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THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA
(MARTA Y MARÍA):
A Realistic Social Novel
BY
DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS.
_TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY_
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
NEW YORK:
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.,
No. 13 Astor Place.
_Copyright_, 1886,
BY T. Y. CROWELL & CO.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE 1
CHAPTER I.
IN THE STREET 5
CHAPTER II.
THE SOIRÉE AT THE ELORZA MANSION 16
CHAPTER III.
THE NINE DAYS' FESTIVAL OF THE SACRED HEART OF
JESUS 47
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA WAS CONVERTED INTO DUKE
OF THURINGEN 76
CHAPTER V.
THE ROAD TO PERFECTION 100
CHAPTER VI.
IN SEARCH OF MENINO 122
CHAPTER VII.
HUSBAND OR SOUL 144
CHAPTER VIII.
AS YOU LIKE IT 161
CHAPTER IX.
EXCURSION TO EL MORAL AND THE ISLAND 178
CHAPTER X.
THE EXCURSION CONTINUED 195
CHAPTER XI.
A STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCE 217
CHAPTER XII.
GATHERED THREADS 230
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH ARE TOLD THE LABORS OF A CHRISTIAN VIRGIN 257
CHAPTER XIV.
PALLIDA MORS 281
CHAPTER XV.
LET US REJOICE, BELOVED 303
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA'S DREAM 325
THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA.
AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE.
The work which I now have the honor of presenting to the public is not
based upon ordinary every-day occurrences; nor are the incidents
narrated in it such as we are wont frequently to witness. Very likely it
will be called untrue or improbable, and regarded as a fanciful
production, remote from all reality. With resignation I bow myself in
advance to these criticisms, though I claim the right to protest in my
own heart, if not publicly, against the unfairness of such a charge. For
the chief events of this novel--I must say it, though my glory as an
originator may be destroyed--have all actually taken place. The author
has done nothing more than recount them and give them unity.
I have the presumption to believe that, though _Marta y María_ may not
be a beautiful novel, it is a realistic novel. I know that realism--at
the present time called naturalism--has many impulsive adepts, who
conceive that truth exists only in the vulgar incidents of life, and
that these are the only ones worth transferring to art. Fortunately this
is not the case. Outside of markets, garrets, and slums, the truth
exists no less. The very apostle of naturalism, Emil Zola, confesses
this by painting scenes of polished and lofty poetry, which assuredly
conflict with his exaggerated æsthetic theories.
The character of the protagonist of my novel is an exceptional
character. I take delight in acknowledging this. But to be exceptional
is not to be less true to nature, less human. Mystic temperaments are
not apt to abound in Madrid: the frivolous and sensual life of the court
is little adapted for their development. But all who have lived in a
province will have known, just as I have, certain passionate and pious
souls, who, without any motive of a temporal kind, have renounced the
world and consecrated themselves to God. Take the periodicals, and
scarcely a day will pass without your seeing the announcement of some
young woman becoming a nun. Among these young persons are beautiful
girls, daughters of wealthy families, rejoicing in all the gifts of
nature and the flatteries of society. Is not, peradventure, the careful
study of such souls worthy of the literary man, even though he call
himself a naturalist?
The motive or occasion of this book being written is as follows: I found
myself one afternoon in Don Fernando Fe's bookstore, turning over recent
publications and periodicals, when there fell into my hands a number of
the _Ilustración Española y Americana_, in which appeared a capital cut
representing "The Taking of the Veil in a Convent of Carmelite Nuns." A
pretty young girl was seen on her knees before the inner door of the
convent, from which three sisters, bundled up in great thick robes of
black, were coming forth to receive her, with a coarse wooden cross. In
the background an aged bishop was calling down upon her the blessing of
heaven; and a lady, in whom the mother was to be instantly recognized,
was looking on with ecstatic and troubled eyes. Still farther back there
was a numerous group of people, pre-eminent among them being two other
young ladies, elegantly dressed, whose resemblance to the novice
quickly told that they were her sisters. The first was sadly
contemplating the ceremony, while the other hid her face in her hands,
as if she were trying to smother her sobs.
