produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

[Illustration: Frontispiece: THE CITY OF SANTANDER, SPAIN

THE "SARRIO" OF THE FOURTH ESTATE]

_The Fourth Estate Vol. 1_

PALACIO VALDÉS

The Fourth

Estate

_VOLUME I_

TRANSLATED FROM
THE SPANISH

[Illustration: colophon]

A FRONTISPIECE AND A
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY

BRENTANO'S

_The Fourth Estate_

THE FOURTH ESTATE

VOLUME ONE

CONTENTS

PAGE

LIFE OF VALDÉS                                                         5

CHAPTER I
THE CURTAIN RISES                                                      9

CHAPTER II
THE PERFORMANCE CONTINUES                                             20

SAFE ARRIVAL OF THE "BELLA PAULA"                                     34

CHAPTER IV
THE BETROTHAL                                                         48

CHAPTER V
PLANNING THE HOME                                                     61

CHAPTER VI
THE CHIEF RESIDENTS OF SARRIO AT THEIR CLUB                           80

CHAPTER VII
BURGLARS                                                             115

CHAPTER VIII
CECILIA'S TROUSSEAU                                                  134

CHAPTER IX
A CHANGE OF HEART                                                    156

CHAPTER X
TWO TRAITORS                                                         173

CHAPTER XI
MEETING IN SUPPORT OF THE FOURTH ESTATE                              191

CHAPTER XII
THE STORY OF A TEAR                                                  218

CHAPTER XIII
"THE LIGHT OF SARRIO"                                                249

CHAPTER XIV
VIOLENT RECRIMINATIONS                                               274

CHAPTER XV
GONZALO MARRIES                                                      288

CHAPTER XVI
MARTIAL DOINGS                                                       304

LIFE OF VALDÉS

The early writings of this distinguished native of Asturias partake of a
peculiar interest, strongly appealing to one's human sympathies. On his
thirtieth birthday Señor Valdés married a young lady scarcely more than
half his age. She was very frail, and after eighteen months of tenderly
devoted love on both sides, the husband was left alone with an infant
son. The charming and pathetic little tale "The Idyl of an Invalid"
describes the earlier portion of the author's brief wedded life, and in
fact was written during that happy period. The year after his wife's
death he published "Riverita," in which novel his late partner was made
to appear as a child, and in the sequel to "Riverita," "Maximina,"
published still a year later, we find her depicted as ripening to
womanhood. Thus, out of Valdés's early novels three bear this melancholy
yet attractive personal quality.

His beginning in the field of fiction, Armando Palacio Valdés made in
1881, with "Young Mr. Octavio," following it up, in 1883, with "Martha
and Mary." Then, between "The Idyl of an Invalid" and "Riverita" came
"José." The novel here offered, a specimen of his work combining pathos
with humor, was printed the year after "Maximina," that is to say, in
1888.

When "The Fourth Estate" was brought out Valdés was thirty-five. He was
born on the 4th of October, 1853, in a little village called Entralgo,
where his family owned a summer villa. The greater part of the year they
spent at Avilés, at which place young Armando first went to school. He
continued his studies at Oviedo, and then went to Madrid, with the
object of graduating as a lawyer.

His real bent, that of authorship, however, soon declared itself, so
that while yet occupied with his legal studies he contributed articles
on philosophical and theological subjects to the Spanish "Revista
Europea"--of which periodical he eventually joined the staff and became
the editor. In this capacity he earned a national reputation as a censor
of literature, his articles and sketches pertaining to literary
criticism being collected in several volumes. But after 1881 he devoted
little time to commenting on other people's books, preferring to bend
his main energies to creative endeavor.

Seven of his novels have been mentioned above, and among those
subsequently produced seven more complete the list of his novels best
known to the Spanish public. These are "Sister Saint Sulpice," "Foam,"
"Faith," "The Grandee," "The Origin of Thought," "The Dandies of Cadiz,"
and "The Joy of Captain Ribot."

In a letter sent a few years ago to an English literary friend Señor
Valdés wrote as follows:

"Since my wife died my life has been tranquil and melancholy, dedicated
to work and to my son. During the summers I live in Asturias, and during
the winters in Madrid. I like the company of men of the world better
than that of literary folks, because the former teach me more. I am
given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a passion for physical
exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try to live in an evenly
balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me as affectation and
emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to bull-fights
(although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like a miniature
bull-slayer, as an American writer declares I do), and I cultivate the
theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view helps me in
the composition of my stories."

THE FOURTH ESTATE

CHAPTER I

THE CURTAIN RISES

Sarrio, the well-known town on the Cantabrian coast, boasted some years
ago of a theatre neither bright, light, nor commodious, but quite good
enough to afford entertainment to the pacific, industrious residents
during the long winter evenings.

It was built, as such places usually are, in the form of a horseshoe,
and it consisted of two floors besides the ground floor. On the first
were the boxes--goodness knows why they were so called, for they were
nothing but a few benches stuffed with goat's hair and upholstered with
scarlet flannel, placed behind a balustrade. To take one of these
places, a push had to be given to the back, which raised the seat with a
spring, and once the person was in it readjusted itself, and he was as
comfortable as a human being can be on an instrument of torture. On the
second floor all the rabble vociferated, scuffled, and pushed,
irrespective of social distinctions between the well-to-do seaman, the
poor mussel-picker from the rocks and pier, and Amalia, the respected
dealer, and the sellers in the streets. This part of the house was
called the gallery. The stage-boxes were of the same wretched style as
the others, and the upholstering seemed to be the same, as far as one
could see. Beyond them came the "front rows," reserved, according to the
old-fashioned way, for certain handicraftsmen, who, from their calling,
their position as employers, or for any reason, were averse to going up
into the gallery and mixing with the common herd. From the roof hung a
prismatic cut-glass chandelier, lighted with fish oil, which was
subsequently replaced by petroleum; but that reform I never saw. Under
the staircase leading to the boxes there was an alcove, enclosed by a
curtain, which went by the name of "Don Mateo's box." Of this Don Mateo
more anon.

Then you must know that in this provincial theatre the same dramas and
comedies were played as in the capital, and the same operas given as at
La Scala in Milan. Incredible as it seems, it is perfectly true. There
the narrator of this story heard for the first time the famous lines:

    "When you hearken to a story of shipwreck,
     All on earth, e'en to love, is forgotten."

They certainly struck him as splendid, and the theatre a marvel of
luxury and good taste. Everything in the world depends on imagination.
Would that mine were as fresh and vivid as it was in those days, so as
to be able to give you a few hours' pleasant amusement!

There it was I saw "Don Juan Tenorio," with its flour-whitened corpses,
its commander gliding away on a door pulled with cords, its infernal
regions made of lighted spirits of wine; and its apotheosis of paper,
stuffing, and packing-cases made such an impression on me that I never
slept that night. In the auditorium the same things went on more or less
as in the grandest houses of the capital. However, more attention was
given to the performance here than in Court theatres, because we had not
arrived at that high state of culture in which behavior is in direct
contradiction to the place--swearing and chattering in playhouses,
laughing and giggling in church, and silence and sedateness at the
promenade, after the delightful fashion in Madrid. Even now I do not
know if they have attained to this state of culture in Sarrio.

But it must not be thought that there were not some enlightened spirits
who were sufficiently advanced to give a sample of correct manners at
the theatre. Pablito de Belinchon was one of these. With three or four
kindred spirits he had a season ticket for one of the stage-boxes, and
from thence they spoke across to other gentlemen, older men, who
subscribed to the opposite stage-box. They cracked jokes, they turned
the soprano or bass into ridicule, and they threw sweets and pellets of
paper. The people in the gallery, not yet conversant with this advanced
stage of refinement, loudly insisted on silence. The families of
importance arriving, as usual, after the curtain had risen, came in with
as much fuss as if they were passing into the dress-circle of the Royal
Theatre, and, be it said, with much more noise, for it is impossible to
imagine the horrible sounds with which the backs of the boxes were
pushed back, and the seats dropped, as if on purpose to attract
attention.

The party now making its pompous entry into one of these boxes remains
standing until all wraps are removed, while the eyes of the audience are
instantly turned from the stage and fixed upon the newcomers until they
are seated. They are the Belinchons. The head of the family is a tall,
spare gentleman, with bent shoulders, bald head, small sharp eyes, a
large mouth, wreathed with a Mephistophelian smile, disclosing two long
even rows of teeth, the masterpiece of a certain dentist, recently
established in Sarrio; he has whiskers and mustache, and his age is
about sixty.

He is reported to be the richest merchant in the town, being one of the
chief importers of codfish on the Biscayan coast. For many years he had
the entire monopoly of the wholesale trade of this commodity, not only
in the town, but in the provinces, and had thus amassed a considerable
fortune.

His wife, Doña Paula--but why does her arrival excite so much talk in
the theatre? The good lady, hearing it, trembles, looks confused, and,
being unable to collect herself sufficiently to take off her cloak by
herself, she is relieved of it by her daughter, who says in her ear:

"Sit down, mama."

Doña Paula sits down, or, to speak more correctly, she drops into a
seat, and casts an anxious look at the audience, while her cheeks are
suffused with crimson. In vain she tries to collect and calm herself,
but the more she tries to keep the blood from rushing to her face the
more it mounts to that prominent position.

"Mama, how red you are!" said Venturita, her younger daughter, trying
not to laugh.

The mother looked at her with a pained expression.

"Hush, Ventura, hush," said Cecilia.

Doña Paula then murmured: "The child delights in upsetting me," and
nearly burst into tears.

At last the audience, wearied of tormenting her with their glances,
smiles, and whispers, turned their attention to the stage. Doña Paula's
distress gradually diminished, but the traces remained for the rest of
the evening.

The cause of the excitement was the velvet mantle, trimmed with fur,
that the good lady had donned. It was always like this whenever she
appeared for the first time in any fine article of apparel. And this for
no other reason than because Doña Paula was not a lady by birth.

She had belonged to the cigarette-maker class. Don Rosendo had made love
to her when she was quite a young girl, and then came the birth of
Pablito. However, Don Rosendo let five or six years elapse without
marrying, not wishing to hear of matrimony, but continuing to pay court
to her and assisting her with money, until finally, vanquished more by
the love of the boy than the mother, and more than all by the
admonitions of his friends, he decided to offer his hand to Paulina.

The town knew nothing of the marriage until it had taken place, secrecy
being considered the safest course. From thenceforth the life of the
cigarette-maker can be divided into different epochs. The first, which
lasted for a year, dated from the time of her marriage until the
"mantilla appeared." During this epoch she did not go out much, nor was
she often seen in public. On Sundays she attended early mass, and the
rest of the time she was shut up in the house. When she decided to don
the aforementioned mantilla and attend eleven o'clock mass she was the
cynosure of all eyes, in church as well as on her way through the
streets; and the event was talked about for eight days afterward.

The second epoch, which lasted three years, was from the "mantilla
episode" to that of "the gloves." The sight of such an adornment on the
large dark hands of the ex-cigarette-maker produced an indescribable
sensation in the feminine element of the neighborhood; in the streets,
in church, and on visits, the ladies met each other with the question:

"Have you seen?"

"Yes, yes; I have seen."

And then the tongues were loosed in cruel remarks.

Then came the third epoch, which lasted four years, and ended with the
silk dress, which gave almost as much cause of complaint as the gloves,
and produced universal indignation in Sarrio.

"Do you really mean to say so, Doña Dolores?"

"Who would have thought it?"

Doña Dolores lowered her eyes with a despairing gesture.

Finally the last epoch, the longest of all, for it lasted six years,
terminated (oh horror!) with "the hat." The shudder of disgust that went
through the town of Sarrio when Doña Paula appeared one holiday
afternoon at the Promenade with a little hat on her head beggars
description. It caused quite a sensation: the women of the place made
the sign of the cross, as they saw her pass, and remarks were uttered
in loud tones so as to reach the person concerned.

"Look, girl, do for goodness' sake, look at the Serena, and see what she
has got on her head."

Mention must be made that Doña Paula's mother, grandmother, and
great-grandmother had all gone by the name of Serena. It is needless to
add that even when the cigarette-maker attained to the dignity of
señora, she was never by any chance given her proper name.

When the ladies of Sarrio met each other in the street the following day
there were no words to express their horror; they could only raise their
eyes to heaven, make convulsive gesticulations, and utter, with a groan,
the word "Hat!"

So at that deed of daring, only comparable to those of heroes of
antiquity, like Hannibal, Cæsar, and Genghis Khan, the town remained
crushed and dumfounded for some months. Nevertheless, whenever Doña
Paula appeared in public with the abhorred hat upon her head, or with
any other departure from her old attire, she was always greeted with a
murmur of disapproval. The fault of the matter lay in her never having
resented, in public or in private, or even in the sanctum of her own
feelings, this malignant treatment of her fellow-townsfolk. She
considered it natural and reasonable, and it never occurred to her that
it ought not to have been; her ideas of conventionality had never
prompted her to rebel against the tyranny of public opinion. She
believed in all good faith that in adopting the gloves, the mantilla, or
the hat, she had committed a breach of laws both human and divine, and
that the murmurs and mocking glances were the just retribution for the
infraction. Hence her terror and dismay every time she appeared at the
theatre or promenade overwhelmed her with confusion.

"Why, then," it will be said, "did Doña Paula dress herself thus?"

