marble. In its center played a fountain, which was adorned with
flower-pots containing roses, pinks, sweet-basil, and other flowers.
Around this court-yard ran a corridor or gallery, supported by marble
columns, in which, as well as in the various saloons that opened into
it, were tables for _ombre_, others with newspapers lying on them,
others where coffee and other refreshments were served, and finally,
lounges, benches, and several easy-chairs. The walls were like snow,
from frequent whitening; nor were pictures wanting for their adornment.
There were French colored lithographs, a minute explanation of the
subject of each being written, both in French and in Spanish below. Some
of them represented scenes to The life of Napoleon, from Toulon to St.
Helena; others, the adventures of Matilda and Malek-Adel; others.
Incidents in love and war, in the lives of the Templar, Rebecca, Lady
Rowena, and Ivanhoe; and others, the gallantries, the intrigues, the
lapses and the conversions of Louis XIV. and Mademoiselle de la
Vallière.
Currito took Don Luis, and Don Luis allowed himself to be taken, to the
saloon where were gathered the cream of the fashion, the dandies and
_cocodés_ of the village and of the surrounding district. Prominent
among these was the Count of Genazahar, of the neighboring city of--.
The Count was an illustrious and much admired personage. He had made
visits of great length to Madrid and Seville, and, whether as a country
dandy or as a young nobleman, was always attired by the most fashionable
tailors.
The Count of Genazahar was a little past thirty. He was good-looking,
and he knew it; and could boast of his prowess in peace and in war, in
duels and in love-making. The Count, however--and this notwithstanding
the fact that he had been one of the most persistent suitors of
Pepita--had received the sugar-coated pill of refusal that she was
accustomed to bestow on those who paid their addresses to her and
aspired to her hand.
He had not yet recovered from the irritation produced in his proud heart
by this rejection. Love had turned into hatred, and the count lost no
occasion of giving utterance to his feelings, holding Pepita up, on such
occasions, to the most merciless ridicule.
The count was engaged in this agreeable exercise, when, by an evil
chance, Don Luis and Currito approached, and joined the crowd that was
listening to the odd species of panegyric, which opened to receive them.
Don Luis, as if the devil himself had had the arrangement of the matter,
found himself face to face with the count, who was speaking as follows:
"She's a cunning one, this same Pepita Ximenez, with more fancies and
whims than the Princess Micomicona. She wants to make us forget that she
was born in poverty, and lived in poverty until she married that
accursed usurer, Don Gumersindo, and took possession of his dollars. The
only good action this same widow has performed in her life was to
conspire with Satan to send the rogue quickly to hell, and free the
earth from such a contamination and plague. Pepita now has a hobby for
virtue and for chastity. All that may be very well; but how do we know
that she has not a secret intrigue with some plowboy, and is not
deceiving the world as if she were Queen Artemisia herself?"
People of quiet tastes, who seldom take part in reunions of men only,
may perhaps be scandalized by this language; it may appear to them
indecent and brutal, even to the point of incredibility; but those who
know the world will confess that language like this is very generally
employed in it, and that the most amiable and agreeable women, the most
honorable matrons, if they chance to have an enemy, or even without
having one, are often made the subjects of accusations no less infamous
and vile than those made by the count against Pepita; for scandal is
often indulged in, or, to speak more accurately, dishonor and insult are
disseminated, for the purpose of showing wit and the power to entertain.
Don Luis--who, from a child, had been accustomed to the consideration
and respect of those around him, first, of the servants and dependents
of his father, who gratified him in all his wishes, and then, of every
one in the seminary, where, as well because he was a nephew of the dean,
as on account of his own merits, he had never been contradicted in
anything, but, on the contrary, always pleased and flattered--stood,
when he heard the insolent count thus drag in the dust the name of the
woman he loved, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet.
But how undertake her defense? He knew, indeed, that although he was
neither husband, brother, nor other relative of Pepita's, he might yet
come forward in her defense, as a man of honor; but he saw well the
scandal this would give rise to, since, far from saying a word in her
favor, all the other persons present joined in applauding the wit of the
count. He, already the minister, almost, of a God of peace, could not be
the one to give the lie to this ruffian, and thus expose himself to the
risk of a quarrel.
