LEON ROCH
A ROMANCE
BY
B. PÉREZ GALDÓS
Author of “Gloria,” etc.
FROM THE SPANISH BY CLARA BELL
--AUTHORIZED EDITION--
TWO VOLUMES--VOL. II.
REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES
NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1888
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886
BY WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington
THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER
CONTENTS.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--WHICH TREATS OF THE CASTILIAN NOBILITY,
OF THE LAWS OF MORALITY, OF ALL THAT
IS MOST VENERABLE, AND OTHER SMALL
MATTERS, 1
II.--A PICTURE WHICH MIGHT BE A ZURBARAN BUT
IS ONLY BY GOYA, 14
III.--THE REVOLUTION, 22
IV.--SUING OR DEFIANT? 40
V.--THE ICE GIVES WAY, 50
VI.--RETURN TO CONSCIOUSNESS, 72
VII.--WILL SHE DIE? 78
VIII.--LEON ROCH PAYS A VISIT, 92
IX.--A PARTING, 103
X.--BREAKFAST, 109
XI.--THE PRIEST LIES AND THE COCK CROWS, 119
XII.--THE STRIFE OF WORDS, 128
XIII.--ICES, HAM, CIGARS AND WINE, 138
XIV.--A NOCTURNAL VISIT, 144
XV.--LATET ANGUIS, 153
XVI.--AN EXCESS OF ZEAL, 161
XVII.--THE TRUTH, 175
XVIII.--THE BATTLE, 183
XIX.--VULNERANT OMNES, ULTIMA NECAT, 205
XX.--IN THE _Incroyable_ DRAWING-ROOM, 214
XXI.--IMPOSSIBILITIES, 227
XXII.--VISITS OF CONDOLENCE, 245
XXIII.--THE VICTIMIZED HUSBAND, 252
XXIV.--THREE AGAINST TWO, 268
XXV.--THE END, 282
LEON ROCH
LEON ROCH.
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CASTILIAN NOBILITY, OF THE LAWS OF MORALITY, OF
ALL THAT IS MOST VENERABLE, AND OTHER SMALL MATTERS.
The crisis through which the house of Telleria was passing remained
unsolved. In fact the catastrophe was so complete that to try to stem
it seemed madness; nothing could be done but to conceal it as long
as possible. The incorrigible actors in the wretched drama strained
every nerve to prolong their reign before abdicating disgracefully and
retiring into poverty; and though, behind the scenes, they were forced
to soliloquise on the fact that they had no servants, that there was
not a shop that would trust them, that they had not the bread of vanity
in the form of a carriage, to the world they made it known that they
were all ill. The marquis, poor man, suffered terribly from rheumatism;
the marquesa--it was most distressing--had sunk into an alarming state
of debility; the whole family were depressed and ailing. They received
no one, not even their most intimate friends; they gave no dinners, not
even to the hungry; they went nowhere, not even to the most interesting
first nights.
At church was the only place where they could appear with such rueful
countenances. What can be more edifying than to listen to the counsels
of religion and to shed a tear at the feet of the Mother of Sorrows.
Poor Milagros! The parishioners, who saw her come in and go out with a
penitent air that was an example to all, paid her woes the tribute they
claimed:
“Poor woman! what a trouble her sons have been to her!”
The evening meetings at the Marquesa de San Salomó’s, which were the
only refuge of the distressed family, were very quiet and consisted
of one or two poets, a few handsome women, half a dozen models of
piety and a half a dozen hypocrites. Rome was the favourite theme
of conversation, and “_l’Univers_” the favourite newspaper; the
poets recited verses that exhaled an odour of sanctity, and under
the influence of this suffocating literary incense the whole human
race was regarded as excommunicated. Gustavo Sudre’s speeches were
discussed beforehand; reputations were made for youths just come from
the seminary: such a one was a St. Paul, such another a St. Ambrose
or a Tertulian, or an Origen--in point of talent, of course; in short
the evenings at the San Salomó’s had that club-like character which is
a conspicuous feature of modern society. Political prejudices have
found their way into the drawing-room and make themselves felt in the
perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir, and more conspiracies are discussed
there than in the barracks.
The marquesa was young, pretty, tall and shapely, though rather
faded looking; her manners were pleasant and she patronised poetry,
especially when it was of a pious and mystical tone. A sworn foe to
materialism and liberalism and all the evils of modern civilisation,
she was both elegant and clever, and the hours of the _tertulias_
never seemed long; she had the art of spicing with wit and grace the
anathemas that fulminated from her drawing-room, and she encouraged
in her house and at her table a tone of moderation which was equally
agreeable to the patriarchs and the poets. The St. Pauls and St.
Ambroses no doubt swore to themselves that asceticism was better to
preach than to practise.