Those who ask such questions are not well versed in the mysteries of the
human heart; Doña Paula put on the mantilla, gloves, and hat with the
full knowledge of the retribution to come, just as a boy stuffs himself
from the sideboard, knowing that he will be punished for the act. Those
who have not been brought up in a little town can never know how
ardently the hat is desired by the artisan.

It was so with Doña Paula, old, faded, and withered as she was. As a
young girl, she had been pretty, but years, her secluded life, to which
she could never accustom herself, and, above all, her struggle against
public opinion in the adoption of appropriate attire, had prematurely
aged her; but she still had beautiful black eyes set in regular and
pleasing features.

The first act was nearly over. A fantastic melodrama, the name I do not
remember, was being performed, and the company had brought into play
all the scenic apparatus at its disposal. The audience was impressed,
and received every change of scene with enthusiastic applause.

Pablito, who had spent a month in Madrid the previous year, made light
of the performance and winked knowingly at his friend in the front row
of the stalls. Then, to show how boring he found it all, he ended by
turning his back on the stage, and leveling his opera-glass at the local
beauties. Every time that the Russian-leather lorgnette was turned on
one of the fair sex the girl trembled slightly, changed her position,
and raised her hand, which slightly shook, to adjust her hair, smiled
meaninglessly at her mama or sister, settled herself afresh, and fixed
her eyes on the stage with insistence and decision, but a quick shy
glance was soon raised to those round, bright glasses directed at her,
and she ended by blushing.

Then Pablito, having carried his point, turned his attention to another
beauty. He knew them all as well as if they were his sisters, he thee'd
and thou'd the majority of them, and to several he had even been
engaged; but he was as light and inconsistent in his love affairs as a
feather in the air; the girls had all had to undergo the painful process
of disillusion, and finally, wearied of courting his neighbors, he
proceeded to exercise his charms on some of the visitors to Sarrio,
only, of course, to throw them over, if they imprudently stayed more
than a month or two in the town.

There were weighty reasons for Pablito's power to thus make havoc at his
own sweet will in the hearts of all the girls of the place, as well as
of those from other parts.

He was a very aristocratic-looking young fellow of four or five and
twenty, of a handsome, manly countenance, and slight well-formed figure.
Then, he rode splendidly, and drove a tilbury or drag and four with an
ease only seen in Sarrio among coachmen. When wide trousers were worn,
Pablito's looked like skirts, and when tight ones were the fashion his
legs looked as slender as a stork's. When high collars were in vogue,
Pablito went about half-strangled with his tongue hanging out, and when
low ones came in, he had them cut down to his breastbone.

These and other striking characteristics made him irresistible. Perhaps
some people will not quite credit the universal admiration he excited,
but I am certain that the girls of the province who read this story will
testify to the truth of the fact.

CHAPTER II

THE PERFORMANCE CONTINUES

When the curtain fell, a bent old man with spectacles and a long white
beard crept, rather than walked, to the Belinchons' box.

"Don Mateo! You never miss a performance," exclaimed Doña Paula.

"Well, what would you have me do at home, Papulina?"

"Tell your beads and go to bed," said Venturita.

Don Mateo smiled benignantly and answered the pert remark by giving the
girl an affectionate tap on her cheek.

"It is true I ought to do so, my child--but what is to be done? If I go
to bed early I do not sleep--and then I can not resist the temptation of
seeing you pretty little dears."

Venturita's coquettish expression betrayed her satisfaction at seeing
herself admired.

"Now, if you were a handsome young man!"

"I have been one."

"In what year was that?"

"How naughty! how naughty the child is!" exclaimed Don Mateo, laughing;
but he was here interrupted by a fit of coughing which lasted for some
minutes.

Don Mateo, an old man, and decrepit not only with age, but with
infirmities brought on by a dissipated life, was the delight of the town
of Sarrio. No festivity and no public or private entertainment could
take place without him. He had been president of the Lyceum, a dancing
club, for many years, and nobody thought of having him supplanted. He
was also president of an academy of music, of which he was the founder;
he was treasurer of the artisans' club; the rebuilding of the theatre
now mentioned was due to him; and as an acknowledgment of the time and
money he spent on it, the company permitted him to have the box, already
alluded to, in the alcove under the staircase, enclosed with curtains.

He lived on his pension as colonel; he was married, and had a daughter
over thirty years of age, who still went by the name of "the child." It
must not be thought by this that Don Mateo was a skittish old man. If he
had been, the weaker sex would not have been so profuse in their
sympathy and respect for him. His sole pleasure was to see other people
amused and happy about him, and he spared himself neither trouble nor
efforts in getting up any fresh entertainment. Once his mind was set
upon a new idea, his energy never flagged. Sometimes he organized a
country ball; another time he had a stage put up in the large room of
the Lyceum, and got up a play; and he occasionally chartered a
mountebank or musical company. If a week went by without Sarrio having
some entertainment or other, Don Mateo was in a great state of mind, and
had no rest until he had started something.

Thanks to him, we can safely say that at this period there was no place
in Spain where life was rendered so easy and pleasant as at Sarrio, for
a constant round of simple amusements engenders union and friendliness
among the townsfolk. Moreover, Don Mateo was a professional peace-maker,
for he made a point of smoothing away all the bad feelings and
misunderstandings that always crop up in a town. Unlike bad persons who
delight in fanning the flame of dissension, he found delight in
repeating to people all the pleasant things he heard of them.

"Pepita, do you know what Doña Rosario said just now about the dress you
have on?--that it is most elegant, exquisite, and tasteful."

Whereupon Pepita, filled with pride as she sat in her box, cast quite an
affectionate glance at Doña Rosario, little as she liked her.

Then, again, "How well you managed Villamor's chocolate business for the
widow and children, friend Eugenio--you did, indeed. Don Rosendo was
just telling me he let the business slip through his fingers like a
fool."

As Don Rosendo was the best man of business in the town, Don Eugenio
could not help feeling flattered at these words.

After chatting for some little time with the Belinchon family, Don Mateo
took leave, to prosecute, as usual, his visits to the other boxes; but
before going he turned to Cecilia, and said:

"When does he arrive?"

The young girl flushed slightly, and replied:

"I can not tell you, Don Mateo."

Then Doña Paula, smiling mischievously, came to her daughter's rescue,
by saying:

"He ought to arrive in the 'Bella Paula,' which sailed from Liverpool."

"Oh! then we shall be having him here to-morrow or next day. You have
prayed a good deal to the Virgin de las Tormentas--the Virgin of the
Storms--eh?"

"She has actually had a _nones_--six candles have been burning for days
before the image," said Venturita.

Cecilia's blush deepened, and she smiled. She was a young woman of
twenty years of age, neither beautiful in face nor graceful in figure;
the harmony of her features was spoiled by her nose being too aquiline.
Without this drawback she would not have been plain, for her eyes were
extremely good--so soft and expressive that few beauties could rival
them. She was neither tall nor short, but rather thin, and her shoulders
slightly bent. Her sister Venturita was sixteen years of age, and as
full of grace and beauty as a lovely flower. Her oval cheeks seemed made
of roses and pinks; she was somewhat small, but so perfectly made that
she looked like a wax model. Her jasmine-like hands and her fairy-like
feet were the talk of Sarrio.

The softness and smoothness of her skin were like mother-of-pearl and
alabaster; her creamy forehead, high and narrow as that of a Greek
Venus, was shaded by fair curls; and rich, abundant golden tresses
covered her shoulders and fell below her waist.

"You may laugh at your sister, little one; but it will not be long
before you do the same!" said Don Mateo.

"I pray for a man! You are getting imbecile, señor."

"It won't be long before I hear of it," returned the old man, as he
passed on to another box to greet the Señores de Maza.

At that moment Pablito joined his family, accompanied by his faithful
friend, who merits special notice.

He was the son of the _picador_, the famous bull slayer, of the place,
and the cast of the lad's features was such as would have been the
delight of the spectators at a circus. His face would have required no
addition in the way of powder, rouge, or dye to convert him into a
clown. The nose, highly colored by nature, the narrow slits of eyes, the
lack of any mustache or whiskers, the thick lips, the excessive width of
his shoulders, the bow of his legs, and, above all, the facial
contortions which accompanied every word he uttered, were provocative of
mirth without the aid of paint or wig. Piscis, for so he was called, was
aware of this peculiarity, and resented it so intensely that he resolved
to counteract the ludicrous cast of his features by determining never to
laugh, and he religiously kept to his decision. Moreover, he, for the
same reason, interspersed his remarks with the sharpest, strongest
interjections of the vernacular, varied by those of his own invention.
But this, instead of producing the desired effect, only added to the
amusement he provoked among his acquaintances.

The only person who ever took him seriously--up to a certain point--was
Pablito. Piscis and Pablito were born to inspire each other with mutual
love and admiration. The point of union between the two kindred spirits
was "the cult of the horse-god." Piscis, through his father, was an
adept in that line from a child; and as the best mount in Sarrio, he was
the object of Pablito's warmest admiration, and the son of Don Rosendo
being the richest young fellow of the place, there was, according to
Piscis, no person in the world more deserving of respect and admiration.

Nobody knew when this friendship had begun; Pablito and Piscis had
always been inseparable from the time they were children, and the
difference of their social positions did not separate them as they grew
up to manhood. Don Rosendo's stable was their constant place of meeting;
from thence, after a long and erudite conference, partly theoretical,
partly practical on the horses, they proceeded to betake their presence
and their profound knowledge to the town, where they took a few turns,
sometimes on high-spirited horses, and at other times in a smart trap,
with Pablito driving, and Piscis absorbed in affectionate contemplation
of the backs of the animals. On some occasions, however, they gave the
town a lesson of humility by perambulating on their own legs. Pablito
now came up to his family party convulsed with laughter.

"What has come over you?" asked Doña Paula, smiling in sympathy.

"We just followed Periquito to the gallery, and there we found him hand
in hand with Ramona," whispered the young man into his sister
Venturita's ear.

"Well, what did he say?" she asked with great curiosity.

"He said"--and here a burst of laughter interrupted him for some
minutes--"he said, 'Ramona, I love you.'"

"Ave Maria! and an anchovy seller, too!" exclaimed the girl, joining in
the laugh, and making the sign of the cross.

"If you could have heard the trembling voice in which he said it, and
the way in which he turned up the whites of his eyes---- Ah! here is
Piscis, who was also witness of it."

Piscis gave vent to a corroborative grunt. At that moment Periquito, a
pallid, lean lad, with blue eyes and a little, thin red beard, appeared
in one of the stage boxes; the eyes of the whole Belinchon family were
at once turned on him with mocking and smiling glances, Pablito and
Venturita evincing particular delight at the sight of the young man.
Periquito raised his head and saluted them, and the Belinchon family
responded to the greeting without ceasing laughing. He raised his eyes
two or three times, but those continual mocking glances so confused him
that he at last retired into the narrow foyer. The curtain then rose
again: the scene now represented caverns in the infernal regions,
although it was not impossible for them to be mistaken for the hold of a
ship.

The act opened with a prelude by the orchestra, worthily conducted by
Señor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker of the town.

Señor Matias, the sacristan, and Señor Manola, the barber, took part in
the performance as bassoon-players. Don Juan, the "old salt," as he was
nicknamed, and Prospero, the carpenter, played the clarinets; the
trumpet-players were Mechacan, the shoemaker, and Señor Romualdo, the
undertaker; Pepe de la Esquila, the lawyer's clerk, and Maroto, "the
watchman," were the cornet-players; and the fiddle was played by Señor
Benito, the violinist of the church and a clerk in a business house;
while the minor accompanists consisted of four or five apprentice youths
of the town.

Instead of a bâton, Señor Anselmo held in his hand an enormous bright
key, which was that of his shop, and served to conduct the music.

The prelude was very sad and mournful, suggestive of a fitting state of
mind for the infernal regions. The audience preserved absolute silence,
and in anxious expectation of what was to come all eyes were fixed on
the open trap-doors in the stage floor. A discordant note suddenly broke
in upon the soft, mysterious music. Señor Anselmo turned and cast a
reproachful look at the offending musician, who colored up to his eyes;
and there came a loud, prolonged murmur of disapproval from the
audience, while from the gallery a voice cried:

"It was Pepe de la Esquila!"

All eyes were then directed to the delinquent, who, drawing the
mouthpiece from his cornet, shook it with assumed indifference while
his face became redder and redder.

"Those who can not play should go to bed," cried the same voice.

Then the abashed and ashamed Pepe de la Esquila was fraught with fury.
He threw his instrument upon the floor, rose from his seat with his eyes
aflame with rage, shook his fist at the gallery, and cried:

"I'll settle you when we get out, see if I don't."

"Sh! sh! Silence, silence!" exclaimed the audience in a breath.

"What is there to settle, man? Get on and play the cornet better."

"Silence, silence! Shame!" cried the audience again, and all eyes were
then turned to the mayor's box.

He was a man of sixty or seventy years of age, short of stature and very
high-colored; his hair was still thick and quite white, his cheeks were
shaven, his nose Roman, his eyes large, round, and prominent. He looked
like a courtier of the time of Louis XV, or a coachman of some grand
house.

Don Roque, for such was his name, turned round in his seat, and called
out in a stentorian voice:

"Marcones."

Whereupon an octogenarian official approached the door of the box with
his shiny, peaked, blue cloth cap in his hand.

The mayor conferred with him for some minutes; and then Marcones
ascended the gallery, and reappeared holding a young man in sailor dress
by the arm. They both approached the mayor's box, and then Don Roque
proceeded to rebuke the offender in a voice which he only partially
succeeded in modulating, for, from time to time, one overheard such
remarks as: "Disturber of the peace! Have you no manners whatsoever! You
are a belligerent animal! Do you think you are in a tavern?"

