THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA'S DREAM.
The transfer of the young artillery lieutenant, Ricardo de Peñalta, had
not yet arrived. He had applied for it a fortnight before the Señorita
de Elorza took the veil. A month had already passed since the great
ceremony ... and nothing! The influential personages whom our friend had
in Madrid, devoted to his interests, this time took little pains to
fulfil his desires.
But why was our hero so anxious to leave Nieva? Be it said in honor of
the truth, that when Ricardo asked for the transfer he was exceedingly
desirous of turning his back forever upon those places where he had been
so happy, and where he was going to be so wretched; but now, after the
lapse of a month, the violence of his sorrow had somewhat subsided, and
he was beginning to get accustomed to his misfortune. Still he continued
to be greatly downcast; the whole town noticed it.
From the day when his betrothed had made him that horrible proposition,
which he could not remember without being hot with anger, he understood
that he should never be the master of Maria's heart. A secret and
implacable voice kept ceaselessly whispering this to him. Thus the
letter in which she announced her determination to enter the convent
caused him no great surprise; for some time a rumor of this had been
current in society. Yet, in spite of his best efforts, he could not help
feeling a quick, keen pang and a melancholy that prostrated him
completely. The more or less well-founded belief that the beloved woman
does not return one's affection, is by no means the same thing as to see
it confirmed by a material tangible fact. Not any longer did he retain
the right to lose his temper and relieve his wrath by calling her
perfidious and treacherous, as happens in the majority of cases. As the
sincere Christian that he was, it became him to look with patience, even
with pleasure (the letter said so distinctly!), upon that pious
substitution of holy, sublime affections for those of earth, noble
though they were. Maria was blameworthy in no respect,--absolutely in no
respect; her conduct was worthy of all praise, and he saw how the whole
city spontaneously and warmly rendered her their tribute. Possibly in
this thought the young marquis found the only possible consolation; for
the certain thing was, that the beautiful girl had not left him for any
other man, but to follow the hard road that leads to heaven, for which,
doubtless, it must require the doing of great violence to self. And in
this violence our marquis took a little pride by thinking with delight,
and at the same time with pain, on the strength which the new bride of
Jesus must have employed, to tear up the roots of such a solid and
long-established affection. But amid the beautiful foliage of these more
or less consoling thoughts, a sad and cruel doubt often raised its
odious head. Though Ricardo employed all expedients to get rid of such
an idea, he could not help thinking very frequently that Maria had never
professed for him a sincere and vehement love, like his for her; that
she had been his betrothed through a compromise, through the influence
of the peculiar circumstances in which both had found themselves in
Nieva; that perhaps she had deceived herself in thinking that she loved
him, since if she had really loved him, the idea of taking part in
ridiculous conspiracies would never have entered into her head, still
less that of proposing to him odious acts of treason; that Maria was a
girl of much talent and great imagination, admirably fitted to shine in
the world, or to undertake some religious or secular enterprise, of no
matter how lofty a character, but incapable, perhaps from the very same
reason, of delicacy of sentiments, of constancy, of the modest and
humble abnegation which ought to characterize good wives and mothers.
Finally Ricardo came to the conclusion that his mistress had more head
than heart, or else he did not know what he was talking about.
And gradually under the influence of these doubts, which went almost as
far as to be certainties, there sprang up in his mind a strong aversion
to the amorous memories, which were a drawback to him. When he thought
of the Maria of former times, so joyous, so lovely, so buoyant, his
heart would melt within him, and the tears would flow; when his thought
went back to the day on which, hidden behind the curtains, he saw her
pass by his house unmoved and smiling, without so much as casting a
glance at his windows, his heart was filled with a bitterness not free
from rancor. And when he saw her in his imagination in the garb of a San
Bernardin nun, entirely oblivious of the sweet scenes which had been the
enchantment of his life, despising them, perhaps, and looking upon them
with horror, as though they had been crimes, our young friend--may God
forgive him the sin--began to look with hatred upon the bride of Jesus
Christ. These doubts which constantly assaulted him were a genuine
cautery for his passion, painful and cruel, like all cauteries, but very
salutary in their effects.
