“At last I reached the fort. What a lot of firing there! That

down here is nothing to it. The cannon balls whizzed through the air

like a flight of birds. And do you think I was afraid? Not I! Gasparo

went on crying and screaming; but I showed him the flames bursting

from the bombs, and the flashes from the powder-pans, and said, ‘Look,

how pretty! We are going to shoot cannons too now!’

“A soldier gave

me a cuff to push me to one side, and I fell on a heap of dead, but I

got up and went straight on. Then the Governor appeared, and grasping

a large black banner he waved it in the air, and then he said that he

would have the first coward hanged. What do you think of that? I went

in front and shouted, ‘Quite right, too!’ ‘Some soldiers told me to go

away, and the women who were looking after the wounded began to abuse

me, asking me why I had taken the baby there. What a crowd of sparks!

They fell like flies, first one, then another. The French wanted to get

in, but we wouldn't let them.”

“What? You wouldn't?”

“Yes; the women and our men threw stones from the top of the wall at

the scoundrels who wanted to climb them. I loosened Gasparo, putting

him on the top of a box in which was some powder and cannon-balls,

and I also began to throw stones. And what stones! I threw one which

weighed at least six hundredweight, and hit a Frenchman, doubling him

in two. You ought to have seen it. The French were many, and they

wanted to do nothing else but come into the fort. You should have

seen the Governor, Andresillo! Don Mariano, and I, we sprang in front

... and always went where the soldiers were most hard pressed. I don’t

know what I did, but I did something, Andres. I could not see for

the smoke, nor hear for the noise. Such terrible firing! Into your

very ears, Andres. It makes one quite deaf. I began to shout, calling

them blackguards, thieves, and telling them that Napoleon was a

good-for-nothing. Maybe they didn’t hear me for the noise, but I made them

turn back and a-half. Rather! Well, Andres, not to tire you, I stayed

there until they retreated. The Governor told me he was satisfied—no,

he did not speak to me, he said it to the rest.”

“But the letter.”

“I looked for Captain Carrillo—I knew him by sight before—and I met

him at last when all was over. I gave him the paper, and he gave me a

message for the nun. Then, remembering Gasparo, I went to look for him

where I had left him, but he wasn’t there. I began to shout out, ‘Gasparo,

Gasparo!’ but he didn’t answer. At last I saw him under a gun carriage,

rolled up like a little ball, with his fists in his mouth, looking

between the spokes of the wheel, and a large tear in each eye. I put

him on my back and ran to the convent. But now comes the best of it; as

I was going along thinking of battles, and my head full of all I had

seen, I forgot the message the Captain had given me for the nun. She

scolded me, saying that I had torn up the letter, and wanted to deceive

her, and that she couldn’t think of giving me either the cherries or the

bread she had promised. And then she began to grumble, and called me

a bad boy and a beast. One of Gasparo’s toes was bleeding, and the nun

tied a rag round it; but the cherries—not a single one! At last all

was settled, for Captain Carrillo came himself, and she gave me the

cherries and the bread, and I ran out of the convent.”

“Take the child home to your sister,” I said, noticing that poor Gaspar

foot was still bleeding.

“I have kept some cherries for Siseta,” he cried.

* * * * *

“Oh, I say, boys!” shouted Manalet, running back towards us, “the

Governor is going through the town with a lot of people and banners;

the ladies are singing in front, and the monks dancing, and the bishop

smiling, and the nuns crying. Come along!”

And like a flock of birds the band of children ran down the street.

_Gerona_: “_Episodios Nacionales._” _Perez Galdos._

_FIRST LOVE._

How old I was then? Eleven or twelve years? More probably thirteen, for

before then is too early to be seriously in love; but I won’t venture to

be certain, considering that in Southern countries the heart matures

early, if that organ is to blame for such perturbations.

If I do not remember well _when_, I can at least say exactly _how_ my

love first revealed itself. I was very fond—as soon as my aunt had

gone to church to perform her evening devotions—of slipping into her

bedroom and rummaging her chest of drawers, which she kept in admirable

order. Those drawers were to me a museum; in them I always came across

something rare or antique, which exhaled an archaic and mysterious

scent, the aroma of the sandalwood fans which perfumed her white linen.

Pincushions of satin now faded; knitted mittens, carefully wrapped in

tissue paper; prints of saints; sewing materials; a reticule of blue

velvet embroidered with bugles, an amber and silver rosary would appear

from the corners: I used to ponder over them, and return them to their

place. But one day—I remember as well as if it were to-day—in the

corner of the top drawer, and lying on some collars of old lace, I saw

something gold glittering.... I put in my hand, unwittingly crumpled

the lace, and drew out a portrait, an ivory miniature, about three

inches long, in a frame of gold.

I was struck at first sight. A sunbeam streamed through the window and

fell upon the alluring form, which seemed to wish to step out of its

dark background and come towards me. It was a most lovely creature,

such as I had never seen except in the dreams of my adolescence. The

lady of the portrait must have been some twenty-odd years; she was

no simple maiden, no half-opened rosebud, but a woman in the full

resplendency of her beauty. Her face was oval, but not too long,

her lips full, half-open and smiling, her eyes cast a languishing

side-glance, and she had a dimple on her chin as if formed by the tip

of Cupid’s playful finger. Her head-dress was strange but elegant; a

compact group of curls plastered conewise one over the other covered

her temples, and a basket of braided hair rose on the top of her head.

This old-fashioned head-dress, which was trussed up from the nape

of her neck, disclosed all the softness of her fresh young throat,

on which the dimple of her chin was reduplicated more vaguely and

delicately. As for the dress ... I do not venture to consider whether

our grandmothers were less modest than our wives are, or if the

confessors of past times were more indulgent than those of the present;

I am inclined to think the latter, for seventy years ago women prided

themselves upon being Christianlike and devout, and would not have

disobeyed the director of their conscience in so grave and important

a matter. What is undeniable is, that if in the present day any lady

were to present herself in the garb of the lady of the portrait, there

would be a scandal; for from her waist (which began at her armpits)

upwards, she was only veiled by light folds of diaphanous gauze,

which marked out, rather than covered, two mountains of snow, between

which meandered a thread of pearls. With further lack of modesty she

stretched out two rounded arms worthy of Juno, ending in finely-moulded

hands ... when I say _hands_ I am not exact, for, strictly speaking,

only one hand could be seen, and that held a richly embroidered

handkerchief.

Even to-day I am astonished at the startling effect which the

contemplation of that miniature produced upon me, and how I remained

in ecstasy, scarcely breathing, devouring the portrait with my eyes. I

had already seen here and there prints representing beautiful women:

it often happened that in the illustrated papers, in the mythological

engravings of our dining-room, or in a shop-window, that a beautiful

face, or a harmonious and graceful figure attracted my precociously

artistic gaze; but the miniature encountered in my aunt’s drawer, apart

from its great beauty, appeared to me as if animated by a subtle and

vital breath; you could see it was not the caprice of a painter, but

the image of a real and actual person of flesh and blood. The warm

and rich tone of the tints made you surmise that the blood was tepid

beneath that mother-of-pearl skin. The lips were slightly parted to

disclose the enamelled teeth; and to complete the illusion there ran

round the frame a border of natural hair, chestnut in colour, wavy and

silky, which had grown on the temples of the original. As I have said,

it was more than a copy, it was the reflection of a living person from

whom I was only separated by a wall of glass.... I seized it, breathed

upon it, and it seemed to me that the warmth of the mysterious deity

communicated itself to my lips and circulated through my veins. At this

moment I heard footsteps in the corridor. It was my aunt returning

from her prayers. I heard her asthmatic cough, and the dragging of her

gouty feet. I had only just time to put the miniature into the drawer,

shut it, and approach the window, adopting an innocent and indifferent

attitude.

My aunt entered noisily, for the cold of the church had exasperated

her catarrh, now chronic. Upon seeing me, her wrinkled little eyes

brightened, and giving me a friendly tap with her withered hand, she

asked me if I had been turning over her drawers as usual.

Then, with a chuckle—

“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” she added, “I have something for you,

something you will like.”

And she pulled out of her vast pocket a paper bag, and out of the bag

three or four gum lozenges, sticking together in a cake, which gave me

a feeling of nausea.

My aunt’s appearance did not invite one to open one’s mouth and devour

these sweets: the course of years, her loss of teeth, her eyes dimmed

to an unusual degree, the sprouting of a moustache or bristles on

her sunken-in mouth, which was three inches wide, dull grey locks

fluttering above her sallow temples, a neck flaccid and livid as the

crest of the turkey when in a good temper.... In short, I did not take

the lozenges. Ugh! A feeling of indignation, a manly protest rose in

me, and I said forcibly—

“I do not want it, I don’t want it.”

“You don’t want it? What a wonder! You who are greedier than a cat!”

“I am not a little boy,” I exclaimed, drawing myself up, and standing

on tip-toes; “I don’t care for sweets.”

My aunt looked at me half good-humouredly and half ironically, and at

last, giving way to the feeling of amusement I caused her, burst out

laughing, by which she disfigured herself, and exposed the horrible

anatomy of her jaws. She laughed so heartily that her chin and nose

met, hiding her lips, and emphasising two wrinkles, or rather two deep

furrows, and more than a dozen lines on her cheeks and eyelids; at the

same time her head and body shook with the laughter, until at last her

cough began to interrupt the bursts, and between laughing and coughing

the old lady involuntarily spluttered all over my face.... Humiliated,

and full of disgust, I escaped rapidly thence to my mother’s room, where I

washed myself with soap and water, and began to muse on the lady of the

portrait.

And from that day and hour I could not keep my thoughts from her. As

soon as my aunt went out, to slip into her room, open the drawer, bring

out the miniature, and lose myself in contemplation, was the work of

a minute. By dint of looking at it, I fancied that her languishing

eyes, through the voluptuous veiling of her eyelashes, were fixed in

mine, and that her white bosom heaved. I became ashamed to kiss her,

imagining she would be annoyed at my audacity, and only pressed her

to my heart or held her against my cheek. All my actions and thoughts

referred to the lady; I behaved towards her with the most extraordinary

refinement and super-delicacy. Before entering my aunt’s room and opening

the longed-for drawer, I washed, combed my hair, and tidied myself,

as I have seen since is usually done before repairing to a love

appointment. I often happened to meet in the street other boys of my

age, very proud of their slip of a sweetheart, who would exultingly

show me love-letters, photographs, and flowers, and who asked me if I

hadn’t a sweetheart with whom to correspond. A feeling of inexplicable

bashfulness tied my tongue, and I only replied with an enigmatic and

haughty smile. And when they questioned me as to what I thought of

the beauty of their little maidens, I would shrug my shoulders and

disdainfully call them _ugly mugs_. One Sunday I went to play in the

house of some little girl-cousins, really very pretty, and the elder of

whom was not yet fifteen.

We were amusing ourselves looking into a stereoscope, when suddenly one

of the little girls, the youngest, who counted twelve summers at most,

secretly seized my hand, and in some confusion and blushing as red as a

brazier, whispered in my ear—

“Take this.”

At the same time I felt in the palm of my hand some thing soft and

fresh, and saw that it was a rosebud with its green foliage. The little

girl ran away smiling and casting a side-glance at me; but I, with a

Puritanism worthy of Joseph, cried out in my turn—

“Take this!”

And I threw the rosebud at her nose, a rebuff which made her tearful

and pettish with me the whole afternoon, and which she has not pardoned

me even now, though she is married and has three children.