The sailor received the reprimand with his eyes on the ground.

A voice cried from the pit:

"Let him be taken to prison."

Then another voice from the gallery immediately returned:

"Let Pepe de la Esquila be taken too."

"Silence! Silence!"

The mayor, after having sharply rebuked Percebe, let him return to his
seat, to the great delight of the gallery, who received him back with
hurrahs and applause.

The orchestra, silenced for a time, now resumed the prelude to the
infernal regions, and before it was finished a dozen devils were seen
emerging through the trap-doors on to the stage with masks, enormous tow
wigs, the inevitable tails, and with lighted torches in their hands.
Then, when they were all assembled on the boarded floor and the
trap-doors were conveniently closed, they began the fantastic dance
befitting the occasion. But it is known of old that four demons can not
join together in a dance without getting excited. The spectators
followed their swift, measured movements with extreme interest. A child
began to cry, and the audience made its mother withdraw him from the
house.

But, lo and behold! with so much passing to and fro of Beelzebub's
ministers in that not very spacious place, a torch ignited the tow wig
of one of the party. The poor devil, in ignorance of the fact, continued
the dance with most diabolical energy; the audience went into fits of
laughter awaiting the issue of the accident. Eventually, when he felt
his head grow hot, he promptly tore off the wig and mask, and disclosed
the countenance of Levita, distorted with terror.

"Levita!" cried the delighted audience.

The owner of this nickname, deprived of his demoniacal disguise, retired
from the scene, covered with confusion.

In a short time another wig was set on fire. Fresh cries of excitement
at the approaching metamorphosis of the demon. There was not long to
wait, for in a few minutes the wig and the mask flew through the air
like a flaming comet.

"Matalaosa!" was the universal cry, and a shout of laughter rang through
the theatre.

"Matala, don't be afraid that you will catch cold," said a voice from
the gallery.

Matalaosa retired, discomfited, like his companion Levita.

Two or three more wigs were set on fire, exposing to shame as many more
well-known faces of townfolk who acted as supers at the theatre. The
dance finally terminated without further mishap.

The demons who had escaped any catastrophe being once more relegated to
the infernal regions, there appeared on the scene a fine young fellow,
who, to judge from the skin which hung from his shoulder, was evidently
a shepherd, with a pretty young girl of the same profession, and,
according to the old rule which obliges every shepherd to be in love,
and every shepherdess to be coquettish, the dialogue began, in which the
affectionate entreaties and tender reproaches of the man contrasted
strongly with the light laughter and jokes of the girl.

Everybody was pleased and delighted, the gallery as well as the pit,
with the touching scene enacted, when a loud voice was heard at the
theatre door saying:

"Don Rosendo, the 'Bella Paula,' is coming in."

The effect that this unexpected news produced was indescribable, for not
only did Don Rosendo jump up, as if he were pulled by a spring, and
hasten to put on his cloak with a trembling hand, but such excitement
pervaded the whole gathering that the pastoral dialogue was all but
interrupted. The patrons of the "front rows" rushed with one accord into
the street, all the sailors made their exit from the gallery with a
great clatter, and many people also left the stalls and boxes. In a few
minutes there was hardly anybody in the theatre but women.

Cecilia remained motionless and pale, with her eyes fixed on the stage.
Her mother and sister looked at her with a smile on their faces.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she exclaimed, turning round suddenly
and blushing violently, whereupon Doña Paula and Venturita burst out
laughing.

SAFE ARRIVAL OF THE "BELLA PAULA"

The crowd of people ran through the streets in the direction of the
port. Foremost, accompanied by six or eight sailors, his son Pablo and
several friends, came Don Rosendo, silent and preoccupied as he listened
to his companions' remarks, uttered in voices panting from exertion.

"Don Domingo is in luck to get in at nearly high tide," said a sailor,
alluding to the captain of the "Bella Paula."

"How do you know he is coming in? He may have cast anchor this
afternoon," remarked another.

"Where?"

"You ask 'where?' you fool! Why, in the Bay, of course," replied the
other in a rage.

"If so, we should see her, Uncle Miguel."

"How could we see her, you idiot? Why shouldn't she have dropped anchor
behind the Corvera Rock?"

"The flag of the 'Bella Paula' would float higher than the rock, Uncle
Miguel."

"Whatever do you know about it?"

"What cargo does she carry?" asked a bystander of the owner.

"Four thousand hundredweight."

"From Scotland?"

"No, all from Norway."

"Is the Señorita de las Cuevas on board?"

Don Rosendo did not reply; but after a few more quick steps he turned
round, saying:

"Don Melchor must be told that the 'Bella Paula' is coming in."

"I'll go," said a sailor, detaching himself from the crowd, and turning
back to the town.

They arrived at the mole. The night was starless, the wind had sunk, the
sea was calm. They passed the little old mole, and directed their steps
to the end of the new mole, which had been recently built, and stretched
some little distance out to sea. Lights from the moored boats shone here
and there in the darkness; the thick network of riggings was scarcely
discernible, and the hulks looked like formless black masses.

The newcomers did not at first perceive another group of people at the
end of the mole until they came upon them. They were all silent, with
their eyes fixed on the sea, trying to make out the lines of the ship in
the mist. The waves breaking monotonously against the rocks near by
occasionally shimmered in the darkness.

"Where is she?" asked several of the comers from the theatre, as they
cast their eyes around.

"There!"

"Where?"

"Don't you see a little green light there to the left? Follow my hand."

"Ah! Yes, now I see."

Don Rosendo went on to the second stage of the mole, and there ran
against Don Melchor de las Cuevas. He was an old, very tall, wiry man;
he wore his beard sailor fashion, that is to say, he let it hang round
his neck like a bag. He had a stronger reason for doing this than the
majority of the people of Sarrio who do so, for he belonged to the
honored profession of the navy, although he was now on the retired list.
But in seaport towns, and particularly when the place is small like that
of which we are speaking, the maritime element preponderates, and so
permeates the place that the inhabitants, unintentionally, and in spite
of themselves, adopt certain sailor customs, words, and fashions.

The Señor de las Cuevas had been a gallant, fine fellow when he was
young, and now at seventy-four he was still a vigorous, active man, with
bright, penetrating eyes, aquiline nose, a fine, open countenance, and a
bearing full of energy and decision.

He was standing on one of the seats fixed against the wall of the mole,
with an enormous telescope turned toward the little green light which
shone intermittently in the distance. He was by far the tallest figure
in the group of spectators.

"Don Melchor, you here already! I have just sent a messenger to your
house."

"I have been here for an hour," returned the Señor de las Cuevas, taking
his glass from his eye. "I saw the ship from the observatory a little
after sunset."

"Who would have thought it? How is it that nothing at sea escapes your
observation?"

"I have better sight than when I was a lad of twenty," said Don Melchor
in a loud, decided voice for all to hear.

"I believe it, I believe it, Don Melchor."

"I can see a little launch tack twenty miles off."

"I believe it, I believe it, Don Melchor."

"And if I were put to it," continued the old officer, in a louder tone,
"I could count the masts of the frigates that pass the Ferrol."

"Draw it mild, Don Melchor," said a voice. There was a round of
suppressed laughter in the dark, for Señor de las Cuevas inspired all
the sea-folk with profound respect.

The old sailor turned his head angrily in the direction of the jeering
remark, and, after silently trying to pierce the gloom, he said in a
severe tone:

"If I knew who that was who said that I would chuck him into the sea."

Nobody dared say a word, nor was a sign of a smile seen, for it was well
known in Sarrio that the Señor de las Cuevas was quite equal to
fulfilling his threat.

He had served more than forty years in the navy, and had won the
reputation of being a brave, punctilious officer; but his severity
bordered on cruelty. When no commander of a ship exercised the old
maritime laws, Don Melchor still strove to keep them in practise. It was
told with horror in the town that a sailor was drowned through his
making him pass three times under the keel according to the old
punishment for certain transgressions; and more than a hundred men had
been crippled by his blows, or had had the skin taken off their backs by
his use of the rope.

However, there was no pilot or sailor who could be compared with him in
his knowledge of all pertaining to the sea, the weather, ships, and all
the secrets of navigation.

The little green light continued its slow approach until the form of the
"Bella Paula" was visible to the naked eye, and, moreover, two or three
black spots could be seen hovering around her from different sides. They
were the pilot's launch and the auxiliary boats, ready to tow the ship
when necessary. Sail was crowded on the ship, as there was scarcely any
wind. However, it was too near the breakwater not to be dangerous. At
least Don Melchor thought so, for he began to swear under his breath,
and to seem uneasy. At last, no longer able to restrain himself,
although he knew he was not within earshot, he cried out:

"Furl the maintopsail, Domingo! What are you waiting for?"

He had scarcely uttered these words when the almost imperceptible forms
of the sailors were seen on the mastheads.

"We shall be all right now," exclaimed Don Melchor.

"Don Domingo would snap his finger at you," murmured the sailor who had
incurred the old officer's wrath, under his breath.

The hulk of the ship, painted black, with a line of white on the upper
decks, now stood out clearly from the dark background.

The eyes of the spectators, grown accustomed to the gloom, could discern
perfectly all that was passing on board.

Two figures were on the quarter-deck, the captain and the coasting
pilot, and at the bow stood the ship pilot.

"And the gaff-sail?" shouted Don Melchor again.

The sail of the mizzen-mast fell, as if in obedience to his voice. The
wind was insufficient to fill the lower sails, and the canvas hung from
the mast, limp and dilapidated as a draggled ball-dress. Soon all sails
were furled and the ship was motionless until it slowly made way when
taken in tow by the two boats. The figures of the rowers moved
measuredly on the benches and the voices of the coxswains singing out,
"Pull ahead; pull ahead!" broke the silence of the night.

But the rowers were so feeble in comparison to the bulk in tow that the
ship made but slow way. When at the end of a quarter of an hour she
managed to get some thirty lengths off the head of the mole, a rope was
thrown from one of the boats on to the sea wall to help tack the ship.

"Captain, captain!" cried a stentorian voice from the crowd.

"What is it?" they replied from the ship.

"Is the Señorita de las Cuevas on board?"

"Yes."

"Then as long as the Señorita de las Cuevas is all right, all the rest
may go to the devil."

The joke provoked much merriment in the crowd, until silence again
reigned.

The ship now began to tack, being dragged ashore by the rope, which
creaked with the tension of the hold; the people on the mole began
talking with those on board, but they were silent and taciturn, being
more concerned with the management of the ship than the questions
directed to them. Then came a fresh ebullition of the jocose spirit of
the sailors of the place, and fun was poked at those on board, more
especially at a certain fellow who looked like a heap of skins, and whom
they nicknamed Bruin, as he moved from one side to another with the
awkwardness of a bear, handling the ropes and casting grunts of scorn at
the crowd.

"I say, Bruin, you will be glad to have a dish of fish, eh?"

"Rejoice, O Bruin, for there is cider in Llandone's cellar."

"Is it hot in Norway?"

"Too hot for a rogue like you," growled Bruin, as he furled a sail.

This remark was received by the sailors with shouts of laughter.

"Keep clear," called the pilot from the quarter-deck.

"Hold there, on board!" returned the sailor who held the slack end of
the rope.

The rope fell into the sea and dashed against the side of the ship. She
was now close to the breakwater. The tide was not high enough to anchor
by the old mole. The captain called out to the pilot:

"Sound."

The pilot said to the sailor at his side:

"Drop anchor."

The anchor fell into the sea with a strident sound of chains. Then the
windlass was heard at work.

"Are you going to moor the ship, Domingo?" asked Don Melchor.

"Yes, señor," returned the captain.

"It is not necessary; you can warp ahead with two anchors. In an hour
you will be able to get in."

"One way is as good as another for me," said the officer in a low voice,
shrugging his shoulders, and then, in a loud tone, he added:

"Drop a second anchor," whereupon a second anchor fell into the sea with
the same harsh sound as the first.

"How are you, uncle?" cried a clear boyish voice from the ship.

"Hello, Gonzalito! arrived all right, my boy?"

"Perfectly; here I come."

And with great agility the young fellow swung himself down by a rope
into the boat.

"Let us go and meet him," said Don Rosendo, taking a step or two
forward.

But Señor de las Cuevas caught the merchant by the arm and held him like
a vise.

"Where are you going?"

"What is it?" asked the cod-merchant, in alarm. "Ah! it is true I did
not recollect that this was the lower stage, the darkness--such a long
time here, the dizziness from keeping one's eyes on the ship. My God!
what would have become of me if you had not caught hold of me?"

"Nothing, you would only have been stunned on the stones below."

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Don Rosendo, turning dreadfully pale, while a
cold sweat bathed his brow, and his legs trembled.

"Don't be alarmed at what is past and gone, but let us go down and meet
Gonzalito!"

So they went to the end of the mole, where a manly, tall, red-haired,
fine young fellow had just landed, dressed in a cloak which nearly
reached down to his heels.

"Uncle!"

"Gonzalo!"

The two tall men then fell into each other's arms. Don Rosendo also
received the young man with effusion. But he was so taken up with the
narrow escape he had just had from losing his life, that he soon
relapsed into his gloomy and melancholy mood, and he could hardly reply
to the dock-yard master's questions as to the disposition of the
captain's cargo.

