It was harvest day at a house in the little village of Panola, in
Castile, on the 25th of August, 1838. The great sheaves of corn had been
borne, amidst universal rejoicing, to their resting-place in the
granary. All the village inhabitants had shared in this pleasant task,
and now, following an ancient custom, they had erected a trophy composed
of a few last sheaves of corn, round which the young girls and men began
to dance gaily, to the sound of guitars and castanets.
Within the house, in a room which overlooked this charming scene, were
two men.
The first, seated at a table, was an old man over sixty, but enfeebled
rather by cares than by age. His venerable head, crowned with white
hair, drooped upon his breast with patriarchal dignity. The old man, who
had been a soldier in the Spanish army, was Don Pedro de la Sarga, a
Castilian as noble as he was poor. His companion was his son, Don
Stephano, a young man of twenty, considered the most accomplished man in
Panola. He was handsome; his warm, brown skin, his large, black eyes,
the regular features, which wore that expression of national pride which
distinguishes a Castilian from any other race, and his raven-black hair
were eminently the Spanish type in all its grace and haughtiness. The
young man wore the Spanish holiday costume, the richness of which has
made travellers exclaim, more than once, that no European prince is
clothed like a simple peasant of Castile. Stephano had on a short vest
of black cloth, lined with yellow silk, ornamented with fringes and
bunches of ribbons; an embroidered shirt with open collar revealing a
waistcoat with gilt buttons, knee-breeches of black silk confined at the
knees by bunches of ribbons, shoes and gaiters of fine brown leather,
while a black felt hat with drooping plume completed his costume.
Stephano's gloomy face contrasted with his gay attire. He leant against
the open window, carelessly holding in his hand a bouquet of faded
jasmine, whilst he gazed with melancholy eyes upon the festive scene
before him, and only by a shake of the head and a sad smile replied to
the light badinage of the dancers as they passed the window. But now and
then his eyes lighted up, and he sighed deeply as a certain dancer,
prettier than the rest, approached him.
"How pretty she is!" he murmured, as he followed her retreating form.
"Stephano!" called out the old man, who had been watching his son for
some time.
"How gracefully she dances," continued the handsome dreamer, wrapt in
his thoughts.
"Stephano!" repeated the old man.
"Yes, father," cried Stephano, with a start, and coming forward. "Do you
wish to speak to me?"
"From your mysterious air and endless sighs these last few days,
Stephano, I conclude that you are in love," said his father.
"In love!" stammered the young man. "You think I am in love?"
"I do not think, my son--I am sure of it; and I have only one reproach
to make to you, and that is that you have not made me a confidant of
your secret before."
"You shall know all, father," said Stephano, drawing a chair close to
Don Pedro.
"For the last month," he continued, "I have had in my heart a love which
nothing can subdue, and the object of my passion is a young girl here, a
glance from whose eyes is worth more to me than all the world besides;
but she shuns my love, and on every occasion strives to avoid me. She
hardly permits me to speak to her for fear that the passion she reads in
my eyes will break into words."
"Bah!" said the old man, merrily; "it is very likely that she shuns you
for the reason of your not opening your mouth; you scare the young girl
with your morose airs."
"Oh, if that were only true," sighed the disconsolate swain.
"Now," said the old man, "there only remains for me to know the name of
my future daughter-in-law."
The young man was about to pronounce the name which already trembled on
his lips when a sudden clamour interrupted the most interesting portion
of this conversation. The peasants, followed by the partners, were
rushing towards the house, and in the twinkling of an eye the room was
filled with the animated and noisy throng. The new-comers wore rich
costumes, more or less copies of Stephano's; some carried guitars,
others castanets, while most of them leaned upon tall peeled rods,
forked at the top, and ornamented with ribbons of all colours; each
carried on the left side of his vest a bouquet similar to that of
Stephano. The young girls in their silken bodices, short skirts, red
stockings and mantillas, rattled their castanets as they entered with
their partners. The joyous crowd surrounded Don Pedro, whilst cries of
"Rosita! Rosita!" resounded from all sides.
"Well, well, my children, what is it you want?" demanded the village
Nestor of his clamorous audience.
"We want Mlle. Rosita," they repeated.
"What, my niece? But is she not with you? I thought it was she whom you
were leading just now round the corn sheaves."
"That is true," replied one of the foremost of the crowd; "everything
went smoothly until we wished her to take part in our usual ceremony of
'The Maiden's Choice.'"
"Did you explain to her," asked the old man, "what is the ceremony?"
"Yes, we told her all that was necessary: that it is an old custom in
Panola on harvest day, after having escorted the daughter of the house
round the last sheaves of corn, for all her admirers in the village to
present her, each in his turn, with a bouquet; that she must then choose
the one she loves amongst them by retaining his bouquet, whilst the
others are rejected. She answered us by saying that she had only been in
Panola a few months, and was therefore not forced to adopt our customs,
and leaving us with these words she fled from us and escaped through the
little granary door."
"The little shrew!" Don Pedro exclaimed, who, like an amiable old man,
was always on the side of the young folk. "But my friends," he added,
"you are but poor Lotharios to be flouted by a young girl; you must
follow her and bring her back."
"That is just what we have done; but one cannot catch a bird without
also having wings. She seemed to fly as we followed her, and on reaching
the granary she entered and slammed the door in our faces; so we have
come, as a last resource, to you, Don Pedro, to ask her to comply with
our wishes."
"You are right," replied the old man, with all the gravity of a judge,
"you must be satisfied at once"; and he looked round for Don Stephano,
who was standing more moody than ever behind a giggling group of young
peasants.
