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Heinemann's International Library
Edited by Edmund Gosse
THE GRANDEE
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES
THE GRANDEE
* * * * * *
_Heinemann's International Library._
Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.
_Crown 8vo, in paper covers, 2s. 6d., or cloth limp, 3s. 6d._
1. _IN GOD'S WAY._ From the Norwegian of
BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON
2. _PIERRE AND JEAN._ From the French of
GUY DE MAUPASSANT.
3. _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ From the German
of KARL EMIL FRANZOS.
4. _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT._
From the Russian of COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI.
5. _FANTASY._ From the Italian of MATILDE
SERAO.
6. _FROTH._ From the Spanish of DON ARMANDO
PALACIO VALDES.
7. _FOOTSTEPS OF FATE._ From the Dutch
of LOUIS COUPERUS.
8. _PEPITA JIMENEZ._ From the Spanish of
JUAN VALERA.
9. _THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS._ From
the Norwegian of JONAS LIE.
10. _THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS._ From
the Norwegian of BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON.
11. _LOU._ From the German of BARON VON
ROBERTS.
12. _DONA LUZ._ From the Spanish of JUAN
VALERA.
13. _THE JEW._ From the Polish of JOSEPH I.
KRASZEWSKI.
14. _UNDER THE YOKE._ From the Bulgarian
of IVAN VAZOFF.
15. _FAREWELL LOVE!_ From the Italian of
MATILDE SERAO.
16. _THE GRANDEE._ From the Spanish of DON
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES.
_In preparation._
_A COMMON STORY._ From the Russian of
GONCHAROF.
_NIOBE._ From the Norwegian of JONAS LIE.
_Each Volume contains a specially written Introduction by the Editor._
LONDON: W. HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD ST., W.C.
* * * * * *
THE GRANDEE
A Novel
by
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES
Translated from the Spanish by Rachel Challice
[Illustration: logo]
London
William Heinemann
1894
[_All rights reserved_]
INTRODUCTION
According to the Spanish critics, the novel has flourished in Spain
during only two epochs--the golden age of Cervantes and the period in
which we are still living. That unbroken line of romance-writing which
has existed for so long a time in France and in England, is not to be
looked for in the Peninsula. The novel in Spain is a re-creation of our
own days; but it has made, since the middle of the nineteenth century,
two or three fresh starts. The first modern Spanish novelists were what
are called the _walter-scottistas_, although they were inspired as much
by George Sand as by the author of _Waverley_. These writers were of a
romantic order, and Fernan Caballero, whose earliest novel dates from
1849, was at their head. The Revolution of September, 1868, marked an
advance in Spanish fiction, and Valera came forward as the leader of a
more national and more healthily vitalised species of imaginative work.
The pure and exquisite style of Valera is, doubtless, only to be
appreciated by a Castilian. Something of its charm may be divined,
however, even in the English translation of his masterpiece, _Pepita
Jimenez_. The mystical and aristocratic genius of Valera appealed to a
small audience; he has confided to the world that when all were praising
but few were buying his books.
Far greater fecundity and a more directly successful appeal to the
public, were, somewhat later, the characteristics of Perez y Galdos,
whose vigorous novels, spoiled a little for a foreign reader by their
didactic diffuseness, are well-known in this country. In the hands of
Galdos, a further step was taken by Spanish fiction towards the
rejection of romantic optimism and the adoption of a modified realism.
In Pereda, so the Spanish critics tell us, a still more valiant champion
of naturalism was found, whose studies of local manners in the province
of Santander recall to mind the paintings of Teniers. About 1875 was the
date when the struggle commenced in good earnest between the schools of
romanticism and realism. In 1881 Galdos definitely joined the ranks of
the realists with his _La Desheredada_. An eminent Spanish writer,
Emilio Pardo Bazan, thus described the position some six years ago: "It
is true that the battle is not a noisy one, and excites no great warlike
ardour. The question is not taken up amongst us with the same heat as in
France, and this from several causes. In the first place, the idealists
with us do not walk in the clouds so much as they do in France, nor do
the realists load their palette so heavily. Neither school exaggerates
in order to distinguish itself from the other. Perhaps our public is
indifferent to literature, especially to printed literature, for what is
represented on the stage produces more impression."
This indifference of the Spanish reading public, which has led a living
novelist to declare that a person of good position in Madrid would
rather spend his money on fireworks or on oranges than on a book, has at
length been in a measure dissipated by a writer who is not merely
admired and distinguished, but positively popular, and who, without
sacrificing style, has conquered the unwilling Spanish public. This is
Armando Palacio Valdes, who was born on the 4th of October 1853, in a
hamlet in the mountains of Asturias, called Entralgo, where his family
possessed a country-house. The family spent only the summer there; the
remainder of the year they passed in Aviles, the maritime town which
Valdes describes under the name of Nieva in his novel _Marta y Maria_.
He began his education at Oviedo, the capital of Asturias. From this
city he went, in 1870, up to Madrid to study the law as a profession.
But even in the lawyer's office, his dream was to become a man of
letters. His ambition took the form of obtaining at some university a
chair of political economy, to which science he had, or fancied himself
to have, at that time a great proclivity.
Before terminating his legal studies, the young man published several
articles in the _Revista Europea_ on philosophical and religious
questions. These articles attracted the attention of the proprietor of
that review, and Valdes presently joined the staff. In 1874 he became
editor. He was at the head of the _Revista Europea_, at that time the
most important periodical in Spain from a scientific point of view, for
several years. During that time he published the main part of those
articles of literary criticism, particularly on contemporary poets and
novelists, which have since been collected in several volumes--_Los
Oradores del Ateneo_, ("The Orators of the Athenaeum"); _Los Novelistas
Espanoles_ ("The Spanish Novelists"); _Un Nuevo Viaje al Parnaso_ ("A
New Journey to Parnassus"), sketches of the living poets of Spain; and,
in particular, a very bright collection of review articles published in
conjunction with Leopoldo Alas, _La Literatura en_ 1881 ("Spanish
Literature in 1881"). These gave Valdes a foremost rank among the
critics of the day. He wrote no more criticism, or very little; he
determined to place himself amongst those whose creative work demands
the careful consideration of the best judges.