The two or three hours which my aunt spent morning and evening together

at church being too short for my admiration of the entrancing portrait,

I resolved at last to keep the miniature in my pocket, and went about

all day hiding myself from people just as if I had committed a crime. I

fancied that the portrait from the depth of its prison of cloth could

see all my actions, and I arrived at such a ridiculous extremity, that

if I wanted to scratch myself, pull up my sock, or do anything else

not in keeping with the idealism of my chaste love, I first drew out

the miniature, put it in a safe place, and then considered myself free

to do whatever I wanted. In fact, since I had accomplished the theft,

there was no limit to my vagaries; at night I hid it under the pillow,

and slept in an attitude of defence; the portrait remained near the

wall, I outside, and I awoke a thousand times, fearing somebody would

come to bereave me of my treasure. At last I drew it from beneath the

pillow and slipped it between my nightshirt and left breast, on which

the following day could be seen the imprint of the chasing of the frame.

The contact of the dear miniature gave me delicious dreams. The lady of

the portrait, not in effigy, but in her natural size and proportions,

alive, graceful, affable, beautiful, would come towards me to conduct

me to her palace by a rapid and flying train. With sweet authority

she would make me sit on a stool at her feet, and would pass her

beautifully moulded hand over my head, caressing my brow, my eyes, and

loose curls. I read to her out of a big missal, or played the lute, and

she deigned to smile, thanking me for the pleasure which my reading and

songs gave her. At last romantic reminiscences overflowed in my brain,

and sometimes I was a page, and sometimes a troubadour.

With all these fanciful ideas, the fact is, that I began to grow thin

quite perceptibly, which was observed with great disquietude by my

parents and my aunt.

“In this dangerous and critical age of development, everything is

alarming,” said my father, who used to read books of medicine, and

anxiously studied my dark eyelids, my dull eyes, my contracted and pale

lips, and above all, the complete lack of appetite which had taken

possession of me.

“Play, boy; eat, boy,” he would say to me, and I replied to him

dejectedly—

“I don’t feel inclined.”

They began to talk of distractions, offered to take me to the theatre;

stopped my studies, and gave me foaming new milk to drink. Afterwards

they poured cold water over my head and back to fortify my nerves; and

I noticed that my father at table or in the morning when I went to

his bedroom to bid him good morning, would gaze at me fixedly for some

little time, and would sometimes pass his hand down my spine, feeling

the vertebræ. I hypocritically lowered my eyes, resolved to die rather

than confess my crime. As soon as I was free from the affectionate

solicitude of my family, I found myself alone with my lady of the

portrait. At last, to get nearer to her, I thought I would do away

with the cold crystal. I trembled upon putting this into execution;

but at last my love prevailed over the vague fear with which such a

profanation filled me, and with skilful cunning I succeeded in pulling

away the glass and exposing the ivory plate. As I pressed my lips

to the painting and could scent the slight fragrance of the border

of hair, I imagined to myself even more realistically that it was a

living person whom I was grasping with my trembling hands. A feeling of

faintness overpowered me, and I fell unconscious on the sofa, tightly

holding the miniature.

When I came to my senses I saw my father, my mother, and my aunt, all

bending anxiously over me; I read their terror and alarm in their

faces: my father was feeling my pulse, shaking his head, and murmuring—

“His pulse is nothing but a flutter, you can scarcely feel it.”

My aunt, with her claw-like fingers was trying to take the portrait

from me, and I was mechanically hiding it and grasping it more firmly.

“But, my dear boy.... Let go, you are spoiling it!” she exclaimed. “Do

you see you are smudging it? I am not scolding you, my dear.... I will

show it to you as often as you like, but don’t destroy it; let go, you are

injuring it.”

“Let him have it,” begged my mother, “the boy is not well.”

“Of all things to ask!” replied the old maid. “Let him have it! And

who will paint another like this ... or make me as I was then? To-day

nobody paints miniatures ... it is a thing of the past, and I also am a

thing of the past, and I am not what is represented there!”

My eyes dilated with horror; my fingers released their hold on the

picture. I don’t know how I was able to articulate—

“You ... the portrait ... is you...?”

“Don’t you think I am as pretty now, boy? Bah! one is better looking

at twenty-three than at ... than at ... I don’t know what, for I have

forgotten how old I am!”

My head drooped and I almost fainted again; anyway, my father lifted me

in his arms on to the bed, and made me swallow some tablespoons of port.

* * * * *

I recovered very quickly, and never wished to enter my aunt’s room again.

_Emilia Pardo Bazan_ (_Nineteenth Century_).

_THE ACCOUNT BOOK._

A RURAL TALE.

Gaffer Buscabeatas was already beginning to stoop at the time when the

events occurred which I am going to relate; for he was now sixty years

old, and of these sixty years he had spent forty cultivating a garden

bordering on the shore of La Costilla.

In the year in question he had cultivated in this garden some wonderful

pumpkins, as large as the ornamental globes on the breastwork of some

massive bridge, that at the time of our story were beginning to turn

yellow, inside and out, which is the same as saying that it was the

middle of June. Old Buscabeatas knew by heart the particular form and

the stage of maturity at which it had arrived of every one of these

pumpkins, to each of which he had given a name, and especially of the

forty largest and finest specimens, which were already crying out,

“Cook me!” and he spent the days contemplating them affectionately, and

saying in melancholy accents—

“Soon we shall have to part!”

At last, one evening, he made up his mind to the sacrifice, and marking

out the best fruits of those beloved vines which had cost him so many

anxieties, he pronounced the dreadful sentence—

“To-morrow,” he said, “I shall cut from their stalks these forty

pumpkins and take them to the market at Cadiz. Happy the man who shall

eat of them!”

And he returned to his home with slow step and spent the night in such

anguish as a father may be supposed to feel on the eve of his daughter’s

wedding-day.

“What a pity to have to part from my dear pumpkins!” he would sigh from

time to time in his restless vigil. But presently he would reason with

himself and end his reflections by saying, “And what else can I do but

sell them? That is what I have raised them for. The least they will

bring me is fifteen dollars!”

Judge, then, what was his consternation, what his rage and despair, on

going into the garden on the following morning, to find that during

the night he had been robbed of his forty pumpkins! Not to weary the

reader, I will only say that his emotion, like that of Shakespeare’s Jew,

so admirably represented, it is said, by the actor Kemble, reached the

sublimity of tragedy as he frantically cried—

“Oh, if I could but find the thief! If I could but find the thief!”

Poor old Buscabeatas presently began to reflect upon the matter with

calmness, and comprehended that his beloved treasures could not be in

Rota, where it would be impossible to expose them for sale without risk

of their being recognised, and where, besides, vegetables bring a very

low price.

“I know as well as if I saw them, that they are in Cadiz!” he ended.

“The scoundrel! the villain! the thief must have stolen them between

nine and ten o’clock last night, and got off with them at midnight on the

freight-boat. I shall go to Cadiz this morning on the hour-boat, and it

will surprise me greatly if I do not catch the thief there, and recover

the children of my toil.”

After he had thus spoken, he remained for some twenty minutes longer on

the scene of the catastrophe, whether to caress the mutilated vines, to

calculate the number of pumpkins that were missing, or to formulate a

declaration of the loss sustained, for a possible suit; then, at about

eight o’clock, he bent his steps in the direction of the wharf.

The hour-boat was just going to sail. This was a modest coaster which

leaves Cadiz every morning at nine lock precisely, carrying passengers,

as the freight-boat leaves Cadiz every night at twelve, laden with

fruits and vegetables.

The former is called the hour-boat because in that space of time, and

occasionally even in forty minutes, if the wind is favourable, it makes

the three leagues which separate the ancient village of the Duke of

Arcos from the ancient city of Hercules.

* * * * *

It was, then, half-past ten in the morning on the before-mentioned day,

when old Buscabeatas passed before a vegetable-stand in the market of

Cadiz, and said to the bored policeman who was accompanying him—

“Those are my squashes! arrest that man!” and he pointed to the vendor.

“Arrest me!” cried the vendor, astonished and enraged. “These squashes

are mine; I bought them!”

“You will have to prove that before the judge!” answered old

Buscabeatas.

“I say No!”

“I say Yes!”

“Thief!”

“Vagabond!”

“Speak more civilly, you ill-mannered fellows! Decent men ought not to

treat one another in that way!” said the policeman tranquilly, giving a

blow with his closed fist to each of the disputants.

By this time a crowd had gathered, and there soon arrived also on the

scene the inspector of public markets.

The policeman resigned his jurisdiction in the case to his Honour, and

when this worthy official had learned all the circumstances relating to

the affair, he said to the vendor majestically—

“From whom did you purchase those squashes?”

“From Gossip Fulano, a native of Rota,” answered the person thus

interrogated.

“It could be no one else!” cried old Buscabeatas. “He is just the one

to do it! When his own garden, which is a very poor one, produces

little, he takes to robbing the gardens of his neighbours!”

“But, admitting the supposition that forty pumpkins were stolen from

you last night,” said the inspector, turning to the old gardener and

proceeding with his examination, “how do you know that these are

precisely your pumpkins?”

“How?” replied old Buscabeatas. “Because I know them as well as you

know your daughters, if you have any! Don’t you see that they have grown

up under my care? Look here: this one is called Roly-poly, this one

Fat-cheeks, this one Big-belly, this one Ruddy-face, this Manuela,

because it reminded me of my youngest daughter.”

And the poor old man began to cry bitterly.

“That may be all very well,” replied the inspector; “but it is

not enough for the law that you should recognise your pumpkins.

It is necessary also that the authorities be convinced of the

pre-existence of the article in dispute, and that you identify it with

incontrovertible proofs; gentlemen, there is no occasion for you to

smile—I know the law!”

“You shall see, then, that I will very soon prove to the satisfaction

of everybody present, without stirring from this spot, that these

pumpkins have grown in my garden!” said old Buscabeatas, to the no

little surprise of the spectators of this scene. And laying down on

the ground a bundle which he had been carrying in his hand, he bent

his knees until he sat upon his heels, and quietly began to untie the

knotted corners of the handkerchief.

The curiosity of the inspector, the vendor, and the chorus was now at

its height.

“What is he going to take out of that handkerchief?” they said to

themselves.

At this moment a new spectator joined the crowd, curious to see what

was going on, whom the vendor had no sooner perceived than he exclaimed—

“I am very glad that you have come, Gossip Fulano! This man declares

that the squashes which you sold me last night, and which are now here

present, listening to what we are saying about them, were stolen.

Answer, you!”

The newcomer turned as yellow as wax, and made a movement as if to

escape, but the bystanders detained him by force, and the inspector

himself ordered him to remain. As for Gaffer Buscabeatas, he had

already confronted the supposed thief, saying to him—

“Now you are going to see something good.”

Gossip Fulano, recovering his self-possession, answered—

“It is you who ought to see what you are talking about, for if you do

not prove, as prove you cannot, your accusation, I shall have you put

in prison for libel. These pumpkins were mine. I cultivated them, like

all the others that I brought this year to Cadiz, in my garden, the

Egido, and no one can prove to the contrary!”

“Now you shall see!” repeated old Buscabeatas, loosening the knots of

the handkerchief and spreading out its contents on the ground.

And there were scattered over the floor a number of fragments of

pumpkin stalks, still fresh and dripping sap, while the old gardener,

seated on his heels and unable to control his laughter, addressed the

following discourse to the inspector and the wondering bystanders.

“Gentlemen, have any of you ever paid taxes? If you have, you must have

seen the big green book of the collector, from which he tears off your

receipt, leaving the stub or end, so as to be able to prove afterward

whether the receipt is genuine or not.”

“The book you mean is called the account-book,” said the inspector

gravely.

