on the

strange chance that had brought them together in such a place and on

such an occasion.

"Pinzon--you here! Why, what is this? I had no suspicion that you were

in this neighborhood."

"I heard that you were in this part of the country, Pepe; but I had no

idea, either, that I should meet you in this horrible, this barbarous

Orbajosa."

"But what a fortunate chance! For this chance is most fortunate--

providential. Pinzon, between us both we are going to do a great thing

in this wretched town."

"And we shall have time enough to consult about it," answered the

other, seating himself on the bed in which the engineer was lying, "for

it appears that we are both to occupy this room. What the devil sort of

a house is this?"

"Why, man, it is my aunt's. Speak with more respect about it. Have you

not met my aunt? But I am going to get up."

"I am very glad of it, for then I can lie down and rest; and badly I

need it. What a road, friend Pepe, what a road, and what a town!"

"Tell me, have you come to set fire to Orbajosa?"

"Fire!"

"I ask you because, in that case, I might help you."

"What a town! But what a town!" exclaimed the soldier, removing his

shako, and laying aside sword and shoulder-belt, travelling case and

cloak. "This is the second time they have sent us here. I swear to you

that the third time I will ask my discharge."

"Don't talk ill of these good people! But you have come in the nick of

time. It seems as if Providence has sent you to my aid, Pinzon. I have

a terrible project on hand, an adventure,--a plot, if you wish to call

it so, my friend,--and it would have been difficult for me to carry it

through without you. A moment ago I was in despair, wondering how I

should manage, and saying to myself anxiously, 'If I only had a friend

here, a good friend!' "

"A project, a plot, an adventure! One of two things, Senor

Mathematician: it is either the discovery of aerial navigation, or else

some love affair."

"It is serious, very serious. Go to bed, sleep a while, and afterward

we will talk about it."

"I will go to bed, but I will not sleep. You may say all you wish to

me. All that I ask is that you will say as little as possible about

Orbajosa."

"It is precisely about Orbajosa that I wish to speak to you. But have

you also an antipathy to this cradle of illustrious men?"

"These garlic-venders--we call them the garlic-venders--may be as

illustrious as you choose, but to me they are as irritating as the

product of the country. This is a town ruled by people who teach

distrust, superstition, and hatred of the whole human race. When we

have leisure I will relate to you an occurrence--an adventure, half-

comic, half-tragic--that happened to me here last year. When I tell it

to you, you will laugh and I shall be fuming. But, in fine, what is

past is past."

"In what is happening to me there is nothing comic."

"But I have various reasons for hating this wretched place. You must

know that my father was assassinated here in '48 by a party of

barbarous guerillas. He was a brigadier, and he had left the service.

The Government sent for him, and he was passing through Villahorrenda

on his way to Madrid, when he was captured by half a dozen ruffians.

Here there are several dynasties of guerilla chiefs--the Aceros, the

Caballucos, the Pelosmalos--a periodical eruption, as some one has said

who knew very well what he was talking about."

"I suppose that two infantry regiments and some cavalry have not come

here solely for the pleasure of visiting these delightful regions."

"Certainly not! We have come to survey the country. There are many

deposits of arms here. The Government does not venture, as it desires,

to remove from office the greater number of the municipal councils

without first distributing a few companies of soldiers through these

towns. As there is so much disturbance in this part of the country, as

two of the neighboring provinces are already infested, and as this

municipal district of Orbajosa has, besides, so brilliant a record in

all the civil wars, there are fears that the bravos of the place may

take to the roads and rob all they can lay hands on."

"A good precaution! But I am firmly convinced that not until these

people die and are born over again, not until the very stones have

changed their form, will there be peace in Orbajosa."

"That is my opinion too," said the officer, lighting a cigarette.

"Don't you see that the guerilla chiefs are the pets of this place?

Those who desolated the district in 1848 and at other epochs, or, if

not they, their sons, are employed in the market inspector's office, at

the town gates, in the town-hall, in the post-office; among them are

constables, sacristans, bailiffs. Some have become powerful party

leaders and they are the ones who manage the elections, have influence

in Madrid, bestow places--in short, this is terrible."

"And tell me, is there no hope of the guerilla chiefs performing some

exploit in these days? If that should happen, you could destroy the

town, and I would help you."

"If it depended upon me---- They will play their usual pranks no

doubt," said Pinzon, "for the insurrection in the two neighboring

provinces is spreading like wildfire. And between ourselves, friend

Rey, I think this is going to last for a long time. Some people smile

and say that it would be impossible that there should be another

insurrection like the last one. They don't know the country; they don't

know Orbajosa and its inhabitants. I believe that the war that is now

beginning will have serious consequences, and that we shall have

another cruel and bloody struggle, that will last Heaven knows how

long. What is your opinion?"

"Well, in Madrid I laughed at any one who spoke of the possibility of a

civil war as long and as terrible as the Seven Years' War; but since I

have been here----"

"One must come to the heart of this enchanting country, see the people

at home, and hear them talk, to know what the real state of affairs

is."

"Just so. Without knowing precisely on what I base my opinion, the fact

is that here I see things in a different light, and I now believe that

it is possible that there may be a long and bloody war."

"Exactly so."

"But at present my thoughts are occupied less by the public war than by

a private war in which I am engaged and which I declared a short time

ago."

"You said this was your aunt's house. What is her name?"

"Dona Perfecta Rey de Polentinos."

"Ah! I know her by reputation. She is an excellent person, and the only

one of whom I have not heard the garlic-venders speak ill. When I was

here before I heard her goodness, her charity, her innumerable virtues,

everywhere extolled."

"Yes, my aunt is very kind, very amiable," said Rey.

Then he fell into a thoughtful silence.

"But now I remember!" exclaimed Pinzon suddenly. "How one thing fits in

with another! Yes, I heard in Madrid that you were going to be married

to a cousin of yours. All is clear now. Is it that beautiful and

heavenly Rosario?"

"Pinzon, we must have a long talk together."

"I imagine that there are difficulties."

"There is something more; there is violent opposition. I have need of a

determined friend--a friend who is prompt to act, fruitful in resource,

of great experience in emergencies, astute and courageous."

"Why, this is even more serious than a challenge."

"A great deal more serious. It would be easy to fight with another man.

With women, with unseen enemies who work in the dark, it is

impossible."

"Come, I am all ears."

Lieutenant-colonel Pinzon lay stretched at full length upon the bed.

Pepe Rey drew a chair up to the bedside and, leaning his elbow on the

bed and his head on his hand, began his conference, consultation,

exposition of plan, or whatever else it might be called, and continued

talking for a long time. Pinzon listened to him with profound attention

and without interrupting him, except to ask an occasional question for

the purpose of obtaining further details or additional light upon some

obscure point. When Pepe Rey ended, Pinzon looked grave. He stretched

himself, yawning with the satisfaction of one who has not slept for

three nights, and then said:

"You plan is dangerous and difficult."

"But not impossible."

"Oh, no! for nothing is impossible. Reflect well about it."

"I have reflected."

"And you are resolved to carry it through? Consider that these things

are not now in fashion. They generally turn out badly and throw

discredit on those who undertake them."

"I am resolved."

"For my part, then, although the business is dangerous and serious--

very serious--I am ready to aid you in all things and for all things."

"Can I rely upon you?"

"To the death."

CHAPTER XIX

A TERRIBLE BATTLE-STRATEGY

The opening of hostilities could not long be delayed. When the hour of

dinner arrived, after coming to an agreement with Pinzon regarding the

plan to be pursued, the first condition of which was that the friends

should pretend not to know each other, Pepe Rey went to the dining-

room. There he found his aunt, who had just returned from the cathedral

where she had spent the morning as was her habit. She was alone, and

appeared to be greatly preoccupied. The engineer observed that on that

pale and marble-like countenance, not without a certain beauty, there

rested a mysterious shadow. When she looked up it recovered its

sinister calmness, but she looked up seldom, and after a rapid

examination of her nephew's countenance, that of the amiable lady would

again take on its studied gloom.

They awaited dinner in silence. They did not wait for Don Cayetano, for

he had gone to Mundogrande. When they sat down to table Dona Perfecta

said:

"And that fine soldier whom the Government has sent us, is he not

coming to dinner?"

"He seems to be more sleepy than hungry," answered the engineer,

without looking at his aunt.

"Do you know him?"

"I have never seen him in all my life before."

"We are nicely off with the guests whom the Government sends us. We

have beds and provisions in order to keep them ready for those

vagabonds of Madrid, whenever they may choose to dispose of them."

"There are fears of an insurrection," said Pepe Rey, with sudden heat,

"and the Government is determined to crush the Orbajosans--to crush

them, to grind them to powder."

"Stop, man, stop, for Heaven's sake; don't crush us!" cried Dona

Perfecta sarcastically. "Poor we! Be merciful, man, and allow us

unhappy creatures to live. And would you, then, be one of those who

would aid the army in the grand work of crushing us?"

"I am not a soldier. I will do nothing but applaud when I see the germs

of civil war; of insubordination, of discord, of disorder, of robbery,

and of barbarism that exist here, to the shame of our times and of our

country, forever extirpated."

"All will be as God wills."

"Orbajosa, my dear aunt, has little else than garlic and bandits; for

those who in the name of some political or religious idea set out in

search of adventures every four or five years are nothing but bandits."

"Thanks, thanks, my dear nephew!" said Dona Perfecta, turning pale. "So

Orbajosa has nothing more than that? Yet there must be something else

here--something that you do not possess, since you have come to look

for it among us."

Rey felt the cut. His soul was on fire. He found it very difficult to

show his aunt the consideration to which her sex, her rank, and her

relation to himself entitled her. He was on the verge of a violent

outbreak, and a force that he could not resist was impelling him

against his interlocutor.

"I came to Orbajosa," he said, "because you sent for me; you arranged

with my father--"

"Yes, yes; it is true," she answered, interrupting him quickly and

making an effort to recover her habitual serenity. "I do not deny it. I

am the one who is really to blame. I am to blame for your ill-humor,

for the slights you put upon us, for every thing disagreeable that has

been happening in my house since you entered it."

"I am glad that you are conscious of it."

"In exchange, you are a saint. Must I also go down on my knees to your

grace and ask your pardon?"

"Senora," said Pepe Rey gravely, laying down his knife and fork, "I

entreat you not to mock me in so pitiless a manner. I cannot meet you

on equal ground. All I have said is that I came to Orbajosa at your

invitation."

"And it is true. Your father and I arranged that you should marry

Rosario. You came in order to become acquainted with her. I accepted

you at once as a son. You pretended to love Rosario--"

"Pardon me," objected Pepe; "I loved and I love Rosario; you pretended

to accept me as a son; receiving me with deceitful cordiality, you

employed from the very beginning all the arts of cunning to thwart me

and to prevent the fulfilment of the proposals made to my father; you

determined from the first day to drive me to desperation, to tire me

out; and with smiles and affectionate words on your lips you have been

killing me, roasting me at the slow fire; you have let loose upon me in

the dark and from behind an ambush a swarm of lawsuits; you have

deprived me of the official commission which I brought to Orbajosa; you

have brought me into disrepute in the town; you have had me turned out

of the cathedral; you have kept me constantly separated from the chosen

of my heart; you have tortured your daughter with an inquisitorial

imprisonment which will cause her death, unless God interposes to

prevent it."

Dona Perfecta turned scarlet. But the flush of offended pride passed

away quickly, leaving her face of a greenish pallor. Her lips trembled.

Throwing down the knife and fork with which she had been eating, she

rose swiftly to her feet. Her nephew rose also.

"My God! Holy Virgin of Succor!" she cried, raising both her hands to

her head and pressing it between them with the gesture indicative of

desperation, "is it possible that I deserve such atrocious insults?

Pepe, my son, is it you who speak to me in this way? If I have done

what you say, I am indeed very wicked."

She sank on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Pepe,

approaching her slowly, saw that his aunt was sobbing bitterly and

shedding abundant tears. In spite of his conviction he could not

altogether conquer the feeling of compassion which took possession of

him; and while he condemned himself for his cowardice he felt something

of remorse for the severity and the frankness with which he had spoken.

"My dear aunt," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, "if you

answer me with tears and sighs, you will not convince me. Proofs, not

emotions, are what I require. Speak to me, tell me that I am mistaken

in thinking what I think; then prove it to me, and I will acknowledge

my error."

"Leave me, you are not my brother's son! If you were, you would not

insult me as you have insulted me. So, then, I am an intriguer, an

actress, a hypocritical harpy, a domestic plotter?"

As she spoke, Dona Perfecta uncovered her face and looked at her nephew

with a martyr-like expression. Pepe was perplexed. The tears as well as

the gentle voice of his father's sister could not be insignificant

phenomena for the mathematician's soul. Words crowded to his lips to

ask her pardon. A man of great firmness generally, any appeal to his

emotions, any thing which touched his heart, converted him at once into

a child. Weaknesses of a mathematician! It is said that Newton was the

same.

"I will give you the proofs you ask," said Dona Perfecta, motioning him

to a seat beside her. "I will give you satisfaction. You shall see

whether I am kind, whether I am indulgent, whether I am humble. Do you

think that I am going to contradict you; to deny absolutely the acts of

which you have accused me? Well, then, no; I do not deny them."

The engineer was astounded.

"I do not deny them," continued Dona Perfecta. "What I deny is the evil

intention which you attribute to them. By what right do you undertake

to judge of what you know only from appearances and by conjecture? Have

you the supreme intelligence which is necessary to judge justly the

actions of others and pronounce sentence upon them? Are you God, to

know the intentions?"

Pepe was every moment more amazed.

"Is it not allowable at times to employ indirect means to attain a good

and honorable end? By what right do you judge actions of mine that you

do not clearly understand? I, my dear nephew, manifesting a sincerity

which you do not deserve, confess to you that I have indeed employed

subterfuges to attain a good end, to attain what was at the same time

beneficial to you and to my daughter. You do not comprehend? You look

bewildered. Ah! your great mathematician's and German philosopher's

intellect is not capable of comprehending these artifices of a prudent

mother."

"I am more and more astounded every moment," said the engineer.

"Be as astounded as you choose, but confess your barbarity," said the

lady, with increasing spirit; "acknowledge your hastiness and your

brutal conduct toward me in accusing me as you have done. You are a

young man without any experience or any other knowledge than that which

is derived from books, which teach nothing about the world or the human

heart. All you know is how to make roads and docks. Ah, my young

gentleman! one does not enter into the human heart through the tunnel

of a railroad, or descend into its depths through the shaft of a mine.

You cannot read in the conscience of another with the microscope of a

naturalist, nor decide the question of another's culpability measuring

ideas with a theodolite."

"For God's sake, dear aunt!"

"Why do you pronounce the name of God when you do not believe in him?"

said Dona Perfecta, in solemn accents. "If you believed in him, if you

were a good Christian, you would not dare to form evil judgments about

my conduct. I am a devout woman, do you understand? I have a tranquil

conscience, do you understand? I know what I am doing and why I do it,

do you understand?"

"I understand, I understand, I understand!"

"God in whom you do not believe, sees what you do not see and what you

cannot see--the intention. I will say no more; I do not wish to enter

into minute explanations, for I do not need to do so. Nor would you

understand me if I should tell you that I desired to attain my object

without scandal, without offending your father, without offending you,

without giving cause for people to talk by an explicit refusal--I will

say nothing of all this to you, for you would not understand it,

either, Pepe. You are a mathematician. You see what is before your

eyes, and nothing more; brute matter and nothing more. You see the

effect, and not the cause. God is the supreme intention of the world.

He who does not know this must necessarily judge things as you judge

them--foolishly. In the tempest, for instance, he sees only

destruction; in the conflagration, ruin; in the drought, famine; in the

earthquake, desolation; and yet, arrogant young man, in all those

apparent calamities we are to seek the good intentions--yes, senor, the

intention, always good, of Him who can do nothing evil."

This confused, subtle, and mystic logic did not convince Pepe Rey; but

he did not wish to follow his aunt in the tortuous path of such a

method of reasoning, and he said simply:

"Well, I respect intentions."

"Now that you seem to recognize your error," continued the pious lady,

with ever-increasing confidence, "I will make another confession to

you, and that is that I see now that I did wrong in adopting the course

I did, although my object was excellent. In view of your impetuous

disposition, in view of your incapacity to comprehend me, I should have

faced the situation boldly and said to you, 'Nephew, I do not wish that

you should be my daughter's husband.' "

"That is the language you should have used to me from the beginning,"

said the engineer, drawing a deep breath, as if his mind had been

relieved from an enormous weight. "I am greatly obliged to you for

those words. After having been stabbed in the dark, this blow on the

face in the light of day is a great satisfaction to me."

"Well, I will repeat the blow, nephew," declared Dona Perfecta, with as

much energy as displeasure. "You know it now--I do not wish you to

marry Rosario!"

Pepe was silent. There was a long pause, during which the two regarded

each other attentively, as if the face of each was for the other the

most perfect work of art.

"Don't you understand what I have said to you?" she repeated. "That

every thing is at an end, that there is to be no marriage."

"Permit me, dear aunt," said the young man, with composure, "not to be

terrified by the intimation. In the state at which things have arrived

your refusal has little importance for me."

"What are you saying?" cried Dona Perfecta violently.

"What you hear. I will marry Rosario!"

Dona Perfecta rose to her feet, indignant, majestic, terrible. Her

attitude was that of anathema incarnated in a woman. Rey remained

seated, serene, courageous, with the passive courage of a profound

conviction and an immovable resolve. The whole weight of his aunt's

wrath, threatening to overwhelm him, did not make him move an eyelash.

This was his character.

"You are mad. Marry my daughter, you! Marry her against my will!"

Dona Perfecta's trembling lips articulated these words in a truly

tragic tone.

"Against your will! She is of a different way of thinking."

"Against my will!" repeated Dona Perfecta. "Yes, and I repeat it again

and again. I do not wish it, I do not wish it!"

"She and I wish it."

"Fool! Is nothing else in the world to be considered but her and you?

Are there not parents; is there not society; is there not a conscience;

is there not a God?"

"Because there is society, because there is a conscience, because there

is a God," affirmed Rey gravely, rising to his feet, and pointing with

outstretched arm to the heavens, "I say and I repeat that I will marry

her."

"Wretch! arrogant man! And if you would dare to trample every thing

under your feet, do you think there are not laws to prevent your

violence?"

"Because there are laws, I say and I repeat that I will marry her."

"You respect nothing!"

"Nothing that is unworthy of respect."

"And my authority, my will, I--am I nothing?"

"For me your daughter is every thing--the rest is nothing."

Pepe Rey's composure was, so to say, the arrogant display of invincible

and conscious strength. The blows he gave were hard and crushing in

their force, without any thing to mitigate their severity. His words,

if the comparison may be allowed, were like a pitiless discharge of

artillery.

Dona Perfecta sank again on the sofa; but she shed no tears, and a

convulsive tremor agitated her frame.

"So that for this infamous atheist," she exclaimed, with frank rage,

"there are no social conventionalities, there is nothing but caprice.