I felt impressed in presence of this scene so admirably interpreted by
the artist, and as a natural consequence I was assailed by many memories
and not a few reflections connected with the same subject, and I came to
the conclusion that it was worth while to make a study of it. It did not
deal with anything ancient and remote which might serve merely as a
theme for the investigations of the historian, but with a most curious
and interesting fact taking place before our very eyes. The enthusiasm,
the ardent raptures, the ecstasies, and even the frenzies of these souls
at once simple and passionate, who find no way to quench the thirst
devouring them, to calm the unrest torturing them, by intercourse with
the world, and who seek in the mystery of the cloister, medicine for
their ills, seemed to me a theme worthy for the contemporary novelist to
master and offer with due respect to the consideration of the public. A
certain series of events which took place a few years ago, and happened
to come under my observation, occurred to my mind, and instantly the
desire seized me to write a novel. But one circumstance proved to be a
stumbling-block. It had never entered into my calculations to write
novels with transcendental themes, especially those based upon religious
subjects. This I declared without qualification in a little line of
parenthesis which I put under the title of my first novel, _El Señorito
Octavio_ (a novel without transcendental thought). And in truth I was
afraid to bring myself so soon into conflict with my æsthetic programme
in a country where everything is pardoned except contradiction. But
among the honorable pleasures conferred by the Supreme Creator upon the
heroic Spanish public, there is none more keen and delectable than that
of breaking the laws and programmes which they have freely imposed upon
themselves. In this particular, sybaritism has reached the point of
making itself every morning some rule for the pleasure afforded by
breaking it in the afternoon. Therefore as soon as I saw the
contradiction, the problem was solved. I will write the novel, I said,
for my conscience, so that I may have to endure fifteen literary
sessions of the Athenæum without stirring from my place.
The novel is now written. The subject is one sufficiently rude and
liable to be carried away by prejudices and extravagances which the
novelist who has a wish to paint the reality must avoid with care. I
have striven with all my power to bring myself into a point of view
relatively neutral (granting that the absolute cannot be attained), and
to study the theme with the calmness of the physiologist. Whatever my
sympathies may have been, I have tried always to subordinate them to the
truth and to the profound respect which all noble sentiments and all
honest beliefs deserve from me. You shall say if I have succeeded.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE STREET.
Within the arcade the people were crowding relentlessly; each and every
one was performing prodigies of skill to flout the physical law of the
impenetrability of bodies, by reducing his own to an imaginary quantity.
The night was unusually thick and dark. The feet of the loungers found
each other out in the darkness, and when they met they indulged in
somewhat expressive forms of endearment; the elbows of some, by a secret
and fatal impulse, went straight into the eyes of others; the passive
subject of such caresses instantly raised his hand to the place of
contact, and usually exclaimed with some asperity, "You barbarian, you
might at least--" but an energetic "Sh--sh--sh" from the throng obliged
him to nip his discourse in the bud, and silence again began to reign.
Silence was at this time the most pressing necessity which was felt by
the inhabitants of Nieva there gathered together. The least noise was
regarded as an act of sedition, and was instantly punished by a
threatening hiss. Coughs and sneezes were prohibited, and still more
condign punishment was meted out to laughter and conversation. There was
profuse perspiration, although the night was not among the mildest of
autumn.
In the arcades of the houses opposite, more or less the same state of
things existed; but in the street itself there were few people, because
a very fine rain was slowly falling, and this the natives of Nieva had
learned not to despise, since in the long run and notwithstanding its
gentle and insinuating ways, it was like any other. Only a few people
with umbrellas, and some others who, not having them, sheltered
themselves with their philosophy, maintained a firm footing in the midst
of the gutter.
The balconied windows of the house of Elorza were thrown wide open, and
through the embrasures streamed a bright and cheerful light which made
the dark and misty night outside still more melancholy. Likewise there
streamed forth from time to time torrents of musical notes let loose
from a piano.