The Marquis de San Salomó, a man who would sooner have been sawn in
slices than have yielded a jot of his opinions--if indeed he had
any--was not a frequent figure at these meetings. He more often went
to the theatre, the casino, or other even less mentionable places of
amusement. By day he sat in his study and received bull-fighters and
all the rabble of the arena, and three-fourths of his conversation
consisted of the slang inseparable from the lowest type of sport, and
stories of the escapades of his boon companions. He was rich and not
only made his wife a handsome allowance for pin-money, but granted her
a considerable sum for religious purposes, so that a current account
with Heaven formed part of his regular household expenses. Of his
current account with the ladies of the ballet we need not give the
particulars.
On the evening of the day when the marquis had been to see Leon Roch at
Carabanchel his wife was conversing eagerly with a stiff old gentleman,
decorated with the ribbon of some military order; a most innocent,
harmless creature in spite of his calling, and one of those soldiers
whose existence seems intended to prove that the army is a perfectly
inoffensive body of men.
“It is vain to try to comfort me, General,” she said. “I am broken
hearted! You yourself have said in exquisite verses that a mother’s
heart is an inexhaustible treasury of endurance; but mine is full to
the brim, I can endure no more; it must overflow.”
“Then, my dear madam, of what use is your Christian resignation?” asked
the son of Mars, with a look of innocence worthy of a cherub all head
and wings. “The Lord will vouchsafe unexpected consolations. And María,
is she resigned?”
“What else do you expect from that angel? My poor child! You might
crucify her and she would not utter a groan. But Heaven always allows
its most saintly children to go through the severest trials. She, like
my adored Luis, only prays the Lord to take her to Himself; to him He
sent physical suffering; to her, mental anguish.”
“We see every day,” said the general with an expression of horror that
sat very funnily on his babyish face framed in white whiskers, “that
scandals, infidelities and wickedness are on the increase. All laws
human and divine are less and less respected every day. Where will
you find a man of upright character, or a trace of chivalrous honour?
Turn where you will there is nothing but effrontery and cynicism!
Only picture to yourself, my dear Milagros, what the end must be of a
society which, day by day and hour by hour, neglects all the principles
of religion. But no! I ought not to say that, for there are still
saints and martyrs. Your daughter for instance, deserted by her husband
for her very virtues, is by those virtues--by those very virtues let me
repeat--a shining example, a light, a standard in the battle.”
Yes, that she certainly was. Every group in the room was discussing
her. Deserted! and solely for being too good! Such a deed cried to
Heaven and clamoured for vengeance--a second deluge, the gulf that
yawned to swallow Korah, the fires of Sodom, the flies of Egypt,
the sword of Attila--of all these curses the one which seemed most
likely to be realised then and there was that of the flies in Egypt,
for their buzzing and their sting were not inadequately represented
by the spiteful tattle, the commonplace denunciations, and amateur
excommunication with which people of a certain way of thinking
castigate whatever they disapprove of in their fellow men.
“If the separation had been based on any other pretext,” said a poet
to a journalist, “it might pass ... for it is an obvious fact that
Leon....” But their voices were lost in a chorus of comments and
tittering. Two old ladies put their noses into the group to inhale the
atmosphere of scandal--more fragrant to them than the scent of roses.
“I have suspected it for a long time,” said the mistress of the house
to a deputy who held the archiepiscopal throne in the ultramontane
coterie. “Pepa Fúcar is a hussy. But there was never more than a crumb
of principle in all the Fúcar household. It does not do to be too
particular in the way you make either money or love. There are some
families that are fated to it.”
“I have no doubt that the connection is one of old standing,” replied
the deputy, who admired the marquesa’s dinners, and who was wont to
improve on her slanderous insinuations.
“From what I know now, and from certain dates,” added Pilar bowing
with a reproachful glance to Gustavo who just then entered the room,
“I can positively assert that they are of very old standing.” And she
continued her remarks in a low tone to the worthy general, who, though
fully determined never to be astonished at any wickedness could not
conceal his dismay and perplexity.
“Leon’s child!” he muttered.
In another part of the room the Marquis de Telleria was enlarging on
a new--a perfectly new idea--with a ready flow of hackneyed phrases.
This was the theory that we are all monstrously alike; that there are
no men of mark left, and that the world is dismally uniform. He--the
marquis--was in fact fast losing faith in the traditional chivalry of
the Spanish nation.
“Society is fast rushing on its ruin,” the general agreed, “and though
some deluded minds refuse to see it, it is none the less certain. You
have only to observe one thing, one most significant fact.”
Every one turned to look at the speaker, awaiting the announcement,
which might have been a declaration of war to judge from the grave
truculence of his face.
“Observe, I say, one fact. When there is any scandal, or rumour of a
scandal, who gives rise to it? Mark, I say, who gives rise to it. It is
always a man devoid of religion; one of those conceited and infatuated
beings who dare to despise the Christian faith, and who may be seen
every day flaunting their insolence, and lifting their heads to defy
the stars.”