This is base avarice. My daughter is rich!"

"If you think to wound me with that treacherous weapon, evading the

question and giving a distorted meaning to my sentiments in order to

offend my dignity, you are mistaken, dear aunt. Call me mercenary, if

you choose. God knows what I am."

"You have no dignity!"

"That is an opinion, like any other. The world may hold you to be

infallible. I do not. I am far from believing that from your judgments

there is no appeal to God."

"But is what you say true? But do you persist in your purpose, after my

refusal? You respect nothing, you are a monster, a bandit."

"I am a man."

"A wretch! Let us end this at once. I refuse to give my daughter to

you; I refuse her to you!"

"I will take her then! I shall take only what is mine."

"Leave my presence!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta, rising suddenly to her

feet. "Coxcomb, do you suppose that my daughter thinks of you?"

"She loves me, as I love her."

"It is a lie! It is a lie!"

"She herself has told me so. Excuse me if, on this point, I put more

faith in her words than in her mother's."

"How could she have told you so, when you have not seen her for several

days?"

"I saw her last night, and she swore to me before the crucifix in the

chapel that she would be my wife."

"Oh, scandal; oh, libertinism! But what is this? My God, what a

disgrace!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta, pressing her head again between her

hands and walking up and down the room. "Rosario left her room last

night?"

"She left it to see me. It was time."

"What vile conduct is yours! You have acted like a thief; you have

acted like a vulgar seducer!"

"I have acted in accordance with the teachings of your school. My

intention was good."

"And she came down stairs! Ah, I suspected it! This morning at daybreak

I surprised her, dressed, in her room. She told me she had gone out, I

don't know for what. You were the real criminal, then. This is a

disgrace! Pepe, I expected any thing from you rather than an outrage

like this. Every thing is at an end! Go away! You are dead to me. I

forgive you, provided you go away. I will not say a word about this to

your father. What horrible selfishness! No, there is no love in you.

You do not love my daughter!"

"God knows that I love her, and that is sufficient for me."

"Be silent, blasphemer! and don't take the name of God upon your lips!"

exclaimed Dona Perfecta. "In the name of God, whom I can invoke, for I

believe in him, I tell you that my daughter will never be your wife. My

daughter will be saved, Pepe; my daughter shall not be condemned to a

living hell, for a union with you would be a hell!"

"Rosario will be my wife," repeated the mathematician, with pathetic

calmness.

The pious lady was still more exasperated by her nephew's calm energy.

In a broken voice she said:

"Don't suppose that your threats terrify me. I know what I am saying.

What! are a home and a family to be outraged like this? Are human and

divine authority to be trampled under foot in this way?"

"I will trample every thing under foot," said the engineer, beginning

to lose his composure and speaking with some agitation.

"You will trample every thing under foot! Ah! it is easy to see that

you are a barbarian, a savage, a man who lives by violence."

"No, dear aunt; I am mild, upright, honorable, and an enemy to

violence; but between you and me--between you who are the law and I who

am to honor it--is a poor tormented creature, one of God's angels,

subjected to iniquitous tortures. The spectacle of this injustice, this

unheard-of violence, is what has converted my rectitude into barbarity;

my reason into brute force; my honor into violence, like an assassin's

or a thief's; this spectacle, senora, is what impels me to disregard

your law, what impels me to trample it under foot, braving every thing.

This which appears to you lawlessness is obedience to an unescapable

law. I do what society does when a brutal power, as illogical as

irritating, opposes its progress. It tramples it under foot and

destroys it in an outburst of frenzy. Such am I at this moment--I do

not recognize myself. I was reasonable, and now I am a brute; I was

respectful, and now I am insolent; I was civilized, and now I am a

savage. You have brought me to this horrible extremity; infuriating me

and driving me from the path of rectitude which I was tranquilly

pursuing. Who is to blame--I or you?"

"You, you!"

"Neither you nor I can decide the question. I think we are both to

blame: you for your violence and injustice, I for my injustice and

violence. We have both become equally barbarous, and we struggle with

and wound each other without compassion. God has permitted that it

should be so; my blood will be upon your conscience, yours will be upon

mine. Enough now, senora. I do not wish to trouble you with useless

words. We will now proceed to acts."

"To acts, very well!" said Dona Perfecta, roaring rather than speaking.

"Don't suppose that in Orbajosa there is no civil guard!"

"Good-by, senora. I will now leave this house. I think we shall meet

again."

"Go, go! go now!" she cried, pointing with an energetic gesture to the

door.

Pepe Rey left the room. Dona Perfecta, after pronouncing a few

incoherent words, which were the clearest expression of her anger, sank

into a chair, with indications of fatigue, or of a coming attack of

nerves. The maids came running in.

"Go for Senor Don Inocencio!" she cried. "Instantly--hurry! Ask him to

come here!"

Then she tore her handkerchief with her teeth.

CHAPTER XX

RUMORS--FEARS

On the day following that of this lamentable quarrel, various rumors

regarding Pepe Rey and his conduct spread through Orbajosa, going from

house to house, from club to club, from the Casino to the apothecary's

and from the Paseo de las Descalzes to the Puerta de Baidejos. They

were repeated by every body, and so many were the comments made that,

if Don Cayetano had collected and compiled them, he might have formed

with them a rich "Thesaurus" of Orbajosan benevolence. In the midst of

the diversity of the reports circulated, there was agreement in regard

to certain important particulars, one of which was the following:

That the engineer, enraged at Dona Perfecta's refusal to marry Rosario

to an atheist, had raised his hand to his aunt.

The young man was living in the widow De Cusco's hotel, an

establishment mounted, as they say now, not at the height, but at the

depth of the superlative backwardness of the town. Lieutenant-colonel

Pinzon visited him with frequency, in order that they might discuss

together the plot which they had on hand, and for the successful

conduct of which the soldier showed the happiest dispositions. New

artifices and stratagems occurred to him at every instant, and he

hastened to put them into effect with excellent humor, although he

would often say to his friend:

"The role I am playing, dear Pepe, is not a very dignified one; but to

give an annoyance to the Orbajosans I would walk on my hands and feet."

We do not know what cunning stratagems the artful soldier, skilled in

the wiles of the world, employed; but certain it is that before he had

been in the house three days he had succeeded in making himself greatly

liked by every body in it. His manners were very pleasing to Dona

Perfecta, who could not hear unmoved his flattering praises of the

elegance of the house, and of the nobility, piety, and august

magnificence of its mistress. With Don Inocencio he was hand and glove.

Neither her mother nor the Penitentiary placed any obstacle in the way

of his speaking with Rosario (who had been restored to liberty on the

departure of her ferocious cousin); and, with his delicate compliments,

his skilful flattery, and great address, he had acquired in the house

of Polentinos considerable ascendency, and he had even succeeded in

establishing himself in it on a footing of familiarity. But the object

of all his arts was a servant maid named Librada, whom he had seduced

(chastely speaking) that she might carry messages and notes to Rosario,

of whom he pretended to be enamored. The girl allowed herself to be

bribed with persuasive words and a good deal of money, because she was

ignorant of the source of the notes and of the real meaning of the

intrigue, for had she known that it was all a diabolical plot of Don

Jose, although she liked the latter greatly, she would not have acted

with treachery toward her mistress for all the money in the world.

One day Dona Perfecta, Don Inocencio, Jacinto, and Pinzon were

conversing together in the garden. They were talking about the soldiers

and the purpose for which they had been sent to Orbajosa, in which the

Penitentiary found motive for condemning the tyrannical conduct of the

Government; and, without knowing how it came about, Pepe Rey's name was

mentioned.

"He is still at the hotel," said the little lawyer. "I saw him

yesterday, and he gave me remembrances for you, Dona Perfecta."

"Was there ever seen such insolence! Ah, Senor Pinzon! do not be

surprised at my using this language, speaking of my own nephew--that

young man, you remember, who had the room which you occupy."

"Yes, I know. I am not acquainted with him, but I know him by sight and

by reputation. He is an intimate friend of our brigadier."

"An intimate friend of the brigadier?"

"Yes, senor; of the commander of the brigade that has just arrived in

this district, and which is quartered in the neighboring villages."

"And where is he?" asked the lady.

"In Orbajosa."

"I think he is stopping at Polavieja's," observed Jacinto.

"Your nephew and Brigadier Batalla are intimate friends," continued

Pinzon; "they are always to be seen together in the streets."

"Well, my friend, that gives me a bad idea of your chief," said Dona

Perfecta.

"He is--he is very good-natured," said Pinzon, in the tone of one who,

through motives of respect, did not venture to use a harsher word.

"With your permission, Senor Pinzon, and making an honorable exception

in your favor, it must be said that in the Spanish army there are some

curious types----"

"Our brigadier was an excellent soldier before he gave himself up to

spiritualism."

"To spiritualism!"

"That sect that calls up ghosts and goblins by means of the legs of a

table!" said the canon, laughing.

"From curiosity, only from curiosity," said Jacintillo, with emphasis,

"I ordered Allan Kardec's book from Madrid. It is well to know

something about every thing."

"But is it possible that such follies--Heavens! Tell me, Pinzon, does

my nephew too belong to that sect of table-tippers?"

"I think it was he who indoctrinated our valiant Brigadier Batalla."

"Good Heavens!"

"Yes; and whenever he chooses," said Don Inocencio, unable to contain

his laughter, "he can speak to Socrates, St. Paul, Cervantes, or

Descartes, as I speak to Librada to ask her for a match. Poor Senor de

Rey! I was not mistaken in saying that there was something wrong in his

head."

"Outside that," continued Pinzon, "our brigadier is a good soldier. If

he errs at all, it is on the side of severity. He takes the orders of

the Government so literally that, if he were to meet with much

opposition here, he would be capable of not leaving one stone upon

another in Orbajosa. Yes, I advise you all to be on your guard."

"But is that monster going to cut all our heads off, then? Ah, Senor

Don Inocencio! these visits of the army remind me of what I have read

in the lives of the martyrs about the visits of the Roman proconsuls to

a Christian town."

"The comparison is not wanting in exactness," said the Penitentiary,

looking at the soldier over his spectacles.

"It is not very agreeable, but if it is the truth, why should it not be

said?" observed Pinzon benevolently. "Now you all are at our mercy."

"The authorities of the place," objected Jacinto, "still exercise their

functions as usual."

"I think you are mistaken," responded the soldier, whose countenance

Dona Perfecta and the Penitentiary were studying with profound

interest. "The alcalde of Orbajosa was removed from office an hour

ago."

"By the governor of the province?"

"The governor of the province has been replaced by a delegate from the

Government, who was to arrive this morning. The municipal councils will

all be removed from office to-day. The minister has so ordered because

he suspected, I don't know on what grounds, that they were not

supporting the central authority."

"This is a pretty state of things!" murmured the canon, frowning and

pushing out his lower lip.

Dona Perfecta looked thoughtful.

"Some of the judges of the primary court, among them the judge of

Orbajosa, have been deprived of office."

"The judge! Periquito--Periquito is no longer judge!" exclaimed Dona

Perfecta, in a voice and with the manner of a person who has just been

stung by a snake.

"The person who was judge in Orbajosa is judge no longer," said Pinzon.

"To-morrow the new judge will arrive."

"A stranger!"

"A stranger."

"A rascal, perhaps. The other was so honorable!" said Dona Perfecta,

with alarm. "I never asked any thing from him that he did not grant it

to me at once. Do you know who will be the new alcalde?"

"They say a corregidor is coming."

"There, say at once that the Deluge is coming, and let us be done with

it," said the canon, rising.

"So that we are at the brigadier's mercy!"

"For a few days only. Don't be angry with me. In spite of my uniform I

am an enemy of militarism; but we are ordered to strike--and we strike.

There could not be a viler trade than ours."

"That it is, that it is!" said Dona Perfecta, with difficulty

concealing her fury. "Now that you have confessed it---- So, then,

neither alcalde nor judge----"

"Nor governor of the province."

"Let them take the bishop from us also and send us a choir boy in his

stead."

"That is all that is wanting--if the people here will allow them to do

it," murmured Don Inocencio, lowering his eyes. "They won't stop at

trifles."

"And it is all because they are afraid of an insurrection in Orbajosa,"

exclaimed Dona Perfecta, clasping her hands and waving them up and

down. "Frankly, Pinzon, I don't know why it is that even the very

stones don't rise up in rebellion. I wish you no harm; but it would be

a just judgment on you if the water you drink turned into mud. You say

that my nephew is the intimate friend of the brigadier?"

"So intimate that they are together all day long; they were school-

fellows. Batalla loves him like a brother, and would do anything to

please him. In your place, senora, I would be uneasy."

"Oh, my God! I fear there will be an attack on the house!"

"Senora," declared the canon, with energy, "before I would consent that

there should be an attack on this honorable house--before I would

consent that the slightest harm should be done to this noble family--I,

my nephew, all the people of Orbajosa----"

Don Inocencio did not finish. His anger was so great that the words

refused to come. He took a few steps forward with a martial air, then

returned to his seat.

"I think that your fears are not idle," said Pinzon. "If it should be

necessary, I----"

"And I----" said Jacinto.

Dona Perfecta had fixed her eyes on the glass door of the dining-room,

through which could be seen a graceful figure. As she looked at it, it

seemed as if the cloud of apprehension which rested on her countenance

grew darker.

"Rosario! come in here, Rosario!" she said, going to meet the young

girl. "I fancy you look better to-day, and that you are more cheerful.

Don't you think that Rosario looks better? She seems a different

being."

They all agreed that the liveliest happiness was depicted on her

countenance.

CHAPTER XXI

"DESPERTA FERRO"

About this time the following items of news appeared in the Madrid

newspapers:

"There is no truth whatever in the report that there has been an

insurrection in the neighborhood of Orbajosa. Our correspondent in that

place informs us that the country is so little disposed for adventures

that the further presence of the Batalla brigade in that locality is

considered unnecessary."

"It is said that the Batalla brigade will leave Orbajosa, as troops are

not required there, to go to Villajuan de Nahara, where guerillas have

made their appearance."

"The news has been confirmed that the Aceros, with a number of mounted

followers, are ranging the district of Villajuan, adjacent to the

judicial district of Orbajosa. The governor of the province of X. has

telegraphed to the Government that Francisco Acero entered Las

Roquetas, where he demanded provisions and money. Domingo Acero

(Faltriquera), was ranging the Jubileo mountains, actively pursued by

the Civil Guards, who killed one of his men and captured another.

Bartolome Acero is the man who burned the registry office of Lugarnoble

and carried away with him as hostages the alcalde and two of the

principal landowners."

"Complete tranquillity reigns in Orbajosa, according to a letter which

we have before us, and no one there thinks of anything but cultivating

the garlic fields, which promise to yield a magnificent crop. The

neighboring districts, however, are infested with guerillas, but the

Batalla brigade will make short work of these."

Orbajosa was, in fact, tranquil. The Aceros, that warlike dynasty,

worthy, in the opinion of some, of figuring in the "Romancero," had

taken possession of the neighboring province; but the insurrection was

not spreading within the limits of the episcopal city. It might be

supposed that modern culture had at last triumphed in its struggle with

the turbulent habits of the great city of disorder, and that the latter

was tasting the delights of a lasting peace. So true is this that

Caballuco himself, one of the most important figures of the historic

rebellion of Orbajosa, said frankly to every one that he did not wish

to quarrel with the Government nor involve himself in a business which

might cost him dear.

Whatever may be said to the contrary, the impetuous nature of Ramos had

quieted down with years, and the fiery temper which he had received

with life from the ancestral Caballucos, the most valiant race of

warriors that had ever desolated the earth, had grown cooler. It is

also related that in those days the new governor of the province held a

conference with this important personage, and received from his lips

the most solemn assurances that he would contribute as far as in him

lay to the tranquillity of the country, and would avoid doing any thing

that might give rise to disturbances. Reliable witnesses declare that

he was to be seen in friendly companionship with the soldiers,

hobnobbing with this sergeant or the other in the tavern, and it was

even said that an important position in the town-hall of the capital of

the province was to be given him. How difficult it is for the historian

who tries to be impartial to arrive at the exact truth in regard to the

sentiments and opinions of the illustrious personages who have filled

the world with their fame! He does not know what to hold by, and the

absence of authentic records often gives rise to lamentable mistakes.

Considering events of such transcendent importance as that of the 18th

Brumaire, the sack of Rome by Bourbon, or the destruction of Jerusalem

--where is the psychologist or the historian who would be able to

determine what were the thoughts which preceded or followed them in the

minds of Bonaparte, of Charles V., and of Titus? Ours is an immense

responsibility. To discharge it in part we will report words, phrases,

and even discourses of the Orbajosan emperor himself; and in this way

every one will be able to form the opinion which may seem to him most

correct.

It is beyond a doubt that Cristobal Ramos left his house just after

dark, crossed the Calle del Condestable, and, seeing three countrymen

mounted on powerful mules coming toward him, asked them where they were

going, to which they answered that they were going to Senora Dona

Perfecta's house to take her some of the first fruits of their gardens

and a part of the rent that had fallen due. They were Senor Paso Largo,

a young man named Frasquito Gonzales, and a third, a man of medium

stature and robust make, who was called Vejarruco, although his real

name was Jose Esteban Romero. Caballuco turned back, tempted by the

agreeable society of these persons, who were old and intimate friends

of his, and accompanied them to Dona Perfecta's house. This took place,

according to the most reliable accounts, at nightfall, and two days

after the day on which Dona Perfecta and Pinzon held the conversation

which those who have read the preceding chapter will have seen recorded

there. The great Ramos stopped for a moment to give Librada certain

messages of trifling importance, which a neighbor had confided to his

good memory, and when he entered the dining-room he found the three

before-mentioned countrymen and Senor Licurgo, who by a singular

coincidence was also there, conversing about domestic matters and the

crops. The Senora was in a detestable humor; she found fault with every

thing, and scolded them harshly for the drought of the heavens and the

barrenness of the earth, phenomena for which they, poor men! were in no

wise to blame. The Penitentiary was also present. When Caballuco

entered, the good canon saluted him affectionately and motioned him to

a seat beside himself.

"Here is the individual," said the mistress of the house disdainfully.

"It seems impossible that a man of such little account should be so

much talked about. Tell me, Caballuco, is it true that one of the

soldiers slapped you on the face this morning?"

"Me! me!" said the Centaur, rising indignantly, as if he had received

the grossest insult.

"That is what they say," said Dona Perfecta. "Is it not true? I

believed it; for any one who thinks so little of himself--they might

spit in your face and you would think yourself honored with the saliva

of the soldiers."

"Senora!" vociferated Ramos with energy, "saving the respect which I

owe you, who are my mother, my mistress, my queen--saving the respect,

I say, which I owe to the person who has given me all that I possess--

saving the respect--"

"Well? One would think you were going to say something."

"I say then, that saving the respect, that about the slap is a

slander," he ended, expressing himself with extraordinary difficulty.