The house of Elorza was the principal one in a long, narrow street,
adorned with an arcade on both sides like almost all the rest in the
town of Nieva. Its most important façade looked into this street, but it
had another with balconies facing the town square, which was wide and
handsome like that of a city. Though the darkness does not allow us to
make out exactly the appearance of the house, yet we can prove that it
is a building of faced stone and of one story, with spacious arcade, the
elegant and stately arches of which instantly declare the rank of its
owners. This arcade, which might be called a portico, makes a notable
contrast with that of the succeeding houses, which is low and narrow and
supported by round, rough pillars without any ornamentation. Likewise
the same difference is to be seen in the pavement. In the arcade of
which we are speaking, it is of well-set flagging, while the others
offer merely an inconvenient footway paved with cobble-stones. Without
venturing, indeed, to call it a palace, it is not presumptuous to assert
that this mansion had been built for the exclusive use and gratification
of some person of importance; the fact that it had only one story very
clearly decided this point. The truth demands that we set forth
likewise the fact that the architect had given undeniable proofs of good
taste in laying out the plan of the building, since its proportions
could not be more elegant and correct. But what most struck the eye was
a certain attractive and aristocratic thriftiness about it perfectly
free from presumption, which, though calculated to inspire envy,
certainly did not arouse in the minds of the people those hatreds and
heart-burnings always excited by overweening wealth. The frowning
firmament ceaselessly poured down all the moist and chilly mist with
which its clouds were surcharged. The shadows shrowded and concealed the
outlines of the house, crowding together underneath the arches and in
the hollows of their stone mouldings, but they did not dare so much as
to approach the bright, joyful openings of the balconies, which drove
them away in terror. They gazed clandestinely into the heavenly _el
dorado_ of the interior, and eaten up with envy, they poured out their
spite upon the heads of the philosophers who were listening in the open
air. The pyramidal group of loungers, enjoying the protection of the
opposite arcades, did not take their eyes from the balconies, while
those who clustered under the arches of the house itself, as they lacked
this expedient, entirely trusted to their ears, the receptive capacity
of which they strove to increase by placing the palms of their hands
behind them and doubling them forward a little. The darkness was dense
in both arcades, for the town lanterns shed their pallid rays at
respectable distances. Each served only to light up a sufficiently
circumscribed area at wide intervals in the plaza, making melancholy
reflections on the wet stones of the pavement. Amid the shadows now and
then the light of a cigar flashed out for an instant, causing a ruddy
glow on the smoker's mustachios. A little further away, on the corner, a
variety shop still remained open; but the shopkeeper's shadow could be
seen often crossing in front of the door as he was putting his wares in
order before shutting up. On the principal floor of the same house the
balconied windows were all thrown wide open; through them rang voices,
coarse outbursts of laughter, and the clicking of billiard balls, sounds
which fortunately reached the arcades greatly softened. This was the
Café de la Estrella, frequented until the small hours of the night by a
dozen indefatigable patrons. Otherwise, silence reigned, although it was
impossible to get rid of the peculiar rumble inseparable from the
thronging of people in one place, which is caused by the shuffling of
feet, the stirring of bodies, and above all by the smothered phrases in
falsetto tones let fall by some in the hearing of others.
At the moment when the present history begins, the vibrating tones of
the piano were heard preluding the passionate _allegro_ of the aria from
"La Traviata": _gran Dio morir si giovine_. When the prelude was ended,
a soft and appropriate accompaniment began. The expectation was intense.
At last, above the accompaniment arose a clear and most dulcet voice,
echoing through the whole plaza like a sound from heaven. The two groups
of listeners were stirred as though they had touched their fingers to
the knob of an electric machine, and a subdued murmur of satisfaction
ran up and down among them.
"'Tis Maria," said three or four, hoping that the ears of the walls
would not overhear them.
"It was high time!" remarked one, in a little louder voice.
"It is she that is singing now; hark! and not that beast of the canning
factory!" exclaimed a third, still more impulsive.
"Have the goodness to keep quiet, gentlemen, so that we can hear!" cried
a very angry voice.
"Let that man hold his tongue!"
"Out with him!"
"Silence!"
"Sh--sh--sh--shhh!"
"I have always insisted that there are no people more ill-bred than
those of this place!" again cried the angry voice.
"Hold your tongue!"