“Well, that is what I have here—the account-book of my garden; that is

to say, the stalks to which these pumpkins were attached before they

were stolen from me. And in proof of what I say, look here! This stalk

belongs to this pumpkin; no one can doubt it. This other—you can see

for yourselves—belonged to this other. This is thicker—it must belong

to this one. This to that one. This to that other.”

And as he spoke he went fitting a stub or peduncle to the hole which

had been made in each pumpkin as it was pulled from the stalk, and the

spectators saw with surprise that the irregular and capricious shaped

ends of the peduncles corresponded exactly with the whitish circles

and the slight hollows presented by what we might call the cicatrices

of the pumpkins.

Every one present, including the policeman, and even the inspector

himself, then got down on their heels and began to help old Buscabeatas

in his singular comprobation, crying out with childlike delight—

“He is right! he is right! There is not a doubt of it! Look! This

belongs to this one. This to that one. That one there belongs to this.

This belongs to that!” And the bursts of laughter of the grown people

were mingled with the whistling of the boys, the abuse of the women,

the tears of joy and triumph of the old gardener, and the pushes that

the policeman gave to the convicted thief, as if they were impatient to

carry him off to prison.

Needless to say that the policeman had that pleasure; that Gossip

Fulano was immediately compelled to restore to the vendor the fifteen

dollars he had received from him, that the vendor handed these over

at once to Gaffer Buscabeatas, and that the latter departed for Rota,

highly delighted, although he kept repeating all the way home—

“How handsome they looked in the market! I should have brought Manuela

back with me to eat at supper to-night, and save the seeds.”

“_Moors and Christians, and other Tales._” _Pedro Antonio de Alarcon_

(1833-1891). _Trans. Mary J. Serrano._

_SISTER SAINT SULPICE._

SISTER SULPICE (_Gloria, by her mundane name_), _a novice about to

quit the convent for the world, against her mother, Doña Tula’s,

wish_.

SISTER MARIA DE LA LUZ, _cousin to Sister Sulpice, and also a

novice_.

THE MOTHER SUPERIOR FLORENTINA.

PACA, _Glori foster-sister_.

DON CEFERINO, _native of Galicia_.

DON PACO, _landlord of the Fonda Continental_.

I. AT THE MARMOLEYO SPA.

Along a gentle slope, over which was intended to be a high-road, we

descended to the spring which gushes out in the very middle of the

river Guadalquivir, which comes circling around the brow of the sierra.

There is a gallery or bridge which leads from the shore to the spring.

Across it were gravely walking two or three persons, who, by their

wandering and vacant looks, showed that they were perhaps paying more

attention to the contents of their stomachs than to the discourse and

steps of their companions. From time to time they hastened to the

spring, descended the steps, asked for a glass of water, and drank

it eagerly, shutting their eyes with a kind of pleasurable emotion,

suggesting the hope of health.

“Have you been taking much of the water, Mother?” asked my landlord,

leaning over the railing of the well.

A short, plump nun, who appeared to be dropsical, and had a small red

nose, raised her head just as she was about to put the glass to her

lips.

“Good morning, Señor Paco.... I have had only four glasses so far.

Would you like a little to increase your appetite?”

That greatly delighted my landlord.

“Increase my appetite, eh? Give me something to reduce it, rather! that’s

what I should prefer.... And the Sisters?”

Two young nuns, not at all ill-favoured, who were standing beside the

other with their heads raised towards us, smiled politely.

“The same as always; two little sips,” rejoined one of them, who had

lively black eyes, and spoke with a downright Andalusian accent, and

displayed an elegant set of teeth.

“How little!”

“Why, surely you would not wish to make our stomachs ponds for

anchovies, would you, like the Mother’s?”

“Anchovies?”

“Yes, Cadiz anchovies. You have only to cast the net.”

The Mother’s dropsical form was shaken violently by a laughing fit. The

anchovies swimming in her stomach, according to the young nun, must

have thought that they were exposed to an earthquake.

We all laughed and went down to the spring. As we came near the

Mother, she greeted me with an affectionate smile. I bent low, took

the crucifix which hung from her girdle, and kissed it. The nun smiled

still more tenderly, and looked at me with an expression of generous

sympathy.

Let us be explicit: if this book is to be an honest history or

confession of my life, it is my duty to declare that by the act of

bending over to kiss the metal crucifix, I do not think that I was

actuated by any mystic impulse, rather, I suspect, that the pretty

Sister’s black eyes shrewdly fixed upon me had a very active part in it.

Perhaps, without being aware of it, I desired to ingratiate myself with

those eyes. And the truth is that I failed in my attempt; because,

instead of showing that she was flattered by such an act of devotion,

it seemed to me that they assumed a slight expression of mockery. I was

a bit confused.

“Has the gentleman come to take the waters?” asked the Mother half

directly, half indirectly.

“Yes, señora, I have just arrived from Madrid.”

“They are wonderful! The Lord our God has given them a virtue which is

almost beyond belief. You will see how they develop the appetite. You

will eat as much as you possibly can, and it will not hurt you.... You

see, I can say I am a different woman, and it is only a week since we

came.... Just imagine! yesterday I ate pig’s liver, and it did not hurt me

at all.... Then this young girl,” she added, pointing to the black-eyed

Sister: “I can’t tell you what a colour she had! She was as pale as ashes.

To be sure she hasn’t much colour yet, but, ... there now, ... that is

another thing.”

I looked at her closely, and noticed that she was blushing, though she

instantly turned her back to get another glass of water.

She was a young woman of nineteen or twenty, of average height, with an

oval face of a pale brunette, her nose slightly “tip-tilted,” her teeth

white and close, and her eyes, as I have already said, of an intense

and velvety black, shaded by long lashes, and bordered by a slight pink

circle. Her hair was entirely covered from sight by the hood that bound

her forehead. She was dressed in black serge, with a girdle around her

waist, from which hung a large bronze crucifix. On her head, beside the

hood, she wore a great white _papalina_, or “coronet,” with stiffly

starched flaps. Her shoes were large and coarse, but could not wholly

disguise the grace of her dainty Southern foot.

The other Sister was likewise young, perhaps even younger than

the first, as well as shorter in stature, and with a lily-white

face, showing under the transparent skin an exceedingly lymphatic

temperament; her eyes were clear blue, her teeth somewhat faulty. By

the purity and correctness of her features, and likewise by her quiet

manners, she looked like a Virgin of painted wood. She kept her eyes

constantly fixed upon the ground, and did not open her lips during the

short moments that we were together there.

“Come, drink, señor, prove the Divine grace,” said the Mother.

I took the glass which the Sister with the white teeth had just laid

down, and proceeded to fill it with water, since the attendant had

disappeared through a trap-door; but in doing so I had to lean on the

rock, and when I bent over to dip the glass into the pool I slipped,

and my foot went in above my ankle.

“Be careful!” simultaneously cried my landlord and the Mother, as is

always said after one has met with any accident.

I drew out my foot with the water spurting from my shoe, and could not

refrain from a rather energetic exclamation.

The Mother was disturbed, and hastened to ask me with a grave face—

“Did it hurt you?”

The little Sister of the transparent skin blushed up to her ears. The

other began to laugh so heartily, that I gave her a quick and not very

affectionate look. But she paid no heed to it; she continued to laugh,

although, in order not to meet my eyes, she turned her face the other

way.

“Sister San Sulpicio, remember that it is a sin to laugh at another’s

misfortunes,” said the Mother. “Why do you not imitate Sister Maria de

la Luz?”

The latter was blushing like a poppy.

“I can’t help it, Mother, I cannot; excuse me,” she replied, endeavouring,

but without success, to contain herself.

“Let her laugh; the truth is, the thing is more ludicrous than

serious,” said I, affecting good-humour though angry at heart.

These words, instead of inciting the Sister, had the opposite effect,

and she quickly grew calm. I looked at her now and then, with a

curiosity mingled with annoyance. She returned my look with a frank and

smiling eye, in which still lurked a trace of mockery.

“You must change your shoes and stockings as quick as you can; getting

the feet wet is very bad,” said the Mother with interest.

“Pshaw! I shall not change them till night. I am accustomed to go all

day with my feet soaking,” said I, in a scornful tone of voice, putting

on a show of robustness, which, unfortunately, I am very far from being

blessed with. But it pleased me to affect bravado before the smiling

nun.

“By all means ... go, go home and take off your stocking. We are going

to walk across the gallery to see if the water is going down. May the

Lord our God bless you!”

I once more made a low bow and kissed the Mother’s crucifix. I did the

same with Sister Maria’s, who, of course, blushed again. As to Sister San

Sulpicio’s I refrained from touching it. I merely bowed low with a grave

face. Thus should she learn not to laugh at people when they get wet.

II. IN SEVILLE.

... When I returned to my boarding-house to dinner, I found Paca

waiting at the door to give me a letter. I did not care to open it

before the messenger, and tried to dismiss her as soon as possible.

But the worthy woman was too happy over her señorita’s escape from the

convent, not to chatter for a while. Both interested and impatient,

I was treated to all the particulars; how Doña Tula had gone to get

Gloria in her carriage; how abominably they had behaved towards her at

the convent, no one except the chaplain coming to bid her good-bye; how

happy her señorita felt to take off her nun’s dress; how glad every one

was to see her “so bright and chipper!” and all the insignificant words

which they had exchanged in their talk.

At last she went away, and I hastened to my room, nervously lighted my

candle, and opened the note.

“I am out of the convent,” it read. “If you wish to receive the

promised scolding, pass in front of my house at eleven o’clock. I will be

at the grating, and we will have a talk.”

The keen joy produced in me by that letter may be imagined. All my

dreams were coming true at once. Gloria loved me, and was giving me a

rendezvous, and this rendezvous was singularly attractive to a poet and

a man of the North by being at the grating!

The grating—_la reja_![15] Does not this word exert a strange

fascination? does it not awake in fancy a swarm of vague, sweet

thoughts, as though it were the symbol and centre of love and poesy?

Who is there with so little imagination as never to have dreamed of a

talk with a loved one through the grating on a moonlight night? These

talks and these nights have, moreover, the incalculable advantage that

they can be described without an actual experience of them. There is

not a lyrical mosquito among all those that hum and buzz in the central

or septentrional provinces of Spain who has not given expression to

his feelings concerning them, and framed a more or less harmonious

structure with the sweet notes of the guitar, the scents of tube-roses,

the moonlight scattering its delicate filaments of silver over the

windows, the heavens bespangled with stars, the orange flowers, the

maiden’s fascinating eyes, her warm perfumed breath, &c.

I myself, as a descriptive poet and colourist, have on more than

one occasion, to the applause of my friends, jumbled together these

commonplaces of Andalusian æsthetics.

But now the reality far exceeded and differed from this poetic

conventionalism. For the time being, as I entered the Calle de Argote

de Molina, at eleven o’clock, I failed to notice whether moon and stars

were shining in the sky or not. It is quite possible that they were,

for such things are natural; but I did not notice. What could be seen

with perfect distinctness was the watchman with pike and lantern

leaning up against a door not very far from Gloria’s.

“Shall I have to wait till this fellow goes off?” I asked myself with a

sudden pang of fear.

Fortunately, after a little while I saw him start away from that place

and move up the street.

Moreover, I went to the trysting-place without guitar or cloak, merely

with a jonquil in my hand, and wearing a plain and inoffensive jacket.

Neither did I go mounted on a fiery steed, black, dappled, or sorrel;

but on my own wretched legs, which certainly trembled all too violently

as I approached the windows of the house. In one of them I saw the

gleam of a white object, and I hastened to tap on the grating.

“Gloria!” I said in a very low voice.

“Here I am,” replied the girl’s voice.