"My affairs are in every one's mouth--whether I come in or whether I go

out, where I am going and where I have come from--and why? All because

they want to make me a tool to raise the country. Pedro is contented in

his own house, ladies and gentlemen. The troops have come? Bad! but

what are we going to do about it? The alcalde and the secretary and the

judge have been removed from office? Very bad! I wish the very stones

of Orbajosa might rise up against them; but I have given my word to the

governor, and up to the present---"

He scratched his head, gathered his gloomy brows in a frown, and with

ever-increasing difficulty of speech continued:

"I may be brutal, disagreeable, ignorant, quarrelsome, obstinate, and

every thing else you choose, but in honor I yield to no one."

"What a pity of the Cid Campeador!" said Dona Perfecta contemptuously.

"Don't you agree with me, Senor Penitentiary, that there is not a

single man left in Orbajosa who has any shame in him?"

"That is a serious view to take of the case," responded the capitular,

without looking at his friend, or removing from his chin the hand on

which he rested his thoughtful face; "but I think this neighborhood has

accepted with excessive submission the heavy yoke of militarism."

Licurgo and the three countrymen laughed boisterously.

"When the soldiers and the new authorities," said Dona Perfecta, "have

taken from us our last real, when the town has been disgraced, we will

send all the valiant men of Orbajosa in a glass case to Madrid to be

put in the museum there or exhibited in the streets."

"Long life to the mistress!" cried the man called Vejarruco

demonstratively. "What she says is like gold. It won't be said on my

account that there are no brave men here, for if I am not with the

Aceros it is only because I have a wife and three children, and if any

thing was to happen--if it wasn't for that--"

"But haven't you given your word to the governor, too?" said Dona

Perfecta.

"To the governor?" cried the man named Frasquito Gonzalez. "There is

not in the whole country a scoundrel who better deserves a bullet.

Governor and Government, they are all of a piece. Last Sunday the

priest said so many rousing things in his sermon about the heresies and

the profanities of the people of Madrid--oh! it was worth while hearing

him! Finally, he shouted out in the pulpit that religion had no longer

any defenders."

"Here is the great Cristobal Ramos!" said Dona Perfecta, clapping the

Centaur on the back. "He mounts his horse and rides about in the Plaza

and up and down the high-road to attract the attention of the soldiers;

when they see him they are terrified at the fierce appearance of the

hero, and they all run away, half-dead with fright."

Dona Perfecta ended with an exaggerated laugh, which the profound

silence of her hearers made still more irritating. Caballuco was pale.

"Senor Paso Largo," continued the lady, becoming serious, "when you go

home to-night, send me your son Bartolome to stay here. I need to have

brave people in the house; and even with that it may very well happen

that, some fine morning, my daughter and myself will be found murdered

in our beds."

"Senora!" exclaimed every one.

"Senora!" cried Caballuco, rising to his feet, "is that a jest, or what

is it?"

"Senor Vejarruco, Senor Paso Largo," continued Dona Perfecta, without

looking at the bravo of the place, "I am not safe in my own house. No

one in Orbajosa is, and least of all, I. I live with my heart in my

mouth. I cannot close my eyes in the whole night."

"But who, who would dare----"

"Come," exclaimed Licurgo with fire, "I, old and sick as I am, would be

capable of fighting the whole Spanish army if a hair of the mistress'

head should be touched!"

"Senor Caballuco," said Frasquito Gonzalez, "will be enough and more

than enough."

"Oh, no," responded Dona Perfecta, with cruel sarcasm, "don't you see

that Ramos has given his word to the governor?"

Caballuco sat down again, and, crossing one leg over the other, clasped

his hands on them.

"A coward will be enough for me," continued the mistress of the house

implacably, "provided he has not given his word to any one. Perhaps I

may come to see my house assaulted, my darling daughter torn from my

arms, myself trampled under foot and insulted in the vilest manner----"

She was unable to continue. Her voice died away in her throat, and she

burst into tears.

"Senora, for Heaven's sake calm yourself! Come, there is no cause yet!"

said Don Inocencio hastily, and manifesting the greatest distress in

his voice and his countenance. "Besides, we must have a little

resignation and bear patiently the calamities which God sends us."

"But who, senora, who would dare to commit such outrages?" asked one of

the four countrymen. "Orbajosa would rise as one man to defend the

mistress."

"But who, who would do it?" they all repeated.

"There, don't trouble yourselves asking useless questions," said the

Penitentiary officiously. "You may go."

"No, no, let them stay," said Dona Perfecta quickly, drying her tears.

"The company of my loyal servants is a great consolation to me."

"May my race be accursed!" said Uncle Licurgo, striking his knee with

his clenched hand, "if all this mess is not the work of the mistress'

own nephew."

"Of Don Juan Rey's son?"

"From the moment I first set eyes on him at the station at

Villahorrenda, and he spoke to me with his honeyed voice and his

mincing manners," declared Licurgo, "I thought him a great--I will not

say what, through respect for the mistress. But I knew him--I put my

mark upon him from that moment, and I make no mistakes. A thread shows

what the ball is, as the saying goes; a sample tells what the cloth is,

and a claw what the lion is."

"Let no one speak ill of that unhappy young man in my presence," said

Senora de Polentinos severely. "No matter how great his faults may be,

charity forbids our speaking of them and giving them publicity."

"But charity," said Don Inocencio, with some energy, "does not forbid

us protecting ourselves against the wicked, and that is what the

question is. Since character and courage have sunk so low in unhappy

Orbajosa; since our town appears disposed to hold up its face to be

spat upon by half a dozen soldiers and a corporal, let us find

protection in union among ourselves."

"I will protect myself in whatever way I can," said Dona Perfecta

resignedly, clasping her hands. "God's will be done!"

"Such a stir about nothing! By the Lord! In this house they are all

afraid of their shadows," exclaimed Caballuco, half seriously, half

jestingly. "One would think this Don Pepito was a legion of devils.

Don't be frightened, senora. My little nephew Juan, who is thirteen,

will guard the house, and we shall see, nephew for nephew, which is the

best man."

"We all know already what your boasting and bragging signify," replied

Dona Perfecta. "Poor Ramos! You want to pretend to be very brave when

we have already had proof that you are not worth any thing."

Ramos turned slightly pale, while he fixed on Dona Perfecta a strange

look in which terror and respect were blended.

"Yes, man; don't look at me in that way. You know already that I am not

afraid of bugaboos. Do you want me to speak plainly to you now? Well,

you are a coward."

Ramos, moving about restlessly in his chair, like one who is troubled

with the itch, seemed greatly disturbed. His nostrils expelled and drew

in the air, like those of a horse. Within that massive frame a storm of

rage and fury, roaring and destroying, struggled to escape. After

stammering a few words and muttering others under his breath, he rose

to his feet and bellowed:

"I will cut off the head of Senor Rey!"

"What folly! You are as brutal as you are cowardly," said Dona

Perfecta, turning pale. "Why do you talk about killing? I want no one

killed, much less my nephew--a person whom I love, in spite of his

wickedness."

"A homicide! What an atrocity!" exclaimed Don Inocencio, scandalized.

"The man is mad!"

"To kill! The very idea of killing a man horrifies me, Caballuco," said

Dona Perfecta, closing her mild eyes. "Poor man! Ever since you have

been wanting to show your bravery, you have been howling like a

ravening wolf. Go away, Ramos; you terrify me."

"Doesn't the mistress say she is afraid? Doesn't she say that they will

attack the house; that they will carry off the young lady?"

"Yes, I fear so."

"And one man is going to do that," said Ramos contemptuously, sitting

down again, "Don Pepe Poquita Cosa, with his mathematics, is going to

do that. I did wrong in saying I would slit his throat. A doll of that

kind one takes by the ear and ducks in the river."

"Yes, laugh now, you fool! It is not my nephew alone who is going to

commit the outrages you have mentioned and which I fear; if it were he

alone I should not fear him. I would tell Librada to stand at the door

with a broom--and that would be sufficient. It is not he alone, no!"

"Who then?"

"Pretend you don't understand! Don't you know that my nephew and the

brigadier who commands that accursed troop have been confabulating?"

"Confabulating!" repeated Caballuco, as if puzzled by the word.

"That they are bosom friends," said Licurgo. "Confabulate means to be

like bosom friends. I had my suspicions already of what the mistress

says."

"It all amounts to this--that the brigadier and the officers are hand

and glove with Don Jose, and what he wants those brave soldiers want;

and those brave soldiers will commit all kinds of outrages and

atrocities, because that is their trade."

"And we have no alcalde to protect us."

"Nor judge."

"Nor governor. That is to say that we are at the mercy of that infamous

rabble."

"Yesterday," said Vejarruco, "some soldiers enticed away Uncle Julian's

youngest daughter, and the poor thing was afraid to go back home; they

found her standing barefooted beside the old fountain, crying and

picking up the pieces of her broken jar."

"Poor Don Gregorio Palomeque, the notary of Naharilla Alta!" said

Frasquito. "Those rascals robbed him of all the money he had in his

house. And all the brigadier said, when he was told about it, was it

was a lie."

"Tyrants! greater tyrants were never born," said the other. "When I say

that it is through punctilio that I am not with the Aceros!"

"And what news is there of Francisco Acero?" asked Dona Perfecta

gently. "I should be sorry if any mischance were to happen to him. Tell

me, Don Inocencio, was not Francisco Acero born in Orbajosa?"

"No; he and his brother are from Villajuan."

"I am sorry for it, for Orbajosa's sake," said Dona Perfecta. "This

poor city has fallen into misfortune. Do you know if Francisco Acero

gave his word to the governor not to trouble the poor soldiers in their

abductions, in their impious deeds, in their sacrilegious acts, in

their villanies?"

Caballuco sprang from his chair. He felt himself now not stung, but cut

to the quick by a cruel stroke, like that of a sabre. With his face

burning and his eyes flashing fire he cried:

"I gave my word to the governor because the governor told me that they

had come for a good purpose."

"Barbarian, don't shout! Speak like other people, and we will listen to

you."

"I promised that neither I nor any of my friends would raise guerillas

in the neighborhood of Orbajosa. To those who wanted to take up arms

because they were itching to fight I said: 'Go to the Aceros, for here

we won't stir.' But I have a good many honest men, yes, senora; and

true men, yes, senora; and valiant men, yes, senora; scattered about in

the hamlets and villages and in the suburbs and the mountains, each in

his own house, eh? And so soon as I say a quarter of a word to them,

eh? they will be taking down their guns, eh? and setting out on

horseback or on foot, for whatever place I tell them. And don't keep

harping on words, for if I gave my word it was because I don't wish to

fight; and if I want guerillas there will be guerillas; and if I don't

there won't, for I am who I am, the same man that I always was, as

every one knows very well. And I say again don't keep harping on words,

eh? and don't let people say one thing to me when they mean another,

eh? and if people want me to fight, let them say so plainly, eh? for

that is what God has given us tongues for, to say this thing or that.

The mistress knows very well who I am, as I know that I owe to her the

shirt on my back, and the bread I eat to-day, and the first pea I

sucked after I was weaned, and the coffin in which my father was buried

when he died, and the medicines and the doctor that cured me when I was

sick; and the mistress knows very well that if she says to me,

'Caballuco, break your head,' I will go there to the corner and dash it

against the wall; the mistress knows very well that if she tells me now

that it is day, although I see that it is night, I will believe that I

am mistaken, and that it is broad day; the mistress knows very well

that she and her interests are for me before my own life, and that if a

mosquito stings her in my presence, I pardon it, because it is a

mosquito; the mistress knows very well that she is dearer to me than

all there is besides under the sun. To a man of heart like me one says,

'Caballuco, you stupid fellow, do this or do that.' And let there be an

end to sarcasms, and beating about the bush, and preaching one thing

and meaning another, and a stab here and a pinch there."

"There, man, calm yourself," said Dona Perfecta kindly. "You have

worked yourself into a heat like those republican orators who came here

to preach free religion, free love, and I don't know how many other

free things. Let them bring you a glass of water."

Caballuco, twisting his handkerchief into a ball, wiped with it his

broad forehead and his neck, which were bathed in perspiration. A glass

of water was brought to him and the worthy canon, with a humility that

was in perfect keeping with his sacerdotal character, took it from the

servant's hand to give it to him himself, and held the plate while he

drank. Caballuco gulped down the water noisily.

"Now bring another glass for me, Senora Librada," said Don Inocencio.

"I have a little fire inside me too."

CHAPTER XXII

"DESPERTA!"

"With regard to the guerillas," said Dona Perfecta, when they had

finished drinking, "all I will say is--do as your conscience dictates

to you."

"I know nothing about dictations," cried Ramos. "I will do whatever the

mistress pleases!"

"I can give you no advice on so important a matter," answered Dona

Perfecta with the cautiousness and moderation which so well became her.

"This is a very serious business, and I can give you no advice about

it."

"But your opinion----"

"My opinion is that you should open your eyes and see, that you should

open your ears and hear. Consult your own heart--I will grant that you

have a great heart. Consult that judge, that wise counsellor, and do as

it bids you."

Caballuco reflected; he meditated as much as a sword can meditate.

"We counted ourselves yesterday in Naharilla Alta," said Vejarruco,

"and we were thirteen--ready for any little undertaking. But as we were

afraid the mistress might be vexed, we did nothing. It is time now for

the shearing."

"Don't mind about the shearing," said Dona Perfecta. "There will be

time enough for it. It won't be left undone for that."

"My two boys quarrelled with each other yesterday," said Licurgo,

"because one of them wanted to join Francisco Acero and the other

didn't. 'Easy, boys, easy,' I said to them; 'all in good time. Wait; we

know how to fight here as well as they do anywhere else.' "

"Last night," said Uncle Paso Largo, "Roque Pelosmalos told me that the

moment Senor Ramos said half a word they would all be ready, with their

arms in their hands. What a pity that the two Burguillos brothers went

to work in the fields in Lugarnoble!"

"Go for them you," said the mistress quickly. "Senor Lucas, do you

provide Uncle Paso Largo with a horse."

"And if the mistress tells me to do so, and Senor Ramos agrees," said

Frasquito Gonzalez, "I will go to Villahorrenda to see if Robustiano,

the forester, and his brother Pedro will also--"

"I think that is a good idea. Robustiano will not venture to come to

Orbajosa, because he owes me a trifle. You can tell him that I forgive

him the six dollars and a half. These poor people who sacrifice

themselves with so little. Is it not so, Senor Don Inocencio?"

"Our good Ramos here tells me," answered the canon, "that his friends

are displeased with him for his lukewarmness; but that, as soon as they

see that he has decided, they will all put the cartridge-box in their

belts."

"What, have you decided to take to the roads?" said the mistress. "I

have not advised you to do any such thing, and if you do it, it is of

your own free-will. Neither has Senor Don Inocencio said a word to you

to that effect. But if that is your decision, you have no doubt strong

reasons for coming to it. Tell me, Cristobal, will you have some

supper? Will you take something--speak frankly."

"As far as my advising Senor Ramos to take the field is concerned,"

said Don Inocencio, looking over his spectacles, "Dona Perfecta is

quite right. I, as an ecclesiastic, could advise nothing of the kind. I

know that some priests do so, and even themselves take up arms; but

that seems to me improper, very improper, and I for one will not follow

their example. I carry my scrupulosity so far as not to say a word to

Senor Ramos about the delicate question of his taking up arms. I know

that Orbajosa desires it; I know that all the inhabitants of this noble

city would bless him for it; I know that deeds are going to be done

here worthy of being recorded in history; but notwithstanding, let me

be allowed to maintain a discreet silence."

"Very well said," said Dona Perfecta. "I don't approve of ecclesiastics

taking any part in such matters. That is the way an enlightened priest

ought to act. Of course we know that on serious and solemn occasions,

as when our country and our faith are in danger, for instance, it is

within the province of an ecclesiastic to incite men to the conflict

and even to take a part in it. Since God himself has taken part in

celebrated battles, under the form of angels and saints, his ministers

may very well do so also. During the wars against the infidels how many

bishops headed the Castilian troops!"

"A great many, and some of them were illustrious warriors. But these

times are not like those senora. It is true that, if we examine the

matter closely, the faith is in greater danger now than it was then.

For what do the troops that occupy our city and the surrounding

villages represent? What do they represent? Are they any thing else but

the vile instruments of which the atheists and Protestants who infest

Madrid make use for their perfidious conquests and the extermination of

the faith? In that centre of corruption, of scandal, of irreligion and

unbelief, a few malignant men, bought by foreign gold, occupy

themselves in destroying in our Spain the deeds of faith. Why, what do

you suppose? They allow us to say mass and you to hear it through the

remnant of consideration, for shame's sake--but, the day least

expected-- For my part, I am tranquil. I am not a man to disturb myself

about any worldly and temporal interest. Dona Perfecta is well aware of

that; all who know me are aware of it. My mind is at rest, and the

triumph of the wicked does not terrify me. I know well that terrible

days are in store for us; that all of us who wear the sacerdotal garb

have our lives hanging by a hair, for Spain, doubt it not, will witness

scenes like those of the French Revolution, in which thousands of pious

ecclesiastics perished in a single day. But I am not troubled. When the

hour to kill strikes, I will present my neck. I have lived long enough.

Of what use am I? None, none!"

"May I be devoured by dogs," exclaimed Vejarruco, shaking his fist,

which had all the hardness and the strength of a hammer, "if we do not

soon make an end of that thievish rabble!"

"They say that next week they will begin to pull down the cathedral,"

observed Frasquito.

"I suppose they will pull it down with pickaxes and hammers," said the

canon, smiling. "There are artificers who, without those implements,

can build more rapidly than they can pull down. You all know that,

according to holy tradition, our beautiful chapel of the Sagrario was

pulled down by the Moors in a month, and immediately afterward rebuilt

by the angels in a single night. Let them pull it down; let them pull

it down!"

"In Madrid, as the curate of Naharilla told us the other night," said

Vejarruco, "there are so few churches left standing that some of the

priests say mass in the middle of the street, and as they are beaten

and insulted and spat upon, there are many who don't wish to say it."

"Fortunately here, my children," observed Don Inocencio, "we have not

yet had scenes of that nature. Why? Because they know what kind of

people you are; because they have heard of your ardent piety and your

valor. I don't envy the first ones who lay hands on our priests and our

religion. Of course it is not necessary to say that, if they are not

stopped in time, they will commit atrocities. Poor Spain, so holy and

so meek and so good! Who would have believed she would ever arrive at

such extremities! But I maintain that impiety will not triumph, no.

There are courageous people still; there are people still like those of

old. Am I not right, Senor Ramos?"

"Yes, senor, that there are," answered the latter.

"I have a blind faith in the triumph of the law of God. Some one must

stand up in defence of it. If not one, it will be another. The palm of

victory, and with it eternal glory, some one must bear. The wicked will

perish, if not to-day, to-morrow. That which goes against the law of

God will fall irremediably. Let it be in this manner or in that, fall

it must. Neither its sophistries, nor its evasions, nor its artifices

will save it. The hand of God is raised against it and will infallibly

strike it. Let us pity them and desire their repentance. As for you, my

children, do not expect that I shall say a word to you about the step

which you are no doubt going to take. I know that you are good; I know

that your generous determination and the noble end which you have in

view will wash away from you all the stain of the sin of shedding

blood. I know that God will bless you; that your victory, the same as

your death, will exalt you in the eyes of men and in the eyes of God. I

know that you deserve palms and glory and all sorts of honors; but in

spite of this, my children, my lips will not incite you to the combat.

