Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger
DONA PERFECTA
by B. PEREZ GALDOS
Translated from the Spanish by Mary J. Serrano
INTRODUCTION
The very acute and lively Spanish critic who signs himself Clarín, and
is known personally as Don Leopoldo Alas, says the present Spanish novel
has no yesterday, but only a day-before-yesterday. It does not derive
from the romantic novel which immediately preceded that: the novel,
large or little, as it was with Cervantes, Hurtado de Mendoza, Quevedo,
and the masters of picaresque fiction.
Clarín dates its renascence from the political revolution of 1868,
which gave Spanish literature the freedom necessary to the fiction that
studies to reflect modern life, actual ideas, and current aspirations;
and though its authors were few at first, “they have never been
adventurous spirits, friends of Utopia, revolutionists, or impatient
progressists and reformers.” He thinks that the most daring, the most
advanced, of the new Spanish novelists, and the best by far, is Don
Benito Perez Galdos.
I should myself have made my little exception in favor of Don Armando
Palacio Valdes, but Clarín speaks with infinitely more authority, and I
am certainly ready to submit when he goes on to say that Galdos is not
a social or literary insurgent; that he has no political or religious
prejudices; that he shuns extremes, and is charmed with prudence;
that his novels do not attack the Catholic dogmas--though they deal so
severely with Catholic bigotry--but the customs and ideas cherished
by secular fanaticism to the injury of the Church. Because this is
so evident, our critic holds, his novels are “found in the bosom of
families in every corner of Spain.” Their popularity among all classes
in Catholic and prejudiced Spain, and not among free-thinking students
merely, bears testimony to the fact that his aim and motive are
understood and appreciated, although his stories are apparently so often
anti-Catholic.
I
Doña Perfecta is, first of all, a story, and a great story, but it is
certainly also a story that must appear at times potently, and even
bitterly, anti-Catholic. Yet it would be a pity and an error to read it
with the preoccupation that it was an anti-Catholic tract, for really it
is not that. If the persons were changed in name and place, and
modified in passion to fit a cooler air, it might equally seem an
anti-Presbyterian or anti-Baptist tract; for what it shows in the light
of their own hatefulness and cruelty are perversions of any religion,
any creed. It is not, however, a tract at all; it deals in artistic
largeness with the passion of bigotry, as it deals with the passion of
love, the passion of ambition, the passion of revenge. But Galdos
is Spanish and Catholic, and for him the bigotry wears a Spanish and
Catholic face. That is all.
Up to a certain time, I believe, Galdos wrote romantic or idealistic
novels, and one of these I have read, and it tired me very much. It was
called “Marianela,” and it surprised me the more because I was already
acquainted with his later work, which is all realistic. But one does not
turn realist in a single night, and although the change in Galdos was
rapid it was not quite a lightning change; perhaps because it was
not merely an outward change, but artistically a change of heart. His
acceptance in his quality of realist was much more instant than his
conversion, and vastly wider; for we are told by the critic whom I have
been quoting that Galdos’s earlier efforts, which he called _Episodios
Nacionales_, never had the vogue which his realistic novels have
enjoyed.
These were, indeed, tendencious, if I may Anglicize a very necessary
word from the Spanish _tendencioso_. That is, they dealt with very
obvious problems, and had very distinct and poignant significations,
at least in the case of “Doña Perfecta,” “Leon Roch,” and “Gloria.” In
still later novels, Emilia Pardo-Bazan thinks, he has comprehended that
“the novel of to-day must take note of the ambient truth, and realize
the beautiful with freedom and independence.” This valiant lady, in
the campaign for realism which she made under the title of “La Cuestion
Palpitante”--one of the best and strongest books on the subject--counts
him first among Spanish realists, as Clarín counts him first among
Spanish novelists. “With a certain fundamental humanity,” she says,
“a certain magisterial simplicity in his creations, with the natural
tendency of his clear intelligence toward the truth, and with the
frankness of his observation, the great novelist was always disposed
to pass over to realism with arms and munitions; but his aesthetic
inclinations were idealistic, and only in his latest works has he
adopted the method of the modern novel, fathomed more and more the human
heart, and broken once for all with the picturesque and with the typical
personages, to embrace the earth we tread.”
For her, as I confess for me, “Doña Perfecta” is not realistic
enough--realistic as it is; for realism at its best is not tendencious.
It does not seek to grapple with human problems, but is richly content
with portraying human experiences; and I think Señora Pardo-Bazan is
right in regarding “Doña Perfecta” as transitional, and of a period when
the author had not yet assimilated in its fullest meaning the faith he
had imbibed.