Don Luis was on the point of departing in silence. But his heart would
not consent to this, and, striving to clothe himself with an authority
which was justified neither by his years nor by his countenance, where
the beard had scarcely begun to make its appearance, nor by his presence
in that place, he began to speak with earnest eloquence in denunciation
of all slanderers, and to reproach the count, with the freedom of a
Christian and in severe accents, with the vileness of his conduct.
This was to preach in the desert, or worse. The count answered his
homily with gibes and jests; the by-standers, among whom were many
strangers, took the part of the jester, notwithstanding the fact that
Don Luis was the son of the squire. Even Currito, who was of no account
whatever, and who was, besides, a coward, although he did not laugh, yet
made no effort to take the part of his friend, and the latter was
obliged to withdraw, disturbed and humiliated by the ridicule he had
drawn on himself.
* * * * *
"This flower only was wanting to complete the nosegay," muttered poor
Don Luis between his teeth when he had reached his house and shut
himself up in his room, vexed and ill at ease because of the jeers of
which he had been the butt. He exaggerated them to himself; they seemed
to him unendurable. He threw himself into a chair, depressed and
disheartened, and a thousand contradictory ideas assailed his mind at
once.
The blood of his father, which boiled in his veins, incited him to
anger, and urged him to throw aside the clerical garb, as he had in the
beginning been advised to do in the village, and then give the count his
deserts; but the whole future he had planned for himself would be thus,
at a blow, destroyed. He pictured to himself the dean disowning him; and
even the Pope, who had already sent the pontifical dispensation
permitting him to be ordained before the required age, and the bishop
of the diocese, who had based the petition for the dispensation on his
approved virtue and learning and on the firmness of his vocation, all
appeared before him now to reproach him.
Then the humorous theory of his father in regard to those other
arguments, in addition to those of persuasion, of which the apostle St.
James, the bishops of the middle ages, and St. Ignatius Loyola had made
use, occurred to his mind, and it seemed to him now not so preposterous
as before, and he almost repented not having put them into practice.
He then recalled to mind the custom of an orthodox doctor, a
distinguished philosopher of Persia, of our own day, mentioned in a book
recently written on that country--a custom which consisted in punishing
with harsh words his hearers and pupils when they laughed at his
teachings or could not understand them, and, if this did not suffice, in
descending from his chair, saber in hand, and giving them all a beating.
This method, as it appears, had proved efficacious, especially in
controversy; although it had chanced that the said philosopher, coming
across an opponent of the same way of thinking as himself, had received
from him a severe wound in the face.
Don Luis, in the midst of his mortification and ill-humor, could not
help laughing at the absurdity of this recollection. He thought there
were not wanting in Spain philosophers who would willingly adopt the
Persian method; and, if he himself did not put it into practice, it was
certainly not through fear of the wounds he might receive, but through
considerations of greater weight.
"I did very wrong in preaching there," he said to himself. "I should
have remained silent. Our Lord Jesus Christ has said, 'Give not that
which is holy to dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest
they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.'
"But, no; why should I complain? Why should I return insult for insult?
Why should I allow myself to be vanquished by anger! Many holy fathers
have said, 'Anger in a priest is even worse than lasciviousness.' The
anger of priests has caused many tears to be shed, and has been the
cause of terrible evils.
"Anger perhaps it was--this terrible counselor--that at times persuaded
them that it was necessary for the people to shed blood at the Divine
command, and that brought before their sanguinary eyes the vision of
Isaiah; they have then seen, and caused their fanatic followers to see,
the meek Lamb converted into an inexorable avenger, descending from the
summit of Edom, proud in the multitude of his strength, trampling the
nations under foot, as the treader tramples the grapes in the
wine-press, their garments raised, and covered with blood to the thighs.