They then started off to Don Melchor's house, which was situated in the
highest part of the town, commanding an extensive view of the sea.
During the walk Gonzalo left his uncle to go on in front, while he
diffidently asked Don Rosendo a few questions about his family.

"How is Doña Paula? Is she as smiling as ever? And Pablo? Is he still as
fond of horses? And Venturita? I suppose she has grown a big girl now?"
Pause. "And Cecilia, is she well?" he finally asked abruptly.

But the Señor de Belinchon only gave monosyllabic answers to all these
questions.

"Do you know, Gonzalo," he said, stopping suddenly, "that I might have
killed myself just now?"

"How?"

He then gave a full account of the incident of the mole, and when the
story was ended, he again relapsed into a state of profound melancholy.

"I suppose the family is in bed," said Gonzalo, after he had
sufficiently sympathized (at least in his own opinion) with the late
peril of the merchant.

"No, they are at the theatre--one never knows what may happen, eh?"

"So you've got a theatrical company here, eh?"

"Yes, for some days past. Do you know I thought I should have been
killed, Gonzalo?"

"Tush! You might, perhaps, have broken a leg, or at the worst, a rib or
two."

"Well, that would have been bad enough!" exclaimed the Señor de
Belinchon, with a sigh.

By this time they had proceeded some distance into the town, and
arriving at a certain street, Don Rosendo took leave of the uncle and
nephew. He held out his hand in a sad way, saying:

"I must go and fetch my family from the theatre. Until to-morrow, and a
good night's rest to you, Gonzalo."

"Until to-morrow--kind regards to all."

Then the Señor de las Cuevas and his nephew went on together to their
house; and the traveler had to undergo a torrent of questions not
relative to his visit to England, but concerning particulars of the
voyage home.

"What wind did you have? Pretty blusterous, eh? I suppose it hardly sank
once? The ship didn't pitch much, eh? She was well loaded. You never
sailed with all that canvas, eh? You had to reef on leaving Liverpool,
eh? I know the course well."

Gonzalo replied to the questions in an absent-minded manner, for he
really hardly took them in, as he was walking along in a state of
abstraction, with his head down.

"What is the matter, Gonzalito? You seem low-spirited."

"I? Bah! no, señor."

"I know you are."

They proceeded some distance in silence, and Don Melchor, striking his
forehead, exclaimed:

"I know what it is!"

"What?"

"You are longing for the sea again. I have gone through just the same. I
used to leap ashore after any voyage, and then I was seized with a fit
of depression and a strong desire to return to the ship! This lasted two
or three days, until I got accustomed to it. The fact is, I longed to
get into port, but once there, I wished to be on board again. I don't
know what there is so attractive in the sea, eh? That air so pure! The
motion! The freedom! I know you are longing to return to the ship, eh?"
he concluded, with a mischievous smile, to show his perspicacity.

"Bother it all! what I am longing for, uncle, is to go and see my
sweetheart."

Don Melchor was dumfounded.

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is."

The Señor de las Cuevas reflected a minute, and then said:

"All right; perhaps you would like to go and meet her at the theatre? In
the meanwhile I will go and see if Domingo has improved."

"How can he improve? He is a first-rate fellow," returned the youth,
smiling.

The uncle, oblivious of the irony, looked at him with scorn.

"Get along! I see you return as silly as you went. I will wait supper
for you."

"Don't wait for me, uncle," replied Gonzalo, already some distance off.
"Perhaps I shall not want supper."

Then, without running, but with extraordinary swiftness, thanks to his
unusually long legs, he strode through the streets, lighted here and
there by oil lamps, in the direction of the theatre. Any one meeting him
just then would have taken him for one of the many Englishmen who
occasionally come to Sarrio on shipping business, to reconnoitre mining
districts, or to start some industry. His colossal height and his stout,
robust appearance are not characteristic features of the Spanish race,
although one comes across them in the north; then that long coat, those
double-soled boots, and strange-shaped hat denoted the foreigner. A
glance at the face completed the illusion, for it was fair; and the long
red beard, and blue, or, more properly called, azure eyes are almost
always seen in the northern races.

CHAPTER IV

THE BETROTHAL

The family of Las Cuevas, to which Gonzalo belonged, had from time
immemorial been huge in stature, and seafaring by profession. His father
had been a sailor, his grandfather a sailor, his uncles sailors, and the
sons of these uncles also sailors. Gonzalo when not eight years of age
was left orphaned of both father and mother, and possessed of a
considerable fortune, managed by his uncle and guardian, Don Melchor, in
whose care he had been left by his father at his death. The old sailor
greatly wished his ward to continue the uninterrupted course of the
Cuevas with regard to a profession. To awaken in him a love of the sea,
or to make him take a fancy to it, he bought him a beautiful sailing
boat, in which they both took trips, or went on fishing expeditions. But
the good man's plans could not prevail against his nephew's
predisposition for the land. He cared for nothing to do with the sea,
but the fish out of it, and that only when dressed and steaming on the
table. However, he managed sometimes to enjoy himself with a kettle,
cooking an impromptu meal in some out-of-the-way spot on the coast,
seated on a rock whence bubbled beautiful fresh drinking water. At
fourteen Gonzalo had grown into a fine young fellow in the second class
of the private college of Sarrio, which sent him up to the Capital every
year for the examination, where he generally won the qualification
"good," and once and again, but very rarely, that of "highly commended."

He was much liked by his schoolfellows for his open, frank disposition,
while he was respected for his ability to deal powerful blows. The
gentlefolk of the town made much of him on account of his position and
the family to which he belonged, and the sailors and other people of the
place loved him for his frank, equable nature.

After graduating as bachelor of arts, he remained three years in Sarrio
without doing anything. He got up late, and spent the greater part of
the day at the casino playing billiards, in which game he became an
expert. In spite of being the spoiled child of the place, he visited at
few houses, preferring the stupid, demoralizing life of the café, to
which he had become accustomed. Nevertheless, as he was not wanting in
intelligence, and being of a naturally active turn of mind, he sometimes
turned his attention to the study of some branch of science. He liked
mineralogy, and many afternoons he left the casino and the billiards to
repair to the suburbs of the town, in search of minerals and fossils,
until he had quite a valuable collection. Then he took up the microscope
for a time, and after sending for a costly one from Germany he devoted
himself to the examination of diatomaceæ, and he arranged them admirably
well upon the little crystals, which he cut himself. Finally, a book
upon brewing having fallen into his hands, he devoted himself
enthusiastically to its study. He ordered several works on the subject
from England, and began to think that this unpractised industry might be
started with advantage in Sarrio. He seriously thought of opening a
brewery, but, confiding the project to his uncle, the old man was
furious, and gave vent to a series of inarticulate grunts, all beyond
the normal diapason, which ended with the exclamation:

"What! a Cuevas start a brewery! The son of a captain, the nephew of a
rear-admiral! Impossible! You are off your head, Gonzalo. It is well
said that idleness is the mother of every vice. If you had passed
through the naval college, as I advised you, you would have been first
lieutenant by now, and would not be running about with such mad ideas."

Gonzalo was silent, but he did not cease reading his treatises on the
industry. He soon saw that, without visiting the chief breweries, and
without studying the subject seriously, he could never attain any real
knowledge of it, and so he determined to go to England and learn the
business of a civil engineer. When he ventured to broach the subject to
his uncle, the sailor did not object to the word engineer, but the
attributive adjunct of civil aroused the same storm of invectives as the
brewery had called forth.

"Civil, civil! nowadays everything shady is called civil. Be a
straightforward engineer of roads, and bridges or mines."

At this time he knew, or, to speak more correctly, for everybody knows
each other in Sarrio, he became acquainted with, the Señorita de
Belinchon. One day his uncle sent him to the rich merchant's house to
ask him if he could give him a bill of exchange on Manila. Don Rosendo
was not in his office, which was on the ground floor of the house, but
as the business was urgent, Gonzalo decided to go upstairs. The maid who
opened the door was very alert.

"Come this way, Don Gonzalo; the Señorita Cecilia will tell you where
the master is."

He was taken into an untidy room, with heaps of clothes upon the floor
and on the table, at which the eldest daughter of the Belinchons was
ironing a shirt, in a costume not befitting her station, for it was a
scanty, narrow skirt, an apron tied round her waist like a workwoman,
and her feet in shabby slippers. She did not blush at the young man
finding her in such an attire and engaged in such a menial occupation,
nor did she exclaim, as many girls would have done in her place:
"Goodness, what a state you find me in!" putting her hands to her hair
and her throat.

Nothing of the sort; she suspended her task for a minute, smiled
sweetly, and waited to hear what the youth had to say.

"Good-evening," he said with a blush.

"Good-evening, Gonzalo," she returned.

"Can I see your father?"

"I do not know if he is at home; I will go and see," replied the girl,
leaving the ironing upon the table, and passing in front of him.

When she had proceeded a few steps she turned back and said:

"Is your uncle well?"

"Yes, señora, yes--I mean no; for some days he has not left his bed--he
has a dreadful cold."

"It is nothing serious?"

"I think not, señora."

The girl went on her way smiling; she was pleased at Gonzalo calling her
señora, for she was not sixteen, and he spoke as if she were over
twenty. They knew each other like brother and sister, but they had never
hitherto behaved like grown-up people. They met every day in the street,
at the promenade, at the theatre, or at church. When they were quite
little, Cecilia recollected that one afternoon at the Elorrio Fair,
when dancing the giraldilla with some other little girls of her own age,
some rough boys began teasing them, pulling their hair, pushing them
about, and running in the way so as to spoil their dance, and upset
them. Gonzalo, then a boy of thirteen, seeing this rude conduct, ran to
the little girls' assistance; and with a kick here, a push there, and a
few blows all round, he soon dispersed the rude boys. The eyes of the
little dancers gazed at him in admiration, and an undying feeling of
gratitude toward the heroic lad filled those tender hearts of five to
ten years.

Another time, years afterward, on St. John's Day, Gonzalo lent his boat
to her and her family, for a little sea trip, as all the boats and
launches were full on that occasion.

But neither of these circumstances had constituted much intercourse
between the young people. If they met face to face, Gonzalo would raise
his hand to his hat; if not, they would pass as if they did not see each
other, in spite of the acquaintance, if not intimate friendship,
existing between his uncle and Señor Belinchon. For the Bohemian life of
the café, his rare association with girls, had made Gonzalo a shy,
retiring youth.

"Come this way, Gonzalo; papa is waiting for you in the dining-room,"
said the girl, when she reappeared. "I hope your uncle will get
better."

"Many thanks," he returned abruptly, and being so tall, he knocked
against the lamp hanging in the hall so that it nearly fell to the
ground.

He cast an agonized look at it, and quickly steadied it, while his face
grew red with confusion.

"Has it hurt you?" asked Cecilia, anxiously.

"No, indeed, señora--on the contrary, dear me! I nearly broke it."

And he became more and more confused.

Our young friend was at that time of life when he would fall in love
with a broom. He was rather late in reaching this susceptible stage, as
is often the case when the physical organism overbalances the nervous.
Therefore, Señorita de Belinchon, with no claim to prettiness, suddenly
aroused a sort of feeling in him easily mistaken for love, and the
result of that short interview was that Gonzalo henceforth went out of
his way to pass the house of the De Belinchons, with his longing eyes
fixed on the windows for a chance glimpse of the young lady; he went on
Sunday to eight o'clock mass at St. Andrew's Church, because Doña Paula
and her family went there; at the theatre he ventured to cast many a
glance in her direction, and he occasionally dared to raise his hat to
her, but when he did so, he blushed violently and cast furtive looks
around, trembling lest he should have betrayed the nascent feeling of
his heart.

Innocent Gonzalo! Long before he was aware himself of his state of mind
the whole town knew of it. Nothing could be hidden, especially anything
to do with a young man and woman, from the sharp eyes of the gossips of
a place so small as Sarrio. And not only did they know what was going
on, but they made up their minds that the marriage was certain to come
off sooner or later.

Nevertheless, months went by and the matter did not advance one step.
However, Gonzalo continued to give the same signs of his fancy for the
girl, and he spent a long time every day after dinner in walking up and
down in front of the rich merchant's house on his way to the casino.
Cecilia would be at the window sewing; he would raise his hat and then
go to the billiard table, and so it was the next day. Don Melchor sent
him twice on messages to Don Rosendo, but he always had the good luck to
find him in his office. We say good luck because Gonzalo trembled at the
idea of going upstairs and meeting Cecilia.

He was now twenty years of age. The idea of qualifying himself as a
civil engineer and taking up some occupation occasionally crossed his
mind in this idle life. A friend at this time returning from a military
academy, a conversation with an English engineer, the tone of contempt
in which those who have no occupation were spoken of in the casino,
suddenly awoke in him a desire for work. At last he told his uncle
that, with his permission, he would go to England to study something and
see the world.

As Don Melchor could make no objection to this just and laudable
suggestion, Gonzalo a few days later appeared at several houses of
relations and friends, where he had not set foot for years, to take his
leave of them, and on a beautiful, balmy spring afternoon he embarked
with great pomp on the big "Vigia" for England.

Did he recollect Cecilia? We do not know. Temperaments like those of our
friend are a long time falling a prey to passion--great havoc as it may
make in the end.