Soon after he took the direction of the _Revista_, Valdes wrote his
first novel, _El Senorito Octavio_, which was not published until 1881.
In 1883 he brought out his _Marta y Maria_, a book which, I know not
why, is called "The Marquis of Penalta" in its English version. This
novel enjoyed an extraordinary success, and had more of the graphic and
sprightly manner by which Valdes has since been distinguished, than the
books which immediately followed it. Spanish critics, indeed,
remembering the wonderful freshness of _Marta y Maria_, still often
speak of it as the best of Valdes' stories. In this same year, 1883, he
married, at the seaside town of Gijon, in Asturias, on the day when he
completed his thirty years, a young lady of sixteen. His marriage was a
honeymoon of a year and a half, of which _El Idilio de un Enfermo_ ("The
Idyll of an Invalid"), a short novel of 1884, portrays the earlier
portion. His wife died early in 1885, leaving him with an infant son to
be, as he says, "my allusion and my fascination." His subsequent career
has been laborious and systematic. He has published one novel almost
every year. In 1885 it was _Jose_, a shorter tale of sea-faring life on
the stormy coast of the author's native province. About the same time
appeared a collection of short stories, called _Aguas Fuertes_ ("Strong
Waters").
It was not until 1886, however, that Valdes began to rank among the
foremost novelists of Europe. In that year he published his great
story, _Riverita_, one of the characters in which, a charming child,
became the heroine of his next book, _Maximina_, 1887. Of this character
he writes to me: "My Maximina in these two books is but a pale
reflection of that being from whom Providence parted me before she was
eighteen years of age. In these novels I have painted a great part of my
life." A Sevillian novice, who has helped to care for Maximina in
Madrid, reigns supreme in a succeeding novel, _La Hermana San Sulpicio_
("Sister San Sulpicio"), 1889. But between these two last there comes a
massive novel, describing the adventures of a journalist who founds a
newspaper in the provincial town of Sarrio, by which Gijon seems to be
intended. This book is called _El Cuarto Poder_ ("The Fourth Power"),
and was published in 1888. To these, in 1891, was added _La Espuma_
("Froth"), of which a translation has already appeared in the
"International Library." In 1892 Valdes published _La Fe_ ("Faith").
In _La Espuma_, his best-known novel, Valdes reverted from those country
scenes and those streets of provincial cities which he had hitherto
loved best to paint, and gave us a sternly satiric picture of the frothy
surface of fashionable life in Madrid. From the illusions of the poor,
pathetic and often beautiful, he turned to the ugly cynicism of the
wealthy. With his passion for honesty and simplicity, his heart burned
within him at the parade and hollowness which he detected in
aristocratic and bureaucratic Madrid. One conceives that, like his own
Raimundo, he was invited to enter it, took his fill of its pleasures,
and found his mouth filled with ashes. His talent for portraiture was
never better employed. If he was occasionally tempted to commit the
peculiarly Spanish fault of exaggeration--scarcely a fault there, where
the shadows are so black and the colours so flaring--he resisted it in
his more important characters. The brutality of the Duke de Requena, the
sagacity and urbanity of Father Ortega, the saintly sweetness of the
Duchess, the naivete of Raimundo, the sphinx-like charm of Clementina de
Osorio, with her mysterious sweetness and duplicity, these are among the
salient points of characterisation which stand out in this powerful
book. _La Espuma_ was a cry from the desert to those who wear soft
raiment in king's palaces. It was the ruthless tearing aside of the
conventions by a Knox or a Savonarola. It was stringent satire, yet
tempered with an artist's moderation, with a naturalist's
self-suppression.
The latest novel which Valdes has published is that which we here
present under the title of _The Grandee_ ("El Maestrante"). Here, as it
will be seen, the author is no longer engaged in the jarring notes of
satire, but, with more lightness and a greater effusion of humour, he
dissects the quaint elements which make up old-fashioned society in a
provincial city of Spain. This is one of those books which peculiarly
appeal to the foreign reader who desires to enter into a phase of life
from which his own experience absolutely excludes him. We may suppose
that a limited number of Englishmen can penetrate to the palaces and the
club-rooms of Madrid, and see something, however superficially, of the
life described in _Froth_. But the grim and ancient mansions which look
down through ancient mullioned windows on the narrow streets of such a
town as is brought before us in _The Grandee_--what can the most
privileged Englishman possibly know of the manners and customs of their
stately inhabitants?
In the second half of the book, the gaiety and grotesqueness of the
pictures of life sink before the solemnity of the terrible and tragic
corruption of Amalia, and the martyrdom of Josefina. The last pages of
_The Grandee_ are, indeed, tinged with almost intolerable gloom, and in
a society comparatively so civilised as our own, the revenge of the
unnatural mother may seem almost overdrawn. The author contends,
however, that in the cryptic and cloistered provincial life which he
describes, where the light of censure can hardly reach a powerful
criminal, such wickedness as is perpetrated upon Josefina is neither
improbable nor unprecedented. Nor do the reports of Mr. Benjamin Waugh
permit us to question that such horrors are daily committed at our own
doors. Whether these maladies of the soul are or are not fit subjects
for the art of the novelist is a question which every reader must answer
for himself.
In the pages of _The Grandee_ we have a singular transcript of Spanish
pride and picturesqueness, of a narrow society absolutely fortified
against public opinion by its ancient prejudices, a society,
nevertheless, in which the primitive passions of humanity stir and
interact with as much dangerous vivacity as in freer and more democratic
conditions. I may perhaps mention, on the authority of the author, that
by Lancia Valdes intends us to understand Oviedo, the capital of the
province of Asturias, where he spent many years of his childhood and
early youth. The story opens between thirty and forty years ago, and
represents Oviedo and its social customs at an epoch a little earlier
than the time when the novelist was forming his freshest and most vivid
impressions of life.
Of the author of so many interesting books but little has yet been told
to the public. In a private letter to myself, the eminent novelist gives
a brief sketch of his mode of life, so interesting that I have secured
his permission to translate and print it here:--"Since my wife died,"
Senor Valdes writes, "my life has continued to be tranquil and
melancholy, dedicated to work and to my son. During the winters, I live
in Asturias, and during the summers, in Madrid. I like the company of
men of the world better than that of literary folks, because the former
teach me more. I am given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a
passion for physical exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try
to live in an evenly-balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me
as affectation and emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to
bull-fights (although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like
a miniature _torero_, as an American writer declares I do), and I
cultivate the theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view
helps me in the composition of my stories."