He did not for an instant cease to frequent the Elorza mansion as
before. There he found two human beings whom he pitied and who pitied
him. Moreover, it was a habit of his to spend a few hours each day
between those four walls, and not only a habit, but a debt of gratitude
for the affection lavished upon him, and not only a debt, but also--and
why should we not say so?--also a pleasure, a great pleasure, since he
could not fail to find it so in being with such an accomplished
gentleman as Don Mariano, who had showed that he loved him like a son,
and with such a good and beautiful girl as Marta, whom he loved like a
sister. Grief had still further limited the circle of his affections. In
proportion as the recollection of Maria became less pleasant to him, the
sweeter did he find the love of that family, and he clung to it as to
the last plank in the shipwreck of his hopes. If he let this plank
escape him, he would be left alone. Alone! alone! This word brought back
to him that terrible night spent in the train, when he returned to Nieva
after his mother's death. Cruel fate sounded it in his ears when he
least expected it. Finally, while he stayed in Nieva, it did not ring
with such a mournfully and disconsolate accent, because all that he saw
and touched in his own house spoke to him of his mother's tenderness;
and all that he found in the Elorza mansion, recalled Maria's love; but
how would it be in the future?... What would the desert fields of
Castilla say to him, across which the swift locomotive would carry him?
What would the indifferent multitude in the streets of Madrid say to
him?... Therefore Ricardo feared more than he desired the transfer which
he had asked for with so much eagerness.
Every day when he reached the Elorza's, Martita asked him, "Has it come
yet, Ricardo?"
Sometimes he replied between jest and earnest,--
"Perhaps you are anxious for me to go away, Martita?"
"Oh, no," would be the young girl's reply, with an inflection of voice
equal to a poem.
But Ricardo did not have the power of reading it. These love-wrecked
men, these men wounded by disenchantment, cannot read other poems than
their own.
Marta, after the death of her mother, in whose illness Ricardo had so
much aided and consoled her, once more treated him with the same
confidence and affection as of old. For some time she had been rather
cool toward him. Don Mariano's younger daughter had passed through a
terrible crisis, and no one in the house had a suspicion of it. While it
lasted she was rather more brusque in her behavior, more restless, more
serious and reserved; but at last her calm spirit and her healthy and
well-balanced nature came out victorious. Doña Gertrudis's death, which
was a more serious and genuine calamity than anything else, had no small
effect in calming the disturbances and commotions of her heart. She was
once more the same Marta, tranquil, serene, and affectionate as before,
always anxious to free obstacles from the path of others, though her own
were blocked by an unsurmountable wall. Fortunate are they who in life
meet with these blessed beings who found their own happiness in that of
others, and who offer the flowers and content themselves with the
thorns.
Ricardo spent long hours at the Elorzas'. Whole afternoons, especially,
he devoted to Don Mariano and his daughter, going to walk with them when
the weather was fair, and staying in the house when it rained.
Sometimes, too, he came in the morning, and then Don Mariano would
invite him to stay to dinner. While Ricardo refused and the caballero
insisted, Marta did not open her lips, but her anxiety was betrayed in
her face, and her eager desire to keep him shone in her supplicating
eyes. When, finally, he accepted, the girl's joy was evident, and her
solicitude was evident in the way that she took charge of everything,
going to and from the kitchen any number of times, preparing the dishes
which she knew were most to the young marquis's taste, and keeping the
servants alert; the _beefsteak à la inglesa_ (for Ricardo had learned in
Madrid to eat it rather rare), the cold fish, the boiled rice, the slice
of lemon (Ricardo put lemon on almost all his food), the English
mustard, the olives, and other things. But where Marta used her five
senses was with the coffee. Ricardo was a perfect Arab, a Sybarite in
regard to coffee. Thus it was that the girl bestowed a more lively and
vigilant care upon the preparation of this liquid than a chemist on the
analysis of some precious metal. While she came and went, making all the
preparations, the young fellow did not cease to rally her in the same
affectionate tone as of old; and this, too, though Marta, if still a
little short for her age, was now a real woman, and not among the worst
favored, either, as we have already had occasion to remark. She had
grown slightly, nevertheless.