Three years went by. He finished his course as an engineer, which is
brief and practical in England, and then made up his mind to visit the
factories of England, Spain, and Germany. During the time of his studies
the recollection of Cecilia occasionally occurred to him without
arousing any very deep feeling. But in the spring, when the blood
circulates more freely in the veins, and Mother Nature gives her lesson
in the verdure of the fields, the vivid colors of the flowers, the
effects of sunshine, the soft, balmy air, and above all in her more
faithful interpreters, the birds, Gonzalo's thoughts turned to
matrimony. And whenever the idea crossed his mind, it was accompanied by
the image of the eldest daughter of the De Belinchons.

"This way, Gonzalo; papa is waiting for you. Have you hurt yourself?"

The words still rang in his ears, and the recollection of the kind tone
in which they were said filled his young heart with a feeling of love.
The girl was not beautiful, but her eyes were, and her modest, pleasant
manner and the tone of her voice were all full of the charm so
attractive in her sex.

"I should not mind marrying her," he said with a sigh to himself, as he
thought how impossible it would be for him to breathe a word of love in
her ears, or in those of any girl.

One day, when writing to a great friend in Sarrio, he suddenly thought
of asking if Cecilia Belinchon were married. In reply, he learned that
she was still single, and that, although young men frequented the house,
probably more attracted by De Belinchon's money than his daughter's
charms, it was not known that she had so far listened to any one of
them.

On reading this letter the blood mounted to the cheek of the civil
engineer, and he was foolish enough to think (will the reader think him
very conceited?) that if Cecilia turned the cold shoulder on her
admirers it was, perhaps, because she was prepossessed in his favor.
Then he formed the plan of declaring his feelings in a letter, for he
thought it would be less awkward to do it thus while far away.

Nevertheless, he hesitated, and when he took the pen in his hand to
write the first line he dropped it at the thought of the surprise of the
girl on the receipt of the letter. Some days elapsed. He could not get
rid of the idea. At last, by dint of much subtle reasoning, he
determined to write the letter. If she laughed at him, what of it? He
would not be there to see, for in that case he would stay away from
Sarrio; and if perchance he ever returned, he would manage to keep clear
of her.

So at last the letter was written, but terrified at the idea of posting
it, he kept it in his writing-case for some days. A few glasses of
spirits were required to give him courage to post it, and when slightly
elevated by the potation he took the letter from his writing-case,
rushed into the street and dropped it into the first letter-box he came
across.

"My God! What have I done?"

The effects of the libation had suddenly vanished, and he colored up to
the roots of his hair, as if the mocking eyes of all the people of
Sarrio were gazing at him through the gaping mouth of the letter-box.

He put his fingers into the aperture, in the vain attempt to withdraw
the ill-fated epistle, but a shark could not hive swallowed it more
effectually, and the mouth of the box looked gaping and ready for more.
For one moment he thought of going to the post-office to reclaim it, but
the thought of the particulars which would have to be given so alarmed
him that he preferred leaving the matter to fate rather than undergo
such an ordeal.

Eight days of trembling suspense went by. By the time he could expect an
answer his anxiety was overwhelming, and he even began to think he might
see his own bold, ugly handwriting returned to him in an envelope.

A week, and then a fortnight, elapsed, but still no answer came.

He calmed himself with the vague hope of the non-arrival of his letter
at its destination; then he fancied that Cecilia might have torn it up,
without mentioning it to anybody. But, lo and behold, when he had given
up all hope, he found on his plate, at breakfast-time, a letter from
Spain, in an unknown lady's writing. His excitement at the sight was
indescribable. He turned as white as the mantelpiece--his heart seemed
to jump into his mouth. He opened the envelope with a trembling hand.

"Ah-a-a!" he sighed, with relief, after devouring the contents in two
seconds. He then put his hand to his side, wiped the sweat from his brow
with his pocket-handkerchief, took up the letter again, and reread it
quietly.

It was really from Cecilia; it was slightly ironical in tone--however,
it was not a rebuff.

What fancy could have seized him for her after four years' absence? Her
parents--who had opened the letter before she did--were equally
surprised, and thought it was a rash act, peculiar to youth--a passing
idea, of which he had probably already repented. She quite coincided
with their opinion, although she had consented to follow their advice of
writing to him, as they had always maintained friendly relations with
his family. This letter filled him with delight; it was not the scornful
refusal he had expected. Then he grew sad, and then cheerful, as he read
and reread the letter in search of a clear meaning. Was it kind--or was
it unkind? He hastened to reply, imploring forgiveness for his boldness,
and confirming his previous declaration with renewed and more vehement
protestations.

The girl wrote again in a few days, in a kinder and more affectionate
manner, and then Gonzalo sent another letter. An interchange of
photographs followed, and sometimes Doña Paula enclosed a few lines in
the letters sent by her daughter.

In time the young people were formally engaged, and the marriage was
arranged.

Don Melchor corresponded with his nephew on the subject, and he called
upon Don Rosendo. It was at last settled that Gonzalo should return in
the spring, when the wedding was to take place.

CHAPTER V

PLANNING THE HOME

The rest of the audience was leaving the theatre, and as Gonzalo met the
people pouring from the door, many of them recognized him, and he was
soon surrounded by old friends who were all warm in their welcome.

The first to throw his arms around his neck was Don Mateo; then came Don
Pedro Miranda; then the mayor, Don Roque; then Don Victoriano and his
wife, Doña Rosario, and their three daughters.

Thus a circle soon gathered round the young man, who responded
effusively to the greetings, embraces, and hand-pressures which reached
him from all sides.

The sailors and women of the place also joined the señores in this
demonstration of affection, and nothing was heard but exclamations of
delight and admiration.

"How stout you have grown, Gonzalito!"

"You are a fine young man!"

"Why don't you grow like that, Periquito?"

"Don Gonzalo, you are a head taller than all the other fellows of
Sarrio!"

"Grow! He has not grown; he has doubled his height. Come here,
Grenadier, and embrace me directly."

A shipmaster declared that the youth was as like the Prince of Wales as
two drops of water, although Gonzalo might be taller.

The tall figure of the youth certainly towered above the group, and he
reached his hand over the heads of those about him to the friends who
could not get close to him, and his fine, open countenance beamed on
all.

Don Mateo, on tiptoe, pulled him by the arm so that he bent down, and
then he whispered in his ear:

"What a performance you have lost, Gonzalo! It is a pity you did not
arrive in the afternoon. The soprano sings like an angel! And the
dancing! The dancing! I tell you, boy, they don't have better in Bilbao
or Corunna. But never mind, I will have the performance again before the
company leaves--or it won't say much for my influence."

But Gonzalo paid little heed to these words. With his eyes fixed on the
door, he was waiting in breathless expectation for the appearance of the
De Belinchon family, which, as one of the first and most patrician of
the place, always waited behind to avoid mixing with the plebeians. At
last, by the light of the lamp burning under the archway of the
entrance, he caught sight of the face of Doña Paula, followed by that of
Cecilia, and he tremulously advanced to greet them.

The girl turned as red as a poppy. This was natural, but for the mother
to do so also was less natural. What was he to her? Why was she to blush
as much as the daughter? But it was what she did to perfection. The
voices of all three trembled, and after inquiring after each other's
health, their tongues seemed tied. The looks of curiosity from the
people added to their embarrassment. Fortunately, Pablito now approached
with Venturita, and our young friend greeted the former affectionately
and gave a ceremonious bow to the latter.

Pablo smiled.

"Don't you know her? She is my sister, Venturita."

"Oh! How could I know her? She is a woman. How do you do, Ventura?"

The girl gave him her hand with a mocking, roguish expression that quite
confused him.

They then all turned toward home. Venturita ran in front, dragging her
brother with her. Doña Paula, Cecilia, and Gonzalo walked behind. Don
Rosendo closed the procession with his old friend, Don Pedro Miranda.
The streets were dark, for it was only at the corners that there were
lamps.

The distance between the three groups of people gradually increased.

Gonzalo made desperate efforts to sustain conversation with his
bride-elect and future mother-in-law; but the girl never opened her
lips, and Doña Paula was very far from being a Madame de Staël, and as
the young man had never consulted the manual of conversation, he could
not be called brilliant. In their letters they had arrived at the
confidential stage. Doña Paula had put post-scripts into Cecilia's
epistles, to which Gonzalo had replied with little jokes; he had sent
stamps and caricatures for Ventura, and in every way had comported
himself as a member of the family. But now the three were quite
embarrassed, for our young friend had never before spoken to the Señora
de Belinchon, and to Cecilia he had only addressed the words that we
have recorded.

But there in front was Venturita, laughing with her brother; and the
engaged couple were quite certain that the merriment was at their
expense. Nevertheless, by the time they reached the house they were more
at home with each other, and there were signs of increasing friendliness
between them. The party collected together on reaching the door of the
De Belinchons' abode, which was situated in the Rua Nueva, the best
street in Sarrio, and, like all the houses in that quarter, it was
large and handsome.

As Gonzalo had not yet supped, Don Rosendo asked him to join them at
their evening meal; and the invitation was given so cordially, that the
young man, who wished for nothing better, willingly accepted it.

Señor Miranda and his son then took leave, and the Belinchon family,
with the newcomer who was soon to be one of them, entered the house.

In the anteroom the ladies took off their cloaks and hats.

The light seemed to make the affianced pair shy. Gonzalo was now well
able to see his betrothed, who had not improved with years. She was
taller, but also thinner--love affairs don't make girls grow plump; her
nose seemed a trifle sharper; but her beautiful eyes, so soft and
intelligent, still shone like two stars.

He was greatly struck with the change in Venturita, the child he had
seen skipping to school on the arm of a schoolfellow.

She was now a woman, a full-grown woman, not so much from her height as
from the roundness and fulness of her figure, and a certain directness
of look touched with a dash of coquetry.

They cast a rapid look at each other, as if they met for the first time;
and Gonzalo said in a low voice to Doña Paula:

"How Venturita has improved! She is a beautiful girl."

Low as it was, the girl overheard the remark; she pouted disdainfully
and went straight to the dining-room, without betraying the
gratification his spontaneous admiration had given her.

The table was laid, a patriarchal provincial board, abundant and clean,
without flowers or any of the elegant accessories which are now the
fashion. All Gonzalo's shyness vanishing at the sight of the meal, he
soon felt quite at home. A feeling of cheerfulness pervaded them all.
They exchanged remarks and smiles; Gonzalo took Pablito by the arm and
asked him after his horses; Doña Paula arranged the order of the places;
Venturita, who was already seated, began eating olives and throwing the
stones at her sister, with knowing winks, while Cecilia, her cheeks
aflame, put her finger on her lip to call her to order. Don Rosendo had
returned from putting on his jacket and smoking cap, as he could not eat
supper without them. His wife now invited the visitor to take the chair
next to Cecilia, but she had taken her seat at the other end of the
table.

"What are you about? Why don't you come to your proper place?" asked
Doña Paula in surprise, whereupon the girl, without replying, quietly
rose and blushingly took the chair next to her betrothed.

The classic dish of buttered eggs was already steaming on the table.

"Come, help Gonzalo--serve him first," said Doña Paula to her daughter,
with the benign smile befitting a wife whose ideas were in accord with
those given by Saint Paul in his celebrated epistle.

Cecilia hastened to obey, and filled the plate of her future husband. He
always had an excellent appetite, fitting for his great size, but now,
sharpened by the sea air and some hours' fasting, he was voracious. He
ate everything that was put before him, without stopping a moment, and
without leaving a morsel, and Cecilia, as we can suppose, was
indefatigable in serving him.

Directly he began to eat Gonzalo lost his shyness, for the pressing
necessity of satisfying his enormous appetite was all-absorbing.
Cecilia, on the contrary, hardly touched her food. Seeing two little
pieces of ham about the size of two filberts on her plate, the young man
said:

"Whom is that plate for--the parrot?"

"No; it is for me."

"And are you not afraid it will give you indigestion?"

It was the first joke that he had ventured to make with his bride-elect.
She smilingly returned:

"I never eat more than that."

Doña Paula whispered into Venturita's ear:

"Don't you think they are very stiff with each other?"

Venturita repeated the remark in an undertone to Pablo, and he passed it
on to his father. All four began laughing and casting glances at the
engaged couple, who looked confused, asking with their eyes the reason
of the sudden merriment.

"Mama, do you want me to tell them what we are laughing at?"

"Tell them."

"Then, señores, we were thinking that you might be less stiff with each
other."

The bride and bridegroom-elect hung their heads and smiled.

The good spirits of the supper party now broke forth in laughter and
jokes. Pablito asked his future brother-in-law questions about horse
racing, skating rinks, and other more or less enthralling topics of the
kind.

Only Cecilia was silent in the intensity of her happiness, shown in the
brilliant scarlet of her cheeks, the heat of which she tried in vain to
cool with the back of her hand.

When she thought she was unobserved she cast long, loving looks at her
fiancé, whose fine, insatiable appetite, the sign of life and energy,
surprised and captivated her; and she gazed at him in adoring admiration
as a splendid type of masculine strength.

But these long, ecstatic looks did not escape Venturita, who managed by
signs to draw the attention of Pablo and her mother to them. Gonzalo
acknowledged the attentions of his fiancée with a rapid "Many thanks"
without looking at her, for fear of blushing. When he did look up to
speak to Pablo, his eyes always encountered Venturita's, and her
smiling, mocking glance somewhat disconcerted him.

At last they left the table and dispersed. Don Rosendo and Ventura,
disappeared, and Pablo, after a few minutes, following their example.

Doña Paula and the engaged couple remained alone in the dining-room, and
all three sat on low chairs in a corner together. Soon nothing but soft
whispers were audible, as if they were at the confessional. The three
chairs were close together, and with their heads almost touching, they
began an animated conversation.