"Don't be a fool, man!"
"Sh--sh--sh--shhh!"
Finally all became silent, and Verdi's passionate melody could be heard,
interpreted with remarkable delicacy. The lovely, limpid voice, issuing
from the open balconies, rent the saturated atmosphere out of doors, and
vibrating with force, went the rounds of the plaza, and died away in the
mazes of the town. The loneliness and gloom of the night increased the
power and range of that lovely voice, lovely beyond all praise. I do not
say that, for any one of those clever people who feel themselves wrapped
up in the vocalism of the paradise of the Royal Theatre, the singer was
a prodigy in her mastery of attacking, sustaining, and trilling the
notes; but I affirm that for those whom we do not see tortured by
musical scruples, she sang very well, and she possessed, above all, a
bewitching voice, of a passionate _timbre_, which penetrated to the very
depths of the soul.
The loungers of both arcades, and likewise the philosophers of the
gutter, gave unmistakable proofs of feeling moved. The taste for music
in country towns always partakes of a more violent and impetuous nature
than is shown in large cities, and this is due to the fact that the
latter are furnished with an excess of theatres and salons, while the
former can only from time to time enjoy it. No one whispered, or moved a
step from his place; with open mouths and far-away eyes, they followed
ecstatically the course of that despairing melody, in which Violetta
mourns that she must die after such sufferings undergone. The most
sensitive began to shed tears, remembering some gallant adventure of
their youthful days. The sky, still relentless, kept sending down its
inexhaustive deposit of liquid dust. Two of the philosophers of the
gutter felt of their garments, shook their sombreros, and muttering a
curse against the elements, took refuge in the arcade, causing by their
arrival a slight disturbance among their neighbors.
At some little distance from both groups, and near a column, were seen,
not very distinctly, three small bodies, with whom we must bring the
reader into contact for a few moments. One of them struck a match to
light a cigar, and there appeared three fresh, laughing, mischievous
faces of fourteen or fifteen years, which resolved into darkness again
as the match went out.
"Say, Manolo," asked one, lowering his voice as much as possible, "who
gave you that mouth-piece?"
"Suppose I ragged it of my brother!"
"Is it amber?"
"Amber and meerschaum; it cost three duros in Madrid."
"I pity you, if you should get caught by your--"
"Hush up, you fool you! What have we got a servant in the house for, if
not to blame for such faults?"
A man who was standing nearer than the rest, harshly bade them hold
their tongues. The urchins obeyed. But after a moment Manolo said, in a
barely perceptible voice, "See here, lads! would you like to have me
break this all up in a jiffy?"
"Yes, yes, Manolo!" hastily replied the others, who evidently had great
faith in the destructive powers of their companion.
"Then you just wait; stay quiet where you are."
And moving a little aside from them, he hid himself beside a door, and
set up three extraordinary yelps, precisely like those emitted by dogs
when they are beaten. A tremendous, furious, universal barking
immediately resounded through the spaces. All the dogs of the community,
united and compact, like one single mastiff, protested energetically
against the punishment inflicted upon one of their kind. Maria's singing
was completely lost beneath that formidable yelping. The listening
multitude experienced a painful shock, stirred tumultuously for some
moments, uttered incoherent exclamations against the cursed animals,
endeavored to bring them to silence by shouting at them, and at last,
seeing the uselessness of their efforts, resigned themselves to the hope
that they would cease of themselves. The howls, in fact, were gradually
dying away, all the time becoming more and more infrequent and remote;
only the dog belonging to the variety shop, which had just been closed,
continued for some time barking furiously. At length even he ceased,
though most unwillingly. The song of the dying Violetta was once again
heard, pure and limpid as before, and once again the auditors began to
experience the softening impressions which it had made upon them,
although they were somewhat restless and nervous, as if fearing at any
moment to be deprived of that pleasure.
Manolo, choking with amusement, rejoined his companions and was received
with stifled laughter and applause.
"Come, Manolito, yelp once again."
"Wait, wait awhile; we want to take 'em by surprise."
After some little time had passed, Manolo once more cautiously crept
away, and, skirting the group, stationed himself at the opposite
extreme. From there he set up three more howls like the first, and the
same thunderous barking filled the spaces, giving back kind for kind.