EDMUND GOSSE.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE GRANDEE'S HOUSE 1
II. THE DISCOVERY 25
III. THE TOWN 55
IV. THE HISTORY OF THEIR LOVE 75
V. THE JOKES OF PACO GOMEZ 100
VI. THE SENORITAS DE MERE 113
VII. THE INCREASE OF THE CONTINGENT 138
VIII. FERNANDA AND THE WINE 153
IX. THE MASQUERADE 172
X. FIVE YEARS AFTER 188
XI. AMALIA'S RAGE 206
XII. THE BARON'S JUSTICE 226
XIII. THE MARTYRDOM 239
XIV. THE CAPITULATION 258
XV. JOSEFINA SLEEPS 276
THE GRANDEE
CHAPTER I
THE GRANDEE'S HOUSE
It was ten o'clock at night, an hour when the number of those who
frequented the streets of the noble city of Lancia was always of the
scantiest, but in the depth of winter, when our story opens, with a
bitter north-east wind and drenching rain, one would find it difficult
to stumble upon a living soul. Not that all had surrendered themselves
into the arms of Morpheus, for Lancia as capital of a province, albeit
not one of the most important, had learnt to sit up late. But the people
used to resort at an early hour to parties, whence they only sallied
forth to supper and to bed at eleven o'clock. At that hour many noisy
groups could be seen passing along under the shelter of umbrellas, the
ladies enveloped in warm woollen cloaks, holding up their petticoats,
and the gentlemen all wrapped in their cloaks, or _montecristos_, with
their trousers well turned up, breaking the silence of the night by the
loud clack of their wooden shoes. For at the time of which we speak
there were few that despised this comfortable shoe of the country,
unless it were some new-fledged medical student from Valladolid, who
considered himself above such old-fashioned things, or some fanciful
young lady, who pretended that she could not walk in them. But these
were the exceptions. There were no carriages in the town, for only
three existed in the place, belonging respectively to the Quinones, the
Countess of Onis, and to Estrada-Rosa; the last-mentioned being the only
one that did not date from the middle of the last century. When either
of these conveyances appeared in the street, it was followed by a crowd
of little urchins, whose enthusiasm at the sight knew no bounds. The
neighbours inside their houses could tell by the sound of the wheels,
and the clink of the horseshoes to which of the above-mentioned magnates
the carriage belonged. They were in fact three venerated institutions
which the natives of the city had learnt to love and respect. So
umbrellas and wooden shoes were the only protections against the rain
that falls more than three parts of the year. India-rubber shoes came in
later, as well as hooded waterproofs, which at certain times transform
Lancia into a vast community of Carthusian friars.
The wind blew stronger at the crossing of Santa Barbara than in any
other part of the town. This uncovered passage, between the bishop's
palace and the walls of a courtyard of the cathedral, just by the chain
which regulates the lightning conductor, leads finally under an archway,
a murky corner where the blast, confined within a narrow space, howls
and moans on such infernal nights as this.
A man, muffled up to the eyes, crossed with rapid steps the little
square in front of the archbishop's house, and entered this recess. The
force of the hurricane stopped him, and the rain penetrating between the
collar of his coat and the brim of his hat, almost blinded him. He made
a few seconds' stand against the violence of the whirlwind, and then,
instead of uttering any exclamation of impatience, which would have been
more than excusable under the circumstances, he merely gave vent to a
long-drawn sigh of distress:
"Oh! my Jesus! what a night!"
He cowered up against the wall, and when the wind had somewhat abated,
he resumed his course. Passing under the archway that connects the
palace with the cathedral, he entered the widest and best-lighted part
of the passage. An oil-lamp fixed in the corner served as its only
light. The wretched thing, seconded by a tinfoil reflector placed at the
back, made ineffectual attempts to pierce the gloom of the farthest
corners.
Ten yards off nobody would have thought it was there, and yet to our
muffled traveller it must have seemed an Edison lamp of ten thousand
candle-power, from the way he drew his coat-collar higher about his
face, and from the haste in which he avoided the pavement, and crept
along by the wall where the shadows were deepest. In this way he arrived
at the Calle de Santa Lucia, cast a rapid glance around him, and renewed
his course on the darkest side of the way. Although one of the most
central streets, the Calle de Santa Lucia is solitary to an extreme. It
is closed at one end by the base of the tower of the cathedral, a
graceful, elegant structure like few to be found in Spain, and so it is
only used as a thoroughfare by canons going to the choir, or devotees on
their way to early Mass. In this short, straight, narrow street, the
palace of Quinones de Leon was situated--a large, dreary,
uninteresting-looking building with projecting iron balconies. It was
two storeys high, and over the central balcony there was an enormous
roughly carved shield, supported by two griffins in high relief, as
rudely carved as the quarterings.
One side of the house looked on to a little, damp, melancholy, neglected
garden, enclosed by a wall of regular elevation; and the other on to a
dull, even damper, narrow street which ran between the house and the
black, discoloured wall of the church of San Rafael. To pass from the
palace to the church, where the Quinones had a private pew, was a little
gallery, or covered way, smaller, but similar to that of the archbishop,
over the passage of Santa Barbara.
By the bright light shining from the crevice of a half-opened window on
the balcony, it was evident that the people of the house had not yet
retired to rest. And if the light were not sufficient proof, the fact
was confirmed by the strains of a piano heard occasionally above the
roar of the storm.
Our muffled friend, with a rapid step, keeping as much in shadow as
possible, arrived at the door of the palace. There he stopped again,
cast a furtive glance down both sides of the street, and entered the
portico. It was large, and paved with stones like the street; the bare,
discoloured, whitewashed walls were dimly illumined by an oil-lamp hung
from the centre. The man quickly crossed it, and before pulling the
bell-cord, placed his ear to the door, and listened long and
attentively. Convinced that nobody was descending the staircase, he gave
one more look down the street. At last he decided to undo his cloak, and
drew from under its folds a bundle, which he placed with a trembling
hand near the door. It was a basket, covered with a woman's mantle,
which hid the contents from view, although they could be pretty well
guessed, for from the time of Moses, mysterious baskets seem destined
for the consignment of infants.