"Come, _caponcita_,[73] when did you stop growing?" said Ricardo,
detaining her by one of her braids of hair, as she was passing in front
of him.
The girl smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and continued on her way.
From the day on which he had been vexed with her, Martita had never
asked him about the transfer, but whenever he entered the house, all
gave him a keen, anxious look, as though trying to read some tidings in
his face. As it did not come, the girl recovered her tranquillity and
resumed her work, which she rarely failed to have in her hands. Ricardo
likewise said nothing about going away; either he did not remember his
petition, or affected not to remember it, or wished not to remember it.
Perhaps it was a little of all. The Marquis de Peñalta had passed from
disconsolateness to melancholy, and from this he was gradually letting
himself drift on toward a happier frame of mind. The house where Marta
sewed began to inspire jocund ideas of sweet ease and happiness.
One morning, Ricardo, as though it was the most natural thing in the
world, as though the tidings did not tear any one's heart, as though it
were some mere trifle of little consequence at issue, came into the
Elorzas', and said,--
"Yesterday evening at last my transfer to Valencia came!"
Blind! blind! dost thou not see that girl's pallor? Dost thou not notice
the painful trembling that runs over her body? Look out! she is going to
fall! Run, run to her assistance!
Nothing, the young marquis perceived nothing! He, too, was a little
pale. The indifferent tone in which he made the announcement was pure
comedy, for I know on good authority that he walked up and down his room
the night before, till he was tired out, and that the rays of the
morning found him still unable to close his eyes.
Don Mariano made a gesture of disappointment, exclaiming,--
"There, my son, there!... I feel that we are going to lose you!...
However, if it is your pleasure...."
Ricardo preserved a gloomy silence. Gladly would he have exclaimed,
"How can it be my pleasure? My pleasure would be to ask for a discharge
at this very moment, and stay here forever and live calmly near you!
Near you, the people whom I love most in this world!" But he had the
weakness to hold his tongue, and such weaknesses as these generally cost
very dear in life.
"And when do you expect to go?" pursued the caballero.
"To-morrow. I must stop in Madrid a few days to attend to some business.
I shall reach Valencia the tenth of next month."
"Are you going to some regiment?"
"To the First Cavalry."
"Ah!"
And there was silence. Sadness ruled them all, choking conversation,
which usually was very animated, even though it touched upon the details
of domestic affairs. Don Mariano renewed it in a sad and distracted
tone.
"Have you ever been in Valencia?"
"Yes, sir; I spent a month there a few years ago."
"It is very pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes; very pretty."
"Many oranges, eh?"
"A great many."
"I think it is a very gay city."
"No, not gay; it seemed to me very melancholy."
"Then, my dear fellow, I should think...."
But they relapsed into silence. Their hearts were oppressed, and the
indifferent tone of the words was not sufficient to hide it. Marta had
not once spoken during all the time, and, as she sat in a low chair next
the window, paid close attention to her crochet work. Ricardo was
lounging on the sofa near Don Mariano. A thousand melancholy thoughts
sifted through the minds of all three, and that cheerful room, bright in
the pure, brilliant morning light, was nevertheless filled with sadness
and silence. When the Señor de Elorza spoke to Ricardo again, his
emotion shone through his slightly hoarse and tremulous voice.
"And what arrangements have you made about your house?... Are you going
to dismiss the servants?"
"All except Pepe, the gardener, and César, the inside man."
"Have you packed yet?"
"No; I shall have time this afternoon and to-morrow morning."
"And your calls?"
"Really, Don Mariano, the only people with whom I am intimate are you
here.... Three or four other calls, and I am done.... I shall send cards
to the rest.... What I am most sorry about is, to leave the improvements
in my garden unfinished, and the two pavilions in the corners just
begun...."
"Don't be troubled about that, I will attend to it.... I will attend to
it.... I will attend to it...."
He could say no more. Emotion choked him. Those pavilions had been
Maria's idea before the engagement was broken, and this recollection
brought in its train many others, all painful, in which his wife, his
daughter, and Ricardo were mingled, bringing before his eyes the
terrible misfortunes which he had recently suffered. He hastily arose
and left the room.