They have never done it, and they will not do it now. Act according to

the impulse of your own noble hearts. If they bid you to remain in your

houses, remain in them; if they bid you to leave them--why, then, leave

them. I will resign myself to be a martyr and to bow my neck to the

executioner, if that vile army remains here. But if a noble and ardent

and pious impulse of the sons of Orbajosa contributes to the great work

of the extirpation of our country's ills, I shall hold myself the

happiest of men, solely in being your fellow-townsman; and all my life

of study, of penitence, of resignation, will seem to me less

meritorious, less deserving of heaven, than a single one of your heroic

days."

"Impossible to say more or to say it better!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta,

in a burst of enthusiasm.

Caballuco had leaned forward in his chair and was resting his elbows on

his knees; when the canon ended he took his hand and kissed it with

fervor.

"A better man was never born," said Uncle Licurgo, wiping, or

pretending to wipe away a tear.

"Long life to the Senor Penitentiary!" cried Frasquito Gonzalez, rising

to his feet and throwing his cap up to the ceiling.

"Silence!" said Dona Perfecta. "Sit down, Frasquito! You are one of

those with whom it is always much cry and little wool."

"Blessed be God who gave you that eloquent tongue!" exclaimed

Cristobal, inflamed with admiration. "What a pair I have before me!

While these two live what need is there of any one else? All the people

in Spain ought to be like them. But how could that be, when there is

nothing in it but roguery! In Madrid, which is the capital where the

law and the mandarins come from, every thing is robbery and cheating.

Poor religion, what a state they have brought it to! There is nothing

to be seen but crimes. Senor Don Inocencio, Senora Dona Perfecta, by my

father's soul, by the soul of my grandfather, by the salvation of my

own soul, I swear that I wish to die!"

"To die!"

"That I wish those rascally dogs may kill me, and I say that I wish

they may kill me, because I cannot cut them in quarters. I am very

little."

"Ramos, you are great," said Dona Perfecta solemnly.

"Great? Great? Very great, as far as my courage is concerned; but have

I fortresses, have I cavalry, have I artillery?"

"That is a thing, Ramos," said Dona Perfecta, smiling, "about which I

would not concern myself. Has not the enemy what you lack?"

"Yes."

"Take it from him, then."

"We will take it from him, yes, senora. When I say that we will take it

from him--"

"My dear Ramos," exclaimed Don Inocencio, "yours is an enviable

position. To distinguish yourself, to raise yourself above the base

multitude, to put yourself on an equality with the greatest heroes of

the earth, to be able to say that the hand of God guides your hand--oh,

what grandeur and honor! My friend, this is not flattery. What dignity,

what nobleness, what magnanimity! No; men of such a temper cannot die.

The Lord goes with them, and the bullet and the steel of the enemy are

arrested in their course; they do not dare--how should they dare--to

touch them, coming from the musket and the hand of heretics? Dear

Caballuco, seeing you, seeing your bravery and your nobility, there

come to my mind involuntarily the verses of that ballad on the conquest

of the Empire of Trebizond:

" 'Came the valiant Roland

Armed at every point,

On his war-horse mounted,

The gallant Briador;

His good sword Durlindana

Girded to his side,

Couched for the attack his lance,

On his arm his buckler stout,

Through his helmet's visor

Flashing fire he came;

Quivering like a slender reed

Shaken by the wind his lance,

And all the host united

Defying haughtily.' "

"Very good," exclaimed Licurgo, clapping his hands. "And I say like Don

Renialdos:

" 'Let none the wrath of Don Renialdos

Dare brave and hope to escape unscathed;

For he who seeks with him a quarrel,

Shall pay so dearly for his rashness

That he, and all his cause who champion,

Shall at my hand or meet destruction

Or chastisement severe shall suffer.' "

"Ramos, you will take some supper, you will eat something; won't you?"

said the mistress of the house.

"Nothing, nothing;" answered the Centaur. "Or if you give me any thing,

let it be a plate of gunpowder."

And bursting into a boisterous laugh, he walked up and down the room

several times, attentively observed by every one; then, stopping beside

the group, he looked fixedly at Dona Perfecta and thundered forth these

words:

"I say that there is nothing more to be said. Long live Orbajosa! death

to Madrid!"

And he brought his hand down on the table with such violence that the

floor shook.

"What a valiant spirit!" said Don Inocencio.

"What a fist you have!"

Every one was looking at the table, which had been split in two by the

blow.

Then they looked at the never-enough-to-be-admired Renialdos or

Caballuco. Undoubtedly there was in his handsome countenance, in his

green eyes animated by a strange, feline glow, in his black hair, in

his herculean frame, a certain expression and air of grandeur--a trace,

or rather a memory, of the grand races that dominated the world. But

his general aspect was one of pitiable degeneration, and it was

difficult to discover the noble and heroic filiation in the brutality

of the present. He resembled Don Cayetano's great men as the mule

resembles the horse.

CHAPTER XXIII

MYSTERY

The conference lasted for some time longer, but we omit what followed

as not being necessary to a clear understanding of our story. At last

they separated, Senor Don Inocencio remaining to the last, as usual.

Before the canon and Dona Perfecta had had time to exchange a word, an

elderly woman, Dona Perfecta's confidential servant and her right hand,

entered the dining-room, and her mistress, seeing that she looked

disturbed and anxious, was at once filled with disquietude, suspecting

that something wrong was going on in the house.

"I can't find the senorita anywhere," said the servant, in answer to

her mistress' questions.

"Good Heavens--Rosario! Where is my daughter?"

"Virgin of Succor protect us!" cried the Penitentiary, taking up his

hat and preparing to hurry out with Dona Perfecta.

"Search for her well. But was she not with you in her room?"

"Yes, senora," answered the old woman, trembling, "but the devil

tempted me, and I fell asleep."

"A curse upon your sleep! What is this? Rosario, Rosario! Librada!"

They went upstairs and came down again, they went up a second time and

came down again; carrying a light and looking carefully in all the

rooms. At last the voice of the Penitentiary was heard saying joyfully

from the stairs:

"Here she is, here she is! She has been found."

A moment later mother and daughter were standing face to face in the

hall.

"Where were you?" asked Dona Perfecta, in a severe voice, scrutinizing

her daughter's face closely.

"In the garden," answered the girl, more dead than alive.

"In the garden at this hour? Rosario!"

"I was warm, I went to the window, my handkerchief dropped out, and I

came down stairs for it!"

"Why didn't you ask Librada to get it for you? Librada! Where is that

girl? Has she fallen asleep too?"

Librada at last made her appearance. Her pale face revealed the

consternation and the apprehension of the delinquent.

"What is this? Where were you?" asked her mistress, with terrible

anger.

"Why, senora, I came down stairs to get the clothes out of the front

room--and I fell asleep."

"Every one here seems to have fallen asleep to-night. Some of you, I

fancy, will not sleep in my house to-morrow night. Rosario, you may

go."

Comprehending that it was necessary to act with promptness and energy,

Dona Perfecta and the canon began their investigations without delay.

Questions, threats, entreaties, promises, were skilfully employed to

discover the truth regarding what had happened. Not even the shadow of

guilt was found to attach to the old servant; but Librada confessed

frankly between tears and sighs all her delinquencies, which we will

sum up as follows:

Shortly after his arrival in the house Senor Pinzon had begun to cast

loving glances at Senorita Rosario. He had given money to Librada,

according to what the latter said, to carry messages and love-letters

to her. The young lady had not seemed angry, but, on the contrary,

pleased, and several days had passed in this manner. Finally, the

servant declared that Rosario and Senor Pinzon had agreed to meet and

talk with each other on this night at the window of the room of the

latter, which opened on the garden. They had confided their design to

the maid, who promised to favor it, in consideration of a sum which was

at once given her. It had been agreed that Senor Pinzon was to leave

the house at his usual hour and return to it secretly at nine o'clock,

go to his room, and leave it and the house again, clandestinely also, a

little later, to return, without concealment, at his usual late hour.

In this way no suspicion would fall upon him. Librada had waited for

Pinzon, who had entered the house closely enveloped in his cloak,

without speaking a word. He had gone to his room at the same moment in

which the young lady descended to the garden. During the interview, at

which she was not present, Librada had remained on guard in the hall to

warn Pinzon, if any danger should threaten; and at the end of an hour

the latter had left the house enveloped in his cloak, as before, and

without speaking a word. When the confession was ended Don Inocencio

said to the wretched girl:

"Are you sure that the person who came into and went out of the house

was Senor Pinzon?"

The culprit answered nothing, but her features expressed the utmost

perplexity.

Her mistress turned green with anger.

"Did you see his face?"

"But who else could it be but he?" answered the maid. "I am certain

that it was he. He went straight to his room--he knew the way to it

perfectly well."

"It is strange," said the canon. "Living in the house there was no need

for him to use such mystery. He might have pretended illness and

remained in the house. Does it not seem so to you, senora?"

"Librada," exclaimed the latter, in a paroxysm of anger, "I vow that

you shall go to prison."

And clasping her hands, she dug the nails of the one into the other

with such force as almost to draw blood.

"Senor Don Inocencio," she exclaimed, "let us die--there is no remedy

but to die."

Then she burst into a fit of inconsolable weeping.

"Courage, senora," said the priest, in a moved voice. "Courage--now it

is necessary to be very brave. This requires calmness and a great deal

of courage.

"Mine is immense," said Senora de Polentinos, in the midst of her sobs.

"Mine is very small," said the canon; "but we shall see, we shall see."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CONFESSION

Meanwhile Rosario--with her heart torn and bleeding, unable to shed

tears, unable to be at peace or rest, transpierced by grief as by a

sharp sword, with her thoughts passing swiftly from the world to God

and from God to the world, bewildered and half-crazed, her hands

clasped, her bare feet resting on the floor--was kneeling, late in the

evening, in her own room, beside her bed, on the edge of which she

rested her burning forehead, in darkness, in solitude, and in silence.

She was careful not to make the slightest noise, in order not to

attract the attention of her mother, who was asleep, or seemed to be

asleep, in the adjoining room. She lifted up her distracted thoughts to

Heaven in this form:

"Lord, my God, why is it that before I did not know how to lie, and now

I know? Why did I not know before how to deceive, and now I deceive? Am

I a vile woman? Is this that I feel, is this that is happening to me, a

fall from which there can be no arising? Have I ceased to be virtuous

and good? I do not recognize myself. Is it I or is it some one else who

is in this place? How many terrible things in a few days! How many

different sensations! My heart is consumed with all it has felt. Lord,

my God, dost thou hear my voice, or am I condemned to pray eternally

without being heard? I am good, nothing will convince me that I am not

good. To love, to love boundlessly, is that wickedness? But no--it is

no illusion, no error--I am worse than the worst woman on earth. A

great serpent is within me, and has fastened his poisonous fangs in my

heart. What is this that I feel? My God, why dost thou not kill me? Why

dost thou not plunge me forever into the depths of hell? It is

frightful, but I confess it to the priest--I hate my mother. Why is

this? I cannot explain it to myself. He has not said a word to me

against my mother. I do not know how this is come to pass. How wicked I

am! The demons have taken possession of me. Lord, come to my help, for

with my own strength alone I cannot vanquish myself. A terrible impulse

urges me to leave this house. I wish to escape, to fly from it. If he

does not take me, I will drag myself after him through the streets.

What divine joy is this that mingles in my breast with so cruel a

grief? Lord God, my father, illumine me. I desire only to love. I was

not born for this hatred that is consuming me. I was not born to

deceive, to lie, to cheat. To-morrow I will go out into the streets and

cry aloud to all the passers-by: 'I love! I hate!' My heart will

relieve itself in this way. What happiness it would be to be able to

reconcile every thing, to love and respect every one! May the Most Holy

Virgin protect me. Again that terrible idea! I don't wish to think it,

and I think it. Ah! I cannot deceive myself in regard to this. I can

neither destroy it nor diminish it--but I can confess it; and I confess

it, saying to thee: 'Lord, I hate my mother!' "

At last she fell into a doze. In her uneasy sleep her imagination

reproduced in her mind all she had done that night, distorting it,

without altering it in substance. She heard again the clock of the

cathedral striking nine; she saw with joy the old servant fall into a

peaceful sleep; and she left the room very slowly, in order to make no

noise; she descended the stairs softly, step by step and on tiptoe, in

order to avoid making the slightest sound. She went into the garden,

going around through the servants' quarters and the kitchen; in the

garden she paused for a moment to look up at the sky, which was dark

and studded with stars. The wind was hushed. Not a breath disturbed the

profound stillness of the night. It seemed to maintain a fixed and

silent attention--the attention of eyes that look without winking and

ears that listen attentively, awaiting a great event. The night was

watching.

She then approached the glass door of the dining-room and looked

cautiously through it, from a little distance, fearing that those

within might perceive her. By the light of the dining-room lamp she saw

her mother sitting with her back toward her. The Penitentiary was on

her right, and his profile seemed to undergo a strange transformation,

his nose grew larger and larger, seeming like the beak of some fabulous

bird; and his whole face became a black silhouette with angles here and

there, sharp derisive, irritating. In front of him sat Caballuco, who

resembled a dragon rather than a man. Rosario could see his green eyes,

like two lanterns of convex glass. This glow, and the imposing figure

of the animal, inspired her with fear. Uncle Licurgo and the other

three men appeared to her imagination like grotesque little figures.

She had seen somewhere, doubtless in some of the clay figures at the

fairs, that foolish smile, those coarse faces, that stupid look. The

dragon moved his arms which, instead of gesticulating, turned round,

like the arms of a windmill, and the green globes, like the lights of a

pharmacy, moved from side to side. His glance was blinding. The

conversation appeared to be interesting. The Penitentiary was flapping

his wings. He was a presumptuous bird, who tried to fly and could not.

His beak lengthened itself, twisting round and round. His feathers

stood out, as if with rage; and then, collecting himself and becoming

pacified, he hid his bald head under his wings. Then the little clay

figures began to move, wishing to be persons, and Frasquito Gonzalez

was trying to pass for a man.

Rosario felt an inexplicable terror, witnessing this friendly

conference. She went away from the door and advanced, step by step,

looking around her to see if she was observed. Although she saw no one,

she fancied that a million eyes were fastened upon her. But suddenly

her fears and her shame were dispelled. At the window of the room

occupied by Senor Pinzon appeared a man, dressed in blue; the buttons

on his coat shone like rows of little lights. She approached. At the

same instant she felt a pair of arms with galloons lift her up as if

she were a feather and with a swift movement place her in the room. All

was changed. Suddenly a crash was heard, a violent blow that shook the

house to its foundations. Neither knew the cause of the noise. They

trembled and were silent.

It was the moment in which the dragon had broken the table in the

dining-room.

CHAPTER XXV

UNFORESEEN EVENTS--A PASSING DISAGREEMENT

The scene changes. We see before us a handsome room, bright, modest,

gay, comfortable, and surprisingly clean. A fine matting covers the

floor, and the white walls are covered with good prints of saints and

some sculptures of doubtful artistic value. The old mahogany of the

furniture shines with the polish of many Saturday rubbings, and the

altar, on which a magnificent Virgin, dressed in blue and silver,

receives domestic worship, is covered with innumerable pretty trifles,

half sacred, half profane. There are on it, besides, little pictures in

beads, holy-water fonts, a watch-case with an Agnes Dei, a Palm Sunday

palm-branch, and not a few odorless artificial flowers. A number of

oaken bookshelves contain a rich and choice library, in which Horace,

the Epicurean and Sybarite, stands side by side with the tender Virgil,

in whose verses we see the heart of the enamored Dido throbbing and

melting; Ovid the large-nosed, as sublime as he is obscene and

sycophantic, side by side with Martial, the eloquent and witty

vagabond; Tibullus the impassioned, with Cicero the grand; the severe

Titus Livius with the terrible Tacitus, the scourge of the Caesars;

Lucretius the pantheist; Juvenal, who flayed with his pen; Plautus, who

composed the best comedies of antiquity while turning a mill-wheel;

Seneca the philosopher, of whom it is said that the noblest act of his

life was his death; Quintilian the rhetorician; the immoral Sallust,

who speaks so eloquently of virtue; the two Plinys; Suetonius and

Varro--in a word, all the Latin letters from the time when they

stammered their first word with Livius Andronicus until they exhaled

their last sigh with Rutilius.

But while making this unnecessary though rapid enumeration, we have not

observed that two women have entered the room. It is very early, but

the Orbajosans are early risers. The birds are singing to burst their

throats in their cages; the church-bells are ringing for mass, and the

goats, going from house to house to be milked, are tinkling their bells

gayly.

The two ladies whom we see in the room that we have described have just

come back from hearing mass. They are dressed in black, and each of

them carries in her right hand her little prayer-book, and the rosary

twined around her fingers.

"Your uncle cannot delay long now," said one of them. "We left him

beginning mass; but he gets through quickly, and by this time he will

be in the sacristy, taking off his chasuble. I would have stayed to

hear him say mass, but to-day is a very busy day for me."

"I heard only the prebendary's mass to-day," said the other, "and he

says mass in a twinkling; and I don't think it has done me any good,

for I was greatly preoccupied. I could not get the thought of the

terrible things that are happening to us out of my head."

"What is to be done? We must only have patience. Let us see what advice

your uncle will give us."

"Ah!" exclaimed the other, heaving a deep and pathetic sigh; "I feel my

blood on fire."

"God will protect us."

"To think that a person like you should be threatened by a ---- And he

persists in his designs! Last night Senora Dona Perfecta, I went back

to the widow De Cuzco's hotel, as you told me, and asked her for later

news. Don Pepito and the brigadier Batalla are always consulting

together--ah, my God! consulting about their infernal plans, and

emptying bottle after bottle of wine. They are a pair of rakes, a pair

of drunkards. No doubt they are plotting some fine piece of villany

together. As I take such an interest in you, last night, seeing Don

Pepito having the hotel while I was there, I followed him----"

"And where did you go?"

"To the Casino; yes, senora, to the Casino," responded the other, with

some confusion. "Afterward he went back to his hotel. And how my uncle

scolded me because I remained out so late, playing the spy in that way!

But I can't help it, and to see a person like you threatened by such

dangers makes me wild. For there is no use in talking; I foresee that

the day we least expect it those villains will attack the house and

carry off Rosarito."

Dona Perfecta, for she it was, bending her eyes on the floor, remained

for a long time wrapped in thought. She was pale, and her brows were

gathered in a frown. At last she exclaimed:

"Well, I see no way of preventing it!"

"But I see a way," quickly said the other woman, who was the niece of

the Penitentiary and Jacinto's mother; "I see a very simple way, that I

explained to you, and that you do not like. Ah, senora! you are too

good. On occasions like this it is better to be a little less perfect--

to lay scruples aside. Why, would that be an offence to God?"