At the same instant her graceful bare head bent over toward the

grating, and I saw the gleam of her little white teeth with that same

bewitching and mocking smile which was so delineated on my heart. I saw

her dark velvety eyes shining. As though I were in the presence of a

supernatural apparition, I stood motionless with both hands clenching

the grating. I found nothing more to say than—

“Còmo sigue V.” “How do you do?”

That ordinary formula of every-day courtesy did not seem to arouse any

sad ideas in her, for I saw her put her hand to her mouth to hide a

laugh. After a brief silence, she replied—

“Well; and you?”

“How I have longed for this moment to arrive!” I exclaimed, realising

that I was not “in situation,” as they say in the theatres. “Can you

not imagine the eagerness with which I have been waiting for it,

Gloria?...”

“And why should you have been anxious for it?”

“Because my heart was tormented with the desire to tell you how I

worship you.”

“That indeed is news! Why, my son, you have repeated it in the nine

letters you have written me, forty-one times.... I counted them!”

“Then it was so as to tell you so the forty-second time. What is taking

place between us, Gloria, seems to me just like a novel. It is not

three months that I have known you, and yet it seems to me as if I had

lived three years since then. What a change! How it has altered our

lives! You were a nun, and now I see you transformed into a perfect

young lady of the world.”

“So you really find that I am perfect?”

“Exquisite!”

“A thousand thanks. What would it be if you were to see me!”

“I do see you ... not very well, but sufficient to make me realise what

a favourable change.”

Up to a certain point that was true. Although the darkness that

prevailed in that corner did not allow me to make out her features, I

could see the outline of her graceful head, adorned with waving hair,

and when she bent it over a little toward the grating, the dim light of

the street shone into her face, which seemed to me paler than when she

was at Marmolejo, though not less lovely.

A moment of silence ensued, and, embarrassed by it, I said at last—

“Is this your chamber?”

“This is not a chamber, it is the reception-room.”

“Ah!”

And again silence fell.

I noticed that her eyes were fastened upon me, and, if the truth

be told, I could not deceive myself into thinking that they were

overflowing with love, but rather that they displayed a mischievous

curiosity.

“O Gloria, if you only knew how sadly those days passed for me when I

got no word from you! I believed that you had forgotten me.”

“I never forget my good friends. Besides, I had promised you one thing,

and I should certainly not wish to fail of fulfilling my promise.”

“What was it?”

“Do you remember?—the scolding....”

“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, laughing.

And, encouraged by these words, I felt that I ought to have my love

affairs put upon a definite basis, and I said—

“Well, then, Gloria, I have come for nothing else than to have you

undeceive me if I am under a false impression, or else confirm my

hopes of being loved if they have any foundation. Since I have already

repeated forty-one times that I adore you, as you say, I need not say

it again. Ever since I have seen you and talked with you at Marmolejo,

you have kept me a willing prisoner of love and admiration. My fate

is in your hands, and I wait with the greatest anxiety to hear my

sentence.”

Gloria paused a few moments before she answered; then she coughed a

little, and finally said—

“The fatal moment has arrived. Prepare for the worst.... Señor Don

Ceferino, I should not tell the truth if I gave you to understand that

from the first day I talked with you at Marmolejo, I did not perceive

that you were courting me. Further, I believe that the kiss which you

gave Mother Florentina’s crucifix, the first time we saw each other, you

gave me in my honour.... You laugh? Well, it shows that I was not

deceived. Those gallantries of yours have caused me some annoyances,

but I cherish no hard feelings against you. Sooner or later I had to

let the thunder burst, for I had made up my mind not to stay in the

convent, even though I had to go out to service. Then you greatly aided

me in accomplishing my wishes, and for this I am very grateful.... But

gratitude is one thing and love is another. So far I have not been able

to reciprocate your love. I esteem you ... I like you, and I shall

never forget how kind you have been to me; but I speak frankly, I

cannot have you live longer labouring under a mistake. I will be your

sincere and affectionate friend.... Your betrothed I cannot be.”

It is absolutely impossible for me to give any idea of my state of

mind on hearing those words. They were spoken in an ironical tone,

which might have left one open to think that they were in jest, but the

reasoning was so natural and logical that they put an end to any such

supposition. Nevertheless, by a supreme act of self-control, I burst

into a laugh, exclaiming—

“Well, that is a well-fabricated refusal! I might think that you really

meant it!”

“What! don’t you believe what I say?... Child, have you not a very lofty

opinion of your little self?”

“It is not a question of whether I have a high opinion of myself,

Gloria,” I replied, becoming grave; “it is that it is hard to believe

that you would have waited so long to refuse me.”

“But you have not given me a chance till now!”

“Are you speaking seriously, Gloria?”

“Why not? Come, now, you have imagined because I accepted your aid in

getting out of the convent, that I was in so far bound to worship you,

did you not?”

A wave of hot blood surged into my cheeks; my ears hummed. I suddenly

realised the fact that I had been making a fool of myself in a most

lamentable fashion, that this girl had most shamefully turned me

into ridicule. Indignation and anger took complete possession of me;

I poured out all my bile in a perfect torrent of words. I stood for

some little time clutching the grating, gazing at her in silence with

flaming eyes. Finally, in a voice hoarse with anger, I said,—

“The truth is, you are the veriest flirt,[16] unworthy of receiving

the attentions of any decent man. I do not regret the time that I have

wasted in loving you, but I do regret having wasted my love on you! I

believed that under your apparent frivolity you had a good heart, but

I see that it was nothing but vanity and giddiness. I rejoice that I

have found it out in good time, for I will at one blow tear it out of

my heart and my thoughts, where you ought never to have found a place.

Good-bye! and for ever!”

As I withdrew my contracted hands from the iron bars I felt the

pressure of hers, and I heard a compressed laugh, which entirely

confused me.

“Bravo, bravo? I like you so, my dear! I was becoming weary of so much

sweetness!”

“What does this mean, Gloria?”

“It means that you must not be so honey-like, for one gets tired of

syrup, and incense is sickening. See here! You have advanced your cause

more in one moment by saying impudent things to me, than in three

months of flatteries. You will say that I like to have my knuckles

rapped with the fire-shovel. It may be so. But I tell you that a little

touch of genius never hurts a man!”

“Yes? Then wait a bit, and I will insult you some more,” said I,

laughing.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, also laughing, “enough for to-day.”

During that sweet and memorable interview, which was prolonged till one

o’clock, our love was mutually confessed and agreed upon. Without any

difficulty we began to address each other with the familiar “thee” and

“thou,” and we swore fidelity till death, no matter what might happen.

Not a soul passed through the street. The watchman, when he saw me

glued to the grating, did not come near. I was afraid that Doña Tula

might come into the room, but Gloria re-assured me by declaring that

in Seville no one ever acted traitorously towards two lovers, and the

watchmen still less interfered with these colloquies at the gratings,

which they saw every night. She also had great confidence in the

servants. Therefore the prospect of a series of delightful interviews

was spread before us, filling my soul with joy.

“They will know about it sooner or later,” said she. “But suppose they

do. I will take it upon me to make them mind their own business if they

attempt to interfere.”

And in her handsome eyes I saw a flash of audacious mischief, which

made it plain enough that it would not be an easy matter to lead her in

paths where she did not wish to go.

“Now it is getting late. Mamma gets up very early for mass, and will

wish me to go with her. Now you must go.”

“A little while longer, sweetheart! It is not midnight yet.”

“Yes, the clock in the Giralda[17] struck one.”

“No, it is only a quarter-past twelve....”

The slow, solemn stroke of the bell in the Giralda just then struck a

quarter-past one.

“Do you hear? It is a quarter-past one. Adios! adios!”

“And are you going to send me off so, without giving me your hand?”

She reached it out to me, and I, naturally, was about to kiss it, but

she snatched it away.

“No, no; wait a little, I will give you the crucifix, as in Marmolejo,”

she cried with a laugh.

“I prefer your hand.”

“You heretic, begone!”

“God is everywhere. But still if you wish to give me the crucifix I

will guard it carefully as a keepsake.”

“Wait just a second. I have my dress here.”

She withdrew from the window for a moment and came back with the bronze

crucifix, which she handed out to me through the iron grating. In

taking it from her I got possession of her brown, firm hand, and kissed

it a number of times voraciously, gluttonously!

“That will do, little boy. Do you expect to keep it up till morning?”

I went away from that window grating intoxicated with love and bliss.

So far gone was I that when I met the watchman a little distance away

I gave him two pesetas. Afterwards I regretted it, for there was no

need of doing so, according to what Gloria had said. This time, also, I

noticed as little as before whether the stars were glittering on high

with sweet brilliancy, or whether the moonlight filtered down into the

dark labyrinthine streets, spotting them here and there with patines of

bright silver. I carried in my own heart a radiant sun, which dazzled

me and prevented me from seeing such petty details!

III. A VISIT TO THE CONVENT.

... During all this time neither the Mother Superior nor the sisters

had asked who I was, or how and why Gloria happened to be in that

place. They looked at me with quick glances of curiosity, showing that

my presence embarrassed them. I had not opened my lips.

My wife, doubtless piqued by this neglect, suddenly said, “Did you not

know that I was married?”

The sisters burst into a laugh.

“Ay! what a Sister!—always so full of spirit,” exclaimed the Mother

Superior.

“Yes, Mother, I have been married for a month and three days to this

fine young man whom you see. He has only one defect,” she added,

growing grave, “and that is that he is a Gallegan!... But you would not

think it, would you?”

“What a Sister!” again exclaimed some of the nuns. “How witty she

is!—who would have said that she was married! Something has happened to

her!”

“What! Don’t you believe me?”

The Sisters still laughed, giving me keen and mysterious glances.

“Well, then, this very instant I will prove it to you!” exclaimed my

wife with a sudden impulse. And at the same time she threw her arms

around my neck and began to give me some ringing kisses on the cheek,

saying,—

“_Rico mio!_ Isn’t it true that you are my husband? Isn’t it true that I am

your little wife? Isn’t it true that we are married? Tell me, sweetheart!

Tell me, my own life!”

While I, quite abashed, was trying to escape from her caresses, I heard

exclamations of reproof, and saw that the nuns were flying in fright

towards the portal. One of them, more intrepid, seized the cord of

the curtain and pulled it with all her force. The curtain, as it shut

together, likewise sent up a squeak of scandalised amazement.

I heard hurried steps and a sound of voices. Then nothing; it had grown

silent.

My wife, laughing merrily and blushing at the same time, seized my hand

and drew me out. We passed through the melancholy corridors in this

way, ran down the stairs, passed through the great passageway, and when

we found ourselves in the street I said to her, half vexed, “Child, how

crazy you were! What got into you, to....”

“Forgive me, my dear,” she replied, still laughing and crimson. “They

made me nervous. They might as well know that we were married as the

priest who gave us his benediction.”

_A. Palacio Valdés_ (_Nineteenth Century_).

_Trans. Nathan Haskell Dole._

_PEPITA._

In the past few days I have had occasion to practise patience in an

extreme degree, and to mortify my self-love in the most cruel manner.

My father, wishing to return Pepita’s compliment of the garden-party,

invited her to visit his villa at the Pozo de la Solana. The excursion

took place on the 22nd of April. I shall not soon forget the date.

The Pozo de la Solana is about two leagues distant from the village,

and the only road to it is a bridle-path. We all had to go on

horseback. As I never learned to ride, I had on former occasions

accompanied my father mounted on a pacing mule, gentle, and, according

to the expression of Dientes the muleteer, as good as gold, and of

easier motion than a carriage. On the journey to the Pozo de la Solana

I went in the same manner.