II
Yet it is a great novel, as I said; and perhaps because it is
transitional it will please the greater number who never really arrive
anywhere, and who like to find themselves in good company _en route_. It
is so far like life that it is full of significations which pass beyond
the persons and actions involved, and envelop the reader, as if he too
were a character of the book, or rather as if its persons were men
and women of this thinking, feeling, and breathing world, and he must
recognize their experiences as veritable facts. From the first moment
to the last it is like some passage of actual events in which you cannot
withhold your compassion, your abhorrence, your admiration, any more
than if they took place within your personal knowledge. Where they
transcend all facts of your personal knowledge, you do not accuse them
of improbability, for you feel their potentiality in yourself, and
easily account for them in the alien circumstance. I am not saying that
the story has no faults; it has several. There are tags of romanticism
fluttering about it here and there; and at times the author permits
himself certain old-fashioned literary airs and poses and artifices,
which you simply wonder at. It is in spite of these, and with all these
defects, that it is so great and beautiful a book.
III
What seems to be so very admirable in the management of the story is the
author’s success in keeping his own counsel. This may seem a very
easy thing; but, if the reader will think over the novelists of his
acquaintance, he will find that it is at least very uncommon. They
mostly give themselves away almost from the beginning, either by their
anxiety to hide what is coming, or their vanity in hinting what great
things they have in store for the reader. Galdos does neither the one
nor the other. He makes it his business to tell the story as it grows;
to let the characters unfold themselves in speech and action; to permit
the events to happen unheralded. He does not prophesy their course, he
does not forecast the weather even for twenty-four hours; the atmosphere
becomes slowly, slowly, but with occasional lifts and reliefs, of such a
brooding breathlessness, of such a deepening density, that you feel the
wild passion-storm nearer and nearer at hand, till it bursts at last;
and then you are astonished that you had not foreseen it yourself from
the first moment.
Next to this excellent method, which I count the supreme characteristic
of the book merely because it represents the whole, and the other
facts are in the nature of parts, is the masterly conception of the
characters. They are each typical of a certain side of human nature,
as most of our personal friends and enemies are; but not exclusively of
this side or that. They are each of mixed motives, mixed qualities; none
of them is quite a monster; though those who are badly mixed do such
monstrous things.
Pepe Rey, who is such a good fellow--so kind, and brave, and upright,
and generous, so fine a mind, and so high a soul--is tactless and
imprudent; he even condescends to the thought of intrigue; and though
he rejects his plots at last, his nature has once harbored deceit. Don
Inocencio, the priest, whose control of Doña Perfecta’s conscience has
vitiated the very springs of goodness in her, is by no means bad, aside
from his purposes. He loves his sister and her son tenderly, and wishes
to provide for them by the marriage which Pepe’s presence threatens to
prevent. The nephew, though selfish and little, has moments of almost
being a good fellow; the sister, though she is really such a lamb of
meekness, becomes a cat, and scratches Don Inocencio dreadfully when he
weakens in his design against Pepe.
Rosario, one of the sweetest and purest images of girlhood that I know
in fiction, abandons herself with equal passion to the love she feels
for her cousin Pepe, and to the love she feels for her mother, Doña
Perfecta. She is ready to fly with him, and yet she betrays him to her
mother’s pitiless hate.
But it is Doña Perfecta herself who is the transcendent figure, the
most powerful creation of the book. In her, bigotry and its fellow-vice,
hypocrisy, have done their perfect work, until she comes near to being
a devil, and really does some devil’s deeds. Yet even she is not without
some extenuating traits. Her bigotry springs from her conscience, and
she is truly devoted to her daughter’s eternal welfare; she is of such
a native frankness that at a certain point she tears aside her mask of
dissimulation and lets Pepe see all the ugliness of her perverted soul.
She is wonderfully managed. At what moment does she begin to hate him,
and to wish to undo her own work in making a match between him and
her daughter? I could defy anyone to say. All one knows is that at one
moment she adores her brother’s son, and at another she abhors him, and
has already subtly entered upon her efforts to thwart the affection she
has invited in him for her daughter.
Caballuco, what shall I say of Caballuco? He seems altogether bad, but
the author lets one imagine that this cruel, this ruthless brute must
have somewhere about him traits of lovableness, of leniency, though
he never lets one see them. His gratitude to Doña Perfecta, even his
murderous devotion, is not altogether bad; and he is certainly worse
than nature made him, when wrought upon by her fury and the suggestion
of Don Inocencio. The scene where they work him up to rebellion and
assassination is a compendium of the history of intolerance; as the
mean little conceited city of Orbajosas is the microcosm of bigoted and
reactionary Spain.