"Maria Remedios," said Dona Perfecta haughtily, "don't talk nonsense."

"Nonsense! You, with all your wisdom, cannot make your nephew do as you

wish. What could be simpler than what I propose? Since there is no

justice now to protect us, let us do a great act of justice ourselves.

Are there not men in your house who are ready for any thing? Well, call

them and say to them: 'Look, Caballuco, Paso Largo,' or whoever it may

be, 'to-night disguise yourself well, so that you may not be

recognized; take with you a friend in whom you have confidence, and

station yourself at the corner of the Calle de Santa Faz. Wait a while,

and when Don Jose Rey passes through the Calle de la Triperia on his

way to the Casino,--for he will certainly go to the Casino, understand

me well,--when he is passing you will spring out on him and give him a

fright.' "

"Maria Remedios, don't be a fool!" said Dona Perfecta with magisterial

dignity.

"Nothing more than a fright, senora; attend well to what I say, a

fright. Why! Do you suppose I would advise a crime? Good God! the very

idea fills me with horror, and I fancy I can see before my eyes blood

and fire! Nothing of the sort, senora. A fright--nothing but a fright,

which will make that ruffian understand that we are well protected. He

goes alone to the Casino, senora, entirely alone; and there he meets

his valiant friends, those of the sabre and the helmet. Imagine that he

gets the fright and that he has a few bones broken, in addition--

without any serious wounds, of course. Well, in that case, either his

courage will fail him and he will leave Orbajosa, or he will be obliged

to keep his bed for a fortnight. But they must be told to make the

fright a good one. No killing, of course; they must take care of that,

but just a good beating."

"Maria," said Dona Perfecta haughtily, "you are incapable of a lofty

thought, of a great and saving resolve. What you advise me is an

unworthy piece of cowardice."

"Very well, I will be silent. Poor me! what a fool I am!" exclaimed the

Penitentiary's niece with humility. "I will keep my follies to console

you after you have lost your daughter."

"My daughter! Lose my daughter!" exclaimed Dona Perfecta, with a sudden

access of rage. "Only to hear you puts me out of my senses. No, they

shall not take her from me! If Rosario does not abhor that ruffian as I

wish her to do, she shall abhor him. For a mother's authority must have

some weight. We will tear this passion, or rather this caprice, from

her heart, as a tender plant is torn out of the ground before it has

had time to cast roots. No, this cannot be, Remedios. Come what may, it

shall not be! Not even the most infamous means he could employ will

avail that madman. Rather than see her my nephew's wife, I would accept

any evil that might happen to her, even death!"

"Better dead, better buried and food for worms," affirmed Remedios,

clasping her hands as if she were saying a prayer--"than see her in the

power of--ah, senora, do not be offended if I say something to you, and

that is, that it would be a great weakness to yield merely because

Rosarito has had a few secret interviews with that audacious man. The

affair of the night before last, as my uncle related it to me, seems to

me a vile trick on Don Jose to obtain his object by means of a scandal.

A great many men do that. Ah, Divine Saviour, I don't know how there

are women who can look any man in the face unless it be a priest."

"Be silent, be silent!" said Dona Perfecta, with vehemence. "Don't

mention the occurrence of the night before last to me. What a horrible

affair! Maria Remedios, I understand now how anger can imperil the

salvation of a soul. I am burning with rage--unhappy that I am, to see

such things and not to be a man! But to speak the truth in regard to

the occurrence of the night before last--I still have my doubts.

Librada vows and declares that Pinzon was the man who came into the

house. My daughter denies every thing; my daughter has never told me a

lie! I persist in my suspicions. I think that Pinzon is a hypocritical

go-between, but nothing more."

"We come back to the same thing--that the author of all the trouble is

the blessed mathematician. Ah! my heart did not deceive me when I first

saw him. Well, then senora! resign yourself to see something still more

terrible, unless you make up your mind to call Caballuco and say to

him, 'Caballuco, I hope that--' "

"The same thing again; what a simpleton you are!"

"Oh yes! I know I am a great simpleton; but how can I help it if I am

not any wiser? I say what comes into my head, without any art."

"What you think of--that silly and vulgar idea of the beating and the

fright--is what would occur to any one. You have not an ounce of

brains, Remedios; to solve a serious question you can think of nothing

better than a piece of folly like that. I have thought of a means more

worthy of noble-minded and well-bred persons. A beating! What

stupidity! Besides, I would not on any account have my nephew receive

even so much as a scratch by an order of mine. God will send him his

punishment through some one of the wonderful ways which he knows how to

choose. All we have to do is to work in order that the designs of God

may find no obstacle. Maria Remedios, it is necessary in matters of

this kind to go directly to the causes of things. But you know nothing

about causes--you can see only trifles."

"That may be so," said the priest's niece, with humility. "I wonder why

God made me so foolish that I can understand nothing of those sublime

ideas!"

"It is necessary to go to the bottom--to the bottom, Remedios. Don't

you understand yet?"

"No."

"My nephew is not my nephew, woman; he is blasphemy, sacrilege,

atheism, demagogy. Do you know what demagogy is?"

"Something relating to those people who burned Paris with petroleum;

and those who pull down the churches and fire on the images. So far I

understand very well."

"Well, my nephew is all that! Ah! if he were alone in Orbajosa--but no,

child. My nephew, through a series of fatalities, which are trials, the

transitory evils that God permits for our chastisement, is equivalent

to an army; is equivalent to the authority of the government;

equivalent to the alcalde; equivalent to the judge. My nephew is not my

nephew; he is the official nation, Remedios--that second nation

composed of the scoundrels who govern in Madrid, and who have made

themselves masters of its material strength; of that apparent nation--

for the real nation is the one that is silent, that pays and suffers;

of that fictitious nation that signs decrees and pronounces discourses

and makes a farce of government, and a farce of authority, and a farce

of every thing. That is what my nephew is to-day; you must accustom

yourself to look under the surface of things. My nephew is the

government, the brigadier, the new alcalde, the new judge--for they all

protect him, because of the unanimity of their ideas; because they are

chips of the same block, birds of a feather. Understand it well; we

must defend ourselves against them all, for they are all one, and one

is all; we must attack them all together; and not by beating a man as

he turns a corner, but as our forefathers attacked the Moors--the

Moors, Remedios. Understand this well, child; open your understanding

and allow an idea that is not vulgar to enter it--rise above yourself;

think lofty thoughts, Remedios!"

Don Inocencio's niece was struck dumb by so much loftiness of soul. She

opened her mouth to say something that should be in consonance with so

sublime an idea, but she only breathed a sigh.

"Like the Moors," repeated Dona Perfecta. "It is a question of Moors

and Christians. And did you suppose that by giving a fright to my

nephew all would be ended? How foolish you are! Don't you see that his

friends support him? Don't you see that you are at the mercy of that

rabble? Don't you see that any little lieutenant can set fire to my

house, if he takes it into his head to do so? But don't you know this?

Don't you comprehend that it is necessary to go to the bottom of

things? Don't you comprehend how vast, how tremendous is the power of

my enemy, who is not a man, but a sect? Don't you comprehend that my

nephew, as he confronts me to-day, is not a calamity, but a plague?

Against this plague, dear Remedios, we shall have here a battalion sent

by God that will annihilate the infernal militia from Madrid. I tell

you that this is going to be great and glorious."

"If it were at last so!"

"But do you doubt it? To-day we shall see terrible things here," said

Dona Perfecta, with great impatience. "To-day, to-day! What o'clock is

it? Seven? So late, and nothing has happened!"

"Perhaps my uncle has heard something; he is here now, I hear him

coming upstairs."

"Thank God!" said Dona Perfecta, rising to receive the Penitentiary.

"He will have good news for us."

Don Inocencio entered hastily. His altered countenance showed that his

soul, consecrated to religion and to the study of the classics, was not

as tranquil as usual.

"Bad news!" he said, laying his hat on a chair and loosening the cords

of his cloak.

Dona Perfecta turned pale.

"They are arresting people," added Don Inocencio, lowering his voice,

as if there was a soldier hidden under every chair. "They suspect, no

doubt, that the people here would not put up with their high-handed

measures, and they have gone from house to house, arresting all who

have a reputation for bravery."

Dona Perfecta threw herself into an easy chair and clutched its arms

convulsively.

"It remains to be seen whether they have allowed themselves to be

arrested," observed Remedios.

"Many of them have--a great many of them," said Don Inocencio, with an

approving look, addressing Dona Perfecta, "have had time to escape, and

have gone with arms and horses to Villahorrenda."

"And Ramos?"

"They told me in the cathedral that he is the one they are looking for

most eagerly. Oh, my God! to arrest innocent people in that way, who

have done nothing yet. Well, I don't know how good Spaniards can have

patience under such treatment. Senora Dona Perfecta, when I was telling

you about the arrests, I forgot to say that you ought to go home at

once."

"Yes, I will go at once. Have those bandits searched my house?"

"It is possible. Senora, we have fallen upon evil days," said Don

Inocencio, in solemn and feeling accents. "May God have pity upon us!"

"There are half a dozen well-armed men in my house," responded the

lady, greatly agitated. "What iniquity! Would they be capable of

wanting to carry them off too?"

"Assuredly Senor Pinzon will not have neglected to denounce them.

Senora, I repeat that we have fallen upon evil days. But God will

protect the innocent."

"I am going now. Don't fail to stop in at the house."

"Senora, as soon as the lesson is over--though I imagine that with the

excitement that there is in the town, all the boys will play truant

to-day---- But in any case I will go to the house after class hours. I

don't wish you to go out alone, senora. Those vagabond soldiers are

strutting about the streets with such insolent airs. Jacinto, Jacinto!"

"It is not necessary. I will go alone."

"Let Jacinto go with you," said the young man's mother. "He must be up

by this time."

They heard the hurried footsteps of the little doctor, who was coming

down the stairs in the greatest haste. He entered the room with flushed

face and panting for breath.

"What is the matter?" asked his uncle.

"In the Troyas' house," said the young man, "in the house of those--

those girls--"

"Finish at once!"

"Caballuco is there!"

"Up there? In the house of the Troyas?"

"Yes, senor. He spoke to me from the terrace, and he told me he was

afraid they were coming there to arrest him."

"Oh, what a fool! That idiot is going to allow himself to be arrested!"

exclaimed Dona Perfecta, tapping the floor impatiently with her foot.

"He wants to come down and let us hide him in the house."

"Here?"

The canon and his niece exchanged a glance.

"Let him come down!" said Dona Perfecta vehemently.

"Here?" repeated Don Inocencio, with a look of ill-humor.

"Here," answered the lady. "I don't know of any house where he would be

more secure."

"He can let himself down easily from the window of my room," said

Jacinto.

"Well, if it is necessary----"

"Maria Remedios," said Dona Perfecta, "if they take that man, all is

lost."

"I am a fool and a simpleton," answered the canon's niece, laying her

hand on her breast and stifling the sigh that was doubtless about to

escape from it; "but they shall not take him."

Dona Perfecta went out quickly, and shortly afterward the Centaur was

making himself comfortable in the arm-chair in which Don Inocencio was

accustomed to sit when he was writing his sermons.

We do not know how it reached the ears of Brigadier Batalla, but

certain it is that this active soldier had had notice that the

Orbajosans had changed their intentions; and on the morning of this day

he had ordered the arrest of those whom in our rich insurrectional

language we are accustomed to call marked. The great Caballuco escaped

by a miracle, taking refuge in the house of the Troyas, but not

thinking himself safe there he descended, as we have seen, to the holy

and unsuspected mansion of the good canon.

At night the soldiers, established at various points of the town, kept

a strict watch on all who came in and went out, but Ramos succeeded in

making his escape, cheating or perhaps without cheating the vigilance

of the military. This filled the measure of the rage of the Orbajosans,

and numbers of people were conspiring in the hamlets near

Villahorrenda; meeting at night to disperse in the morning and prepare

in this way the arduous business of the insurrection. Ramos scoured the

surrounding country, collecting men and arms; and as the flying columns

followed the Aceros into the district of Villajuan de Nahara, our

chivalrous hero made great progress in a very short time.

At night he ventured boldly into Orbajosa, employing stratagems and

perhaps bribery. His popularity and the protection which he received in

the town served him, to a certain extent, as a safeguard; and it would

not be rash to affirm that the soldiers did not manifest toward this

daring leader of the insurrection the same rigor as toward the

insignificant men of the place. In Spain, and especially in time of

war, which is here always demoralizing, these unworthy considerations

toward the great are often seen, while the little are persecuted

pitilessly. Favored then by his boldness, by bribery, or by we know not

what, Caballuco entered Orbajosa, gained new recruits, and collected

arms and money. Either for the great security of his person or in order

to save appearances, he did not set foot in his own house; he entered

Dona Perfecta's only for the purpose of treating of important affairs,

and he usually supped in the house of some friend, preferring always

the respected domicile of some priest, and especially that of Don

Inocencio, where he had taken refuge on the fateful morning of the

arrests.

Meanwhile Batalla had telegraphed to the Government the information

that a plot of the rebels having been discovered its authors had been

imprisoned, and the few who had succeeded in escaping had fled in

various directions and were being actively pursued by the military.

CHAPTER XXVI

MARIA REMEDIOS

There is nothing more entertaining than to search for the cause of some

interesting event which surprises or agitates us, and nothing more

satisfactory than to discover it. When, seeing violent passions in open

or concealed conflict, and led by the natural intuitive impulse which

always accompanies human observation we succeed in discovering the

hidden source from which that turbulent river had derived its waters,

we experience a sensation very similar to the delight of the explorer

or the discoverer of an unknown land.

This delight Providence has now bestowed upon us; for, exploring the

hidden recesses of the hearts which beat in this story, we have

discovered an event that is assuredly the source of the most important

events that we have narrated; a passion which is the first drop of

water of the impetuous current whose course we are observing.

Let us go on with our story, then. To do so, let us leave Senora de

Polentinos, without concerning ourselves in regard to what may have

happened to her on the morning of her conversation with Maria Remedios.

Returning to her house, full of anxiety, she found herself obliged to

endure the apologies and the civilities of Senor Pinzon, who assured

her that while he lived her house should not be searched. Dona Perfecta

responded haughtily, without deigning to look at him, for which reason

he asked her politely for an explanation of her coldness, to which she

replied requesting Senor Pinzon to leave her house, deferring to a

future occasion the explanation which she would require from him of his

perfidious conduct while in it. Don Cayetano arriving at this moment,

words were exchanged between the two gentlemen, as between man and man;

but as we are more interested at present in another matter, we will

leave the Polentinos and the lieutenant-colonel to settle matters

between them as best they can, and proceed to examine the question of

the sources above mentioned.

Let us fix our attention on Maria Remedios, an estimable woman, to whom

it is indispensably necessary to devote a few words. She was a lady, a

real lady--for, notwithstanding her humble origin, the virtues of her

uncle, Senor Don Inocencio, also of low origin, but elevated by his

learning and his estimable qualities, had shed extraordinary lustre

over the whole family.

The love of Remedios for Jacinto was one of the strongest passions of

which the maternal heart is capable. She loved him with delirium; her

son's welfare was her first earthly consideration; she regarded him as

the most perfect type of beauty and talent ever created by God, and to

see him happy and great and powerful she would have given her whole

life and even a part of the life to come. The maternal sentiment is the

only one which, because of its nobility and its sanctity, will admit of

exaggeration; the only one which the delirium of passion does not

debase. Nevertheless it is a singular phenomenon, frequently observed,

that this exaltation of maternal affection, if not accompanied with

absolute purity of heart and with perfect uprightness is apt to become

perverted and transformed into a lamentable frenzy, which may lead,

like any other ungoverned passion, to great errors and catastrophies.

In Orbajosa Maria Remedios passed for a model of virtue and a model

niece--perhaps she was so in reality. She served with affection all who

needed her services; she never gave occasion for gossip or for scandal;

she never mixed herself up in intrigues. She carried her religion to

the extreme of an offensive fanaticism; she practised charity; she

managed her uncle's house with the utmost ability; she was well

received, admired and kindly treated everywhere, in spite of the almost

intolerable annoyance produced by her persistent habit of sighing and

speaking always in a complaining voice.

But in Dona Perfecta's house this excellent lady suffered a species of

/capitis diminutio/. In times far distant and very bitter for the

family of the good Penitentiary, Maria Remedios (since it is the truth,

why should it not be told?) had been a laundress in the house of

Polentinos. And let it not be supposed that Dona Perfecta looked down

upon her on this account--nothing of the kind. She behaved to her

without any haughtiness; she felt a real sisterly affection for her;

they ate together; they prayed together; they confided their troubles

to each other; they aided each other in their charities and in their

devotions as well as in domestic matters; but, truth to say, there was

always a something, there was always a line, invisible but which could

not be crossed between the improvised lady and the lady by birth and

ancestry. Dona Perfecta addressed Maria as "thou," while the latter

could never lay aside certain ceremonial forms. Maria Remedios always

felt herself so insignificant in the presence of her uncle's friend

that her natural humility had acquired through this feeling a strange

tinge of sadness. She saw that the good canon was a species of

perpetual Aulic councillor in the house; she saw her idolized

Jacintillo mingling on terms of almost lover-like familiarity with the

young lady, and nevertheless the poor mother and niece visited the

house as little as possible. It is to be observed that Maria Remedios'

dignity as a lady suffered not a little in Dona Perfecta's house, and

this was disagreeable to her; for in this sighing spirit, too, there

was, as there is in every living thing, a little pride. To see her son

married to Rosarito, to see him rich and powerful; to see him related

to Dona Perfecta, to the senora--ah! this was for Maria Remedios earth

and heaven, this life and the next, the present and the future, the

supreme totality of existence. For years her mind and her heart had

been filled by the light of this sweet hope. Because of this hope she

was good and she was bad; because of it she was religious and humble,

or fierce and daring; because of it she was whatever she was--for

without this idea Maria, who was the incarnation of her project, would

not exist.

In person, Maria Remedios could not be more insignificant than she was.

She was remarkable for a surprising freshness and robustness which made

her look much younger than she really was, and she always dressed in

mourning, although her widowhood was now of long standing.

Five days had passed since the entrance of Caballuco into the

Penitentiary's house. It was evening. Remedios entered her uncle's room

with the lighted lamp, which she placed on the table. She then seated

herself in front of the old man, who, for a great part of the

afternoon, had been sitting motionless and thoughtful in his easy

chair. His fingers supported his chin, wrinkling up the brown skin,

unshaven for the past three days.

"Did Caballuco say he would come here to supper to-night?" he asked his

niece.

"Yes, senor, he will come. It is in a respectable house like this that

the poor fellow is most secure."

"Well, I am not altogether easy in my mind, in spite of the

respectability of the house," answered the Penitentiary. "How the brave

Ramos exposes himself! And I am told that in Villahorrenda and the

surrounding country there are a great many men. I don't know how many

men---- What have you heard?"

"That the soldiers are committing atrocities."