Ah, no; my God! I am about to become thy minister. Thou art a God of
peace, and my first duty should be meekness. Thou makest the sun to
shine on the just and the unjust, and pourest down upon all alike the
fertilizing rain of thy inexhaustible goodness. Thou art our Father who
dwellest in the heavens, and we should be perfect, even as thou art
perfect, pardoning those who have offended us, and asking thee to pardon
them, because they know not what they do. I should recall to mind the
beatitudes of the Scripture: Blessed are ye when they revile you and
persecute you, and say all manner of evil things against you. The
minister of God, or he who is about to become his minister, must be
humble, peaceable, meek of heart; not like the oak that lifts itself up
proudly, until the thunderbolt strike it, but like the fragrant herbs of
the woods, and the modest flowers of the fields, that give sweeter and
more grateful perfume after the rustic has trodden them under foot."
In these and other meditations of a like nature the hours passed until
three o'clock, when Don Pedro, who had just returned from the country,
entered his son's room to call him to dinner. The gay joviality of his
father, his jest, his affectionate attentions daring the meal, were all
of no avail to draw Don Luis from his melancholy, or to give him an
appetite; he ate little, and scarcely spoke while they were at table.
Although much troubled by the silent melancholy of his son, whose
health, though indeed robust, was yet not beyond risk of being affected,
Don Pedro, who rose with the dawn and had a busy time of it during the
day, when he had finished his after-dinner cigar and taken his cup of
coffee and his glass of anisette, felt fatigued, and went, according to
his custom, to take his two or three hours of _siesta_.
Don Luis had taken good care not to draw the attention of his father to
the offense done him by the Count of Genazahar. His father, who, for his
part, had no intention of fitting himself to celebrate mass, and who,
besides, was not of a very meek disposition, would have rushed
instantly, had he done so, to take the vengeance Don Luis had failed to
take.
When his father had retired, Don Luis also left the dining-room, that he
might, in the seclusion of his own apartment, give himself up
undisturbed to his thoughts.
* * * * *
He had been sunk in them for a long time, seated before his desk, with
his elbows resting upon it, when he heard a noise close by. He raised
his eyes, and saw standing beside him the meddlesome Antoñona, who,
although of such massive proportions, had entered like a shadow, and was
now watching him attentively with a mixture of pity and of anger in her
glance.
Antoñona, taking advantage of the hour in which the servants dined and
Don Pedro slept, had penetrated thus far without being observed, and had
opened the door of the room and closed it behind her so gently that Don
Luis, even if he had been less absorbed in meditation than he was, would
not have noticed it.
She had come resolved to hold a very serious conference with Don Luis,
but she did not quite know what she was going to say to him.
Nevertheless, she had asked heaven or hell, whichever of the two it may
have been, to loosen her tongue and bestow upon her the gift of speech;
not such grotesque and vulgar speech as she generally used, but correct,
elegant, and adapted to the noble reflections and beautiful things she
thought it necessary for the carrying out of her purpose to say.
When Don Luis saw Antoñona, he frowned, and showed by his manner how
much this visit displeased him, at the same time saying roughly:
"What do you want here? Go away!"
"I have come to call you to account about my young mistress," returned
Antoñona, quietly, "and I shall not go away until you have answered
me."
She then drew a chair toward the table and sat down in it, facing Don
Luis with coolness and effrontery.
Don Luis, seeing there was no help for it, restrained his anger, armed
himself with patience, and, in accents less harsh than before,
exclaimed:
"Say what you have to say!"
"I have to say," resumed Antoñona, "that what you are plotting against
my mistress is a piece of wickedness. You are behaving like a villain.
You have bewitched her; you have given her some malignant potion. The
poor angel is going to die; she neither eats nor sleeps, nor has a
moment's peace, on account of you. To-day she has had two or three
hysterical attacks at the bare thought of your going away. A good deed
you have done before becoming a priest! Tell me, wretch, why did you not
stay where you were, with your uncle, instead of coming here? She, who
was so free, so completely mistress of her own will, enslaving that of
others, and allowing her own to be taken captive by none, has fallen
into your treacherous snares. Your hypocritical sanctity was, doubtless,
the lure you employed. With your theologies and your pious humbugs you
have acted like the wily and cruel sportsman, who attracts to him by his
whistle the silly thrushes, only to strangle them in the net."