Ricardo, likewise moved and overwhelmed by great dejection, remained
with bent head, and silent. Marta kept on busily with her task, as
though she felt no interest in what was going on. She did not once lift
her head during the conversation, nor even when her father left the
room. Ricardo looked at her fixedly a long time. The girl's impassive
attitude began to mortify him. He had presumptuously imagined that it
would affect Martita very deeply to hear the announcement of his
departure, for she had always given evidence of being fond of him. He
had blind confidence in the goodness of her heart and the strength of
her affections; but when he saw her so serene, moving the ivory needle
between her slender rosy fingers, without asking him anything about it,
without urging him to postpone his journey for a few days, without
speaking a word, he felt a new and painful disenchantment. And he
allowed himself, by the weight of his gloomy thoughts, to be drawn away
into a desperate, pessimistic philosophy.
"Then, sir," he said to himself tearfully, "you must accept the world
and humanity as they are.... This girl whom I believed to be so
tender-hearted.... What is to be done about it?... In woman exists only
one true affection.... Can it possibly be that this child is in love
with some one?"
Ricardo had no reason to be indignant at such a thought. But it is
certain that he was indignant, and not a little. He tried to drive it
away as an absurdity, and succeeded only in convincing himself that, not
only it would not be an absurdity, but would not even be strange. But as
he was downcast, indignation very soon gave way to sadness; deep,
painful sadness.
"Aren't you sorry that I am going away?" he asked, with a sort of
melancholy smile creeping over his face.
"Not if it is your pleasure to go...." replied the girl, not lifting her
head.
Confound the pleasure! Ricardo had no longer any desire to go away; he
was furious with himself for having asked to be sent. Gladly would he
give everything to exchange.... But he did not say a word of what he
thought.
His sadness and depression kept increasing. He felt a cruel desire to
weep. He dared not say a word to Marta, lest she should notice his
emotion. Besides, what reason had he to speak to her?... Such an
unfeeling child!
He found himself in one of those moments of dejection in which
everything appears clad in black, and he took a certain bitter delight
in it; moment, in which one (if the expression be permissible) wallows
voluptuously in sadness, endeavoring to add to it by unhappy
recollections and expectations. He dropped his head on the pillow of the
sofa, and shut his eyes, as though he were meditating. Our hero had been
meditating deeply, deeply, for many hours. His nerves had been on the
strain for a long time, and he began to feel the attack of a languor
akin to faintness. He lifted his head a little, to prove to himself that
he still had the power of motion, and he looked once more at Martita,
who was still in the same position; but very soon he let it fall again.
It seemed to him as if he were seized against his will, and kept lying
there, without the possibility of moving a finger. He still had his eyes
open, but they were as heavy as if the lids had been made of lead. At
last he closed them, and fell asleep. That is, we cannot say that he
slept, or only napped. It is certain, however, that the Marqués de
Peñalta, thus stretched out, with eyes closed, seemed to be asleep, and
his face looked so pale, there were such dark rings under his eyes, and
his whole appearance was so lifeless that it inspired alarm.
In the space of a few moments one can dream of many and very different
things. All have experienced this phenomenon. Ricardo had not as yet
entirely lost the idea of reality, when he found himself in a room like
the one in which he really was. However, there was this difference, that
in the new one the window had very thick iron gratings, like lattices,
and one of the walls was likewise grated, through which there could be
seen in the background, gilded altars, images of saints, lamps hung from
the ceiling; in fact, a real church. Looking attentively from the sofa,
he perceived that a great throng was pouring into the church, causing a
low, but disagreeable noise, until they filled it entirely, and there
was no more room. Then he began to hear the tones of an organ playing
the waltzes of the Queen of Scotland, which made him suspect that the
organist was Fray Saturnino, the capellane of San Felipe. Then, rising
above the heads of the people, he saw the gilded points of a mitre. The
organ ceased, and he heard the nasal voice of a preacher delivering a
long sermon, although he could not understand a word of what he said.