"It is a miracle that those Hottentots have not searched the house! I

declare that if I see one of the red-trousered gentry enter the house,

I shall fall down speechless."

"This is a nice condition of things!" said Remedios, exhaling half her

soul in a sigh. "I cannot get out of my head the idea of the

tribulation in which Senora Dona Perfecta finds herself. Uncle, you

ought to go there."

"Go there to-night? The military are parading the streets! Imagine that

some insolent soldier should take it into his head to---- The senora is

well protected. The other day they searched the house and they carried

off the six armed men she had there; but afterward they sent them back

to her. We have no one to protect us in case of an attack."

"I sent Jacinto to the senora's, to keep her company for a while. If

Caballuco comes, we will tell him to stop in there, too. No one can put

it out of my head but that those rascals are plotting some piece of

villany against our friend. Poor senora, poor Rosarito! When one thinks

that this might have been avoided by what I proposed to Dona Perfecta

two days ago----"

"My dear niece," said the Penitentiary phlegmatically, "we have done

all that it was in human power to do to carry out our virtuous purpose.

More we cannot do. Convince yourself of this, and do not be obstinate.

Rosarito cannot be the wife of our idolized Jacintillo. Your golden

dream, your ideal of happiness, that at one time seemed attainable, and

to which like a good uncle, I devoted all the powers of my

understanding, has become chimerical, has vanished into smoke. Serious

obstructions, the wickedness of a man, the indubitable love of the

girl, and other things, regarding which I am silent, have altered

altogether the condition of affairs. We were in a fair way to conquer,

and suddenly we are conquered. Ah, niece! convince yourself of one

thing. As matters are now, Jacinto deserves something a great deal

better than that crazy girl."

"Caprices and obstinate notions!" responded Maria, with an ill-humor

that was far from respectful. "That's a pretty thing to say now, uncle!

The great minds are outshining themselves, now. Dona Perfecta with her

lofty ideas, and you with your doubts and fears--of much use either of

you is. It is a pity that God made me such a fool and gave me an

understanding of brick and mortar, as the senora says, for if that

wasn't the case I would soon settle the question."

"You?"

"If she and you had allowed me, it would be settled already."

"By the beating?"

"There's no occasion for you to be frightened or to open your eyes like

that. There is no question of killing any body. What an idea!"

"Beating," said the canon, smiling, "is like scratching--when one

begins one doesn't know when to leave off."

"Bah! say too that I am cruel and blood-thirsty. I wouldn't have the

courage to kill a fly; it's not very likely that I should desire the

death of a man."

"In fine, child, no matter what objections you may make, Senor Don Pepe

Rey will carry off the girl. It is not possible now to prevent it. He

is ready to employ every means, including dishonor. If Rosarito--how

she deceived us with that demure little face and those heavenly eyes,

eh!--if Rosarito, I say, did not herself wish it, then all might be

arranged, but alas! she loves him as the sinner loves Satan; she is

consumed with a criminal passion; she has fallen, niece, into the

snares of the Evil One. Let us be virtuous and upright; let us turn our

eyes away from the ignoble pair, and think no more about either of

them."

"You know nothing about women, uncle," said Remedios, with flattering

hypocrisy; "you are a holy man; you do not understand that Rosario's

feeling is only a passing caprice, one of those caprices that are cured

by a sound whipping."

"Niece," said Don Inocencio gravely and sententiously, "when serious

things have taken place, caprices are not called caprices, but by

another name."

"Uncle, you don't know what you are talking about," responded Maria

Remedios, her face flushing suddenly. "What! would you be capable of

supposing that Rosarito--what an atrocity! I will defend her; yes, I

will defend her. She is as pure as an angel. Why, uncle, those things

bring a blush to my cheek, and make me indignant with you."

As she spoke the good priest's face was darkened by a cloud of sadness

that made him look ten years older.

"My dear Remedios," he said, "we have done all that is humanly

possible, and all that in conscience we can or ought to do. Nothing

could be more natural than our desire to see Jacintillo connected with

that great family, the first in Orbajosa; nothing more natural than our

desire to see him master of the seven houses in the town, the meadow of

Mundogrande, the three gardens of the upper farm, La Encomienda, and

the other lands and houses which that girl owns. Your son has great

merit, every one knows it well. Rosarito liked him, and he liked

Rosarito. The matter seemed settled. Dona Perfecta herself, without

being very enthusiastic, doubtless on account of our origin, seemed

favorably disposed toward it, because of her great esteem and

veneration for me, as her confessor and friend. But suddenly this

unlucky young man presents himself. The senora tells me that she has

given her word to her brother, and that she cannot reject the proposal

made by him. A difficult situation! But what do I do in view of all

this? Ah, you don't know every thing! I will be frank with you. If I

had found Senor de Rey to be a man of good principles, calculated to

make Rosario happy, I would not have interfered in the matter; but the

young man appeared to me to be a wretch, and, as the spiritual director

of the house, it was my duty to take a hand in the business, and I took

it. You know already that I determined to unmask him. I exposed his

vices; I made manifest his atheism; I laid bare to the view of all the

rottenness of that materialistic heart, and the senora was convinced

that in giving her daughter to him, she would be delivering her up to

vice. Ah, what anxieties I endured! The senora vacillated; I

strengthened her wavering mind; I advised her concerning the means she

might lawfully employ to send her nephew away without scandal. I

suggested ingenious ideas to her; and as she often spoke to me of the

scruples that troubled her tender conscience, I tranquillized her,

pointing out to her how far it was allowable for us to go in our fight

against that lawless enemy. Never did I counsel violent or sanguinary

measures or base outrages, but always subtle artifices, in which there

was no sin. My mind is tranquil, my dear niece. But you know that I

struggled hard, that I worked like a negro. Ah! when I used to come

home every night and say, 'Mariquilla, we are getting on well, we are

getting on very well,' you used to be wild with delight, and you would

kiss my hands again and again, and say I was the best man on earth. Why

do you fly into a passion now, disfiguring your noble character and

peaceable disposition? Why do you scold me? Why do you say that you are

indignant, and tell me in plain terms that I am nothing better than an

idiot?"

"Because," said the woman, without any diminution of her rage, "because

you have grown faint-hearted all of a sudden."

"The thing is that every thing is going against us, woman. That

confounded engineer, protected as he is by the army, is resolved to

dare every thing. The girl loves him, the girl--I will say no more. It

cannot be; I tell you that it cannot be."

"The army! But do you believe, like Dona Perfecta, that there is going

to be a war, and that to drive Don Pepe from the town it will be

necessary for one half of the nation to rise up against the other half?

The senora has lost her senses, and you are in a fair way to lose

yours."

"I believe as she does. In view of the intimate connection of Rey with

the soldiers the personal question assumes larger proportions. But, ah,

niece! if two days ago I entertained the hope that our valiant townsmen

would kick the soldiers out of the town, since I have seen the turn

things have taken, since I have seen that most of them have been

surprised before fighting, and that Caballuco is in hiding and that the

insurrection is going to the devil, I have lost confidence in every

thing. The good doctrines have not yet acquired sufficient material

force to tear in pieces the ministers and the emissaries of error. Ah,

niece! resignation, resignation!"

And Don Inocencio, employing the method of expression which

characterized his niece, heaved two or three profound sighs. Maria,

contrary to what might have been expected, maintained absolute silence.

She showed now neither anger nor the superficial sentimentality of her

ordinary life; but only a profound and humble grief. Shortly after the

good canon had ended his peroration two tears rolled down his niece's

rosy cheeks; before long were heard a few half-suppressed sighs, and

gradually, as the swell and tumult of a sea that is beginning to be

stormy rise higher and higher and become louder and louder, so the

surge of Maria Remedios' grief rose and swelled, until it at last broke

forth in a flood of tears.

CHAPTER XXVII

A CANON'S TORTURE

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated Don Inocencio.

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated his niece, drying her tears. "If

my dear son is doomed to be always a beggar, well, then, be it so.

Lawsuits are becoming scarce; the day will soon come when the practice

of the law will be the same as nothing. What is the use of all his

talent? What is the use of his tiring his brain with so much study? Ah!

We are poor. A day will come, Senor Don Inocencio, when my poor boy

will not have a pillow on which to lay his head."

"Woman!"

"Man! can you deny it? Tell me, then, what inheritance are you going to

leave him when you close your eyes on this world? A couple of rooms,

half a dozen big books, poverty, and nothing more. What times are

before us, uncle; what times! My poor boy is growing very delicate in

his health, and he won't be able to work--it makes him dizzy now to

read a book; he gets a headache and nausea whenever he works at night!

He will have to beg a paltry situation; I shall have to take in sewing,

and who knows, who knows but we may have to beg our bread!"

"Woman!"

"Oh, I know very well what I am talking about! Fine times before us!"

added the excellent woman, forcing still more the lachrymose note in

her diatribe. "My God! What is going to become of us? Ah, it is only a

mother's heart that can feel these things! Only a mother is capable of

suffering so much anxiety about a son's welfare. How should you

understand it? No; it is one thing to have children and to suffer

anxiety on their account and another to sing the /gori gori/ in the

cathedral and to teach Latin in the institute. Of great use is it for

my son to be your nephew and to have taken so many honors and to be the

pride and ornament of Orbajosa. He will die of starvation, for we

already know what law brings; or else he will have to ask the deputies

for a situation in Havana, where the yellow fever will kill him."

"But, niece--"

"No, I am not grieving, I am silent now; I won't annoy you any more. I

am very troublesome, always crying and sighing; and I am not to be

endured because I am a fond mother and I will look out for the good of

my beloved son. I will die, yes, I will die in silence, and stifle my

grief. I will swallow my tears, in order not to annoy his reverence the

canon. But my idolized son will comprehend me and he won't put his

hands to his ears as you are doing now. Woe is me! Poor Jacinto knows

that I would die for him, and that I would purchase his happiness at

the sacrifice of my life. Darling child of my soul! To be so deserving

and to be forever doomed to mediocrity, to a humble station, for--don't

get indignant, uncle--no matter what airs we put on, you will always be

the son of Uncle Tinieblas, the sacristan of San Bernardo, and I shall

never be any thing more than the daughter of Ildefonso Tinieblas, your

brother, who used to sell crockery, and my son will be the grandson of

the Tinieblas--for obscure we were born, and we shall never emerge from

our obscurity, nor own a piece of land of which we can say, 'This is

mine'; nor shall I ever plunge my arms up to the elbows in a sack of

wheat threshed and winnowed on our own threshing-floor--all because of

your cowardice, your folly, your soft-heartedness."

"But--but, niece!"

The canon's voice rose higher every time he repeated this phrase, and,

with his hands to his ears, he shook his head from side to side with a

look of mingled grief and desperation. The shrill complaint of Maria

Remedios grew constantly shriller, and pierced the brain of the unhappy

and now dazed priest like an arrow. But all at once the woman's face

became transformed; her plaintive wail was changed to a hard, shrill

scream; she turned pale, her lips trembled, she clenched her hands, a

few locks of her disordered hair fell over her forehead, her eyes

glittered, dried by the heat of the anger that glowed in her breast;

she rose from her seat and, not like a woman, but like a harpy, cried:

"I am going away from here! I am going away from here with my son! We

will go to Madrid; I don't want my son to fret himself to death in this

miserable town! I am tired now of seeing that my son, under the

protection of the cassock, neither is nor ever will be any thing. Do

you hear, my reverend uncle? My son and I are going away! You will

never see us again--never!"

Don Inocencio had clasped his hands and was receiving the thunderbolts

of his niece's wrath with the consternation of a criminal whom the

presence of the executioner has deprived of his last hope.

"In Heaven's name, Remedios," he murmured, in a pained voice; "in the

name of the Holy Virgin----"

These fits of range of his niece, who was usually so meek, were as

violent as they were rare, and five or six years would sometimes pass

without Don Inocencio seeing Remedios transformed into a fury.

"I am a mother! I am a mother! and since no one else will look out for

my son, I will look out for him myself!" roared the improvised lioness.

"In the name of the Virgin, niece, don't let your passion get the best

of you! Remember that you are committing a sin. Let us say the Lord's

Prayer and an Ave Maria, and you will see that this will pass away."

As he said this the Penitentiary trembled, and the perspiration stood

on his forehead. Poor dove in the talons of the vulture! The furious

woman completed his discomfiture with these words:

"You are good for nothing; you are a poltroon! My son and I will go

away from this place forever, forever! I will get a position for my

son, I will find him a good position, do you understand? Just as I

would be willing to sweep the streets with my tongue if I could gain a

living for him in no other way, so I will move heaven and earth to find

a position for my boy in order that he may rise in the world and be

rich, and a person of consequence, and a gentleman, and a lord and

great, and all that there is to be--all, all!"

"Heaven protect me!" cried Don Inocencio, sinking into a chair and

letting his head fall on his breast.

There was a pause during which the agitated breathing of the furious

woman could be heard.

"Niece," said Don Inocencio at last, "you have shortened my life by ten

years; you have set my blood on fire; you have put me beside myself.

God give me the calmness that I need to bear with you! Lord, patience--

patience is what I ask. And you, niece, do me the favor to sigh and cry

to your heart's content for the next ten years; for your confounded

mania of sniveling, greatly as it annoys me, is preferable to these mad

fits of rage. If I did not know that you are good at heart---- Well,

for one who confessed and received communion this morning you are

behaving--"

"Yes, but you are the cause of it--you!"

"Because in the matter of Rosario and Jacinto I say to you,

resignation?"

"Because when every thing is going on well you turn back and allow

Senor de Rey to get possession of Rosario."

"And how am I going to prevent it? Dona Perfecta is right in saying

that you have an understanding of brick. Do you want me to go about the

town with a sword, and in the twinkling of an eye to make mincemeat of

the whole regiment, and then confront Rey and say to him, 'Leave the

girl in peace or I will cut your throat'?"

"No, but when I advised the senora to give her nephew a fright, you

opposed my advice, instead of supporting it."

"You are crazy with your talk about a fright."

"Because when the dog is dead the madness is at an end."

"I cannot advise what you call a fright, and what might be a terrible

thing."

"Yes; because I am a cut-throat, am I not, uncle?"

"You know that practical jokes are vulgar. Besides, do you suppose that

man would allow himself to be insulted? And his friends?"

"At night he goes out alone."

"How do you know that?"

"I know every thing; he does not take a step that I am not aware of; do

you understand? The widow De Cuzco keeps me informed of every thing."

"There, don't set me crazy. And who is going to give him that fright?

Let us hear."

"Caballuco."

"So that he is disposed--"

"No, but he will be if you command him."

"Come, niece, leave me in peace. I cannot command such an atrocity. A

fright! And what is that? Have you spoken to him already?"

"Yes, senor; but he paid no attention to me, or rather he refused.

There are only two people in Orbajosa who can make him do what they

wish by a simple order--you and Dona Perfecta."

"Let Dona Perfecta order him to do it if she wishes, then. I will never

advise the employment of violent and brutal measures. Will you believe

that when Caballuco and some of his followers were talking of rising up

in arms they could not draw a single word from me inciting them to

bloodshed. No, not that. If Dona Perfecta wishes to do it--"

"She will not do it, either. I talked with her for two hours this

afternoon and she said that she would preach war, and help it by every

means in her power; but that she would not bid one man stab another in

the back. She would be right in opposing it if anything serious were

intended, but I don't want any wounds; all I want is to give him a

fright."

"Well, if Dona Perfecta doesn't want to order a fright to be given to

the engineer, I don't either, do you understand? My conscience is

before every thing."

"Very well," returned his niece. "Tell Caballuco to come with me

to-night--that is all you need say to him."

"Are you going out to-night?"

"Yes, senor, I am going out. Why, didn't I go out last night too?"

"Last night? I didn't know it; if I had known it I should have been

angry; yes, senora."

"All you have to say to Caballuco is this: 'My dear Ramos, I will be

greatly obliged to you if you will accompany my niece on an errand

which she has to do to-night, and if you will protect her, if she

should chance to be in any danger.' "

"I can do that. To accompany you, to protect you. Ah, rogue! you want

to deceive me and make me your accomplice in some piece of villany."

"Of course--what do you suppose?" said Maria Remedios ironically.

"Between Ramos and me we are going to slaughter a great many people

to-night."

"Don't jest! I tell you again that I will not advise Ramos to do any

thing that has the appearance of evil--I think he is outside."

A noise at the street-door was heard, then the voice of Caballuco

speaking to the servant, and a little later the hero of Orbajosa

entered the room.

"What is the news? Give us the news, Senor Ramos," said the priest.

"Come! If you don't give us some hope in exchange for your supper and

our hospitality---- What is going on in Villahorrenda?"

"Something," answered the bravo, seating himself with signs of fatigue.

"You shall soon see whether we are good for anything or not."

Like all persons who wish to make themselves appear important,

Caballuco made a show of great reserve.

"To-night, my friend, you shall take with you, if you wish, the money

they have given me for--"

"There is good need of it. If the soldiers should get scent of it,

however, they won't let me pass," said Ramos, with a brutal laugh.

"Hold your tongue, man. We know already that you pass whenever you

please. Why, that would be a pretty thing! The soldiers are not strait-

laced gentry, and if they should become troublesome, with a couple of

dollars, eh? Come, I see that you are not badly armed. All you want now

is an eight-pounder. Pistols, eh? And a dagger too."

"For any thing that might happen," said Caballuco, taking the weapon

from his belt and displaying its horrible blade.

"In the name of God and of the Virgin!" exclaimed Maria Remedios,

closing her eyes and turning her face in terror, "put away that thing.

The very sight of it terrifies me."

"If you won't take it ill of me," said Ramos, shutting the weapon, "let

us have supper."

Maria Remedios prepared every thing quickly, in order that the hero

might not become impatient.

"Listen to me a moment, Senor Ramos," said Don Inocencio to his guest,

when they had sat down to supper. "Have you a great deal to do

to-night?"

"Something there is to be done," responded the bravo. "This is the last

night I shall come to Orbajosa--the last. I have to look up some boys

who remained in the town, and we are going to see how we can get

possession of the saltpetre and the sulphur that are in the house of

Cirujeda."

"I asked you," said the curate amiably, filling his friend's plate,

"because my niece wishes you to accompany her a short distance. She has

some business or other to attend to, and it is a little late to be out

alone."

"Is she going to Dona Perfecta's?" asked Ramos. "I was there a few

moments ago, but I did not want to make any delay."

"How is the senora?"

"A little frightened. To-night I took away the six young men I had in

the house."

"Why! don't you think they will be wanted there?" said Remedios, with

alarm.

"They are wanted more in Villahorrenda. Brave men chafe at being kept

in the house; is it not so, Senor Canon?"

"Senor Ramos, that house ought not to be left unprotected," said the

Penitentiary.

"The servants are enough, and more than enough. But do you suppose,

Senor Don Inocencio, that the brigadier employs himself in attacking

the people's houses?"

"Yes, but you know very well that that diabolical engineer----"

"For that--there are not wanting brooms in the house," said Cristobal

jovially. "For in the end, there will be no help for it but to marry

them. After what has passed----"

"Senor Ramos," said Remedios, with sudden anger, "I imagine that all

you know about marrying people is very little."