The man, being now free of his burthen, pulled the bell-cord three
times, and the door was immediately opened from above by means of
another cord. The three pulls of the bell showed that the visitor to the
aristocratic mansion of the Quinones was a nobleman on a par with the
Senores. This was an old-established custom of unknown origin. A menial,
a servant, an inferior in any degree, only rang once, ordinary visitors
rang twice, and the half dozen, or more, persons that the important
Senor of Quinones considered his equals in Lancia, rang three times. If
those in the town, who had never been admitted to the sacred precincts
of the mansion, joked with the habitues of the place on the subject,
their witticisms fell flat; but even if the shafts did go home, the
feudal custom was so universally respected, that none but the privileged
few dared to give the three signals pertaining to the highest rank. Paco
Gomez once ventured to break the rule for a joke, but he was received so
coldly when he entered the drawing-room that he never cared to repeat
the experiment.
So the man of the basket entered quickly, shut the door, crossed the
hall, and ascended the wide stone staircase, where holes, worn by long
use, retained the damp.
When he reached the first floor, a servant approached to take his hat
and cloak; so without further delay, and as if avoiding pursuit, he
darted with hasty stride towards the drawing-room door, and opened it.
The light of the chandelier and candelabra dazzled him for a moment. He
was a tall powerful man, between thirty and thirty-two years of age,
with a pleasant expression of countenance and regular features, short
hair, and a long, silky beard of reddish hue. His face was pale, and
betrayed extreme anxiety. On raising his eyes, which the excessive
brightness of the room at first obliged him to lower, he turned them on
the lady of the house, who was seated in an armchair. She, on her side,
cast an inquiring anxious look at him, and the glance caused him a shock
which gave instantaneous repose to his face like the neutralisation of
two equal forces.
The gentleman remained at the door waiting for five or six couples, who
were pirouetting to the strains of a waltz, to pass him, whilst his pale
lips wreathed into a smile as sweet as it was sad.
"What an evening! We did not think you would be here so soon," exclaimed
the lady as she gave him her delicate nervous hand, which contracted
three or four times with intense emotion as it came in contact with his.
She was a woman of about twenty-eight or thirty years of age, diminutive
in stature, with a pale, expressive face, very black eyes and hair,
small mouth, and delicate aquiline nose.
"How are you, Amalia?" said the gentleman, without replying to her
remark, and trying to hide under a smile the anxiety which, in spite of
himself, the trembling of his voice betrayed.
"I am better, thank you."
"Is not this noise bad for you?"
"No; I was bored to death in bed. Besides, I did not wish to deprive the
young people of the one enjoyment they can get occasionally at Lancia."
"Thank you, Amalia," exclaimed a young lady who was dancing and
overheard the last remark, and Amalia responded by a kind smile.
Another couple from behind then knocked against the gentleman, who was
still standing.
"Always devoted, Luis!"
"To no one more than yourself, Maria," replied the young man, affecting
to hide his embarrassment under a laugh.
"Are you sure that I am the only one?" she asked with a mischievous
glance at the partner who held her in his arms.
Maria Josefa Hevia was at least forty, and she had been almost as ugly
at fifteen. As her means were not equal to her weight, no one had dared
redeem her from the purgatory of solitude. Until quite lately she still
entertained hopes that one of the elderly Indian bachelors, who came to
pass their declining years in Lancia, would ask her hand in marriage;
and these hopes were founded on the fact that these gentlemen frequently
contracted alliances with the daughters of distinguished people in the
place, portionless as they generally were.
On her father's side, Maria Josefa was connected with one of the oldest
families, being related to the Senor of Quinones, in whose house we now
are.
But her father was dead, and she lived with her mother, a woman of low
degree, who had been a cook before marrying her master. Either for this
reason, or on account of the indisputable ugliness of her face, the
Indians fought shy of her; although her exaggerated idea of her position
exacted a certain respect in society. Her face was hideous, with
irregular features, marked with erysipelas, and disfigured by red
patches about the nostrils. She only retained one feminine taste, and
that was for dancing, which was a real passion with her; and she felt it
dreadfully when she was left a wallflower by the careless young men of
Lancia. But, possessing a sharp tongue, she revenged herself so cleverly
on both sexes when thus neglected, that the majority of the youths
willingly sacrificed one dance on the programme to her at all the balls;
and when they failed to do so, the girls would remind them of their
duty, so great was their fear of the spiteful old maid. Thus, by dint of
the wholesome terror she inspired, she danced as much as the greatest
beauty in Lancia.
She was conscious of the reason of her success, and however humiliated
she might be in the depths of her heart, she did not fail to make use of
the power, as she considered it the lesser evil of the two.
Witty and malicious, she was particularly alive to a sense of the
ridiculous in things, and whilst not lacking in the power of narration,
she was, moreover, endowed with the peculiar knack of wounding everybody
to the quick when she had a mind to.
"Has the count come yet?" asked a sharp voice from the next room, which
made itself heard above the sounds of the piano, and the feet of the
dancers.
"Yes, here I am, Don Pedro; I am coming."
Whereupon the count made a step towards the door, without removing his
eye from the pallid-looking lady; and she riveted another steady gaze
upon him, which conveyed the impression of a question. He just closed
his eyes in affirmatory reply, and passed on to the next apartment,
which, like the drawing-room, was furnished without any regard for
luxury.
The highest nobility of Lancia despised all the refinements of
decoration so usual nowadays. They scorned every innovation both within
and without their dwellings; and this not from feelings of avarice, but
from the inborn conviction that their superiority consisted less in the
richness and splendour of their houses, than in the seal of ancient
respectability.
The furniture was old and shabby, and the carpets and curtains were
faded; but the master paid little heed to such matters. Indeed, Don
Pedro Quinones showed an indifference, bordering upon eccentricity, on
the point. Neither the entreaties of his wife, nor the remarks which
some bolder spirit, like Paco Gomez, who was always ready to be
facetious, dared to make, ever induced him to call in the painters and
upholsterers.