When the sermon was over, he heard a sweet song which made him tremble
with delight; it was Maria's sweet voice, singing with more sweetness
than ever, the aria from _Traviata_: "Gran Dio morir si giovane." When
this was finished, prolonged applause rang through the church. Then all
the people crowded up to the great altar, leaving the spaces near the
grating free. Something was going on there, for he clearly heard some
voices saying,--
"Now he gives her the benediction ... now ... now."
And at the same instant Don Maximo appeared in the door of the room, and
said,--
"What are you doing, lying down here? Didn't you know that Maria is
being married?"
"Whom is she marrying?"
"Jesus Christ! Come and see the ceremony!"
He desired to arise, but could not. Then the physician said,--
"Well, since you cannot move, I will go into the church, to see if I can
persuade the people to stand aside a little so that you may see from
here."
And in fact, he soon perceived that the congregation was making a
sufficiently wide passage from the grating, so that he could see afar
away, over the steps of the great altar, Maria's proud figure in bridal
array. At her side stood another little human figure holding her by the
hand. The bishop was giving them his blessing. It was no more Jesus
Christ than it was a pumpkin! The person whom Maria was marrying was
neither more nor less than Manolito Lopez, that most impertinent and
uncongenial of urchins! He was like one who saw a vision! Could it be
possible that a girl so beautiful and wise, would unite herself to this
cub and leave him, who in every respect was a man abandoned to despair?
The truth is, he had reason for serious and painful reflections. But
just as he was getting deeper and deeper involved in them, behold the
same Maria enters the room in the garb of a San Bernardo nun, and coming
directly to him said, sweetly smiling,--
"Art thou sad because I marry?"
"Why should I not be?"
"Fool," says the young woman, coming still closer, "though I am wedded
to Jesus Christ, yet I love thee the same as before."
Then Ricardo began to sigh and groan.
"No, Maria, you do not love me; you love Manolito Lopez."
"Come, Ricardo mio, don't talk nonsense. How could I love this urchin?"
"Have you not just married him?"
"You must be dreaming; don't say any more absurd things.... Wake up,
man--wake up ... or wait a little, I am going to wake you. But see in
what a sweet way!"
And in fact, the beautiful nun came even closer still, and took his face
between her dainty hands with an affectionate gesture. Then she brought
her own close to his slowly, and gave him a warm and prolonged kiss on
the brow.
Oh! wonderful chance! Ricardo noticed with amazement, that just as she
gave him the caress, Maria's face had suddenly changed into Marta's.
Yes; it was her bright black eyes; her fresh rosy cheeks; her dark hair
falling in ringlets around her brow. But her face seemed so sad and
mournful that he could not do less than cry,--
"Marta, Marta! what ails thee?"
And the very cry that he made awoke him.
Marta still sat in the low chair beside the window, apparently absorbed
in her work. And nevertheless, the young man, though awake, was sure
that he had cried out. All that had passed was a dream; but neither the
cry nor the warm, moist lips which he felt imprinted on his brow were
imaginary; though he were killed, he could not be convinced of it.
What was it? What had passed?
He remained some instants looking at Martita, while he slowly collected
his ideas. At last he decided to speak to her. The girl lifted her face
which was flushed and disturbed.
"Did I not just cry out?"
Martita grew still more flushed and disturbed, and scarcely could she
answer in trembling voice,--
"No.... I heard nothing."
Ricardo looked at her steadily and with surprise: "Why was that girl
blushing so?"
"I was asleep, but I would take my oath that I cried out ... and I would
also take my oath--such a strange thing!--that you gave me a kiss."
Marta's color, when she heard these words, suddenly changed from rosy to
pale, betraying a profound consternation. Her tremulous hands could not
hold her crochet work, and dropped it in her lap. At the same time her
eyes rested on Ricardo with such an expression of fear, of tenderness,
of supplication, of dismay, that he felt a strong shock, like that
caused by an electric discharge.
It was the same look--the same that he had just seen in his dream.