"I say that because a little while ago, when I was at the house, the

mother and daughter seemed to be having a sort of reconciliation. Dona

Perfecta was kissing Rosarito over and over again, and there was no end

to their caresses and endearments."

"Reconciliation! With all these preparations for the war you have lost

your senses. But, finally, are you coming with me or not?"

"It is not to Dona Perfecta's she wants to go," said the priest, "but

to the hotel of the widow De Cuzco. She was saying that she does not

dare to go alone, because she is afraid of being insulted."

"By whom?"

"It is easily understood. By that infernal engineer. Last night my

niece met him there, and she gave him some plain talk; and for that

reason she is not altogether easy in her mind to-night. The young

fellow is revengeful and insolent."

"I don't know whether I can go," said Caballuco. "As I am in hiding now

I cannot measure my strength against Don Jose Poquita Cosa. If I were

not as I am--with half my face hidden, and the other half uncovered--I

would have broken his back for him already twenty times over. But what

happens if I attack him? He discovers who I am, he falls upon me with

the soldiers, and good-bye to Caballuco. As for giving him a

treacherous blow, that is something I couldn't do; nor would Dona

Perfecta consent to it, either. For a stab in the dark Cristobal Ramos

is not the man."

"But are you crazy, man? What are you thinking about?" said the

Penitentiary, with unmistakable signs of astonishment. "Not even in

thought would I advise you to do an injury to that gentleman. I would

cut my tongue out before I would advise such a piece of villany. The

wicked will fall, it is true; but it is God who will fix the moment,

not I. And the question is not to give a beating, either. I would

rather receive a hundred blows myself than advise the administration of

such a medicine to any Christian. One thing only will I say to you," he

ended, looking at the bravo over his spectacles, "and that is, that as

my niece is going there; and as it is probable, very probable, is it

not, Remedios? that she may have to say a few plain words to that man,

I recommend you not to leave her unprotected, in case she should be

insulted."

"I have something to do to-night," answered Caballuco, laconically and

dryly.

"You hear what he says, Remedios. Leave your business for to-morrow."

"I can't do that. I will go alone."

"No, you shall not go alone, niece. Now let us hear no more about the

matter. Senor Ramos has something to do, and he cannot accompany you.

Fancy if you were to be insulted by that rude man!"

"Insulted! A lady insulted by that fellow!" exclaimed Caballuco. "Come

that must not be."

"If you had not something to do--bah! I should be quite easy in my

mind, then."

"I have something to do," said the Centaur, rising from the table, "but

if you wish it----"

There was a pause. The Penitentiary had closed his eyes and was

meditating.

"I wish it, Senor Ramos," he said at last.

"There is no more to be said then. Let us go, Senora Dona Maria."

"Now, my dear niece," said Don Inocencio, half seriously, half

jestingly, "since we have finished supper bring me the basin."

He gave his niece a penetrating glance, and accompanying it with the

corresponding action, pronounced these words:

"I wash my hands of the matter."

CHAPTER XXVIII

FROM PEPE REY TO DON JUAN REY

"ORBAJOSA, April 12.

"MY DEAR FATHER:

"Forgive me if for the first time in my life I disobey you in refusing

to leave this place or to renounce my project. Your advice and your

entreaty are what were to be expected from a kind, good father. My

obstinacy is natural in an insensate son; but something strange is

taking place within me; obstinacy and honor have become so blended and

confounded in my mind that the bare idea of desisting from my purpose

makes me ashamed. I have changed greatly. The fits of rage that agitate

me now were formerly unknown to me. I regarded the violent acts, the

exaggerated expressions of hot-tempered and impetuous men with the same

scorn as the brutal actions of the wicked. Nothing of this kind

surprises me any longer, for in myself I find at all times a certain

terrible capacity for wickedness. I can speak to you as I would speak

to God and to my conscience; I can tell you that I am a wretch, for he

is a wretch who is wanting in that powerful moral force which enables

him to chastise his passions and submit his life to the stern rule of

conscience. I have been wanting in the Christian fortitude which exalts

the spirit of the man who is offended above the offences which he

receives and the enemies from whom he receives them. I have had the

weakness to abandon myself to a mad fury, putting myself on a level

with my detractors, returning them blow for blow, and endeavoring to

confound them by methods learned in their own base school. How deeply I

regret that you were not at my side to turn me from this path! It is

now too late. The passions will not brook delay. They are impatient,

and demand their prey with cries and with the convulsive eagerness of a

fierce moral thirst. I have succumbed. I cannot forget what you so

often said to me, that anger may be called the worst of the passions,

since, suddenly transforming the character, it engenders all the

others, and lends to each its own infernal fire.

"But it is not anger alone that has brought me to the state of mind

which I have described. A more expansive and noble sentiment--the

profound and ardent love which I have for my cousin, has also

contributed to it, and this is the one thing that absolves me in my own

estimation. But if love had not done so, pity would have impelled me to

brave the fury and the intrigues of your terrible sister; for poor

Rosario, placed between an irresistible affection and her mother, is at

the present moment one of the most unhappy beings on the face of the

earth. The love which she has for me, and which responds to mine--does

it not give me the right to open, in whatever way I can, the doors of

her house and take her out of it; employing the law, as far as the law

reaches, and using force at the point where the law ceases to support

me? I think that your rigid moral scrupulosity will not give an

affirmative answer to this question; but I have ceased to be the

upright and methodical character whose conscience was in exact

conformity with the dictates of the moral law. I am no longer the man

whom an almost perfect education enabled to keep his emotions under

strict control. To-day I am a man like other men; at a single step I

have crossed the line which separates the just and the good from the

unjust and the wicked. Prepare yourself to hear of some dreadful act

committed by me. I will take care to notify you of all my misdeeds.

"But the confession of my faults will not relieve me from the

responsibility of the serious occurrences which have taken place and

which are taking place, nor will this responsibility, no matter how

much I may argue, fall altogether on your sister. Dona Perfecta's

responsibility is certainly very great. What will be the extent of

mine! Ah, dear father! believe nothing of what you hear about me;

believe only what I shall tell you. If they tell you that I have

committed a deliberate piece of villany, answer that it is a lie. It is

difficult, very difficult, for me to judge myself, in the state of

disquietude in which I am, but I dare assure you that I have not

deliberately given cause for scandal. You know well to what extremes

passion can lead when circumstances favor its fierce, its all-invading

growth.

"What is most bitter to me is the thought of having employed artifice,

deceit, and base concealments--I who was truth itself. I am humiliated

in my own estimation. But is this the greatest perversity into which

the soul can fall? Am I beginning now, or have I ended? I cannot tell.

If Rosario with her angelic hand does not take me out of this hell of

my conscience, I desire that you should come to take me out of it. My

cousin is an angel, and suffering, as she has done, for my sake, she

has taught me a great many things that I did not know before.

"Do not be surprised at the incoherence of what I write. Diverse

emotions inflame me; thoughts at times assail me truly worthy of my

immortal soul; but at times also I fall into a lamentable state of

dejection, and I am reminded of the weak and degenerate characters

whose baseness you have painted to me in such strong colors, in order

that I might abhor them. In the state in which I am to-day I am ready

for good or for evil. God have pity upon me! I already know what prayer

is--a solemn and reflexive supplication, so personal that it is not

compatible with formulas learned by heart; an expansion of the soul

which dares to reach out toward its source; the opposite of remorse, in

which the soul, at war with itself, seeks in vain to defend itself by

sophisms and concealments. You have taught me many good things, but now

I am practising; as we engineers say, I am studying on the ground; and

in this way my knowledge will become broadened and confirmed. I begin

to imagine now that I am not so wicked as I myself believe. Am I right?

"I end this letter in haste. I must send it with some soldiers who are

going in the direction of the station at Villahorrenda, for the post-

office of this place is not to be trusted."

"APRIL 14.

"It would amuse you, dear father, if I could make you understand the

ideas of the people of this wretched town. You know already that almost

all the country is up in arms. It was a thing to be anticipated, and

the politicians are mistaken if they imagine that it will be over in a

couple of days. Hostility to us and to the Government is innate in the

Orbajosan's mind, and forms a part of it as much as his religious

faith. Confining myself to the particular question with my aunt, I will

tell you a singular thing--the poor lady, who is penetrated by the

spirit of feudalism to the marrow of her bones, has taken it into her

head that I am going to attack her house and carry off her daughter, as

the gentlemen of the Middle Ages attacked an enemy's castle to

consummate some outrage. Don't laugh, for it is the truth--such are the

ideas of these people. I need not tell you that she regards me as a

monster, as a sort of heretic Moorish king, and of the officers here

who are my friends she has no better opinion. In Dona Perfecta's house

it is a matter of firm belief that the army and I have formed a

diabolical and anti-religious coalition to rob Orbajosa of its

treasures, its faith, and its maidens. I am sure that your sister

firmly believes that I am going to take her house by assault, and there

is not a doubt but that behind the door some barricade has been

erected.

"But it could not be otherwise. Here they have the most antiquated

ideas respecting society, religion, the state, property. The religious

exaltation which impels them to employ force against the Government, to

defend a faith which no one has attacked, and which, besides, they do

not possess, revives in their mind the feudal sentiment; and as they

would settle every question by brute force, with the sword and with

fire, killing all who do not think as they do, they believe that no one

in the world employs other methods.

"Far from intending to perform quixotic deeds in this lady's house, I

have in reality saved her some annoyances from which the rest of the

town have not escaped. Owing to my friendship with the brigadier she

has not been obliged to present, as was ordered, a list of those of the

men in her service who have joined the insurgents; and if her house was

searched I have certain knowledge that it was only for form's sake; and

if the six men there were disarmed, they have been replaced by six

others, and nothing has been done to her. You see to what my hostility

to that lady is reduced.

"It is true that I have the support of the military chiefs, but I make

use of it solely to escape being insulted or ill-used by these

implacable people. The probabilities of my success consist in the fact

that the authorities recently appointed by the commander of the brigade

are all my friends. I derive from them the moral force which enables me

to intimidate these people. I don't know whether I shall find myself

compelled to commit some violent action; but don't be alarmed, for the

assault and the taking of the house is altogether a wild, feudal idea

of your sister. Chance has placed me in an advantageous position. Rage,

the passion that burns within me, will impel me to profit by it. I

don't know how far I may go."

"APRIL 17.

"Your letter has given me great consolation. Yes; I can attain my

object, employing only the resources of the law, which will be

completely effectual for it. I have consulted the authorities of this

place, and they all approve of the course you indicate. I am very glad

of it. Since I have put into my cousin's mind the idea of disobedience,

let it at least be under the protection of the law. I will do what you

bid me, that is to say I will renounce the somewhat unworthy

collaboration of Pinzon; I will break up the terrorizing solidarity

which I established with the soldiers; I will cease to make a display

of the power I derived from them; I will have done with adventures, and

at the fitting moment I will act with calmness, prudence, and all the

benignity possible. It is better so. My coalition, half-serious, half-

jesting, with the army, had for its object to protect me against the

violence of the Orbajosans and of the servants and the relations of my

aunt. For the rest, I have always disapproved of the idea of what we

call armed intervention.

"The friend who aided me has been obliged to leave the house; but I am

not entirely cut off from communication with my cousin. The poor girl

shows heroic valor in the midst of her sufferings, and will obey me

blindly.

"Set your mind at rest about my personal safety. For my part, I have no

fear and I am quite tranquil."

"APRIL 20.

"To-day I can write only a few lines. I have a great deal to do. All

will be ended within two or three days. Don't write to me again to this

miserable town. I shall soon have the happiness of embracing you.

"PEPE."

CHAPTER XXIX

FROM PEPE REY TO ROSARITO POLENTINOS

"Give Estebanillo the key of the garden and charge him to take care

about the dog. The boy is mine, body and soul. Fear nothing! I shall be

very sorry if you cannot come down stairs as you did the other night.

Do all you can to manage it. I will be in the garden a little after

midnight. I will then tell you what course I have decided upon, and

what you are to do. Tranquillize your mind, my dear girl, for I have

abandoned all imprudent or violent expedients. I will tell you every

thing when I see you. There is much to tell; and it must be spoken, not

written. I can picture to myself your terror and anxiety at the thought

of my being so near you. But it is a week since I have seen you. I have

sworn that this separation from you shall soon be ended, and it will be

ended. My heart tells me that I shall see you. I swear that I will see

you."

CHAPTER XXX

BEATING UP THE GAME

A man and a woman entered the hotel of the widow De Cuzco a little

after ten o'clock, and left it at half-past eleven.

"Now, Senora Dona Maria," said the man, "I will take you to your house,

for I have something to do."

"Wait, Senor Ramos, for the love of God!" she answered. "Why don't we

go to the Casino to see if he comes out? You heard just now that

Estebanillo, the boy that works in the garden, was talking with him

this afternoon."

"But are you looking for Don Jose?" asked the Centaur, with ill-humor.

"What have we to do with him? The courtship with Dona Rosario ended as

it was bound to end, and now there is nothing for it but for my mother

to marry them. That is my opinion."

"You are a fool!" said Remedios angrily.

"Senora, I am going."

"Why, you rude man, are you going to leave me alone in the street?"

"Yes, senora, unless you go home at once."

"That's right--leave me alone, exposed to be insulted! Listen to me,

Senor Ramos. Don Jose will come out of the Casino in a moment, as

usual. I want to see whether he goes into his hotel or goes past it. It

is a fancy of mine, only a fancy."

"What I know is that I have something to do, and that it is near twelve

o'clock."

"Silence!" said Remedios. "Let us hide ourselves around the corner. A

man is coming down the Calle de la Triperia Alta. It is he!"

"Don Jose! I know him by his walk."

"Let us follow him," said Maria Remedios with anxiety. "Let us follow

him at a little distance, Ramos."

"Senora--"

"Only a minute, then, Dona Remedios. After that I must go."

They walked on about thirty paces, keeping at a moderate distance

behind the man they were watching. The Penitentiary's niece stopped

then and said:

"He is not going into his hotel."

"He may be going to the brigadier's."

"The brigadier lives up the street, and Don Pepe is going down in the

direction of the senora's house."

"Of the senora's house!" exclaimed Caballuco, quickening his steps.

But they were mistaken. The man whom they were watching passed the

house of Polentinos and walked on.

"Do you see that you were wrong?"

"Senor Ramos, let us follow him!" said Remedios, pressing the Centaur's

hand convulsively. "I have a foreboding."

"We shall soon know, for we are near the end of the town."

"Don't go so fast--he may see us. It is as I thought, Senor Ramos; he

is going into the garden by the condemned door."

"Senora, you have lost your senses!"

"Come on, and we shall see."

The night was dark, and the watchers could not tell precisely at what

point Senor de Rey had entered; but a grating of rusty hinges which

they heard, and the circumstance of not meeting the young man in the

whole length of the garden wall, convinced them that he had entered the

garden. Caballuco looked at his companion with stupefaction. He seemed

bewildered.

"What are you thinking about? Do you still doubt?"

"What ought I to do?" asked the bravo, covered with confusion. "Shall

we give him a fright? I don't know what the senora would think about

it. I say that because I was at her house this evening, and it seemed

to me that the mother and daughter had become reconciled."

"Don't be a fool! Why don't you go in?"

"Now I remember that the armed men are not there; I told them to leave

this evening."

"And this block of marble still doubts what he ought to do! Ramos, go

into the garden and don't be a coward."

"How can I go in if the door is closed?"

"Get over the wall. What a snail! If I were a man----"

"Well, then, up! There are some broken bricks here where the boys climb

over the wall to steal the fruit."

"Up quickly! I will go and knock at the front door to waken the senora,

if she should be asleep."

The Centaur climbed up, not without difficulty. He sat astride on the

wall for an instant, and then disappeared among the dark foliage of the

trees. Maria Remedios ran desperately toward the Calle del Condestable,

and, seizing the knocker of the front door, knocked--knocked three

times with all her heart and soul.

CHAPTER XXXI

DONA PERFECTA

See with what tranquillity Senora Dona Perfecta pursues her occupation

of writing. Enter her room, and, notwithstanding the lateness of the

hour, you will surprise her busily engaged, her mind divided between

meditation and the writing of several long and carefully worded

epistles traced with a firm hand, every hair-stroke of every letter in

which is correctly formed. The light of the lamp falls full upon her

face and bust and hands, its shade leaving the rest of her person and

almost the whole of the room in a soft shadow. She seems like a

luminous figure evoked by the imagination from amid the vague shadows

of fear.

It is strange that we should not have made before this a very important

statement, which is that Dona Perfecta was handsome, or rather that she

was still handsome, her face preserving the remains of former beauty.

The life of the country, her total lack of vanity, her disregard for

dress and personal adornment, her hatred of fashion, her contempt for

the vanities of the capital, were all causes why her native beauty did

not shine or shone very little. The intense shallowness of her

complexion, indicating a very bilious constitution, still further

impaired her beauty.

Her eyes black and well-opened, her nose finely and delicately shaped,

her forehead broad and smooth, she was considered by all who saw her as

a finished type of the human figure; but there rested on those features

a certain hard and proud expression which excited a feeling of

antipathy. As some persons, although ugly, attract; Dona Perfecta

repelled. Her glance, even when accompanied by amiable words, placed

between herself and those who were strangers to her the impassable

distance of a mistrustful respect; but for those of her house--that is

to say, for her relations, admirers, and allies--she possessed a

singular attraction. She was a mistress in governing, and no one could

equal her in the art of adapting her language to the person whom she

was addressing.

Her bilious temperament and an excessive association with devout

persons and things, which excited her imagination without object or

result, had aged her prematurely, and although she was still young she

did not seem so. It might be said of her that with her habits and

manner of life she had wrought a sort of rind, a stony, insensible

covering within which she shut herself, like the snail within his

portable house. Dona Perfecta rarely came out of her shell.

Her irreproachable habits, and that outward amiability which we have

observed in her from the moment of her appearance in our story, were

the causes of the great prestige which she enjoyed in Orbajosa. She

kept up relations, besides, with some excellent ladies in Madrid, and

it was through their means that she obtained the dismissal of her

nephew. At the moment which we have now arrived in our story, we find

her seated at her desk, which is the sole confidant of her plans and

the depository of her numerical accounts with the peasants, and of her

moral accounts with God and with society. There she wrote the letters

which her brother received every three months; there she composed the

notes that incited the judge and the notary to embroil Pepe Rey in

lawsuits; there she prepared the plot through which the latter lost the

confidence of the Government; there she held long conferences with Don

Inocencio. To become acquainted with the scene of others of her actions

whose effects we have observed, it would be necessary to follow her to

the episcopal palace and to the houses of various of her friends.

We do not know what Dona Perfecta would have been, loving. Hating, she

had the fiery vehemence of an angel of hatred and discord among men.