"My son," he said, "go and bring your cousin here. If she refuses, tell
her that I particularly wish her to come."
"I will go, father," said Stephano, after a second's hesitation; and he
went out.
There was a slight pause; then shouts and acclamations and rattling of
castanets burst forth, as Rosita, with downcast eyes, entered the room,
led by Stephano. Well might they welcome with fervour such a charming
creature. Rosita was just eighteen. She wore upon her golden brown hair
a black lace mantilla, which contrasted with her creamy complexion and
the liquid depth of her large brown eyes. A brown velvet bodice showed
off to perfection her slight yet rounded figure; and her silk skirts
just revealed her pretty ankles and small feet in their silk stockings
and neat shoes.
Rosita was a native of Navarre. She had quitted Tafalla, her native
village, on the death of her father and mother, who had been victims of
the Civil War which at this time desolated the country, and had been
conducted not without peril to her uncle's house at Panola, in which she
had since taken up her abode.
"Rosita," said Don Pedro to his niece, taking her hand, "I have made
your apologies to your friends for the trick you have played them. It is
your turn now to atone for your misdeed, by submitting to an old custom.
Among the brave Castilians who surround you there are many suitors for
your hand. There must be one among them whom you secretly favour. Your
choice is entirely free, and even the favoured one after the ceremony
will then have only the right to please you and to merit your hand."
"But, uncle----" faltered the young girl.
"I will take no denial, my dear," interrupted the old man.
Rosita strove in vain to protest, but her imperturbable uncle would not
listen, and gave a sign to the peasants to begin the ceremony, in which
he seemed to take as keen an interest as they did themselves. Thereupon
the majority of the young men, darting furious glances of jealousy at
one another, prepared for the contest. Rosita, at her uncle's side,
stood at one end of the room. At her right and left were grouped the
young peasant girls, admiring without envy the queen of the _fête_, and
forming her court. Stephano stood behind with dejected mien. Those with
guitars touched their instruments lightly now and then, and upon this
scene, worthy of the pencil of Leopold Roberts, the sun, now setting at
the horizon, cast a calm and solemn light.
The first peasant who came forward was a tall young man, with a ruddy
complexion.
"My name is Geronimo Caldaroz, and I am twenty-five. It has been the
talk of the village why I did not marry, and it has been said it was
because I had never yet seen a maiden beautiful enough to please me. But
now I have found her; it is you, Rosita. Will you accept my bouquet?" He
presented his bouquet to the young girl, who blushed as she received it,
and then let it fall.
"Refused! Refused!" whispered the spectators, whilst the young man
disappeared into the crowd, and a second one took his place. But the
same thing occurred, and with the same result. Soon the jasmine bouquets
covered the ground round the young girl's feet. The rejected suitors
multiplied so fast that they could no longer hide their discomfiture
amongst the others. Restless and smiling, Don Pedro wondered why his
niece was so severe, and the remaining suitors seemed to hesitate
whether to advance into the lists or not. Then the last three timidly
advanced one by one toward Rosita. The two first were not even heard to
the end of their speech, and then all eyes were fixed with interest upon
the last. Rosita let him finish his discourse, took his bouquet, which
she scrutinized demurely, and then uttering a deep sigh let it fall upon
the amorous trophy piled at her feet.
A murmur rose amongst the stupefied villagers. Don Pedro approached his
niece.
"Well, my child," he said, "have you thought of what you have done?"
"Yes, uncle," Rosita replied. "Did you not tell me yourself that I was
perfectly free?"
"Free to choose, without doubt; but not to send all your suitors away."
Rosita cast down her eyes and made no reply.
"Pardon me, father, but there still remains one," said Stephano,
breaking the silence.
"Where is he?" everyone asked at once.
"Here he is."
Rosita trembled so violently that she was compelled to lean for support
upon her uncle's arm, and Don Pedro, more astonished than anyone, rushed
towards his son.
"What, Stephano?" he said joyfully. "It is your cousin whom----"
"Yes, father," replied the young man. "It is she whom I love."
In the midst of such general interest Stephano, pale with emotion,
advanced towards his cousin.
"Rosita, I love you," he said, simply. "Will you keep this bouquet which
I offer to you?"
The young man pronounced these words with a voice so sweet and
expressive, and the gesture with which he offered the symbolic flower
was so imploring and passionate, that a sympathetic thrill ran through
the spectators, and tears bedimmed Don Pedro's eyes.
[Illustration: "'ROSITA, I LOVE YOU,' HE SAID."]
Rosita, not less pale than her cousin, took the bouquet with a trembling
hand, gazed upon it tenderly, then made a movement as if to throw it
down, paused, and then at last, with head turned aside, let it fall.
"Santa Maria! He also!" cried the crowd, mournfully.
"Do not condemn me without hearing my justification," cried Rosita,
turning to Don Pedro.
"Your justification?" repeated Stephano, with relief.
"Uncle," she said, after a pause, "there is a secret which I may have
been wrong in concealing from you hitherto, but I must confide it to you
alone."
"To me!" cried the astonished old man.
"I will come with you at once," and, seizing Rosita's hand, he led her
away, making signs to the peasants as he did so to disperse.
Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadows
were beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted only
by the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carried
along in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orange
groves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars and
castanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells.
When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lower
hall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, and
hurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone.
"One word, father," said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will she
also become my wife?"
"You must forget Rosita," replied the old man. "You must tear from your
heart even the remembrance of your love."
The young man abandoned himself to despair.
"I shall never forget her," he said, passionately. "My love for Rosita
will only cease with my life."
And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.