"Antoñona," returned Don Luis, "leave me in peace. For God's sake,
cease to torture me! I am a villain; I confess it. I ought not to have
looked at your mistress; I ought not to have allowed her to believe that
I loved her; but I loved her, and I love her still, with my whole heart;
and I have given her no other potion or philter than the love I have for
her. It is my duty, nevertheless, to cast away, to forget this love. God
commands me to do so. Do you imagine that the sacrifice I make will not
be--is not already--a tremendous one? Pepita ought to arm herself with
fortitude and make a similar sacrifice."
"You do not give even that consolation to the unhappy creature," replied
Antoñona. "You sacrifice voluntarily, on the altar, this woman who loves
you, who is already yours--your victim. But she--what claim has she on
you that she should offer you up as a sacrifice? What is the precious
jewel she is going to renounce, what the beautiful ornament she is going
to cast into the flames, but an ill-requited love? How is she going to
give to God what she does not possess? Is she going to try to cheat God,
and say to him: 'My God, since he does not love me, here he is; I offer
him up to you; I will not love him either.' God never laughs--if he did,
he would laugh at such a present as that!"
Don Luis, confounded, did not know what answer to return to these
arguments of Antoñona, more atrocious than her former pinches. Besides,
it was repugnant to him to discuss the metaphysics of love with a
servant.
"Let us leave aside," he said, "these idle discussions. I can not cure
the malady of your mistress. What would you have me do?"
"What would I have you do?" replied Antoñona, more gently, and with
insinuating accents; "I will tell you what I would have you do. If you
can not cure the malady of my mistress, you should, at least, alleviate
it a little. Are you not saintly? Well, the saints are compassionate,
and courageous besides. Don't run away like an ill-mannered coward,
without saying good-by. Come to see my mistress, who is sick. Do this
work of mercy."
"And what would be gained by such a visit? It would aggravate her
malady, instead of curing it."
"It will not do so; you don't see the matter in its proper light. You
shall go to see her, and, with your honeyed tongue and the gift of the
gab that nature has bestowed upon you, you will put some resignation
into her soul, and leave her consoled for your departure; and if you
tell her, in addition to this, that you love her, and that it is only
for the sake of God you are leaving her, her woman's vanity, at least,
will not be wounded."
"What you propose to me is to tempt God; it is dangerous both for her
and for me."
"And why should it be to tempt God? Since God can see the rectitude and
the purity of your intentions, will he not grant you his favor and his
grace that you may not yield to temptation during the visit to her,
which it is but justice you should make? Ought you not to fly to her to
deliver her from despair, and bring her back to the right path? If she
should die of grief at seeing herself scorned; or if, in a frenzy, she
should seize a rope and hang herself to a beam, I tell you, your remorse
would be harder to bear than the flames of pitch and sulphur that
surround the caldrons of Lucifer."
"This is horrible! I would not have her grow desperate. I shall arm
myself with courage--I will go to see her."
"May Heaven bless you! But my heart told me you would go. How good you
are!"
"When do you wish me to go?"
"To-night, at ten o'clock precisely. I will be at the street-door
waiting for you, and will take you to her."
"Does she know you have come to see me?"
"She does not--it was all my own idea; but I will prepare her
cautiously, so that the surprise, the unexpected joy of your visit, may
not be too much for her. You promise me to come?"
"I will go."
"Good-by. Don't fail to come. At ten o'clock precisely. I shall be at
the door."
And Antoñona hurried away, descended the steps two at a time, and so
gained the street.
* * * * *
It can not be denied that Antoñona displayed great prudence on this
occasion, and that her language was so dignified and proper that some
may think it apocryphal, if there were not the very best authority for
all that is related here, and if we did not know, besides, the wonders
the natural cleverness of a woman may work when she is spurred on by
interest or by some strong passion.
Great, indeed, was the affection Antoñona entertained for her mistress,
and, seeing her so much in love and in such desperate case, she could do
no less than seek a remedy for her ills. The consent she had succeeded
in obtaining from Don Luis to her request that he should pay a visit to
Pepita was an unexpected triumph; and, in order to derive the greatest
possible advantage from this triumph, she was obliged to make the most
of her time, and to use all her worldly wisdom in preparing for the
occasion.