With regard to size, the drawing-room was superb, being both lofty and
spacious, and including all the windows of the Calle de Santa Lucia,
with the exception of that of the library. The chairs were antique, not
a mere imitation of those of bygone ages, as is now the mode, but made
in times past, according to the fashion of the period, and covered with
green velvet, worn old by time. In many places the floor was visible
through the holes in the carpet. The walls were covered with magnificent
tapestries, which constituted the one adornment of the house, for Don
Pedro had a very valuable collection; but he only exhibited it once a
year, when the balconies were draped on the day of Corpus Christi. It
was said that an Englishman once offered a million pesetas[A] for their
possession.
The count had also several very valuable pictures, but they were so
discoloured by time that, if not restored before long by some skilful
hand, they seemed likely to disappear altogether. The only new thing in
the drawing-room was the piano, bought three years ago, soon after the
second marriage of Don Pedro.
The library, also of large dimensions, with a window looking on to the
Calle de Santa Lucia, and two on to the garden, was furnished still
worse. It had heavy damask curtains, two mahogany presses without
mirrors, a sofa upholstered with silk, a few leather chairs, a round
table in the centre, and some seats to match the sofa, all old and
shabby.
Seated round the table, lighted by an enormous oil-lamp, were three
gentlemen playing at tresillo.[B]
The master of the house was one of them. He was between forty-six and
forty-eight years of age. For the last three years he had been quite
unable to move from the effects of an apoplectic stroke, which left him
with both legs paralysed. He was stout, with a red face, and strong
well-marked features; his thick curly hair and beard were streaked with
grey, and he had keen, piercing black eyes. His face was remarkable for
an expression of pride and fierceness, which the kind smile with which
he received the Conde de Onis could not entirely hide. He was sitting,
or rather reclining, in an armchair constructed especially for
facilitating the movement of his body and arms; and it was placed
sideways at the table, so that he could play, and keep his legs raised
up meanwhile. Although there were logs burning on the hearth, he had a
grey cloak round his shoulders, fastened at the throat with a gold
clasp. Embroidered on the left-hand side was the large red cross of the
order of Calatrava.[C] The Senor of Quinones was rarely seen without
this cloak, which afforded him a fantastic, somewhat theatrical,
appearance. He had always been eccentric in his dress. His pride
impelled him to try and distinguish himself from the vulgar in every
way. On ordinary occasions he wore a buttoned-up frock-coat, a
high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, and his hair was long, like that of a
cavalier of the seventeenth century, whilst his clothes were generally
of velvet or velveteen, with riding-boots of a fashion beyond all
recollection, and his wide shirt-collars were turned back over his
waistcoat in imitation of the Walloon style. There never was a man
prouder of his high degree, nor more retentive of the privileges enjoyed
by those of his rank in times gone by. People grumbled at his
eccentricities, and many turned them to ridicule, for Lancia is a place
not wanting in a sense of humour. But, as usual, unbending pride had
ended by making an impression. Those who were the first to joke at Don
Pedro's peculiarities, were those who were the most punctiliously
respectful in doffing their hats when he appeared almost half a mile
off. He had lived some years at Court, but he did not strike root there.
He was one of the gentlemen in office, and curiously jealous of every
prerogative and distinction due to his fortune and birth. But there was
no satisfying a heart so corroded with arrogance, and he bitterly
resented the amalgamation of people of birth with those of money. The
respect afforded to politicians, which he in his position also had to
accede to, perfectly enraged him. Was a son of a nobody, a common
fellow, to take precedence of him, and merely give an indifferent or
disdainful glance at him?--at him, the descendant of the proud Counts of
Castille! Not being able to put up with such a state of things, he
resigned his appointment, and took up his abode again in the old-world
palace in which we now are. His pride, or maybe his eccentric character,
made the rich bachelor at this time of his life do a thousand odd and
ridiculous things, to the great astonishment of the town until it became
accustomed to him. Don Pedro never went out in the street without being
accompanied by a servant, or majordomo, a rough sort of man who wore
the costume of the peasants of the country, which consisted of short
breeches, woollen stockings, a green cloth jacket, and a wide-brimmed
hat. And he not only went out with Manin (he was universally known by
this name), but he also took him to the theatre with him. It was a sight
to see these two in one of the best boxes: the master stiff and
decorous, with his eyes roaming carelessly round; whilst the servant sat
with his bearded chin resting on his hands, which clasped the
balustrade, staring fixedly at the stage, occasionally giving vent to
loud guffaws of laughter, scratching his head, or yawning loudly in the
middle of a silence.
Manin soon became a regular institution.
Don Pedro, who scarcely deigned to converse with the wealthiest people
of Lancia, talked familiarly with this servant, and allowed him to
contradict him in the rude rough way peculiarly his own.
"Manin, man, be careful not to give these ladies too much trouble," he
would say to the majordomo when they entered some shop together.
"All right," returned the rough fellow in a loud voice, "if they want to
be at their ease, let them bring a mattress from home and recline upon
it."
Don Pedro would then bite his lips to keep from laughing, for such
coarse and brutal remarks were just to his taste.
When they repaired to a cafe, Manin drank quarts of red wine, whilst his
master only sipped a glass of muscat. But although he left it almost
full, he always asked and paid for a whole bottle.
An apothecary of the place, with whom the count sometimes condescended
to have a chat, once evinced some surprise at this extravagance, but he
returned with chilly arrogance:
"I pay for a whole bottle because I think it would be unseemly for Don
Pedro Quinones de Leon to ask for a glass like some ink-stained clerk in
a government office."
The whole town was impressed with his manners, for when he met any
clerics in the streets, he kissed their hands in accordance with the
custom of noblemen of bygone centuries. But, like all the rest of his
ways, this respect was nothing but a wish to appear different to other
people, and to show that he belonged to the old _regime_; because,
although he kissed the hand of his own chaplain in public, he treated
him like a servant in private, and, in fact, accorded him far less
consideration than he did Manin.
But what most astonished the place, and gave rise to no end of remarks
and jokes, was what Don Pedro did with a certain religious solemnity
soon after his arrival from Madrid. He appeared at church in the white
uniform trimmed with twisted cords pertaining to the office of
_Maestrante de Ronda_.