Such is the effect produced on a character naturally hard, and without

inborn goodness, by religious exaltation, when this, instead of drawing

its nourishment from conscience and from truth revealed in principles

as simple as they are beautiful, seeks its sap in narrow formulas

dictated solely by ecclesiastical interests. In order that religious

fanaticism should be inoffensive, the heart in which it exists must be

very pure. It is true that even in that case it is unproductive of

good. But the hearts that have been born without the seraphic purity

which establishes a premature Limbo on the earth, are careful not to

become greatly inflamed with what they see in retables, in choirs, in

locutories and sacristies, unless they have first erected in their own

consciences an altar, a pulpit, and a confessional.

Dona Perfecta left her writing from time to time, to go into the

adjoining room where her daughter was. Rosarito had been ordered to

sleep, but, already precipitated down the precipice of disobedience,

she was awake.

"Why don't you sleep?" her mother asked her. "I don't intend to go to

bed to-night. You know already that Caballuco has taken away with him

the men we had here. Something might happen, and I will keep watch. If

I did not watch what would become of us both?"

"What time is it?" asked the girl.

"It will soon be midnight. Perhaps you are not afraid, but I am."

Rosarito was trembling, and every thing about her denoted the keenest

anxiety. She lifted her eyes to heaven supplicatingly, and then turned

them on her mother with a look of the utmost terror.

"Why, what is the matter with you?"

"Did you not say it was midnight?"

"Yes."

"Then---- But is it already midnight?"

Rosario made an effort to speak, then shook her head, on which the

weight of a world was pressing.

"Something is the matter with you; you have something on your mind,"

said her mother, fixing on her daughter her penetrating eyes.

"Yes--I wanted to tell you," stammered the girl, "I wanted to say----

Nothing, nothing, I will go to sleep."

"Rosario, Rosario! your mother can read your heart like an open book,"

exclaimed Dona Perfecta with severity. "You are agitated. I have told

you already that I am willing to pardon you if you will repent; if you

are a good and sensible girl."

"Why, am I not good? Ah, mamma, mamma! I am dying!"

Rosario burst into a flood of bitter and disconsolate tears.

"What are these tears about?" said her mother, embracing her. "If they

are tears of repentance, blessed be they."

"I don't repent, I can't repent!" cried the girl, in a burst of sublime

despair.

She lifted her head and in her face was depicted a sudden inspired

strength. Her hair fell in disorder over her shoulders. Never was there

seen a more beautiful image of a rebellious angel.

"What is this? Have you lost your senses?" said Dona Perfecta, laying

both her hands on her daughter's shoulders.

"I am going away, I am going away!" said the girl, with the exaltation

of delirium.

And she sprang out of bed.

"Rosario, Rosario---- My daughter! For God's sake, what is this?"

"Ah, mamma, senora!" exclaimed the girl, embracing her mother; "bind me

fast!"

"In truth you would deserve it. What madness is this?"

"Bind me fast! I am going away--I am going away with him!"

Dona Perfecta felt a flood of fire surging from her heart up to her

lips. She controlled herself, however, and answered her daughter only

with her eyes, blacker than the night.

"Mamma, mamma, I hate all that is not he!" exclaimed Rosario. "Hear my

confession, for I wish to confess it to every one, and to you first of

all."

"You are going to kill me; you are killing me!"

"I want to confess it, so that you may pardon me. This weight, this

weight that is pressing me down, will not let me live."

"The weight of a sin! Add to it the malediction of God, and see if you

can carry that burden about with you, wretched girl! Only I can take it

from you."

"No, not you, not you!" cried Rosario, with desperation. "But hear me;

I want to confess it all, all! Afterward, turn me out of this house

where I was born."

"I turn you out!"

"I will go away, then."

"Still less. I will teach you a daughter's duty, which you have

forgotten."

"I will fly, then; he will take me with him!"

"Has he told you to do so? has he counselled you to do that? has he

commanded you to do that?" asked the mother, launching these words like

thunderbolts against her daughter.

"He has counselled me to do it. We have agreed to be married. We must

be married, mamma, dear mamma. I will love you--I know that I ought to

love you--I shall be forever lost if I do not love you."

She wrung her hands, and falling on her knees kissed her mother's feet.

"Rosario, Rosario!" cried Dona Perfecta, in a terrible voice, "rise!"

There was a short pause.

"This man--has he written to you?"

"Yes."

"And have you seen him again since that night?"

"Yes."

"And you have written to him!"

"I have written to him also. Oh, senora! why do you look at me in that

way? You are not my mother.

"Would to God that I were not! Rejoice in the harm you are doing me.

You are killing me; you have given me my death-blow!" cried Dona

Perfecta, with indescribable agitation. "You say that this man--"

"Is my husband--I will be his wife, protected by the law. You are not a

woman! Why do you look at me in that way? You make me tremble. Mother,

mother, do not condemn me!"

"You have already condemned yourself--that is enough. Obey me, and I

will forgive you. Answer me--when did you receive letters from that

man?"

"To-day."

"What treachery! What infamy!" cried her mother, roaring rather than

speaking. "Had you appointed a meeting?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"To-night."

"Where?"

"Here, here! I will confess every thing, every thing! I know it is a

crime. I am a wretch; but you who are my mother will take me out of

this hell. Give your consent. Say one word to me, only one word!"

"That man here in my house!" cried Dona Perfecta, springing back

several paces from her daughter.

Rosario followed her on her knees. At the same instant three blows were

heard, three crashes, three reports. It was the heart of Maria Remedios

knocking at the door through the knocker. The house trembled with awful

dread. Mother and daughter stood motionless as statues.

A servant went down stairs to open the door, and shortly afterward

Maria Remedios, who was not now a woman but a basilisk enveloped in a

mantle, entered Dona Perfecta's room. Her face, flushed with anxiety,

exhaled fire.

"He is there, he is there!" she said, as she entered. "He got into the

garden through the condemned door."

She paused for breath at every syllable.

"I know already," returned Dona Perfecta, with a sort of bellow.

Rosario fell senseless on the floor.

"Let us go down stairs," said Dona Perfecta, without paying any

attention to her daughter's swoon.

The two women glided down stairs like two snakes. The maids and the

man-servant were in the hall, not knowing what to do. Dona Perfecta

passed through the dining-room into the garden, followed by Maria

Remedios.

"Fortunately we have Ca-Ca-Ca-balluco there," said the canon's niece.

"Where?"

"In the garden, also. He cli-cli-climbed over the wall."

Dona Perfecta explored the darkness with her wrathful eyes. Rage gave

them the singular power of seeing in the dark peculiar to the feline

race.

"I see a figure there," she said. "It is going toward the oleanders."

"It is he!" cried Remedios. "But there comes Ramos--Ramos!"

The colossal figure of the Centaur was plainly distinguishable.

"Toward the oleanders, Ramos! Toward the oleanders!"

Dona Perfecta took a few steps forward. Her hoarse voice, vibrating

with a terrible accent, hissed forth these words:

"Cristobal, Cristobal--kill him!"

A shot was heard. Then another.

CHAPTER XXXII

CONCLUSION

From Don Cayetano Polentinos to a friend in Madrid:

"ORBAJOSA, April 21.

"MY DEAR FRIEND:

"Send me without delay the edition of 1562 that you say you have picked

up at the executor's sale of the books of Corchuelo. I will pay any

price for that copy. I have been long searching for it in vain, and I

shall esteem myself the most enviable of virtuosos in possessing it.

You ought to find in the colophon a helmet with a motto over the word

'Tractado,' and the tail of the X of the date MDLXII ought to be

crooked. If your copy agrees with these signs send me a telegraphic

despatch at once, for I shall be very anxious until I receive it. But

now I remember that, on account of these vexatious and troublesome

wars, the telegraph is not working. I shall await your answer by return

of mail.

"I shall soon go to Madrid for the purpose of having my long delayed

work, the 'Genealogies of Orbajosa,' printed. I appreciate your

kindness, my dear friend, but I cannot accept your too flattering

expressions. My work does not indeed deserve the high encomiums you

bestow upon it; it is a work of patience and study, a rude but solid

and massive monument which I shall have erected to the past glories of

my beloved country. Plain and humble in its form, it is noble in the

idea that inspired it, which was solely to direct the eyes of this

proud and unbelieving generation to the marvellous deeds and the pure

virtues of our forefathers. Would that the studious youth of our

country might take the step to which with all my strength I incite

them! Would that the abominable studies and methods of reasoning

introduced by philosophic license and erroneous doctrines might be

forever cast into oblivion! Would that our learned men might occupy

themselves exclusively in the contemplation of those glorious ages, in

order that, this generation being penetrated with their essence and

their beneficent sap, its insane eagerness for change, and its

ridiculous mania for appropriating to itself foreign ideas which

conflict with our beautiful national constitution, might disappear. I

fear greatly that among the crowd of mad youth who pursue vain Utopias

and heathenish novelties, my desires are not destined to be fulfilled,

and that the contemplation of the illustrious virtues of the past will

remain confined within the same narrow circle as to-day. What is to be

done, my friend? I am afraid that very soon our poor Spain is doomed to

be so disfigured that she will not be able to recognize herself, even

beholding herself in the bright mirror of her stainless history.

"I do not wish to close this letter without informing you of a

disagreeable event--the unfortunate death of an estimable young man,

well known in Madrid, the civil engineer Don Jose de Rey, a nephew of

my sister-in-law. This melancholy event occurred last night in the

garden of our house, and I have not yet been able to form a correct

judgment regarding the causes that may have impelled the unfortunate

Rey to this horrible and criminal act. According to what Perfecta told

me this morning, on my return from Mundo Grande, Pepe Rey at about

twelve o'clock last night entered the garden of the house and shot

himself in the right temple, expiring instantly. Imagine the

consternation and alarm which such an event would produce in this

peaceable and virtuous mansion. Poor Perfecta was so greatly affected

that we were for a time alarmed about her; but she is better now, and

this afternoon we succeeded in inducing her to take a little broth. We

employ every means of consoling her, and as she is a good Christian,

she knows how to support with edifying resignation even so great a

misfortune as this.

"Between you and me, my friend, I will say here that in young Rey's

fatal attempt upon his life, I believe the moving causes to have been

an unfortunate attachment, perhaps remorse for his conduct, and the

state of hypochondriasm into which he had fallen. I esteemed him

greatly; I think he was not lacking in excellent qualities; but he was

held in such disrepute here that never once have I heard any one speak

well of him. According to what they say, he made a boast of the most

extravagant ideas and opinions; he mocked at religion, entered the

church smoking and with his hat on; he respected nothing, and for him

there was neither modesty, nor virtue, nor soul, nor ideal, nor faith--

nothing but theodolites, squares, rules, engines, pick-axes, and

spades. What do you thing of that? To be just, I must say that in his

conversations with me he always concealed these ideas, doubtless

through fear of being utterly routed by the fire of my arguments; but

in public innumerable stories are told of his heretical ideas and his

stupendous excesses.

"I cannot continue, my dear friend, for at this moment I hear firing.

As I have no love for fighting, and as I am not a soldier, my pulse

trembles a little. In due time I will give you further particulars of

this war.

"Yours affectionately, etc., etc."

"APRIL 22.

"MY EVER-REMEMBERED FRIEND:

"To-day we have had a bloody skirmish on the outskirts of Orbajosa. The

large body of men raised in Villahorrenda were attacked by the troops

with great fury. There was great loss in killed and wounded on both

sides. After the combat the brave guerillas dispersed, but they are

greatly encouraged, and it is possible that you may hear of wonderful

things. Cristobal Caballuco, the son of the famous Caballuco whom you

will remember in the last war, though suffering from a wound in the

arm, how or when received is not known, commanded them. The present

leader has eminent qualifications for the command; and he is, besides,

an honest and simple-hearted man. As we must finally come to a friendly

arrangement, I presume that Caballuco will be made a general in the

Spanish army, whereby both sides will gain greatly.

"I deplore this war, which is beginning to assume alarming proportions;

but I recognize that our valiant peasants are not responsible for it,

since they have been provoked to the inhuman conflict by the audacity

of the Government, by the demoralization of its sacrilegious

delegates; by the systematic fury with which the representatives of the

state attack what is most venerated by the people--their religious

faith and the national spirit which fortunately still exists in those

places that are not yet contaminated by the desolating pestilence. When

it is attempted to take away the soul of a people to give it a

different one; when it is sought to denationalize a people, so to say,

perverting its sentiments, its customs, its ideas--it is natural that

this people should defend itself, like the man who is attacked by

highwaymen on a solitary road. Let the spirit and the pure and

salutiferous substance of my work on the 'Genealogies'--excuse the

apparent vanity--once reach the sphere of the Government and there will

no longer be wars.

"To-day we have had here a very disagreeable question. The clergy, my

friend, have refused to allow Rey to be buried in consecrated ground. I

interfered in the matter, entreating the bishop to remove this heavy

anathema, but without success. Finally, we buried the body of the young

man in a grave made in the field of Mundo Grande, where my patient

explorations have discovered the archaeological treasures of which you

know. I spent some very sad hours, and the painful impression which I

received has not yet altogether passed away. Don Juan Tafetan and

ourselves were the only persons who accompanied the funeral cortege. A

little later, strange to say, the girls whom they call here the Troyas

went to the field, and prayed for a long time beside the rustic tomb of

the mathematician. Although this seemed a ridiculous piece of

officiousness it touched me.

"With respect to the death of Rey, the rumor circulates throughout the

town that he was assassinated, but by whom is not known. It is asserted

that he declared this to be the case, for he lived for about an hour

and a half. According to what they say, he refused to reveal the name

of his murderer. I repeat this version, without either contradicting or

supporting it. Perfecta does not wish this matter to be spoken of, and

she becomes greatly distressed whenever I allude to it.

"Poor woman! no sooner had one misfortune occurred than she met with

another, which has grieved us all deeply. My friend, the fatal malady

that has been for so many generations connatural in our family has now

claimed another victim. Poor Rosario, who, thanks to our cares, was

improving gradually in her health, has entirely lost her reason. Her

incoherent words, her frenzy, her deadly pallor, bring my mother and my

sister forcibly to my mind. This is the most serious case that I have

witnessed in our family, for the question here is not one of mania but

of real insanity. It is sad, terribly sad that out of so many I should

be the only one to escape, preserving a sound mind with all my

faculties unimpaired and entirely free from any sign of that fatal

malady.

"I have not been able to give your remembrances to Don Inocencio, for

the poor man has suddenly fallen ill and refuses to see even his most

intimate friends. But I am sure that he would return your remembrances,

and I do not doubt that he could lay his hand instantly on the

translation of the collection of Latin epigrams which you recommend to

him. I hear firing again. They say that we shall have a skirmish this

afternoon. The troops have just been called out."

"BARCELONA, June 1.

"I have just arrived here after leaving my niece in San Baudilio de

Llobregat. The director of the establishment has assured me that the

case is incurable. She will, however, have the greatest care in that

cheerful and magnificent sanitarium. My dear friend, if I also should

ever succumb, let me be taken to San Baudilio. I hope to find the

proofs of my 'Genealogies' awaiting me on my return. I intend to add

six pages more, for it would be a great mistake not to publish my

reasons for maintaining that Mateo Diez Coronel, author of the 'Metrico

Encomio,' is descended, on the mother's side, from the Guevaras, and

not from the Burguillos, as the author of the 'Floresta Amena'

erroneously maintains.

"I write this letter principally for the purpose of giving you a

caution. I have heard several persons here speaking of Pepe Rey's

death, and they describe it exactly as it occurred. The secret of the

manner of his death, which I learned some time after the event, I

revealed to you in confidence when we met in Madrid. It has appeared

strange to me that having told it to no one but yourself, it should be

known here in all its details--how he entered the garden; how he fired

on Caballuco when the latter attacked him with his dagger; how Ramos

then fired on him with so sure an aim that he fell to the ground

mortally wounded. In short, my dear friend, in case you should have

inadvertently spoken of this to any one, I will remind you that it is a

family secret, and that will be sufficient for a person as prudent and

discreet as yourself.

"Joy! joy! I have just read in one of the papers here that Caballuco

had defeated Brigadier Batalla."

"ORBAJOSA, December 12.

"I have a sad piece of news to give you. The Penitentiary has ceased to

exist for us; not precisely because he has passed to a better life, but

because the poor man has been, ever since last April, so grief-

stricken, so melancholy, so taciturn that you would not know him. There

is no longer in him even a trace of that Attic humor, that decorous and

classic joviality which made him so pleasing. He shuns every body; he

shuts himself up in his house and receives no one; he hardly eats any

thing, and he has broken off all intercourse with the world. If you

were to see him now you would not recognize him, for he is reduced to

skin and bone. The strangest part of the matter is that he has

quarreled with his niece and lives alone, entirely alone, in a

miserable cottage in the suburb of Baidejos. They say now that he will

resign his chair in the choir of the cathedral and go to Rome. Ah!

Orbajosa will lose much in losing her great Latinist. I imagine that

many a year will pass before we shall see such another. Our glorious

Spain is falling into decay, declining, dying."

"ORBAJOSA, December 23.

"The young man who will present to you a letter of introduction from me

is the nephew of our dear Penitentiary, a lawyer with some literary

ability. Carefully educated by his uncle, he has very sensible ideas.

How regrettable it would be if he should become corrupted in that sink

of philosophy and incredulity! He is upright, industrious, and a good

Catholic, for which reasons I believe that in an office like yours he

will rise to distinction in his profession. Perhaps his ambition may

lead him (for he has ambition, too) into the political arena, and I

think he would not be a bad acquisition to the cause of order and

tradition, now that the majority of our young men have become perverted

and have joined the ranks of the turbulent and the vicious. He is

accompanied by his mother, a commonplace woman without any social

polish, but who has an excellent heart, and who is truly pious.

Maternal affection takes in her the somewhat extravagant form of

worldly ambition, and she declares that her son will one day be

Minister. It is quite possible that he may.

"Perfecta desires to be remembered to you. I don t know precisely what?

is the matter with her; but the fact is, she gives us great uneasiness.

She has lost her appetite to an alarming degree, and, unless I am

greatly mistaken in my opinion of her case, she shows the first

symptoms of jaundice. The house is very sad without Rosarito, who

brightened it with her smiles and her angelic goodness. A black cloud

seems to rest now over us all. Poor Perfecta speaks frequently of this

cloud, which is growing blacker and blacker, while she becomes every

day more yellow. The poor mother finds consolation for her grief in

religion and in devotional exercises, which each day she practises with

a more exemplary and edifying piety. She passes almost the whole of the

day in church, and she spends her large income in novenas and in

splendid religious ceremonies. Thanks to her, religious worship has

recovered in Orbajosa its former splendor. This is some consolation in

the midst of the decay and dissolution of our nationality.

"To-morrow I will send the proofs. I will add a few pages more, for I

have discovered another illustrious Orbajosan--Bernardo Amador de Sota,

who was footman to the Duke of Osuna, whom he served during the period

of the vice-royalty of Naples; and there is even good reason to believe

that he had no complicity whatever in the conspiracy against Venice."

Our story is ended. This is all we have to say for the present

concerning persons who seem, but are not good.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dona Perfecta, by B. Perez Galdos

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