Antoñona had suggested ten as the hour of Don Luis's visit, because this
was the hour in which Don Luis and Pepita had been accustomed to see
each other in the now abolished or suspended gatherings at the house of
the later. She had suggested this hour also in order to avoid giving
rise to scandal or slander; for she had once heard a preacher say that,
according to the gospel, there is nothing so wicked as scandal, and that
the scandal-monger ought to be flung into the sea with a mill-stone hung
round his neck.
Antoñona, then, returned to the house of her mistress, very well
satisfied with herself and with the firm determination so to arrange
matters that the remedy she had sought should not prove useless, or
aggravate instead of curing Pepita's malady. She resolved to say nothing
of the matter to Pepita herself until the last moment, when she would
tell her that Don Luis had asked her of his own accord at what hour he
might make a farewell visit, and that she had said ten.
In order to avoid giving rise to talk, she determined that Don Luis
should not be seen to enter the house, and for this the hour and the
internal arrangement of the house itself were alike propitious. At ten
the street would be full of people, on account of the vigil, which would
make it easier for Don Luis to reach the house without being observed.
To enter the hall would be the work of a moment, and Antoñona, who would
be waiting for him, could then take him to the library without any one
seeing him.
All, or at least the greater part, of the handsome country-houses of
Andalusia are in construction double rather than single houses. Each
house, of these double houses, has its own door. The principal door
leads to the court-yard, which is pared and surrounded by columns, to
the parlors and the other apartments of the family; the other to the
inner yards, the stable and coach-house, the kitchens, the mill, the
wine-press, the granaries, the buildings where are kept the oil, the
must, the alcohol, the brandy and the vinegar, in large jars; and the
cask stores, or cellars, where the newly made wine, and that which has
been long kept, is stored in pipes or barrels. This second house, or
portion of a house, although it may be situated in the heart of a town
of twenty or twenty-five thousand inhabitants, is called _farm-house_.
The overseer, the foreman, the muleteer, the principal workmen, and the
domestics who have been longest in the service of the master, are
accustomed to gather here in the evenings, during the winter, around the
enormous fireplace of a spacious kitchen, and in summer in the open air,
or in some cool and well-ventilated apartment, and there chat or take
their ease until the master's family are about to retire.
Antoñona was of opinion that the colloquy or explanation, which she
desired should take place between her mistress and Don Luis required
tranquillity, and should be interrupted by no one; and she therefore
determined that, as it was St. John's eve, the maid-servants of Pepita
should be to-night released from all their occupations, and should go to
amuse themselves at the farm-house, where, in union with the rustic
laborers, they might get up impromptu amusements, to consist of
fandangos, the recitation of pretty verses, playing the castanets, jigs,
and country-dances.
In this manner the dwelling-house--without other occupants than Pepita
and herself--would be silent and almost deserted, and suited to the
solemnity and undisturbed quiet desirable in the interview she had
planned, and on which perhaps--or rather to a certainty--depended the
fate of two persons of such distinguished merit.
* * * * *
While Antoñona went about turning over and arranging in her mind all
these things, Don Luis had no sooner been left alone than he regretted
having proceeded with so much haste, and weakly consenting to the
interview Antoñona had asked of him. As he reflected upon it, it seemed
to him more full of peril than those of Oenone or Celestina. He saw
before him all the danger to which he voluntarily exposed himself, and
he could see no advantage whatever in thus making in secret, and by
stealth, a visit to the beautiful widow.
To go and see her in order to succumb to her attractions and fall into
her snares, making a mockery of his vows, and placing not only the
bishop, who had indorsed his petition for a dispensation, but even the
holy Pontiff, who had conceded it, in a false position, by relinquishing
his purpose of becoming a priest, seemed to him very dishonorable. It
was, besides, a treason against his father, who loved Pepita and desired
to marry her; and to visit her in order to undeceive her in regard to
his love for her, seemed to him a greater refinement of cruelty than to
depart without saying anything.
Influenced by these considerations, the first thought of Don Luis was to
fail, without excuse or warning, to keep his appointment, and leave
Antoñona to wait in vain for him in the hall; but then, as Antoñona had,
in all probability, already announced his visit to her mistress, he
would, by failing to go, unpardonably offend, not only Antoñona, but
Pepita herself.