Just before the elevation of the Host at the Mass, he advanced with a
solemn step to the empty space in the centre of the edifice, unsheathed
his sword, and made sharp, firm passes in the air, in the direction of
the four cardinal points. The women were frightened, the children ran
away, and the majority of the congregation thought he had suddenly gone
out of his mind. But those who were better informed, and more
intellectual, understood that it was meant to be a symbolical ceremony,
and that those thrusts in the air signified Don Pedro's resolution, as a
noble member of a military Order, to fight all the enemies of the faith
from every quarter of the globe. The one little periodical published at
that time in Lancia (now there are eleven--six dailies, and five
weeklies) devoted a whole page to a humorous account of this event.
But in spite of the eccentricities of his public and private life, the
prestige enjoyed by the illustrious nobleman in the town was by no means
affected.
He, who in perfect good faith considers himself superior to those about
him, is in no danger of humiliation. In spite of his affectations, Don
Pedro was a man of culture, fond of literature, and endowed with a taste
for poetry. He had been known occasionally to celebrate events
pertaining to the kingdom, or the royal family in several stanzas of a
classic, somewhat pompous, style. But although people had tried to
persuade him to publish them, he never would consent to do so.
Periodicals were one of his particular aversions, for he considered them
a sign of the democracy of the times. So he preferred to keep his poems
in manuscript, known only to a select circle of friends.
He also had a reputation as a man of valour. He had fought a few duels
in Madrid, and in Lancia he had one with a certain political chief, sent
by the progressionists to the province through the intervention of the
archbishop and Chapter of the cathedral. When he was about forty years
of age, our friend married a lady of position who lived in Sarrio. But
his wife died within the year, just when he had hopes of an heir to his
name and estates. Three years after, he contracted another
marriage--this time with Amalia, a Valencian lady, who was a connection
of his. They scarcely knew each other, for Don Pedro had not seen her
since she was fourteen. The alliance formed ten years later was arranged
by letters, and an interchange of photographs. There was no doubt that
the bride's will was coerced in the matter, and it was said that for
many months she had a separate room to her husband. And the story was
told in Lancia, with no lack of detail, how Don Pedro, in pursuance of a
canon's advice, managed to overcome these scruples. But in spite of the
success of the suggestion of the church dignitary, and the subsequent
concession of conjugal rights, Heaven did not see fit to bless the
union.
Not long after, Don Pedro was seized with the dreadful apoplectic attack
which paralysed the whole of the lower part of his body, and the poor
man was much tempted to curse his affliction, although no doubt it was
ordered for the best.
"We are in want of a fourth," he said, warmly shaking hands with the
count.
"Yes, yes, and we will see if the luck will change, for Moro is winning
all our money," said a little old man with a strong Galician accent. He
had a fresh, clean-shaven, round face, white hair, and clear, kind eyes.
His name was Saleta, and he was a magistrate of the Court of Justice,
and a constant visitor at the Quinones' house.
"Not so much as that, Senor Saleta, not so much! I have only two hundred
counters, and I want three hundred to make up for what I lost
yesterday," returned the man referred to, who was a youth with a genial
frank expression of countenance.
"And why did you not call upon Manin?" asked the count with a smile as
he glanced at the celebrated majordomo, who in his short breeches,
woollen stockings, and green cloth jacket, was sleeping in an armchair.
The other three turned and looked at the man.
"Because Manin is a brute who can play at nothing but _brisca_,"[A] said
Don Pedro, smiling.
"And at _tute_,"[A] returned the fellow, opening his mouth and yawning
loudly.
"All right, and at _tute_."[A]
"And at _monte_."[A]
"Very well, man, and at _monte_, too."
And the friends went on with their cards without paying further
attention to Manin, but presently he began again by saying:
"And at _parar_."[A]
"And at _parar_, too?" asked the count in a joking tone.
"Yes, senor, and at _los siete y media_."[D]
"Get along!" said the other, absently, as he opened his hand of cards
and examined it attentively.
Then they went on playing with much interest, absorbed and silent. But
the majordomo interrupted them again by saying:
"And at _julepe_."
"All right, Manin, be quiet and don't be a fool," said Don Pedro,
crossly.
"Fool, fool," muttered the peasant, surlily; "there are a good many
fools about, but as they have money there is no one to call them so."
He then re-settled his broad shoulders in the seat, stretched out his
legs, closed his eyes, and began to snore.
The players turned their eyes on Don Pedro in surprise, and some
anxiety.
The master looked wrathfully at his majordomo; but seeing him in such a
comfortable position he changed his mind, and, shrugging his shoulders,
he turned his attention to his cards, merely remarking with a pleasant
smile:
"What a barbarian! He is a regular Sueve."
"But, Senor Quinones," said Saleta, "the Suevi only settled in Galicia.
You are nothing but Cantabrians, and I have reason to know it."
"What! you have reason to know it!" said a gentleman who was not very
old, for he would have passed for fifty, who came in at that moment.
It was Don Enrique Valero, also a magistrate of the Court, a man of an
agreeable presence, with a fine expressive face, albeit somewhat marked
by the fast life he had lived. As shown by his strong accent, which was
mincing and lisping, he was Andalusian, of the province of Malaga.
"I don't quite know that," returned Saleta, calmly, "but I perfectly
well know the history of my country, and the particulars regarding my
family."
"And why do you mention your family in connection with the Suevi, my
friend?"
"Because, according to various documents preserved in my ancestral
archives, my family is descended from one of those brave commanders,
who penetrated Pontevedra at the time of the invasion."
The players exchanged an amused smile of intelligence with Valero.
"Ah!" exclaimed the latter between amusement and irritation, "so my
friend is a Sueve like a cathedral! Who would have thought it to see him
so dwarfish and so small!"
"Yes, senor," said the other, speaking with firmness and deliberation as
if he had not heard the last remark. "The captain to whom our family
owes its origin was named Rechila. He was a man of ferocious and
bloodthirsty presence, a great conqueror, who extended his dominions
immensely, and, from what I understand, his expeditions took him as far
as Estremadura. One day, when I was a child, a crown was found buried in
the foundations of the old chapel of our house."
"Really, my man, really!" exclaimed Valero, looking at him with such
comic indignation that all the others burst out laughing.