Doña Paula soon broached the all-important question.

"This is the twenty-eighth of April. There are only four months from now
to the first of September," and here she cast a long, knowing glance at
the couple.

If it had been possible for Cecilia to get redder, she would have done
so.

Gonzalo's lips wreathed in a meaningless smile, and he lowered his
eyes.

After looking at them for a minute, as if enjoying their confusion, Doña
Paula continued:

"It is necessary to think of the trousseau."

"Heavens! It is early for that," exclaimed the girl in dismay, while her
heart leaped into her mouth.

"It is not so, Cecilia; you do not know the time the embroideresses take
in such matters. Nieves took a month to embroider two petticoats for
Doña Rosario's daughter--and Martina is slower than she."

"Nieves embroiders very well."

"There is no embroideress in the town to hold a candle to Martina. She
has hands of gold."

"I prefer the embroideries of Nieves."

"Then, if you wish it, let her embroider your clothes, but I--" said
Doña Paula, looking at her daughter in an offended, haughty sort of way.

"I don't say so," returned the girl in alarm; "I only say I like the
work of Nieves better than Martina's."

The trousseau soon became the subject of conversation. It was discussed
from every point of view, and with the gravity and the care it deserved.

To whom should they entrust the hemming of the linen sheets? To whom the
common ones? Who should make the underlinen? Where should the mantles be
bought, etc.? All these questions were discussed, weighed, and
considered. Doña Paula gave her opinion; Cecilia affected to
contradict, but in reality what did she care?

Her whole soul was so filled with the thought of her approaching
marriage that her voice trembled with emotion, and she could hardly
speak, while her eyes glowed with rapture, and shone like two fine stars
on a soft summer night.

"How hot it is!" she exclaimed every now and then, putting her hands
upon her flaming cheeks.

Gonzalo assented with an inane smile to what was said, and frequently
changed the position of his long legs, which were cramped from the
lowness of his chair.

When they had discussed the linen of the trousseau, they passed on to
the dresses, and the conversation became more animated, and Cecilia saw
her betrothed without looking at him, and the eyes of Doña Paula, as she
gazed at them both, grew softer and softer, their breath mingled, and
the shoulders of the future bride and bridegroom touched each other.

The soft whispers, the lowered light of the lamp, which scarcely reached
them, the frequent contact with the arm of her beloved, all combined to
fill Cecilia with overwhelming emotion. Quite overcome, she got up two
or three times and kissed her mother warmly; when she did this the third
time, Doña Paula saw what it betokened and, with a compassionate,
smiling glance, said:

"Poor little thing! My poor little thing!"

Cecilia covered her eyes with her hands, and remained so for some time.

"What is the matter?" said Doña Paula at last.

"Nothing, nothing."

But she kept her eyes covered.

"But what is the matter, my daughter?"

"Nothing," she replied at last, taking her hands from her face, and she
smiled, but her eyes were wet.

"I know, I know," returned the mother. "You want the salts; you feel
faint."

"No, I am not faint; I am quite well."

The conversation was then renewed, and Doña Paula expressed her wish
that Gonzalo should come and live with them. This he rather objected to
at first, as he knew his uncle would not like it, nevertheless he ended
by conceding to the entreaties of both ladies. It was so natural that
they should not want to be separated! "You can both be quite
independent, I will take care of that. There is the large room, the blue
one, you know, Cecilia; it has a large alcove; then you only want the
study for Gonzalo. But I have thought of that. Just by the large room
there is the wardrobe-room, that opens on the courtyard; it is nice and
light. It is all in disorder now, but, with a little trouble, it could
be turned into a very nice room. Would you like to see it, Gonzalo?"

The young man replied that it was not necessary, that he believed all
she said, and that he had as good as seen it; but the lady insisted on
it, and, taking a flat candlestick, she escorted him to the other end of
the house.

"This is the room--large, is it not? Two windows. The alcove is large
enough for two beds, let alone for one," she added, with a glance at her
daughter, who turned aside to shut a window.

"Let us go and see the wardrobe-room--"

And leaving the apartment, crossing a passage, and turning round a
corner, they entered another room full of cupboards and lumber.

"Don't mind about the distance, for it is really next to the large room;
it only wants a door of communication to be made between."

Gonzalo turned to his intended and said softly:

"Why does not mama thee and thou me as your papa does? Ask her from
me--I do not like to."

Then Cecilia approached her mother's ear and said in a soft voice, which
trembled with shyness:

"Gonzalo would like you to thee and thou him."

"What do you say, child?" asked Doña Paula, putting her hand to her ear.

Cecilia, with a great effort, raised her voice a little:

"Gonzalo asks why you do not thee and thou him as papa does?"

"Ah! I am glad the suggestion comes from him, otherwise I should not
have ventured. Very well, then, when a door is made here in the wall,
you will be able to go from the large room into this one without
crossing the passage--do you like the room? Is it large enough?"

"Too large; my business at the present moment does not require much
space."

Cecilia looked anxious, as if something were on her mind. She opened her
mouth several times as if about to speak, and then lacked courage. At
last, after a long pause, she ventured to say:

"One thing is wanting, mama."

"What?"

The girl hesitated, as if to gain courage, and then, in a trembling
voice, she said:

"There is no dressing-room for Gonzalo."

"That's true. I never thought of that. Where was my head? There is no
room about here--wait a moment--wait. We might put the pantry
downstairs, and then there would be that little room, which, nicely
furnished, would perhaps do. The only thing is, it does not communicate
with the other rooms; he will have to cross the passage."

"What does that matter?"

They then returned to the dining-room, and to the same seats in the
corner. Presently Venturita came in, in a white peignoir, cut so as to
show her alabaster throat and part of her beautiful neck; her hair hung
loose over her shoulders, and her feet were shod with gorgeously
embroidered Eastern slippers. She came to say "Good-night" before
retiring to rest, and, approaching her mother, she gave her a kiss,
making teasing faces at her sister the while, which Gonzalo could not
see.

"Well, good-night," she said, giving Gonzalo her hand.

"Good-night," he returned, with an admiring glance, and in a tone of
admiration not unnoticed by the girl.

She was just going away when a coquettish feeling made her turn back at
the door and say to Cecilia:

"Where did you put the shoe-horn? I had to come in with slippers, as I
could not find it."

Then she took the opportunity of showing her pretty foot.

"But it is there in the table drawer."

"If you only knew how sleepy I am," she said, advancing a step, and
putting her hand on the head of her sister--"Do you know what I ought to
do for it?" she added, with a smile. Gonzalo looked at her attentively.
She was really a perfect creature; the more he looked at her, the more
he admired her particular charms. Her skin was soft, and shining as
silk; her complexion pink and white; her mouth like a budding rose; her
lips red and full enough to show two rows of even teeth; her hair
golden, silky, and abundant; a drawing-room magazine would say that it
fell over her shoulders like a cascade of sunbeams, or something to that
effect.

Her only imperfection was her height. If she had taken after her mother
in this respect, nobody could have found any fault with her excepting,
perhaps, her friends.

Seeing she was an object of admiration, she went on walking about,
turning herself round to be seen from all sides, posing in affected
attitudes, asking impertinent questions of her sister, then laughing
aimlessly and covering her with kisses, or pinching her unmercifully.

"Let me alone, Venturita; how wild you are to-day!" exclaimed Cecilia,
with her kind, frank smile as she tried to get away from her.

"Go to bed!" said Doña Paula.

"I am going."

But instead of going, she embraced Cecilia again, and, tickling her, she
managed to whisper into her ear:

"How are you enjoying yourself, you rogue? Don't make those large eyes
at him, or you will frighten him. Good-by, good-by, Señores," she said
in a louder voice, "and leave something for to-morrow, eh?"

"What a little silly!" cried Cecilia, blushing.

Doña Paula and Gonzalo smiled, and he said in a low voice:

"What lovely hair!"

Ventura overheard him, and shaking her locks, she said:

"It is false."

They all burst out laughing.

"Don't you believe it?" she asked in a serious tone, and approaching
nearer.

"Pull it, and you will see it will come off in your hand."

The young man did not dare to comply, and continued to smile.

"Pull, pull," she insisted, turning her back to him, and holding her
hair before his face.

Gonzalo raised his hand to the hair, but he only ventured to touch it
caressingly.

"What! it has not come off! That is because it is well tied on."

And she ran out of the room.

The private conclave was prolonged for some time, and many more points
of their future life were touched upon; and as Cecilia listened to her
mother descanting upon what they should do when once they were married,
she could hardly conceal the tremor of emotion that possessed her. She
had taken her mother's hand, and she pressed it and caressed it in a
nervous way; sometimes she raised it to her lips and kissed it
passionately.

Doña Paula looked at her with sympathy, and smiled kindly at the joy
that filled her daughter's heart.

The clock in the dining-room struck half-past twelve.

"Oh, how late! What will Don Rosendo say?"

"He never goes to bed before this time," replied Cecilia.

"Yes; but you know he takes some time to lock up," returned Doña Paula.

Cecilia was silent. Gonzalo shook hands with them warmly, promising to
come the following day. Then he went to Señor Belinchon's study to take
leave of him.

The mother and daughter went on talking in the same corner on the same
theme, the former being the object of countless embraces and fervent
kisses.

"These are not for me," said the lady, in a tone of mingled joy and
sadness.

"Yes, mama; yes!" replied the girl, embracing her with still greater
effusion.

In the meanwhile Don Rosendo was bringing the arduous and complicated
task of locking and bolting the doors and windows to a successful
termination.

He was not contented with locks and iron bars, but, to insure the
non-violation of the sanctuary of his dwelling during the night, the
rich merchant was in the habit of gumming pieces of paper over all the
locks. These he examined carefully in the morning, to be quite certain
that nobody had tampered with them. Then he put various bottles and pots
upon the doorstep, so that if thieves came they would fall over them.

CHAPTER VI

THE CHIEF RESIDENTS OF SARRIO AT THEIR CLUB

Don Melchor de Las Cuevas rose from the table, lighted a cigar and,
offering one to his nephew, said:

"Let us go and have coffee."

Gonzalo was about to put the cigar in his pocket, not having hitherto
been permitted to smoke in his uncle's presence; but the old man touched
his arm, saying:

"Light it, my boy, light it; you are not a yunker now."

So the young fellow took out a match and began puffing at the Havana
with enjoyment, and the men then left the house together, and proceeded
slowly down the street with the air of utter comfort worn by
powerful-looking men after a heavy meal. They were as silent and
majestic as two magnificent cedars unrustled by a breeze. The women at
work in their doorways looked after them with interest and admiration.

"Who's the young man with Don Melchor?"

"What! don't you know? 'Tis his nephew, Señor Gonzalo, who arrived last
night in the 'Bella Paula.'"

"He is a fine, strapping fellow."

"Like his father, Don Martos, God rest his soul."

"And like his grandfather, Don Benito," added an old woman. "What a
noble, fine-looking family they are!"

At the top of a street which commanded a view to the sea, Señor de las
Cuevas stopped a minute to cast his eye over the waters.

"Fine weather at sea! a slight breeze coming up! Do you see them?" he
added, with an expression of triumph after a minute.

"What?"

"The launches, man, the launches. Don't you see them?"

"I see nothing," returned Gonzalo, fixing his eyes on the horizon.

"You are just as you were; you see nothing but the soup in your plate,"
said the uncle, with a sarcastic smile.

The Café de la Marina was already full of people. The clatter of
conversation and disputes, the clink of the glasses, the ring of the
domino pieces on the marble table, made a deafening noise. The place was
situated in the small square formed by the junction of the Rua Nueva
with the harbor, and one side of the house looked on to the sea. Most
of the captains and pilots who stopped at Sarrio on their cruises
resorted thither, as did the majority of the residents, who, without
being sailors, had a partiality for what was maritime.

The entrance of our friends was hailed with delight from different
tables. Don Melchor was the most popular and the most highly respected
frequenter of the café.

He had to greet all the assembled company, and take Gonzalo up to each
of them.

The jolly fellows were all delighted with the young man, and wrung his
hand almost to dislocation, while they were eager and hearty in their
offers of a glass of wine or maraschino; and when this was refused on
the plea of taking coffee upstairs, a profound gloom overspread their
countenances.

As a matter of fact, Don Melchor was accustomed to have his coffee in
the small saloon, which was a room on the first floor of the house,
communicating with the café by an iron staircase, which the uncle and
nephew finally ascended.

There the chief residents of the town were congregated, seated on a
circular sofa, with little Japanese tables in front of them, on all of
which coffee was served.

Through one of the doors, which was generally left open, could be seen
the billiard room, where the same people always played, with the same
on-lookers. When Don Melchor and his nephew entered a project was in
course of discussion for keeping the poor women who sell vegetables and
milk from intemperance.

And Gonzalo recollected that on a certain occasion, when he came thither
to see his uncle before going to England, the same matter was then under
discussion. The themes varied little in that assembly. The town
continued its tranquil even course in the midst of its daily work. The
only events that occasionally shook it from its lethargy were the
arrival or departure of some important ship, the death of a well-known
person, a dishonored bill, the paving of some street, the tax on some
merchandise, the lightering of contraband goods, or the bad state of the
harbor.

The women and young people were too much taken up with their own affairs
to trouble about outside matters. But the arrival of any handsome young
stranger caused a great sensation among the marriageable girls; and if
any young man walked for the first time with Margarita at the Promenade,
it was looked upon as a settled affair; if Severino of the ironmongery
administered a beating to his wife, what could she expect after marrying
such a drunken fellow? and the dress that a certain young girl wore on
the Day of Our Lady made quite an excitement.