My father, the notary, the apothecary, and my cousin Currito were

mounted on good horses. My aunt, Doña Casilda, who weighs more than two

hundred and fifty pounds, rode on a large and powerful donkey, seated

in a commodious side-saddle. The reverend vicar rode a gentle and easy

mule like mine.

As for Pepita Jiménez, who, I supposed, would go also mounted on a

donkey, in the same sort of easy saddle as my aunt—for I was ignorant

that she knew how to ride—she surprised me by making her appearance

on a black and white horse full of fire and spirit. She wore a

riding-habit, and managed her horse with admirable grace and skill.

[Illustration: “SHE WORE A RIDING-HABIT, AND MANAGED HER HORSE WITH

ADMIRABLE GRACE AND SKILL.”]

I was pleased to see Pepita look so charming on horseback, but I soon

began to foresee and to be mortified by the sorry part I would play,

jogging on in the rear beside my corpulent Aunt Casilda and the vicar,

all three as quiet and tranquil as if we were seated in a carriage,

while the gay cavalcade in front would caracole, gallop, trot, and make

a thousand other displays of their horsemanship.

I fancied on the instant that there was something of compassion in

Pepita’s glance as she noted the pitiable appearance I no doubt presented,

seated on my mule. My cousin Currito looked at me with a mocking smile,

and immediately began to make fun of me and to tease me.

Confess that I deserve credit for my resignation and courage. I

submitted to everything with a good grace, and Currito’s jests soon ceased

when he saw that I was invulnerable to them. But what did I not suffer

in secret! The others, now trotting, now galloping, rode in advance of

us, both in going and returning. The vicar and I, with Doña Casilda

between us, rode on, tranquil as the mules we were seated upon, without

hastening or retarding our pace.

I had not even the consolation of chatting with the vicar, in whose

conversation I find so much pleasure, nor of wrapping myself up in my

own thoughts and giving the rein to my fancy, nor of silently admiring

the beauty of the scenery around us. Doña Casilda is gifted with an

abominable loquacity, and we were obliged to listen to her. She told

us all there is to be told of the gossip of the village; she recounted

to us all her accomplishments; she told us how to make sausages,

brain-puddings, pastry, and innumerable other dishes and delicacies.

There is no one, according to herself, who can rival her in matters

pertaining to the kitchen, or to the dressing of hogs, but Antoñona,

Pepita’s nurse, and now her housekeeper and general manager. I am already

acquainted with this Antoñona, for she goes back and forth between

her mistress’s house and ours with messages, and is in truth extremely

handy—as loquacious as Aunt Casilda, but a great deal more discreet.

The scenery on the road to the Pozo de la Solana is charming, but my

mind was so disturbed during our journey that I could not enjoy it.

When we arrived at the villa and dismounted, I was relieved of a great

load, as if it had been I who carried the mule, and not the mule who

carried me.

We then proceeded on foot through the estate, which is magnificent, of

varied character and extensive. There are vines, old and newly planted,

all on the same property, producing more than five hundred bushels of

grapes; olive-trees that yield to the same amount; and, finally, a

grove of the most majestic oaks that are to be found in all Andalusia.

The water of the Pozo de la Solana forms a clear and deep brook, at

which all the birds of the neighbourhood come to drink, and on whose

borders they are caught by hundreds, by means of reeds smeared with

bird-lime, or of nets, in the centre of which are fastened a cord and a

decoy. All this carried my thoughts back to the sports of my childhood,

and to the many times that I too had gone to catch birds in the same

manner.

Following the course of the brook, and especially in the ravines, are

many poplars and other tall trees, which, together with the bushes and

the shrubs, form a dark and labyrinthine wood. A thousand fragrant wild

flowers grow there spontaneously, and it would, in truth, be difficult

to imagine anything more secluded and sylvan, more solitary, peaceful,

and silent than this spot. Even in the fervour of noonday, when the

sun pours down his light in torrents from a heaven without a cloud,

the mind experiences the same mysterious terror as visits it at times

in the silent hours of the night. One can understand here the manner

of life of the patriarchs of old, and of the primitive shepherds and

heroes; and the visions and apparitions that appeared to them of

nymphs, of gods, and of angels, in the midst of the noonday brightness.

As we walked through this thicket, there arrived a moment in which, I

know not how, Pepita and I found ourselves alone together. The others

had remained behind.

I felt a sudden thrill pass through me. For the first time, and in

a place so solitary, I found myself alone with this woman; while my

thoughts were still dwelling on the noontide apparitions, now sinister,

now gracious, but always supernatural, vouchsafed to the men of remote

ages.

Pepita had left the long skirt of her riding habit in the house,

and now wore a short dress that did not interfere with the graceful

ease of her movements. She had on her head a little Andalusian hat,

which became her extremely. She carried in her hand her riding-whip,

which I fancied to myself to be a magic wand, by means of which this

enchantress might cast her spells over me.

I am not afraid to transcribe here these eulogies of her beauty. In

this sylvan scene she appeared to me more beautiful than ever. The

precaution recommended in similar cases by ascetics, to think of her

beauty defaced by sickness and old age, to picture her to myself dead,

the prey of corruption and of the worm, presented itself, against

my will, to my imagination; and I say _against my will_, for I do

not concur in the necessity for such a precaution. No thought of the

material, no suggestion of the evil spirit, troubled my reason or

infected my will or my senses.

What did occur to me was an argument—at least to my mind—in disproof of

the efficacy of this precaution. Beauty, the creation of a Sovereign

and Divine Power, may indeed be frail and ephemeral, may vanish in an

instant; but the idea of beauty is eternal, and, once perceived by the

mind, it lives there an immortal life. The beauty of this woman, such

as it manifests itself to-day, will disappear in a few short years;

the graceful form, those charming contours, the noble head that raises

itself so proudly above her shoulders: all will be food for loathsome

worms; but—though the material must of necessity be transformed—its

idea, the creative thought—abstract beauty, in a word—what shall

destroy this? Does it not exist in the Divine Mind? Once perceived and

known by me, must it not continue to live in my soul, triumphing over

age and even over death?

I was meditating thus, striving to tranquillise my spirit and to

dissipate the doubts which you have succeeded in infusing into my mind,

when Pepita and I encountered each other. I was pleased and at the same

time troubled to find myself alone with her—hoping and yet fearing that

the others would join us.

The silvery voice of Pepita broke the silence, and drew me from my

meditations, saying—

“How silent you are, Don Luis, and how sad! I am pained to think that

it is perhaps through my fault, or partly so at least, that your father

has caused you to spend a disagreeable day in these solitudes, taking

you away from a solitude more congenial, where there would be nothing

to distract your attention from your prayers and pious books.”

I know not what answer I made to this. It must have been something

nonsensical, for my mind was troubled. I did not wish to flatter Pepita

by paying her profane compliments, nor, on the other hand, did I wish

to answer her rudely.

She continued—

“You must forgive me if I am wrong, but I fancy that, in addition to

the annoyance of seeing yourself deprived to-day of your favourite

occupation, there is something else that powerfully contributes to your

ill-humour.”

“And what is this something else?” I said, “since you have discovered

it, or fancy you have done so.”

“This something else,” responded Pepita, “is a feeling not altogether

becoming in one who is going to be a priest so soon, but very natural

in a young man of twenty-two.”

On hearing this I felt the blood mount to my face, and my face burn.

I imagined a thousand absurdities; I thought myself beset by evil

spirits; I fancied myself tempted by Pepita, who was doubtless about

to let me understand that she knew I loved her. Then my timidity gave

place to haughtiness, and I looked her steadily in the face. There

must have been something laughable in my look, but either Pepita did

not observe it, or, if she did, she concealed the fact with amiable

discretion; for she exclaimed, in the most natural manner—

“Do not be offended because I find you are not without fault. This that

I have observed seems to me a slight one. You are hurt by the jests of

Currito, and by being compelled to play—speaking profanely—a not very

dignified _rôle_, mounted, like the reverend vicar with his eighty

years, on a placid mule, and not, as a youth of your age and condition

should be, on a spirited horse. The fault is the reverend dea, to whom

it did not occur that you should learn to ride. To know how to manage a

horse is not opposed to the career you intend to follow, and I think,

now that you are here, that your father might in a few days give you

the necessary instruction to enable you to do so. If you should go to

Persia or to China, where there are no railroads yet, you will make but

a sorry figure in those countries as a bad horseman. It is possible

even that, by this oversight, the missionary himself may come to lose

prestige in the eyes of those barbarians, which will make it all the

more difficult for him to reap the fruits of his labours.”

This and other arguments Pepita adduced in order to persuade me to

learn to ride on horseback; and I was so convinced of the necessity

of a missionary’s being a good horseman, that I promised her to learn at

once, taking my father as a teacher.

“On the very next expedition we make,” I said, “I shall ride the most

spirited horse my father has, instead of the mule I am riding to-day.”

“I shall be very glad of it,” responded Pepita, with a smile of

indescribable sweetness.

At this moment we were joined by the rest of the party, at which I was

secretly rejoiced, though for no other reason than the fear of not

being able to sustain the conversation, and of saying a great many

foolish things, on account of the little experience I have had in

conversing with women.

After our walk my father’s servants spread before us on the fresh grass,

in the most charming spot beside the brook, a rural and abundant

collation.

The conversation was very animated, and Pepita sustained her part in

it with much discretion and intelligence. My cousin Currito returned

to his jests about my manner of riding and the meekness of my mule. He

called me a theologian, and said that, seated on mule-back, I looked

as if I were dispensing blessings. This time, however, being now

firmly resolved to learn to ride, I answered his jests with sarcastic

indifference. I was silent, nevertheless, with respect to the promise I

had just made Pepita. The latter, doubtless thinking as I did—although

we had come to no understanding in the matter—that silence for the

present was necessary to insure the complete success of the surprise

that I would create afterward by my knowledge of horsemanship, said

nothing of our conversation. Thus it happened, naturally and in the

simplest manner, that a secret existed between us; and it produced in

my mind a singular effect.

Nothing else worth telling occurred during the day.

In the afternoon we returned to the village in the same manner in which

we had left it. Yet, seated on my easygoing mule and at the side of

my aunt Casilda, I did not experience the same fatigue or sadness as

before.

During the whole journey I listened without weariness to my aunt’s

stories, amusing myself at times in conjuring up idle fancies. Nothing

of what passes in my soul shall be concealed from you. I confess, then,

that the figure of Pepita was, as it were, the centre, or rather the

nucleus and focus, of these idle fancies.

The noonday vision in which she had appeared to me, in the shadiest

and most sequestered part of the grove, brought to my memory all the

visions, holy and unholy, of wondrous beings, of a condition superior

to ours, that I had read of in sacred authors and in the profane

classics. Pepita appeared to the eyes and on the stage of my fancy

in the leafy seclusion of the grove, not as she rode before us on

horseback, but in an ideal and ethereal fashion—as Venus to Æneas, as

Minerva to Callimachus, as the sylph who afterward became the mother of

Libusa to the Bohemian Kroco, as Diana to the son of Aristæus, as the

angels in the valley of Mamre to the Patriarch, as the hippocentaur to

St. Anthony in the solitude of the wilderness.

That the vision of Pepita should assume in my mind something of a

supernatural character, seems to me no more to be wondered at than any

of these. For an instant, seeing the consistency of the illusion, I

thought myself tempted by evil spirits; but I reflected that in the few

moments during which I had been alone with Pepita near the brook of the

Solana, nothing had occurred that was not natural or commonplace; that

it was afterward, as I rode along quietly on my mule, that some demon,

hovering invisible around me, had suggested these extravagant fancies.