But Saleta, quite unperturbed, went on to describe the treasure-trove,
its form, weight, and all its embellishments, without omitting a single
detail.
And Valero, without taking his eyes off him, continued shaking his head
with increasing irritation.
The same thing went on every night. His colleague's unblushing lying
propensity aroused in the magistrate an indignation that was sometimes
real, and sometimes feigned. It was so seldom that a Galician dared to
boast and exaggerate before an Andalusian, that he, wounded in his
_amour propre_ and respect for his country, sometimes wondered whether
Saleta was a fool, or whether he considered his audience as such.
Really the magistrate of Pontevedra lied with so much ease, and in such
a serious way, that it became a question whether he was an artful rogue,
who delighted to upset his friends.
"Did you say that this ancestor of yours got to Estremadura?" asked
Valero at last in a decided tone.
"Yes, Senor."
"Then it seems to me you make a mistake, for this Senor Renchila----"
"Rechila."
"Well, this Rechila got farther still, for he got as far as the province
of Malaga; but there a company of Vandals went out to meet him: the
leader was one of my ancestors. His name is difficult to recollect--wait
a bit, he was called Matalaoza. Well, then, this Matalaoza, who was a
rough, brave sort of fellow, completely routed him, took him prisoner,
and kept him drawing water from a well till his death. And a piece of
the machine is still to be seen in the cellar of our house."
Don Pedro, Jaime Moro, and the Conde de Onis stopped playing, and roared
with laughter.
"It cannot be so. Rechila never went farther than Merida, which he took
after a short siege," said Saleta, not one whit put out.
"Excuse me, friend, in the archives of my house there are documents
which show that this Senor Renchila took a company of soldiers through
the province of Malaga, and that the Senor Matalaoza, my grandfather on
my mother's side, prevented his advancing any farther."
"Excuse me, friend Valero, but it seems to me you are in error. This
Rechila must be another one; there were many Rechilas among the Suevi."
"No, sir, no, the Rechila that my ancestor conquered was an ancestor of
yours; I am certain of it. He came from the province of Pontevedra; that
was clear from his accent."
These remarks were made with great gravity, and the players were more
and more amused. As Saleta was accustomed to his companion's chaff, he
was not the least put out, neither would he modify any of his boasting
assertions. The man was perfectly shameless in the way he invented lies
and then stuck to them.
When he saw it was useless to discuss the matter farther, he turned his
attention to the game, and the others did the same, although they could
not repress an occasional chuckle of amusement.
Jaime Moro went on winning, and he was cheerful and talkative, making
tedious remarks at every turn of the game. He was a good-looking young
fellow, with a short black beard, regular features, large expressionless
eyes, and a delicate pink complexion. His father, who had been parochial
administrator of the province, had died the previous year, leaving him
an income, according to report, of between 70,000 and 80,000 reales,[E]
and this money gave him a certain position in the place. Needless to
say, he was considered a prize in the matrimonial market, and he was the
golden dream, and the ideal of the girls, who contemplated marriage; but
unfortunately Moro was little attracted by the opposite sex. He liked
Mercury much better than Venus; and indeed he was so fond of every kind
of game, that one might almost say he was born to play, for his whole
life was devoted to it.
He lived alone with his housekeeper, man-servant, and cook. He got up
between ten and eleven in the morning, and after making his toilette he
repaired to the confectioner's shop of Dona Romana, where he found
congenial spirits, who told him all the current gossip of the place, and
when this was exhausted, he withdrew to the dark, greasy-looking little
room, pervaded by an overpowering smell of pastry, at the back of the
shop, and there seating himself at a table, which matched its
surroundings in dinginess, he indulged in a glass of sherry, and a game
of dominoes with Don Baltasar Reinoso, who was one of the many who lived
in Lancia on an income of four or five thousand pesetas. At three
o'clock he repaired to the Mercantile Club, where, with three of the
Indians, who formed the nucleus of that social gathering, he indulged in
the classic game of _chapo_[F] until five o'clock, when, if we went to
the house of the dean of the cathedral, we should come across this
gentleman enjoying his daily game of _tresillo_ with the dignitary of
the church, and the rector of San Rafael. When the _chapo_ went on
longer than usual, an acolyte appeared at the club to tell him that his
friends were waiting. Then Moro hastened to give the three or four final
strokes, the boy, between them, helping him on with his coat to save
time; then, after paying or receiving the balance of his account with
trembling hands, he ran in breathless haste to the house of the dean.
There the _tresillo_ lasted till eight o'clock. Then home to supper. At
nine he repaired to Don Pedro Quinone's house to spend an hour or two in
the same sort of way, and if he did not go there, he went to Don Juan
Estrada-Rosa's for the same thing; and at twelve to the Casino, where a
few night-birds met for a game of _monte_, or lottery. Finally Jaime
Moro retired to rest at two or three in the morning, quite tired out
with such a hard day's work, to wake to another exactly the same.
It must not be thought that he was a covetous young man, for the whole
town knew, and lauded his liberality. He was not incited to play by a
passion for gain, but by a devotion to the pastime, which extinguished
all better feelings.
His was an excessively active temperament, without the intelligence or
the wish for any serious aim in life. In his short moments of idleness
he looked like a quiet, careless, lymphatic man, but directly he had the
cards, billiard-cue, or dominoes in his hand, he evinced an interest
which utterly changed his expression, as his eyes brightened and his
hands showed more power.
He was a universal favourite, and there never was a man more suave and
gentle in manner. He was never heard to speak ill of anybody, and those
who see only the dark side of things and the weak point of people's
characters, said that he never grumbled because he did not know how to,
and that he was as good as he was, because he could not be otherwise.
But there must always be some perverse fools!
However, Moro had one fault, begotten of his playing propensity, he
considered he was invincible in every game. It could not be denied that
he was a great expert at them, but there is a great difference between
that, and being utterly unrivalled, which was the case with Moro. This
gave rise to those tedious, eternal commentaries, which seasoned every
game, until they became quite a byword in Lancia.
When, after making a stroke on the billiard-table, the balls did not go
as he wanted, he struck his head in despair:
"A little less ball and mine would have gone into the pocket! But I was
obliged to strike well on the ball so that the red ball should go down,
because if the ball does not go down, you know how it would be."