He felt himself inundated by a great light, a divine light. At that
supreme moment he saw everything, he comprehended all. The mist that
blinded his eyes faded away, and he saw himself face to face with the
scene in the garden, when Marta seemed so offended because he kissed her
hands ... and he saw and comprehended. The strange dismay following that
scene he likewise saw and comprehended. Then he went back in imagination
to the beach on the island. The sun pouring floods of light over the
sand; the blue and white waves girdling a peninsula where two young
people had been long sitting; the sob which broke the silence of the
tunnel; then a girl falling into the water, and a young man plunging in
after her and saving her. "Thanks, Señor Marqués, it is not so bad down
below there." This also he saw, he comprehended. Then a sudden and
extraordinary estrangement: a pair of eyes that did not look at him, two
lips that did not speak to him, a pair of hands that did not touch him.
Ah, yes; he saw all; he understood all.
He sprang up hastily from the sofa, and bringing his face close to
Marta's, said to her in sweet, affectionate tones, but with innocent
petulance,--
"Don't deny it, Martita; you just gave me a kiss!"
The girl raised her hands to her face, and broke into a passion of
tears. A thousand emotions of fear, of penitence, of affection, of
doubt, of joy, of anxiety, instantly crossed the heart of the young
marquis who bent his knee before her, exclaiming in accents of
emotion,--
"Marta, for God's sake, forgive my stupidity.... I am a fool!... I just
dreamed such sad things, and they suddenly all ended so well!... I could
not resign myself to let happiness escape so ... an absurd idea came
into my head, inspired by the very idea of seeing it realized.... But no
... no! I cannot be happy on earth.... I was born to be unfortunate....
Luckily I shall die early, like my father ... and like my mother....
Forgive me that momentary folly, and don't weep.... Do you want to know
what I was dreaming?... I am going to tell you, because perhaps it will
be the last time that you will see me.... I dreamed ... I dreamed,
Marta, that you loved me."
The girl opened her hands a little, and ejaculated with a certain
wrathful, but adorable intonation these words, which were immediately
cut short by sobs,--
"You dreamed the truth, ingrato!"
The Marqués de Peñalta, beside himself, entirely carried away by his
emotions, his heart ready to burst, pressed her in his arms without
being able to speak a word. At last, very softly, very softly, with the
sublime incoherence of the heart, like a murmur of celestial harmony, he
whispered into the ears of his friend the hymn of love. Dios mio! how
sweet sounded that hymn in Marta's ears! I do not intend to repeat it:
no; the pen cannot reproduce that mysterious language which comes
directly from the heart, scarcely touching the lips,--accents escaping
from heaven and hastening to take refuge in the breast of virgins,--for
the earth does not understand them, notes perhaps lost from the song
with which the angels celebrate their immortal bliss.
Marta listened. Tremulous, confused, she hid her head in her lover's
breast, shedding a flood of tears. Ricardo pressed her closer and closer
to his heart without wearying of repeating the same phrase,--the most
beautiful phrase that God ever suggested to man. Once the girl raised
her head to ask in low and tremulous voice,--
"You will not go now, will you?"
Little desire had Ricardo at that moment to go away! Not for all that
was precious in earth and in heaven would he go away. His spirit did not
dare to pass by even the window-panes, fearful lest it should lose the
bliss in which it was bathed. Nevertheless, he had sufficient
self-control to tear himself away a moment and rush to the door,
crying,--
"Don Mariano! Don Mariano!"
The Señor de Elorza, alarmed, nervous as he had been for some time, came
in haste, fearing some new misfortune. Ricardo's face, wherein shone the
deep emotion which overmastered him, was not calculated to calm any one.
What was the matter? Why did they call him?
"Don Mariano," said the young man, and his voice stuck in his throat....
"I have the honor of asking the hand of your daughter Marta."
That was a thunder-stroke; but what the devil! Had he gone crazy?...
What did it mean, sir? We shall see, we shall see! Nothing; Don Mariano
could say nothing, could do nothing, could think of nothing, for before
he could say, do, or think of anything, his daughter's arms were around
his neck, and she was weeping as though her heart would break.... What
was left for the noble caballero? To weep likewise. Why, this was
exactly what he did, pressing his beloved child with one arm, and
squeezing with his other hand the Marqués of Peñalta's.
"You will not abandon me, will you, my children?" entreated the
venerable man, lifting his noble, manly face bathed in tears.