That night I told my father of my desire to learn to ride. I did not

wish to conceal from him that it was Pepita who had suggested this

desire. My father was greatly rejoiced; he embraced me, he kissed me,

he said that now not you only would be my teacher, but that he also

would have the pleasure of teaching me something. He ended by assuring

me that in two or three weeks he would make me the best horseman of

all Andalusia; able to go to Gibraltar for contraband goods, and come

back laden with tobacco and cotton, after eluding the vigilance of the

Custom-house officers; fit, in a word, to astonish the riders who show

off their horsemanship in the fairs of Seville and Mairena, and worthy

to press the flanks of Babieca,[18] Bucephalus, or even of the horses

of the sun themselves, if they should by chance descend to earth, and I

could catch them by the bridle.

I don’t know what you will think of this notion of my learning to ride,

but I take it for granted you will see nothing wrong in it.

If you could but see how happy my father is, and how he delights in

teaching me! Since the day after the excursion I told you of, I take

two lessons daily. There are days on which the lesson is continuous,

for we spend from morning till night on horseback. During the first

week the lessons took place in the courtyard of the house, which is

unpaved, and which served as a riding-school.

We now ride out into the country, but manage so that no one shall see

us. My father does not want me to show myself on horseback in public

until I am able to astonish every one by my fine appearance in the

saddle, as he says. If the vanity natural to a father does not deceive

him, this, it seems, will be very soon, for I have a wonderful aptitude

for riding.

“It is easy to see that you are my son!” my father exclaims with joy,

as he watches my progress.

My father is so good that I hope you will pardon him the profane

language and irreverent jests in which he indulges at times. I grieve

for this at the bottom of my soul, but I endure it with patience. These

constant and long-continued lessons have reduced me to a pitiable

condition with blisters. My father enjoins me to write to you that they

are caused by mortification of the flesh.

As he declares that within a few weeks I shall be an accomplished

horseman, and he does not desire to be superannuated as a master, he

proposes to teach me other accomplishments of a somewhat irregular

character, and sufficiently unsuited to a future priest. At times he

proposes to train me in throwing the bull, in order that he may take

me afterwards to Seville, where, with lance in hand, on the plains of

Tablada, I shall make the braggarts and the bullies stare. Then he

recalls his own youthful days, when he belonged to the body-guard, and

declares that he will look up his foils, gloves, and masks, and teach

me to fence. And, finally, as my father flatters himself that he can

wield the Sevillian knife better than any one else, he has offered to

teach me even this accomplishment also.

You can already imagine the answer I make to all this nonsense. My

father replies that, in the good old times, not only the priests, but

even the bishops themselves, rode about the country on horseback,

putting infidels to the sword. I rejoin that this might happen in the

Dark Ages, but then in our days the ministers of the Most High should

know how to wield no other weapons than those of persuasion. “And what

if persuasion be not enough?” rejoins my father. “Do you think it would

be amiss to re-enforce argument with a few good blows of a cudgel?” The

complete missionary, according to my father’s opinion, should know how on

occasion to have recourse to these heroic measures, and as my father

has read a great many tales and romances he cites various examples in

support of his opinion. He cites, in the first place, St. James, who on

his white horse, without ceasing to be an apostle, put more Moors to

the sword than he preached to or convinced; he cites a certain Señor

de la Vera, who, being sent on an embassy to Boabdil by Ferdinand and

Isabella, became entangled in a theological discussion with the Moors

in the courtyard of the Lions, and, being at the end of his arguments,

drew his sword and fell upon them with fury in order to complete their

conversion; and he finally cites the Biscayan hidalgo, Don Inigo de

Loyola, who, in a controversy he had with a Moor regarding the purity

of the Holy Virgin, growing weary at last of the impious and horrible

blasphemies with which the aforesaid Moor contradicted him, fell upon

him, sword in hand, and, if he had not taken to his heels, would have

enforced conviction upon his soul in a terrible fashion. In regard to

the incident relating to St. Ignatius, I answer my father that this was

before the saint became a priest; and in regard to the other examples,

I answer that historians are not agreed.

In short, I defend myself as best I can against my father’s jests, and

I content myself with being a good horseman, without learning other

accomplishments unsuited to the clergy, although my father assures me

that not a few of the Spanish clergy understand and practise them with

frequency in Spain, even in our own day, with a view to contributing to

the triumph of the faith, and to the preservation or the restoration of

the unity of the Church.

I am grieved to the soul by this levity of my father’s, and that he

should speak with irreverence and jestingly about the most serious

things; but a respectful son is not called upon to go further than

I do in repressing his somewhat Voltairean freedom of speech. I say

_Voltairean_, because I am not able to describe it by any other word.

At heart my father is a good Catholic, and this thought consoles me.

Yesterday was the Feast of the Cross, and the village presented a very

animated appearance. In each street were six or seven May-crosses

covered with flowers, but none of them was so beautiful as that placed

by Pepita at the door of her house. It was adorned by a perfect cascade

of flowers.

In the evening we went to an entertainment at the house of Pepita. The

cross which had stood at the door was now placed in a large saloon on

the ground-floor, in which there is a piano, and Pepita presented us

with a simple and poetic spectacle—one that I had seen when a child,

but had since forgotten.

From the upper part of the cross hung down seven bands or broad

ribbons, two white, two green, and three red, the symbolic colours of

the theological virtues. Eight children, of five or six years old,

representing the seven sacraments, and holding the seven ribbons

that hung from the cross, performed with great skill a species of

contra-dance. The sacrament of baptism was represented by a child

wearing the white robe of a catechumen; ordination, by another child

as a priest; confirmation, by a little bishop; extreme unction, by a

pilgrim with staff and scrip, the latter filled with shells; marriage,

by a bride and bridegroom; and penance, by a Nazarene with cross and

crown of thorns.

The dance was a series of reverences, steps, evolutions, and

genuflexions, rather than a dance, performed to the sound of very

tolerable music, something like a march, which the organist played, not

without skill, on the piano.

The little dancers, children of the servants or retainers of Pepita,

after playing their parts, went away to bed loaded with gifts and

caresses.

The entertainment, in the course of which we were served with

refreshments, continued till twelve; the refreshments were syrup

served in little cups, and afterwards chocolate with sponge-cake, and

meringues and water.

Since the return of spring Pepita’s seclusion and retirement are being

gradually abandoned, at which my father is greatly rejoiced. In future

Pepita will receive every night, and my father desires that I shall be

one of the guests.

Pepita has left off mourning, and now appears, more lovely and

attractive than ever, in the lighter fabrics appropriate to the season,

which is almost summer. She still dresses, however, with extreme

simplicity.

I cherish the hope that my father will not now detain me here beyond

the end of this month at farthest. In June we shall both join you in

the city, and you shall then see how, far from Pepita, to whom I am

indifferent, and who will remember me neither kindly nor unkindly, I

shall have the pleasure of embracing you, and attaining at last to the

happiness of being ordained.

“_Pepita Jiménez._” _Juan Valera._

_IF SHE COULD ONLY WRITE._

“Please write me a letter, Holy Sir.”

—“To Robin, I suppose?”

“You know because one evening dark

To startle us you chose,—

But on my soul ...”—“No more, a pen

And paper, daughter, give:

‘_Belovèd Rob_,’”—“‘Belo’d’?”—“Then

You don’t love him, I perceive.”

“Oh yes! and now you’ve put it,

It must stay”—“‘_If you but knew

How very sad and lonely, dear,

I am away from you!_’”

“Why, Sir, you know my very thoughts!”...

“To an old man like me

A maid’s breast is of crystal clear

Through which the heart we see.

‘_Without you all is bitterness,

But with you Paradise._’”

“Pray make those letters quite clear, Sir,

And underline them thrice.”

“‘_And if you no longer love me,

Suffer so much shall I.

That_’ ...”—“‘Suffer’? ’tis not the word, Sir;

Put ‘I shall surely die.’”

“’Twere sinning against Heaven, my child.”

“‘Die,’ sir, in black and white!”

“Not so.”—“Alas, your heart’s of ice,

Oh! if I could but write!...

Dear Father, Holy Father!

In vain you write for me,

If incarnate in the letters

Is not all that I may be.

For Christ’s sake, tell him that my soul

Within me will not stay,

That if anguish does not kill me

’Tis because I weep all day.

That my lips, the roses of his breath,

Know only how to close;

And that all smiles and laughter

Long ago within me froze.

That the eyes he thought so lovely

Are heavy with distress,

Since there’s nobody to look at them

They shut for wretchedness.

That for the echo of his voice

My ears are all athirst;

That of all the torments suffer’d

His absence is the worst ...

And that it is _his_ fault my heart’s

In such sweet-bitter plight!...

Good heavens, how many things I’d put

If I could only write!...”

_Campoamor._

[Illustration: “IF I COULD ONLY WRITE.”]

_DOCTOR PERTINAX._

St. Peter was polishing the large knocker of the Gate of Heaven,

leaving it as bright as the sun—which is not to be wondered at since

the knocker St. Peter was cleaning _is_ the sun we see appearing every

morning in the east.

The holy porter, merrier than his colleagues at Madrid, was humming

some little air not unlike _Ça ira_ of the French.

“Hola! You get up very early,” said he, bending his head and staring at

a person who had stopped before the threshold of the gate.

The unknown did not reply, but bit his lips, which were thin, pale, and

dry.

“No doubt,” continued St. Peter, “you are the savant who was dying

last night?... What a night you made me pass, friend!... I never closed

my eyes once, thinking you might be likely to knock; my last orders

were not to let you wait a moment, a piece of respect paid to your sort

here in heaven. Well, welcome, and come in; I can’t leave the gate. Go

through, and then straight on.... There is no entresol.”

[Illustration: “THE STRANGER DID NOT STIR FROM THE THRESHOLD.”]

The stranger did not stir from the threshold, but fixed his little blue

eyes on the venerable bald head of St. Peter, who had turned his back

to go on rubbing up the sun.

The newcomer was thin, short, and sallow, with somewhat feminine

movements, neat in his attire, and without a hair on his face. He wore

his shroud elegantly and nicely adjusted, and he measured his gestures

with academic severity.

After gazing for some time at St. Peter working, he wheeled round and

was about to return on the journey he had come he knew not how; but

he found he was standing above a gloomy abyss, in which the darkness

almost seemed palpable, and a horrisonous tempest was roaring with

flashes of livid light at intervals like lightning. There was not a

trace of any stairs, and the machine by which he dimly remembered he

had mounted was not in sight either.

“Sir,” exclaimed he, in a vibrating and acrid voice: “May I know what

this means? Where am I? Why was I brought here.”

“Ah, you haven’t gone yet; I am very glad, for I had forgotten something.”

And pulling his memorandum-book out of his pocket, the saint moistened

the point of the pencil between his lips and asked—

“Your name?”

“I am Doctor Pertinax, author of the book stereotyped in its twentieth

edition, called ‘_Philosophia Ultima_.’...”

St. Peter was not a quick writer, and of all this had only put down

Pertinax....

“Well, Pertinax of what?”

“Of what? Oh, I see, you mean from where? just as they say: Thales of

Miletus, Parmenides of Elea....”

“Exactly, Quixote of la Mancha....”

“Write down, Pertinax of Torrelodones. And now, may I know what this

farce means?”

“This farce?”

“Yes, sir. I am the victim of a farce, this is a comedy: my enemies, my

colleagues, with the help of subtle artifices and theatrical machinery,

exalting my mind with some beverage, have doubtless prepared all this.