The multitude underwent a new excess of vexation, but accompanied by far
greater tumult; everybody was speaking at once, and uttering furious
ejaculations.
"This is horrible!"
"Here's a concert for us given by those confounded dogs!"
"The dog that howled is the one to blame."
"Curse him!"
"Confound it!"
"Silence! silence! give us a chance to hear something!"
"What can you hear?"
"Deuced bad luck!"
"Silence! silence!"
"Sh--sh--sh--shhhhhh!"
The dogs one after another were beginning to quiet down, according to
their own good pleasure, and little by little calm was reasserting its
sway. Violetta's song re-appeared, full of melancholy, sweetness, and
passion. Maria's voice, in her interpretation of it, expressed such
pathos that the heart was melted, and tears sprang into the eyes. One
single dog, the one at the variety shop, kept on barking with a
persistency that was in the highest degree exasperating, since it
prevented the singer's voice from reaching the ears of the public with
the clearness desired. A man with a cudgel in his hand detached himself
from the throng, and braving the elements, crossed the plaza to stop his
barking, but the dog immediately smelt the stick and took to flight. The
man came back into the arcade. At length perfect silence reigned in the
plaza, and the music lovers could enjoy to their hearts' content the
concert in the house of Elorza.
What had become of Manolo? His companions waited for him for some time,
so as to congratulate him on his praiseworthy conduct, but he did not
put in an appearance. The smaller urchin at length timidly asked the
other,--
"Say! what would they do to him if they'd caught him yelping?"
"Why, nothing; they'd treat him to a little cane syrup."[1]
He who had propounded the question trembled a little, and held his
peace.
"But then," continued the other, "they haven't caught him, not a bit of
it; he's too cute to let himself get caught."
At this instant Manolo raised two shrieks still more maddening in the
opposite arcade, and with the same madness the dogs of the neighborhood,
barking, took up the refrain. It is impossible to describe what happened
thereupon in the multitude of listeners in both arcades. The tumult
which ensued was in reality overpowering. A goodly number of hands flew
about in the darkness, flourishing terrible canes and umbrellas, and
from both the throngs arose a chorus of imprecations far from flattering
to the canine race. The confusion and disorder took possession of all
minds. Breasts breathed nothing but vengeance and extermination.
"Kill that beastly cur! cried a voice above the tumult.
"Yes, yes, break his back for him!" replied another, instigating the
fittest method of slaughter.
"That dog, that dog!"
"But where is that cursed beast?"
"Find him and break his back!"
"And if you can't find the dog, break his master's back!"
"That's the idea! his master's!"
"Thunder and lightning! kill 'em both!"
The disorder had increased to such a degree, and the shouting had become
so scandalous, that some of the balconied windows in the vicinity
emitted a sharp sound, and were cautiously opened; the inquisitive heads
which were thrust forth, not being able to discover what had caused the
disturbance, and fearing to catch cold, were incontinently withdrawn. In
the house of Elorza three or four people likewise peered out and
likewise hurriedly drew back, and oh! the grief of it! closed the
windows as they went.
"Well now! we shall hear what we must hear."
"Have they shut the windows?"
"Yes, señor, they have, and shut 'em up tight."
From that multitude escaped a submissive sigh of weariness and rage.
There was silence for a moment as a tribute rendered to their vanished
hopes. No one moved from his place. At last some one said in a loud
voice: "Señores, good night, and good luck to you. I'm going home!"
This salutation shook them from their stupor. The groups began to
dissolve slowly, not without uttering choleric exclamations. A few
individuals walked off under the arcades. Others crossed the plaza with
umbrellas spread. A few remained in the same place, making endless
commentaries on what had just occurred. At last a half-dozen loafers
remained, and these, tired of complaining in that locality, adjourned to
the Café de la Estrella, to do the same. While they were crossing the
space that lay between the arcade and the café, an angry voice, the same
which had raised its protest against the faulty manners of that town,
said, with still more anger,--
"I have always declared that there aren't any worse trained dogs than
those in this city!"