"You say it came from Madrid! What Madrid? Why, I saw it cut out at
Martina's myself!"

The subscription dance announced at the Lyceum formed a great topic of
discussion.

"I don't believe there will be a ball; the young men fight too shy of
expense."

But the grave elders who frequented the Club despised these themes,
albeit they sometimes condescended to touch upon them.

Gonzalo had seen Don Rosendo, Don Mateo, Don Pedro Miranda, and the
mayor the previous evening. But Gabino Maza, Don Feliciano Gomez, M.
Delaunay, the French engineer, Alvaro Peña, Marin, Don Lorenzo, Don
Agapito, and five or six other men whom he had not yet seen, were there,
and they all rose to embrace the young man.

Don Pedro Miranda, whom we have already mentioned, was a man
considerably past seventy, small and insignificant looking, with a
smooth bald head, large solemn eyes, and of a retiring disposition.

He was the richest landowner in the place, and no titled person in the
town could have been a better representative of the aristocracy, in
virtue of his own descent from an old family of landowners.

To this distinction, however, he attached but small importance. He was
an unpretentious, courteous man, who consorted with all his neighbors
regardless of his superior rank; and he was always extremely particular
not to allude to money, or to be in any wise dictatorial or antagonistic
to anybody.

But if he entirely waived the respect due to his birth, he was very
jealous of his rights as a landowner.

Never was there a proprietor more proprietary than Don Pedro Miranda.

The institutions of ancient as well as modern law, the universities, the
army and navy, the political constitution, and religion itself had no
other excuse for existence in his eyes but that of contributing,
directly or indirectly, to the preservation of his seignorial rights.

The marvelous microcosm of the universe was designed for the support of
his indisputable claim to the full possession of Praducos, a hamlet two
miles from the town, and to his right of an annual fee of a hundred and
fifty ducats in consideration of his title to the land at the mouth of
the river.

This very clear sense of his rights engendered, from very excess of
clearness, several disputes. A laborer would come to him and say:

"Señor, Joaquim the martin-breeder cut to-day some of the branches of
your walnut tree which hung over into his garden."

"But the walnut tree was mine," exclaimed Don Pedro, crimson with rage
and surprise.

"Yes, señor, but it hung over into his garden."

"What! The fellow dared to touch anything which is _mine_--_mine_!"

Thereupon a little lawsuit ensued, which, of course, he lost. He lost
dozens of these lawsuits in the course of his life, without growing any
wiser on the subject.

Don Roque de la Riva, the mayor of Sarrio, whom we had the honor of
comparing, when we first saw him at the theatre, to a courtier of the
time of Louis XV, or a coachman of some great house, was not
distinguished for clearness of speech, for it was so indistinct and
confused that his interlocutors had great difficulty in understanding
him. We do not know whether the mutilation of his words took place in
his mouth, throat, or nose, but it is a fact that they usually came
forth transformed into such mysterious, vague, chaotic utterances that
they were completely unintelligible. More especially was it impossible
to talk with him after dinner, and this for no other reason, according
to report, than because Don Roque would insist on patronizing a wine
called Rivero, so strong that nobody could touch it without fear of
getting intoxicated.

This head of the corporation used to leave home every afternoon,
apparently alone, but in reality with an escort. His enormous shaven
face was very red, and the color was accentuated in his huge Roman nose;
his eyes, bloodshot and half closed, as if unable to bear the weight of
his eyelids, looked slowly into every corner of the street with an
expression of physical comfort; his ponderous, slow, vacillating step
showed the sympathetic state between his psychical and physical
faculties. Don Roque only had to come across some official, sweeper,
watchman, or stone-breaker of the municipality to make his enjoyment
complete.

When from afar he espied one, his eyelids were quickly raised and his
nostrils quivered like those of a tiger at approach of prey. Suppose the
fellow, scenting the approach of the tiger, passed into another street
or tried to hide himself! Don Roque shouted to him, with a voice of
thunder:

"Juan, Juaan, Juaaan!"

The victim heard and bowed his head.

"Have you taken the message to Don Lorenzo?"

"Yes, señor."

"Have you told the secretary that he must let the matter of the cemetery
stand over?"

"Yes, señor."

"Have you taken the documents to the petty court of San Martin?"

"Yes, señor."

"Have you told Don Manuel that he must take away that rubbish in front
of his house?"

In fact, he went on asking questions until the poor official came to a
negative answer.

Then the loud voice of the mayor was heard all down the street, and even
to the end of the town; his eyes became more inflamed, and his
apoplectic face grew quite alarming. It was impossible to understand
what he said. His ejaculations alone would have made his discourse
incomprehensible, but these were enunciated in such a chaotic fashion
that the "h" alone was distinguishable.

The scolding never lasted less than fifteen or twenty minutes; he
required no less time to let off the superfluous spleen which had
accumulated since the previous afternoon. Just as there are people who
put their fingers down their throats in the morning to make themselves
ill, so Don Roque was not happy until he had had this ebullition of
wrath. He had only one interjection in his vocabulary, but this he used
in such abundance that quantity atoned for quality.

The neighbors came out of their doors to hear him, but with a smile on
their faces, as if accustomed to such scenes.

"Don Roque is giving it hot to-day," said one to another in a loud
voice.

"See how Juan is behaving." In fact, every time the mayor turned his
back the clerk put up his thumb and made a long nose at him.

Don Roque liked to come upon a road-sweeper or a stone-breaker at his
work. For he would cautiously approach him from behind and, catching him
by the collar, exclaim:

"Ah! so that's the way you sweep, is it!--ah! Do you think I pay you to
leave half the dirt between the stones?--ah! Is this gratitude?--ah! It
is shameful!--ah!"

Once the zeal for his office led him to seize the broom and give the man
an object-lesson in the art of sweeping.

The townsfolk, the few passers-by in the street, and also some young
ladies whom the noise had brought to a window went into fits of
laughter. The sweeper himself, in spite of his awkward position, could
not help smiling at the energy with which the figure, with its
coat-tails flying, made erratic and angry dashes at the ground.

"Is that the way you sweep?--ah!" (Terrible bang with the broom.) "That
is the way--ah!" (another bang). "That is the way to sweep!--ah!"

Not until worn out, heated, and nearly falling from fatigue, did the
mayor hand back the broom, and take up his tasseled stick again.

Having thus relieved his noble heart of the superfluous ah's which
weighted it, he resumed his way, and arrived at the Club in a very happy
state of body and mind.

Gabino Maza was a man of about five-and-forty years of age, a naval
officer who had retired some years before from the service, his
ungovernable temper being unable to brook professional discipline.

He had an olive complexion, and small bright eyes, with dark lines
underneath which showed his bilious temperament. He was tall, wiry, and
masculine, and his hair and beard were of a blue-black hue; his gestures
were always nervous and violent; his voice was indefinable, sometimes
quiet, but when he was at all agitated, which was almost always the case
when he began to speak, it was loud and shrill, and of such a discordant
falsetto that it was deafening.

With his little income, and a tiny pension, he was able to support his
family in Sarrio with the comfort of a gentleman at ease, which in the
capital of the province would have been impossible.

A born disputant, he brought into every question, trivial as it might
be, an amount of passion and violence that was truly alarming, so
anxious was he to contradict whatever was said, although it might be as
clear as noonday. He judged people in such a severe and pessimistic
spirit that he never believed in the pure motive of a kind action,
however noble and honorable it might seem; and his spite and malignity
bordered on madness. Nevertheless, this man was not so much disliked by
his neighbors as might have been expected. The intimacy of a village or
little town gives greater scope for learning the true character of each
individual than is possible in large places, where a merely superficial
intercourse may permit many cold, selfish, bad-tempered men to disguise
their true selves with a sympathetic veneer, and polite words, courteous
manners, and an insinuating smile win the encomium, "nice, agreeable
sort of a person."

But in the country that all goes for naught, and, on the contrary,
excessive amiability and very sweet smiles excite distrust. The
character of everybody is as ruthless and as minutely examined as if it
were a bundle of nerves under the dissector's knife; so that many people
are hated who seemed at first attractive; and others liked who were at
first sight considered aggressive, hard, and violent.

Dissimulation, so much practised in great towns, is never tolerated in
the provinces, albeit it is the prevailing vice of all social
relationships. Quick tempers and excitable natures do not arouse
mistrust, as they are at least "clear and aboveboard." There is always a
sense of justice in such people which, distorted and overbalanced by
passion as it may be, does not make them disliked. Besides, as quick
temper and excitability are a constant cause of self-suffering and
discomfort, both physical and moral, it is justly considered that men of
this temperament reap their own retribution.

Gabino Maza was neither disliked nor very much liked; those who were
offended by him grumbled at him and kept him at a distance, terming him
a malignant, sharp-tongued fellow; and the others laughed at his
exaggerated style, and enjoyed a conversation with him without
professing any great regard for him.

Another of the characters frequenting this café was Don Feliciano Gomez,
a retail merchant in ultramarine goods, and also the owner of three or
four vessels and several smacks which traded along the Biscayan coast,
the largest sometimes going even as far as Seville. He was of middle
height; his head, destitute of hair, was pyramidal in form; his waxed
mustaches were turned up to his nose, and his voice was almost always
hoarse. He was a cheerful, kind, optimistic sort of fellow; he was a
confirmed bachelor, and lived with his three elder sisters, whom he had
made real "señoras" by dint of his own hard work and economy. The reward
they gave him, according to public report, was to keep him in hand like
a child, admonish his slightest faults, and worry and torment him in
every imaginable way. Nevertheless, he was never heard to utter a single
word of complaint against them.

M. Delaunay, the Belgian engineer, arrived at Sarrio a few years before
our story opens, with the object of managing a mining district for an
imposing English company. The working was a failure, and the company
deprived him of his post and his pay. But Delaunay, who was a born
speculator, undertook seven or eight other commercial enterprises. First
he started a manufactory of paper, then one of French nails, then he
conceived the idea of cultivating oysters, then he tried a cheese
factory, and ice factory; and finally he thought of turning to account
some large, uncultivated tracts of land near Sarrio.

All the enterprises had failed without anybody knowing why. Delaunay was
certainly intelligent, clear-headed, and industrious. He was complete
master of every trade that he entered into; he ordered all the apparatus
from England, set it up, and it worked well and produced very
satisfactory results. He attributed his failures to the lack of means of
transport. The last of his famous enterprises, which died before it came
into practise, brought more discredit on him than any other.

In one of his excursions in the environs of the town he noticed close to
a little river some uncultivated land, which he thought could easily,
with a little trouble, be cultivated; he computed its value, drew out a
plan, and when, a few months later, he found himself compelled to close
the ice factory and to dismiss the workmen, he recollected this low land
and mentioned it to Don Rosendo Belinchon, Don Feliciano Gomez, and two
West Indians, so that they might aid him in his grand scheme. They
replied that it would be necessary to see the district, and an
expedition was arranged. One morning they set off on horseback, and took
the direction of the river Orleo, six miles from Sarrio. Arriving there,
they left the horses and ascended the hill on foot, from whence they
could see the marsh land.

What was Delaunay's shame and confusion, when he saw the tract that he
intended to cultivate covered with maize, beautifully green and
flourishing. In fact, it had been under cultivation for more than six
years; and his mistake arose from having seen it in December, when it
dies down.

The party returned to the town, and one can imagine what a joke was made
of the incident.

He was ruined at last, and he found himself obliged to live in a
wretched fashion.

But his rage for speculation increased instead of being dampened by
failure, and this to such a degree that there was not a single
capitalist in Sarrio whom he had not tried to inveigle into some of his
enterprises.

At one time it was a road to the capital, another a port of refuge, or
stone moles, and another time a grand hotel. Some West Indians,
certainly only a few, fell victims to his persuasions, and paid for
their innocence with the loss of some thousands of pesetas.

However, Delaunay was a man of talent, and studious, and he was well
informed in all the improvements of science, so to depreciate him would
be injustice.

The harbor-master, Alvaro Peña, a young fellow thirty years of age,
dark, with large black eyes, and a mustache like King Victor Emmanuel's,
was noted for his profound, implacable hatred against the ecclesiastical
profession, and all who represented it, even to his own brother.

Without any taste for science or literature, he owned a rather extensive
library, consisting exclusively of books against religion and its
ministers. He was a contributor to two or three periodicals, known by
their anti-clerical opinions; and it was said that he had been occupying
himself for some years past collecting data for a book that he thought
of publishing under the title "Religion, the Most Retrograde of
Sciences," of which several of his acquaintances had been introduced to
different portions. He was cheerful and straightforward, and loved
stories and jokes in which some priest or monk played the chief part.

Don Jaime Marin, the owner of four hundred acres of land which, with the
tax, realized six thousand pesetas, would have been a great scoundrel, a
fast, bad man, if he had not had Doña Brigida for a wife. This important
lady managed, with laudable energy, to prevent her husband ruining the
whole family, and being turned out of doors. Before he finished making
ducks and drakes of the property she succeeded in depriving him
judicially of its control, and having it made over to her.

It is not easy to describe the firmness with which Doña Brigida took the
reins of management. No Roman patrician was ever imbued with a greater
sense of the _sui juris_ of the sacred rights with which "the city" had
invested her. From the time of this occurrence Don Jaime, who was then
over fifty years of age, dropped into being a mere _thing_ in her hands,
according to the law's decree. In his character of _alieni juris_ he had
to submit to the direct and constant sway of his lord and master, and to
bow in all ways to her universal will.