But the deception is useless. My power of reasoning is above all

these appearances, and protests with a mighty voice against this low

trickery; neither masks nor limelights are of any avail, for I am not

taken in by such palpable effrontery, and I say what I always said,

and which is enframed on page 315 of my ”_Philosophia Ultima_,“ note

_b._ of the sub-note Alpha, _i.e._, that after death the deception of

appearances will not exist, and there will no longer be any desire for

life, _nolite vivere_, which is only a chain of shadows linked with

desires, &c., &c.... Therefore, one of the two: either I have died, or

I have not died; if I have died, it cannot possibly be I as I was when

alive half an hour ago, and all that I see around me, as it can only be

a representation, is not, for I am not; but if I have not died, and am

myself, what I was and am, it is clear that although what I see around

me exists in me by representation, it is not what my enemies wish me

to believe, but an unworthy farce designed to frighten me; but ’tis in

vain, for....”

And the philosopher swore like a coal-heaver. And the swearing was not

the worst, for he lifted up his voice towards Heaven, the inhabitants

of which were beginning to awake at the noise, while some of the blest

were already descending by the staircase of clouds, tinged some as with

woad, others with a sea-blue.

Meanwhile St. Peter held his sides with both hands to keep from

bursting into the laughter with which he was nearly choking. Pertinax

became more irritated at the saint’s laughter, and the latter had to stop

to try and pacify him by the following words—

“My dear sir, farces are of no avail here, nor is it a question of

deceiving you, but of bringing you to Heaven, which it appears you

have merited for some good works of which I am ignorant; in any case,

calm yourself and go up, for the inhabitants above are already astir,

and you will find somebody who will conduct you to where all will be

explained to your taste, so that not a shadow of doubt will remain, for

doubts all disappear in this region, where the dullest thing is the sun

which I am polishing.”

“I do not say _you_ are deceiving me, for you seem an honest man; the

tricksters are others, and you only an instrument, unconscious of what

you are doing.”

“I am St. Peter....”

“They have persuaded you that you are; but there’s no proof that you are.”

“Dear sir, I have been porter here for more than eighteen hundred

years....”

“Apprehension, preconception....”

“Preconception fiddlesticks!” cried the saint, now somewhat angry;

“I am St. Peter, and you a savant, and like all that come to us, an

ignorant fool, with more than one bee in your bonnet....”

The gateway was now crowded with angels and cherubim, saints, male and

female, and a number of the blest, who all formed a circle round the

stranger and smilingly surveyed him.

* * * * *

From amongst them there stepped forth St. Job:—“I think,” said he,

“that this gentleman would be convinced that he had lived in error

if he could see the Universe as it actually is. Why not appoint a

commission from amongst us to accompany Doctor Pertinax and show him

the construction of the immense piece of architecture, as Lope de Vega

says, whom I am sorry not to see among us.”

Great was the respect for St. Job, and they immediately proceeded to

a nominal vote, which took up a good deal of time, as more than half

the martyrology had repaired to the gate. The following were by the

results appointed members of the commission:—St. Job, by acclamation;

Diogenes, by a majority; and St. Thomas the Apostle, by a majority. St.

Thomas of Aquinas and Duns Scotus had votes.

Dr. Pertinax gave way to the supplications of the commission, and

consented to survey all the machinery and magic, with which they might

deceive his eyes, said he, but not his mind.

“My dear fellow, don’t be downhearted,” said St. Thomas, as he sewed

some wings on to the Doctor’s shoulder-blades: “Look at me, I was an

unbeliever, and....”

“Sir,” replied Pertinax, “you lived in very different times, the

world was then in its theological age, as Comte said, and I have

passed through all those ages and have lived side by side with the

”_Criticisms of Pure Reason_“ and the ”_Philosophia Ultima_“; so that

I believe in nothing, not even in the mother who bore me; I only

believe in this, inasmuch as I know that I am, I am conscious, but

without falling into the preconception of confounding representation

with essence, which is unattainable, that is to say, excepting the

being conscious, putting aside all that is not myself (and all being

in myself) I _know_, by knowing that everything is represented (and

I as everything else) by simply appearing to be what it is, and the

reality of which is only investigated by another volitive and effective

representation, a harmful representation, being irrational and the

original sin of the Fall; therefore, this apparent desire undone,

nothing remains to explore, since not even the will for knowledge

remains.”

Only St. Job heard the last word of this discourse, and, scratching his

bald crown with his potsherd, he replied—

“The truth is, you savants are the very devil for talking nonsense, and

do be offended, but those things, whether in your head or imagination,

as you please, will give you warm work to see them in reality as they

are.”

“Forward! forward!” shouted Diogenes at this moment; “the sophists

denied me motion, and you know how I proved it; forward!”

And they began their flight through boundless space. Boundless?

Pertinax thought it so, and said—

“Do you expect to show me all the Universe?”

“Certainly,” replied St. Thomas.

“But since the Universe—seemingly, of course—is infinite ... how can

you conceive the limit of space?”

“Conceive it, with difficulty; but see it, easily. Aristoteles sees it

every day, for he takes the most terrible walks with his disciples, and

certainly he complained that the space for walking ended before the

disputes of his peripatetics.”

“But how can space have an end? If there is a limit, it will have to be

nothing; but as nothing does not exist, it cannot form a boundary; for

a boundary is something, and something apart from what is bounded.”

St. Job, who was already growing impatient, cut him short—

“Enough, enough of conversation! but you had better bend your head so

as not to knock it, for we have arrived at that limit of space which

cannot be conceived, and if you take a step more, you will break your

head against that nothing you are denying.”

And effectually; Pertinax saw there was nothing more beyond; wished to

feel it, and bumped his head.

“But this can’t be!” he exclaimed, while St. Thomas applied to the bump

one of those pieces of money which pagans take with them on their

journey to the other world.

There was no help for it, they had to turn back, the Universe had come

to an end. But ended or not, how beautiful shone the firmament with its

millions and millions of stars!

“What is that dazzling light shining above there, higher than all the

constellations? Is it some nebula unknown to the astronomers of the

earth?”

“A pretty nebula!” replied St. Thomas; “that is the celestial

Jerusalem, from which we have just descended, and what is shining so

are the diamond walls round the city of God.”

“So that those marvels related by Chateaubriand, and which I thought

unworthy of a serious man...?”

“Are perfectly true, my friend. And now let us go and rest on that

star passing below there, for i’ faith, I am tired of so much going

backwards and forwards.”

“Gentlemen, I am not presentable,” said Pertinax; “I have not yet

doffed my shroud, and the inhabitants of this star will laugh at such

indecorous garb....”

The three Ciceroni of Heaven all burst out laughing together. Diogenes

was the first to exclaim—

“Though I should lend you my lantern, you would not meet a living soul

in that star, nor in any other star.”

“Of course,” added Job, very seriously, “there are no inhabitants

except on the Earth; don’t talk such nonsense.”

“This I cannot believe!”

“Well, let us go and show him,” said St. Thomas, who was already

growing angry. And they journeyed from star to star, and in a few

minutes had traversed all the Milky Way and the most distant starry

systems. Nothing, not a sign of life. They did not even encounter a

flea, for all the numerous globes they surveyed. Pertinax was horrified.

“This is the Creation!” he exclaimed; “what solitude! Come, show me the

Earth; I want to see that privileged region; by what I conjecture, all

modern cosmography is a lie, the Earth is still, and the centre of all

the celestial vault; and round her revolve the suns and planets, and

she is the largest of all the spheres....”

“Not at all,” replied St. Thomas; “astronomy is not mistaken; the

earth revolves round the sun, and you will soon see how insignificant

she appears. Let us see if we can find her amongst all that crowd of

stars. _You_ look for her, St. Job; _you_ have plenty of patience.”

“I will!” exclaimed the Saint of the potsherd, as he hooked his

spectacles round his ears.

“It is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay!... I see her!

there she goes! look! look how small! she looks like a microbe!”

Pertinax looked at the Earth and sighed.

“And are there no inhabitants except on that mote?”

“Nowhere else.”

“And the rest of the Universe is empty?”

“Empty.”

“Then of what use are such millions and millions of stars?”

“As lamps. They are the public illumination of the Earth. And they are

also useful for singing praises to the Almighty. And they serve as

eke-outs in poetry, and you can’t deny they are very pretty.”

“But all empty?”

“Every one!”

Pertinax remained in the air for a good time sad and thoughtful. He

felt ill. The edifice of his “_Philosophia Ultima_” was threatening

ruin. Upon seeing that the Universe was so different from what reason

demanded, he began to believe in the Universe. That brusque lesson of

reality was the rude and cold contact with material which his spirit

needed in order to believe. “It is all so badly arranged, but perhaps

it is true!” thus thought the philosopher. Suddenly he turned to his

companions, and asked them—“Does Hell exist?”

The three sighed, made gestures of compassion, and replied—

“Yes; it exists.”

“And condemnation is eternal?”

“Eternal.”

“A solemn injustice!”

“A terrible reality!” replied the three in chorus.

Pertinax wiped his brow with his shroud. He was perspiring philosophy.

He began to believe that he was in the other world. The injustice of

everything convinced him. “Then the cosmogony and the theogony of my

infancy was the truth?”

“Yes; the first and only philosophy.”

“Then I am not dreaming?”

“No.”

“Confession! confession!” groaned the philosopher; and he swooned into

the arms of Diogenes.

* * * * *

When he awoke, he found himself in his bed. His old servant and the

priest were by his side.

“Here is the confessor, sir, for whom you asked....”

Pertinax sat up, stretched out both hands, and looking at the confessor

with frightened eyes, cried—

“I say and repeat, that all is pure representation, and that I am the

victim of an unworthy farce.”——And he expired really.

“_Solos de Clarin._” _Leopoldo Alas._

_A FEW THOUGHTS ON LIGHT._

Man has invented artificial light, he inferred it from natural light;

he has in the same way invented artificial truths, inferring them from

supreme truths.

The sun appears every day illuminating space to show us the heavens.

In Madrid the gas is lighted every night that we may see the earth.

Man is to God what a box of matches is to the sun.

Human pride can also write its Genesis.

It can begin like this—

“One day man said—‘Fiat lux,’ and there were matches.“

Henceforward a blaze of light which illumines us perfectly.

The light invented by men is worth more than the light created by God:

let us see how.

A thousand sunbeams cost nothing; one box of matches costs a halfpenny.

”_Hojas Sueltas._” _José Selgas._

_EPIGRAMS._

TO A CRITIC.

Thy foolish criticism

On the plays composed by me

Wounds not my egotism;

But a sore, indeed, ’t would be,

Should they be praised by thee.

_Leandro Fernandez de Moratin_, 1760-1828.

TO A TRANSLATOR OF THE ÆNEID.

In bad Spanish great Vergil

You dare to asperse.

And tell us most closely

You follow his verse:

If to imitate Maro

Is your real intent,

Pray will it’s to burn

By _your_ last testament.

* * * * *

The mother of young Cupid,

Once her baby sleepless lay,

Fearful lest the child should perish,

Weeping loud in her dismay,

Quickly to the gods repair’d.

Grave Morpheus took it in his care,

Laid it in the bed of Hymen,—

In a trice it slumber’d there.

* * * * *

Love, Morpheus, and I

Shared a maiden fair;

Love took her heart

As his due share,

And Morpheus liked

Her sweet eyes best

So I for myself

Claimed all the rest.

* * * * *

The Devil tried hard

Job’s faith to impair,

Loss of property, children,

And health he’d to bear,

But failing to tempt him

To curse his own life,

To make him despair

He left him his wife.

* * * * *

A MATHEMATICIAN,

García by name.

Was thus sadly address’d

By the wife of the same:

How is’t you acquir’d

Such a great reputation

And are so behindhand

In Multiplication?

_Pablo de Jérica._

* * * * *

THE SUN-DIAL.