IV
I have called, or half-called, this book tendencious; but in a certain
larger view it is not so. It is the eternal interest of passion working
upon passion, not the temporary interest of condition antagonizing
condition, which renders “Doña Perfecta” so poignantly interesting, and
which makes its tragedy immense. But there is hope as well as despair in
such a tragedy. There is the strange support of a bereavement in it,
the consolation of feeling that for those who have suffered unto death,
nothing can harm them more; that even for those who have inflicted their
suffering this peace will soon come.
“Is Perez Galdos a pessimist?” asks the critic Clarín. “No, certainly;
but if he is not, why does he paint us sorrows that seem inconsolable?
Is it from love of paradox? Is it to show that his genius, which can do
so much, can paint the shadow lovelier than the light? Nothing of this.
Nothing that is not serious, honest, and noble, is to be found in this
novelist. Are they pessimistic, those ballads of the North, that always
end with vague resonances of woe? Are they pessimists, those singers of
our own land, who surprise us with tears in the midst of laughter? Is
Nature pessimistic, who is so sad at nightfall that it seems as if day
were dying forever? . . . The sadness of art, like that of nature, is
a form of hope. Why is Christianity so artistic? Because it is the
religion of sadness.”
W. D. HOWELLS.
DONA PERFECTA
CHAPTER I
VILLAHORRENDA! FIVE MINUTES!
When the down train No. 65--of what line it is unnecessary to
say--stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172,
almost all the second-and third-class passengers remained in the cars,
yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did
not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class
passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of the
employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.
“We are in Villahorrenda,” answered the conductor whose voice was
drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being
lifted into the freight car. “I forgot to call you, Señor de Rey. I
think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts.”
“Why, how terribly cold it is here!” said the traveller, drawing his
cloak more closely about him. “Is there no place in the station where
I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey on
horseback through this frozen country?”
Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the
urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown cavalier’s
question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe was coming
toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung back and
forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the station
in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower from a
watering-pot.
“Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station of Villahorrenda?”
said the traveller to the man with the lantern.
“There is nothing here,” answered the latter brusquely, running toward
the men who were putting the freight on board the cars, and assuaging
them with such a volley of oaths, blasphemies, and abusive epithets that
the very chickens, scandalized by his brutality, protested against it
from their baskets.
“The best thing I can do is to get away from this place as quickly as
possible,” said the gentlemen to himself. “The conductor said that the
beasts were here.”
Just as he had come to this conclusion he felt a thin hand pulling him
gently and respectfully by the cloak. He turned round and saw a figure
enveloped in a gray cloak, and out of whose voluminous folds peeped the
shrivelled and astute countenance of a Castilian peasant. He looked at
the ungainly figure, which reminded one of the black poplar among trees;
he observed the shrewd eyes that shone from beneath the wide brim of the
old velvet hat; the sinewy brown hand that grasped a green switch, and
the broad foot that, with every movement, made the iron spur jingle.
“Are you Señor Don José de Rey?” asked the peasant, raising his hand to
his hat.
“Yes; and you, I take it,” answered the traveller joyfully, “are Doña
Perfecta’s servant, who have come to the station to meet me and show me
the way to Orbajosa?”
“The same. Whenever you are ready to start. The pony runs like the
wind. And Señor Don José, I am sure, is a good rider. For what comes by
race--”
“Which is the way out?” asked the traveller, with impatience. “Come, let
us start, señor--What is your name?”
“My name is Pedro Lucas,” answered the man of the gray cloak, again
making a motion to take off his hat; “but they call me Uncle Licurgo.
Where is the young gentleman’s baggage?”
“There it is--there under the cloak. There are three pieces--two
portmanteaus and a box of books for Señor Don Cayetano. Here is the
check.”
A moment later cavalier and squire found themselves behind the barracks
called a depot, and facing a road which, starting at this point,
disappeared among the neighboring hills, on whose naked slopes could be
vaguely distinguished the miserable hamlet of Villahorrenda. There were
three animals to carry the men and the luggage. A not ill-looking nag
was destined for the cavalier; Uncle Licurgo was to ride a venerable
hack, somewhat loose in the joints, but sure-footed; and the mule, which
was to be led by a stout country boy of active limbs and fiery blood,
was to carry the luggage.
Before the caravan had put itself in motion the train had started, and
was now creeping along the road with the lazy deliberation of a way
train, awakening, as it receded in the distance, deep subterranean
echoes. As it entered the tunnel at kilometre 172, the steam issued from
the steam whistle with a shriek that resounded through the air. From the
dark mouth of the tunnel came volumes of whitish smoke, a succession of
shrill screams like the blasts of a trumpet followed, and at the sound
of its stentorian voice villages, towns, the whole surrounding country
awoke. Here a cock began to crow, further on another. Day was beginning
to dawn.