Farewell to sumptuous suppers of shellfish and Rueda wine in the Café de
la Marina! Farewell to hunting the hare with Fermo the butcher and
Mercelino the engraver! Farewell to delightful nights of tresillo!
Farewell to afternoons of peace and happiness on the lake of Sebastian
de la Puente! Farewell! The obdurate lady put three pesetas in his hand
every Sunday, neither more nor less. It was all the pocket money he had
to spend on his pleasures for the week, with the exception of smoking,
which she took in hand herself, buying the cigars and all. When he
required a hat, she bought it for him; when he needed a suit of clothes,
or a pair of boots, she told the tailor or shoemaker to call and
measure him. She even prevented his going to the barber's for fear he
should spend the two reales, and so the barber came on Saturdays to
shave him. It sometimes happened that the barber came when Don Jaime was
still asleep.

"What am I to do?" he asked of Doña Brigida.

"Shave him," returned the inexorable señora.

Obedient to the command, the barber approached the bedside, covered the
face with soap and quietly shaved Don Jaime while still half asleep, and
on his finally rousing himself, he said to the servant who brought him
his chocolate:

"To-day is Saturday; let the barber be brought."

"You ass, you silly, that no priest can shrive," replied his sweet
consort from her room, "don't you see you are shaved already?"

"Ah so I am," returned the good señor, feeling his face.

At first he asked his friends or acquaintances at the café for money
with which to play tresillo, and he drank coffee on trust at the café.
But the friends soon left off obliging him, and the proprietor of the
establishment declined to even trust him for a peseta, for Doña Brigida
almost knocked him downstairs when he one day brought her a bill for a
hundred and twenty reales.

So Don Jaime was reduced to spending hours in watching the game of
tresillo and in giving advice to the players, which was not wanted. The
winners sometimes rewarded him with a glass of rum.

He occasionally played drafts with Don Lorenzo, but as the latter
declined to play "for love," Marin had to find something to play for
which was not money. He finally decided to have for a stake one of the
cigars that his wife gave him in the morning; when he lost it, he had to
spend the evening without smoking; sometimes, trying to get his revenge,
he lost two or three more, and so he had to hand them over to his
opponent on the ensuing days. In the meanwhile he went from friend to
friend begging a little tobacco to appease his insufferable longing for
a smoke. Poor Marin!

Doña Brigida could never succeed in making him retire to rest early. He
had spent so many years in being up till four or five in the morning
that it was now impossible to break the habit. As, when he was kept at
home, he never went to bed until dawn, and as he spent the night in
wandering about the rooms, and the bad habit of being up at night by
one's self is very inexpensive, the ingenious señora let him retire to
rest at what hour he liked. He remained at the Café de la Marina with
the latest customers, and when these had gone he waited while the
servants put away the china and glass, and the proprietor was ready to
shut up. When he was literally sent off from the establishment, he
withdrew to the Rua Nueva, where he sat with his friend the watchman,
and, chatting with him, passed the hours before dawn.

Don Lorenzo, Don Agapito, Don Pancho, Don Aquilino, Don German, and Don
Justo were _Indians_. That is to say, they were people who had been sent
as children to the West Indians by their parents to earn their living,
and they had returned between fifty and sixty years of age with fortunes
varying from one hundred and fifty to half a million pesetas. There were
more than fifty of these Indians in Sarrio. The hard work and the long
state of self-suppression in which they had lived made their ideas of
happiness quite different to ours. We find pleasure in a constant change
of amusement, in going about and traveling, and enjoying with both body
and mind the beautiful variety of things of nature.

But these West Indians looked for nothing more than exemption from the
hard law imposed by God on Adam after his fall; and, in truth, they gave
themselves up to this peculiar delight. The majority of them had their
money invested in government funds, so they had their incomes without
any trouble. They were early risers from force of habit, and they
paraded the streets or the mole every morning in parties of six or
eight. They watched the arrival and departure of boats, and the loading
and unloading of cargoes. After dinner, they retired to the Café de la
Marina, or to that of La Amistad, and spent three or four hours
watching or joining in the game of billiards.

"Go, little ivory ball, go into that pocket! See, see, Don Pancho, it
has cannoned." "Come out, my little dear, come out of that pocket." "Ah!
ah! well played, Don Lorenzo!" "Did it not go well, Pancho?"

The game was always seasoned with these remarks, which went on without
pause.

When the days were long, these West Indians were seen in parties about
the environs of the town, either walking, or seated on the grass on the
banks of a stream. That was the hour of reminiscences of the tropics.

"Do you recollect, Don Agapito, do you recollect that little dark
creature who came to you for a place in the shop?"

"And how well she sang, the little rogue!"

"They said you were smitten with her, quite smitten, Don Agapito."

"How now, Don Pancho--why, she only went to the blacks' ball with the
negro of my partner, Don Justo?"

"Get along, man, don't annoy me; the one who went to the ball was
yourself; I saw you sportive enough with her in the country dance."

There was no counting on this West Indian clique for subscriptions for
the orchestra, theatre, or any public amusement. The young people of
the town had to apply to the purses of their fathers, for they knew it
was useless to expect American money to be forthcoming, which roused
such indignation among the young people that they called them stingy
fellows, boors, and money-laden asses to their faces as well as behind
their backs. But the Indians were thick-skinned, and treated such terms
with contempt. The one who professed an open aversion to them (and for
whom did he not entertain it?) was Gabino Maza.

Why should these fifty idlers spend their days dawdling about the
streets? If they would only devote their money to some industry
profitable to the place!

When Don Melchor de las Cuevas and his nephew entered the saloon, the
only person standing and gesticulating in the middle of the place was
this same Gabino Maza.

He could not remain seated two minutes; the excitement of his nervous
system, the vehemence with which he tried to convince his audience,
obliged him to jump from his seat and dash into the centre of the room,
where he shouted and gesticulated until he had exhausted his breath and
his strength. He was talking of the theatrical company, which had
announced its departure on account of having lost in the receipts of
thirty performances.

Maza was trying to prove that there had not been such losses and it was
all make-up.

"It is not true; it is not true. He who says he has lost a copper,
lies!" (Then lowering his voice and giving his hand to Gonzalo.) "How
are you, Gonzalo? Yes, I know you arrived yesterday. You are all right.
I am glad of it. I repeat, that he lies! Why, they don't dare to tell me
so!"

"They have lost six thousand reals in the thirty performances, according
to the account that the baritone has given me," said Don Mateo.

Maza ground his teeth. His indignation impeded his speech. At last he
burst out:

"And you listen to that drunkard, Don Mateo? Get along! get along!"
(With assumed disdain.) "By dint of consorting with comic players you
have lost your head for business. You have got rusty."

"Listen to me, you blusterer. I did not say I believed him. I said that
was what the baritone's calculations came to."

Maza leaped up, and returned to the centre of the room, tore his hat
violently from his head with both hands, and, waving it frantically, he
vociferated:

"But, señor; but, señor! We seem to be made fools of here! Well, you
tell me what has become of twenty thousand and more reals which the
receipts came to, and almost as much again for admissions paid at the
door?"

"The salaries have very much increased," said the harbor-master.

"You are not drunk, by Gad, Alvaro! You are not drunk--I will tell you
in a minute what the salaries are" (counting on his fingers.) "The
tenor, six crowns; the treble, another six; that's twelve; the bass,
four; that's sixteen; the contralto, three; that's nineteen; the
baritone, four--"

"The baritone, five," interrupted Peña.

"The baritone, four," persisted Maza in a rage.

"I am certain it is five."

"The baritone, four!" roared Maza again.

Alvaro Peña now rose in his turn, fired with the noble desire of getting
the better of his opponent, and then ensued a hot and furious dispute,
which lasted about an hour, and all, or nearly all, the members of that
gathering of celebrities joined in. Such a battle resembled the famous
engagements that took place between the Greeks before the walls of Troy;
there was the same fury and heat, the same primitive simplicity in the
arguments, and the same candid, rough violence in the invectives.

"You are an addle-headed blunderer!"

"Hold your tongue; you are a ruffian!" "You are a bellowing ox!" "I tell
you it is not true, and if you want it plainer, you lie!" "Goodness,
what a goose! You are like a silly woman."

These altercations were very frequent, almost daily incidents at the
Club. As all those who took part in them had a straightforward,
perfectly primitive way of dealing with questions, similar, not to say
equal, to that adopted by the heroes of Homer, the argument started at
the beginning of the dispute continued until the end. There was a man
who would spend an hour incessantly saying: "One has no right to meddle
with anybody's private life!" or "That may do in Germany, but not here
in Spain!"

Then cries briefer, and more to the point, such as "windbags!"
"windbags!" filled the air until the crier collapsed on the sofa with
exhaustion.

But what the arguments lost in variety they gained in intensity, for
they were expressed with great and forcible energy, and in tones raised
to such a pitch that some of the voices became quite hoarse, which was
generally the case with Alvaro Peña and Don Feliciano, who had the
loudest voices, but the weakest throats. When the Corporation had the
trees of the Promenade de Riego trimmed, it caused a commotion in the
Club; when the clerk of the House of Gonzalez and Sons decamped with
fourteen thousand reals, it caused another heated discussion; when the
parish priest declined to give a certificate of good conduct to the
pilot Velasco, Alvaro Peña burst a blood vessel in his excitement. But
no bad feeling remained after these violent scenes were over, neither
were the personal remarks recollected that the discussions gave rise
to.

How could it be otherwise, since there seemed to be a tacit
understanding that none of the ungracious epithets were to be resented?
The local character of the subjects was unique. Politics were little
studied in Sarrio; it was only when the papers noticed some event of
great importance that the inhabitants of the place took a passing
interest in them.

Twenty years ago the rich banker, Rojas Salcedo, was elected
representative of the place in Parliament, and he paid one visit to
Sarrio to make himself acquainted with the town. Nobody thought of
disputing his election. The presidents and secretaries of the colleges
generally met together, and computed from the Acts the number of votes
that he was entitled to. The reason of this was that Sarrio had always
been a commercial town, where everybody could gain a living without
having recourse to Madrid for government appointments.

The majority of the young men, after having passed two or three years in
some college in England or Belgium, took their places in their fathers'
offices as their future successors; the others, the minority, followed
some military or civil career with a fixed income, and only came
occasionally to pass a few days with their families.

It must, in one word, be confessed that Sarrio was a sleepy place,
dormant amid all the great manifestations of mind, amid all the
regenerating lights of contemporary society; nobody studied the profound
problems of politics, and the terrible controversies engaged in by the
different parties in other places, to gain victory and power, left them
utterly unmoved. In short, in the year of grace, 1860, there was no
public life in Sarrio. They ate, they slept, they worked, they danced,
they played, they paid their taxes, but they were absolutely wanting in
public spirit.

When that evening at the club the dispute had utterly worn them out and
spoiled their digestions, Don Mateo, beaming with delight, announced to
the company that he did not mind about the departure of the dramatic
company, for he had for some days past been arranging a surprise for the
Sarrienses; and after a great deal of trouble the matter was concluded.

He was in treaty with the celebrated Marabini, the phrenologist, the
prestidigitator; probably Tuesday, yes, Tuesday or Wednesday, they would
moreover be able to admire his wonderful skill at the theatre; he would,
moreover, bring with him some dissolving views and a tame wolf.

Gonzalo meanwhile had left the billiard-room and was looking at half a
dozen West Indians playing at chapo. When they struck the ball all the
gold seals that hung from their enormous gold chains rang like bells.
These chains and these seals were the greatest inducement and the chief
bait that the artisans of Sarrio used to persuade their sons to go to
Cuba.

"Fool! and you could come back in a few years with a fine cloth coat, a
well-got-up shirt-front, patent boots, and a watch-chain like Don
Pancho's!"

This last inducement was too much for any lad.

"Will it go seven times round my neck, dear father?"

"Yes, boy, yes; and you will have pencil cases and seals hanging on to
it."

And so with their heads full of the prize the poor fellows went off on
the "Bella Paula," the "Carmen," the "Villa de Sarrio," or any other
sailing vessel, to perish with yellow fever or hunger, lured to
destruction by the glitter of the trumpery jewelry like the voices of
the terrible Lorelei.

The gestures of the Indians while at billiards being those of people
unaccustomed to restrain and compose their feelings, were strange and
funny, and a source of delight to the young men of the place, whose
antipathy to the West Indians was always shown in making fun of them.
Who tapped upon the floor while the balls were running like Don Benito?
Who bent from one side to another, and twisted and contorted himself as
if the destination of the ball depended upon his movements, like Don
Lorenzo? And who could equal Don Pancho, who was little and fat, almost
square, in his way of sinking in a heap on the sofa after having struck
a ball, to better see the havoc he had made on the table? Occasionally
one of them addressed a word of impatience to the fellow: "Get up, my
boy; don't excite yourself!"

Don Feliciano Gomez took a seat by Gonzalo, who soon wearied of his
good-tempered, superficial conversation, which he always accompanied by
an affectionate poke in the ribs at every instant.

"When is the great day to be, Gonzalino? Soon, eh? You know I am longing
to see you with your young lady on your arm, going to high mass! All
right, my dear; all right; go and be happy. At home, the girls [it was
thus he always termed his old sisters] don't leave me a moment's peace;
since yesterday it is: 'When is Gonzalino going to be married? Don't