Ricardo pressed his hand more warmly. Marta clung to his neck more
fondly.
There were a few moments of silence, during which all the angels of
heaven swept through the room, which was bathed in the morning sun, and
gazed with radiant eyes of joy upon that interesting group. But now
Martita lifts her face a little from her father's breast, and, smiling
through her tears, asks her lover coyly: "Will you dine with us to-day,
Ricardo?"
"Yes, preciosa mia," replied the young marquis, falling on his knees,
and kissing the girl's hands again and again; "I will to-day, and
to-morrow, and every day forever!"
Marta hid her face again on the paternal breast! Her heart was so full
of joy! The three shed tears in silence; but what sweet tears!
O eternal God, who dwellest in the hearts of the good! are they perhaps
less pleasing to Thee than the mystic colloquies of the Convent of San
Bernardo?
THE END.
_"The demand for these Russian stories has but just fairly begun; but it
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country has probably seen within the past quarter of
a century."_--BOSTON TRAVELLER.
=DOSTOYEVSKY'S WORKS.=
=Crime and Punishment=, 12mo. $1.50.
=Injury and Insult.= In press.
=Recollections of a Dead-House.= In press.
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* * * * *
=Anna Karénina.= By Count LYOF N. TOLSTOÏ. Translated from the Russian by
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. Royal 12mo. $1.75.
"Will rank among the great works of fiction of the age."--_Portland
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Anglice_, oil of birch.
[2] _Paraphernalia bona_, in Spanish _bienes parafernales_, are the
goods and chattels brought by a wife independent of her dower.
[3] _tertulia_.
[4] _buenas noches_.
[5] _pataches_ and _quechemarines_.
[6] _palomita_.
[7] _mi corazón_.
[8] _cordera_.
[9] 1 John ii. 1.
[10] Psalms xxxiv. 8.
[11] _gracias_.
[12] _criatura_.
[13] _Buenas noches_: _que usted lleve feliz viaje!_
[14] _querido_.
[15] _vaya gracias á Dios_!
[16] _licenciado_.
[17] _chica_.
[18] _Fulanito_, diminutive of _Fulano_, such an one; hence, little
master, little miss.
[19] _mira_, _chica_.
[20] _secretas y santas fantasías_.
[21] _quinque_.
[22] _con mil amores_, literally, with a thousand loves.
[23] _tonta_.
[24] _mi palomita del alma_.
[25] _monina_, literally, little monkey.
[26] _pasacalle_.
[27] _pesado_.
[28] The epoch of _novatada_.
[29] _antiguos_.
[30] _nuevos_.
[31] _Dios mio_.
[32] _novetada_.
[33] _chica_.
[34] _majadero_.
[35] _un adan_.
[36] _ayuntamiento_.
[37] Luke xiv. 26.
[38]
_Ay! quién podrá sanarme!_
_Acaba de entregarte ya de vero,_
_No quieras enviarme_
_De hoy mas ya mensajero_
_Que no saben decirme lo que quiero._
[39] _El Tiempo_.
[40] _Calle de la Industria_.
[41] _Doña Fulana de Tal to Don Zutano de Cual_.
[42] _Ez uzté mu bonita, pero ez uzté mu redondita_.
[43] _tertulianas_.
[44] _mestiza_.
[45] _Ay Dios_.
[46] _Caramba con el agua_.
[47] La Isla.
[48] _tonta_.
[49] _Ay, Dios mio_.
[50] _aaaguanta_.
[51] _aduana_.
[52] _ponerle en Berlina_.
[53] _persona mayor_.
[54] _jéfe de orden publico_
[55 1] _hasta luégo._
[56] _junta._
[57] _boinas blancas y polainas._
[58] _guardias civiles._
[59] _fábrica de armas._
[60] _casas consistoriales._
[61] _vosotros, not te._
[62 1] _soplo: literally breath._
[63] _corazón mio._
[64] _boina._
[65] _tunantes._
[66] _pendanga._
[67] _fiscal._
[68] _cantar de plano_.
[69] _chiquita_.
[70] _pichona_.
[71] _locutorio_.
[72] _riquita_.
[73] little stopple.