A sun-dial was made by some natives near Quito,

Who thought it so fine (in Spanish “bonito”),

They put up a roof to protect it from rain,

Saying, “We never shall have such a sun-dial again.”

But of use it was none, since the roof hid the sun.

And I said in my heart, ’tis a nice counterpart

Of good laws for our weal

Spoil’d by fools’ silly zeal!

_J. E. Hartzenbusch_, 1806-1880.

_FOLK-TALES._

THE GIRL WHO WANTED THREE HUSBANDS.

A certain Pacha had a daughter who had three suitors. When her father

asked her which of the three she would marry, she replied she wanted

all three. To this he replied it was impossible, no woman ever had

three husbands; but the girl, who was wilful and spoilt, persisted, and

at last the good Pacha in despair called the three suitors before him

and told them he would give his daughter to whichever returned with

the most wonderful thing within a year’s time. The three suitors set out

in quest, and after vainly wandering about the world for many months,

one of them met a witch who showed him a looking-glass in which you saw

whatever you wished to see. This he bought from her. The second suitor

also met this witch, who sold him a strip of carpet, which, when you

sat upon it, carried you to wherever you wished to go; while the third

suitor bought from her a salve, the which, when applied to the lips

of a newly laid out corpse returned the body to life. Now the three

suitors met, and showed each other their respective finds.

“Let us wish to see our fair mistress,” said one; and they wished and

looked into the mirror, when, lo and behold! they saw her dead, laid

out in her coffin ready for burial. They were overwhelmed with grief.

“My salve will restore her to life,” said the third suitor, “but by

the time we get to her she will have been long buried and devoured by

worms.”

“But my carpet will take us to her at once,” cried the second suitor,

and so they all sat down on it and wished.

In a trice they found themselves in the Pacha’s palace, and the salve was

applied to the dead girl’s lips. She immediately came to life again, sat

up, and looking at the Pacha said—

“I was right, you see, father, when I wanted all three.”

_(Abridged from) Fernan Caballero._

PÉR SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTY.

There was in the village of Abadiano a certain farmer called Chomin,

who had made a prodigious fortune by his devotion to a number of saints

of both sexes.

When first married he possessed nothing beyond his wife and a dog;

but it occurred to him to make perpetual family saints of St. Isidro,

patron of farmers; St. Antonio, advocate of animals; St. Roque, enemy

of the plague; Santa Lucia, protector of the sight; St. Barbara, enemy

of thunderbolts and lightning, and other innumerable saints, to each of

whom he offered up every night their respective Pater Noster and Ave

Maria, and certes, he struck a mine of wealth by so doing, for from

that moment he began to prosper, and in such a way that after a few

years he had the best house and farm in the district of Gaztelua.

In Chomin’s house even a headache was unknown; the wheat, which in Biscay

generally produces sixteen bushels for one sown, produced twenty-four

for Chomin; the maize, which nearly always produces thirty for one,

produced forty for Chomin; not a single head of his cattle had come to

grief, although he had many, and when a storm burst upon the heights

of Gorbea and Amboto, and the lightning flashed towards Abadiano, it

always took good care to make a little round so as to avoid passing

over Chomin’s buildings and property.

Chomin had a servant by name Péru, to whom he had promised his

daughter, Mari-Pepa, with whom Péru was in love, and verily not without

motive, for she was the prettiest girl that came to dance on Sundays in

the market-place of Abadiano.

Péru was a hard worker, and as honest as the day; but he had a very

short memory, and was not over-intelligent; it was related of him

among other things, how one day that Péru had to go to San Antonio de

Urquiola, his master having commissioned him to kiss the Saint for him,

Péru, instead of giving the kiss to the Saint, gave it to the Saint’s pig,

which always accompanies him. But in spite of this, if he was in love

with Mari-Pepa, she was still more in love with him, for we know what

women are like; they may dislike a man for being poor, ugly, or wicked,

but they don’t mind how stupid he is.

One night, the eve of St. James, after the whole family, under the

direction of Chomin, had told their rosary, with an extra rosary of

Pater Nosters and Ave Marias to the patron saints of the house, Chomin

said to Péru—

“Listen, Péru. To-morrow begins the fair of Basurto, and I am thinking

of going there to see if I can buy a pair of bullocks to rear and

train, so that when you and Mari-Pepa marry you may have a good yoke of

oxen, for it is already time to think of settling you.”

Péru and Mari-Pepa, upon hearing this, blushed as red as cherries, and

looked at each other with eyes dancing with joy.

Chomin continued, “I shall be away for at least a couple of days, for

until I come across a pair which will be the pride of the country I wo

come back. Meanwhile, Péru, you will have to take my place at prayers,

and be careful not to forget the Pater Noster and Ave Maria for each of

the Saints who protect us.”

“Don’t you worry about it,” replied Péru, “not a single one shall be

forgotten.”

“I hope not, Péru, for, you see, we owe them a great deal. My wife and

I had only one rag in front and another behind when we made them our

Saints, and to-day.... Well, you shall see a good few ounces of gold

from the sweepings of our stables on your and Mari-Pepa’s wedding-day! But

suppose you omit, for example, St. Barbara and her corresponding Pater

Noster and Ave Maria, and a tempest bursts over us.... Lord Jesus, at

the very thought my legs tremble! Now let us see, Péru, if you know by

heart all the saints to whom you must pray.”

Péru recited the names of all the patrons of the family to Chomin’s

satisfaction, but the latter burdened his fealty in the accomplishment

of his task, by threatening that he should not become his son-in-law

if he did a single saint out of their respective Pater Noster and Ave

Maria, which omission would be sure to be found out by the ill-luck

which would certainly happen to the family, house, property, or cattle.

The next morning, after he had attended early mass, Chomin took his way

to the fair, now certain that Péru would not pass over a single saint.

Poor Péru took the charge so much to heart, and above all the threat,

that he passed the whole night and next morning in trying to find a

sure way of not forgetting a single saint, but with no avail, however

much he racked his brains. And it was a serious case, for Péru said

to himself, “I know all their names off like a parrot, but as there

are twenty-five besides the Virgin, how can I help it if I give an Ave

Maria or so short, and there is an end to my marriage with Mari-Pepa?

It would be a pretty to-do if that happened, for I shall not find

another companion like her easily, and then Chomin won’t let us leave the

house without some household furniture, a good yoke of oxen, and fifty

ducats for the dowry.”

At the fall of evening all the village was dancing to the sound of

the tambourine in the market-place of Abadiano, all except Péru and

Mari-Pepa. Péru was sitting amidst brambles and furze on a desolate

slope overlooking the village. Mari-Pepa was in the market-place close

to the village fountain, refusing to dance with anybody, and full of

grief at Péru’s state of mind.

Suddenly Péru uttered a shout of joy and flew down the hill, seized

Mari-Pepa, and began the maddest dance ever seen in Abadiano. He had

thought out an infallible way how not to forget a single saint in the

celestial city.

That evening, after praying to each of the particular saints appointed

by Chomin special patron saints of the family, lest any should have

been forgotten he prayed to _all the saints in the celestial city,—and

seven leagues without_, in case any should be taking a walk.

_A. Trueba._

_MIRACLES OF ST. ISIDRO, PATRON-SAINT OF MADRID._

OLD CHRISTOVAL’S ADVICE, AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT.

If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried,

Exact not too hardly thy due;

For he who preserves a poor man from want,

May preserve him from wickedness too.

If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried,

Never, never unmerciful be!

For remember it is by the mercy of God

That thou art not as wicked as he.

At sixty-and-seven the hope of heaven

Is my comfort, old Christoval cried;

But if God had cut me off in my youth,

I might not have gone there when I died.

You shall have the farm, young Christoval,

My good master Henrique said;

But a surety provide, in whom I can confide,

That duly the rent shall be paid.

I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth,

And I knew not what to say;

We stood by the porch of St. Andrew’s Church,

And it was St. Isidro’s day.

Take St. Isidro for my pledge,

I ventured to make reply;

The Saint in Heaven may perhaps be my friend,

But friendless on earth am I.

We entered the church and came to his grave,

And I fell on my bended knee;

I am friendless, holy Isidro,

And I venture to call upon thee.

I call upon thee my surety to be,

Thou knowest my honest intent;

And if ever I break my plighted word,

Let thy vengeance make me repent

I was idle, the day of payment came on,

And I had not the money in store;

I feared the wrath of Isidro,

But I feared Henrique more.

On a dark, dark night I took my flight

And hastily fled away:

It chanced that by St. Andre Church

The road I had chosen lay.

As I passed the door I thought what I had swore

Upon St. Isidr day;

And I seemed to fear because he was near,

And faster I hastened away.

So all night long I hurried on,

Pacing full many a mile;

I knew not his avenging hand

Was on me all the while.

Weary I was, and safe I thought,

But when it was daylight,

I had, I found, been running round

And round the church all night.

I shook like a palsy and fell on my knees,

And for pardon devoutly I prayed:

When my Master came up—What, Christoval,

You are here betimes, he said.

I have been idle, good master! I cried,

Good master, and I have been wrong!

And I have been running round the church

In penance all night long.

If thou hast been idle, Henrique said,

Go home and thy fault amend;

I will not oppress thee, Christoval,

May the Saint thy labour befriend.

Homeward I went a penitent,

And I never was idle more;

St. Isidro blest my industry,

As he punished my fault before.

When my debtor was poor, old Christoval said,

I have never exacted my due;

I remembered Henrique was good to me,

And copied his goodness too.

When my neighbour has sinned, old Christoval said,

I have ever forgiven his sin.

For I thought of the night by St. Andrew’s Church,

And remembered what I might have been.

_Southey’s “Letters from Spain and Portugal.”_

[Illustration: “I HAD, I FOUND, BEEN RUNNING ROUND AND ROUND THE CHURCH

ALL NIGHT.”]

THE WEDDING NIGHT.

Before Isidro’s holy shrine

Hernando knelt and pray’d,

“Now, blessed Saint, afford thine aid,

And make Aldonza mine;

And fifty pieces I will lay,

The offering of my Wedding Day,

Upon thy holy shrine.”

Hernando rose and went his way;

Isidro heard his vow;

And, when he sued, Aldonza now

No longer said him nay;

For he was young and _débonair_,

And sped so well that soon the fair

Had fix’d the Wedding Day.

The Wedding Day at length is here.

The day that came so slow;

Together to the church they go,

The youth and maid so dear;

And kneeling at the altar now

Pronounced the mutual marriage vow,

With lips and heart sincere.

And joy is on Hernando’s brow,

And joy is in his breast;

To him by happiness possest,

The past exists not now;

And gazing on the wedded maid,

The youth forgot Isidro’s aid,

And thought not of his vow.

The sun descended from the height

Of heaven his western way;

Amid Hernando’s hall so gay,

The tapers pour their light;

The Wedding Guests, a festive throng,

With music and with dance and song,

Await the approach of night.

The hours pass by, the night comes on,

And from the hall so gay,

One by one they drop away,

The Wedding Guests; anon

The festive hall is emptied quite;

But whither on his Wedding Night

Is young Hernando gone?

Hernando he had gone away

The Wedding Guests before;

For he was summon’d to his door

By an old man cloth’d in grey.

Who bade the Bridegroom follow him;

His voice was felt in every limb,

And forced them to obey.

The old man he went fast before,

And not a word said he,

Hernando followed silently,

Against his will full sore;

For he was dumb, nor power of limb

Possess’d, except to follow him,

Who still went mute before.

Towards a church they hasten now,

And now the door they reach;

The Bridegroom had no power of speech,

Cold drops were on his brow;

The church where St. Isidro lay,

Hernando knew, and in dismay,

He thought upon his vow.