If things went according to his ideas, he did not mind how much he lost;
the money was nothing to him as long as he saved his professional
honour. He talked unceasingly, making a running commentary upon every
stroke he made; and he went on just the same at cards. However, he never
blamed his companions, or lost his temper when his plan of action was
defeated. He certainly talked incessantly, but it was always to explain
or to palliate some point in the game, and the eternal repetitions,
delivered in the same eloquent and persuasive tone, provoked a smile
from the onlookers.
"If I had only had a king then! If I had but had another trump! I did
not dare give the lead because I thought that Don Pedro--Why could not
this three of hearts have been three of diamonds? With the deuce of
spades this trick was once got."
He was a noisy fellow, but very polite and kind.
"I say, it is your play now, is it not?" said Valero to our friend as he
looked over the players' shoulders and had a glance at their cards.
"Do you think that can be done?" said Moro, vacillating.
"Yes, I think so."
"There is too little of this and not enough of that," returned Moro,
discreetly pointing at the cards with his finger.
"Nevertheless, nevertheless, I think----"
"Well, well, let us play," replied Moro, with his usual politeness.
That game was lost. Moro gave a look at his companions, and shrugged his
shoulders; then as Valero turned away, he said in a low tone:
"I did not want to vex Don Enrique, but I knew that that play could not
win."
And having thus vindicated his reputation, he was as pleased as if he
had won the game.
The Conde de Onis seemed absent when he came in, and as time went on, he
became more and more thoughtful and gloomy; and he played so carelessly
that his friends called him to book several times.
"But, Conde, what has come to you?" said Don Pedro, at last, "you seem
so very preoccupied."
"Yes, you have actually trumped my trick," added Valero, in distress.
Seeing himself thus taken to task, the count looked as confused as if
his companions had read his thoughts.
"Nothing particular is the matter with me," he replied; and taking
refuge in an innocent excuse, he added, "I am only suffering from
toothache."
"So the poor fellow is ill!" said Valero.
Whereupon they all began pitying him, and asking him particulars about
his complaint.
The count being now at his wit's end, answered the questions at random.
"Well, for that pain, Senor Conde," said Saleta, "there is no finer
remedy than iron. You will find that it is so. When I was a student I
suffered dreadfully from my teeth. I never dared have one drawn, but the
landlord I had in Santiago told me the best thing to do was to take a
thread, and tie one end to the tooth, and the other to the back of the
chair, so that it was gradually drawn out without any pain. I sat myself
in a chair, and when the tooth was well tied I got up from the chair and
left it hanging behind me. You see I had nothing to do but jump up."
Valero shook his head in despair, and the others looked at him and
smiled. But Saleta did not notice, or pretended not to notice it, and
continued his story in the quiet matter-of-fact way and the strong
Galician accent peculiar to him.
"Afterwards I quite overcame my fear of tooth-drawing. The dentist of
Corunna extracted five, one after the other; and when I was judge at
Allariz I was in dreadful pain, and as there was no dentist the
_Promotor_[G] pulled out three for me with his wife's curling tongs; but
do you know this gave me inflammation of the mouth? I was then at
Madrid, and Ludovisi, the queen's dentist, burnt my gums with a red-hot
iron, and then extracted seven good teeth."
"There went fifteen!" murmured Valero.
"Yes, and I had no further trouble until four years ago, when, whilst I
was staying with a friend in a little place in the province of Burgos,
the pain came on again. There was no doctor, no surgeon, nobody. But a
charlatan happened to come along who extracted teeth whilst on
horseback; and I was in such distress that I was obliged to have
recourse to him, and he took out two with the tail end of a spoon."
"Oh! my man, what humbug!" exclaimed Valero in utter indignation, "and
may I ask if you have a tooth left in your head?"
Manin at this moment, with his usual want of manners, opened his mouth
wide with a loud guffaw, to the astonishment of the party. Then the
great giant turned round in his chair and composed himself to sleep.
"You have never suffered from your teeth, have you, Manin?" asked the
Grandee, who could not be a quarter of an hour without appealing to his
majordomo.
"What?" asked the fellow without opening his eyes.
"He is like a rock!" said the nobleman with real enthusiasm.
Then Manin sat up a little, and rubbing his eyes with his fists, he
said:
"I never had anything worse than a stomach-ache: It came on as I was
loading a cart with hay, and it lasted more than a month. I could not
touch a morsel of food, and it was just as if I had a fox continually
gnawing at my inside. My ribs felt as if they would break in agony, and
I leant against the wall, bowed down with pain, and showed my teeth like
a serpent. I became as yellow as corn in harvest time. One day the senor
priest said to me: 'Manin, you have no heart.' 'I have no heart, senor
cure!' said I. 'You don't know me well if you say that, for it is
beating here for its very life. I have more heart than what you would
think!' 'Then there is nothing to be done, Manin, but to send for the
doctor,' said he. 'No, indeed, senor cure; I want none of their drugs
and plaisters.' 'Well, if you don't send for him, I shall,' was his
answer. At last there was no help for it, and although I was still
against it, Don Rafael, the doctor of the mines, arrived. He made me
undress as far as my shirt, and then forced me by the shoulders on to a
trough. Then he set to giving me blows on the chest with his knuckles,
as if he were knocking at a door. He thumped me here, and he thumped me
there, and listened with his ear pressed against my body. 'Nay,' I
cried. 'Gently! gently my good fellow! Find the truant!' And he went on
for half an hour longer, knocking with his knuckles and listening with
his ear. At last he got tired of hearing nothing. 'Ah! friend of my
soul!' he said, making the sign of the cross, 'you have a liquid heart.
I never saw anything like it in my life!' 'Yes, I knew that before, Don
Rafael,' said I."
Having got so far in his relation, Manin stopped suddenly, turned an
angry glance on the audience, and muttered under his breath: "And what
do these asses find to laugh at?"
Then, throwing his shaggy head back in the armchair, he closed his eyes
in great disgust.
The Grandee's guests resumed their game, laughing all the while, but the
count became more and more thoughtful and absent.
At last no longer able to control his upset state of nerves, he rose
from his seat saying:
"I say, Don Enrique, will you kindly take my place; this pain is so
tiresome that I must move about?"