This speech was received with the silence of grave consent; then a
question arose between the deputy and the journalist as to whether Leon
sinned from indifference or from perversity.
“There is no doubt of it,” said the deputy, “corruption is universal.
But while those who cling to the faith are in a position to amend and
save their souls, the rationalists are going on straight to ruin. Like
Samson, they have pulled the temple about their ears, and, like him,
they must perish in the ruins.”
Meanwhile Gustavo and the Marquesa de San Salomó were talking together
in too low a voice to be overheard.
“You ought--you must,” she said. “Tell the whole truth to María.”
“The truth? But I cannot trust to appearances. I have not at all made
up my mind as to Leon’s guilt. Until I have seen him and talked to him
I shall say nothing to my sister.”
“Then I will.”
“No, you will not.”
The lady was fractiously eager; she felt as though she could not
breathe freely till she had sent the arrow home to her friend’s heart.
“But I assure you I will,” she said, with dilated nostrils, sparkling
eyes and a mounting colour.
“In matters that concern my family the decision must be left to them.”
“Oh! I have a voice too in matters which concern your family,” said the
marquesa with an impertinent accent on the words “your family.”
“Never, with my consent,” retorted Gustavo, repressing his indignation.
He was pale, and his whole expression was that of a man who had worries
of his own. Pilar raised her voice.
“Our friend here--the father of his country--tells me that he cannot
make his speech to-morrow on the subject of article twenty-two.” There
was a murmur of dissatisfaction. “The president has allowed him to
exchange his turn.”
“When will it be then?”
“This sad business of his sister’s,” she went on, looking at Gustavo
with assumed sympathy. “Has been too much for his brain.”
Gustavo went across to where his mother was sitting.
“Compose yourself,” she said affectionately, “we are as miserable as
you can be, but we have not lost patience.”
“Ah well, I have.”
“But have you made any effort to verify the truth of this report
about Leon,” asked the deputy who gave himself the airs of a whole
convocation.
“Oh there is no lack of dates. Agustin went to see him to-day ... he
tried to bring him to a sense of duty....” And the conversation still
ran on this absorbing subject till presently the group was diminished
by several persons moving off to hear the mistress of the house read
an article by Louis Veuillot. Gustavo and his mother went into an
adjoining room.
“Is it true that my father went to-day to see Leon?”
“You heard me say so.”
“I was afraid that his journey to Carabanchel might have had another
object. It would be a fresh disgrace....”
“What nonsense! Disgrace! You are a perfect Don Quixote!”
“Yes,” said Gustavo with a glare of wrath in his eyes, “I am afraid he
went to throw himself at the feet of our enemy and to beg of him....”
“What shocking things you say! We, we, beg of him!”
“Oh! that would not astonish me; I am accustomed to shocking things. I
will go to see Leon and talk to him myself. Who knows but that he may
not be so guilty as we think. Horrible lies are invented in the world
and it is quite certain that all are not good who are supposed to be.
Others on the contrary--if he has really deserted my sister to live
with another woman all intercourse between us and him must cease; he
must be a stranger to us. Oh! what a shame it is--what misery--to have
received from such a man so many favours that we cannot throw back in
his teeth!”
“Good heavens! do not speak like that, you will attract attention,”
cried the marquesa alarmed by her son’s vehemence. “You are really
absurd!”
“Absurd!” repeated Gustavo bitterly. “What do I care; and after all I
am the only one of the family who feels the vileness of our existence.”
“Gustavo!”
“I speak for myself, only for myself. This house is as odious to me
as my own home. The everlasting babble about morality has deafened
me and prevents my hearing the voice of truth--truth, which the more
it is felt the less it is talked about. I am equally disgusted with
my own part in the world, with the position of my family, and the
worldly cynical set who call themselves my friends. I am satisfied with
nothing, and the one thing I hope for, is a voluntary exile that may
remove me from all who belong to me.”
“And do you wish to add fresh troubles to those I already have to
bear?” she said, visibly moved. “You, emigrate, renounce all your
future prospects--even the hope of becoming a minister....”
“No, the idea of emigrating is, of course, mere madness; I cannot go.
My ambition and my disgrace are one and I am bound to them as the
snail is to his shell. Here I must stay--for ever inseparable from
my family, my fancy, my class, and my principles!” He accented the
last word ironically. “I must live on, seeing what I see, and hearing
what I hear. By the way, I have a new disaster to tell you of. This
evening Polito was slapped in the face, in a house I need not name, in
consequence of a dispute over a game of cards. There was a fight, women
screamed--the police interfered....”
“But was he hurt?” asked his mother.
“No--a bruise or two; but the row was heard all down the street--no
matter the name of the street;” he groaned and went on: “We live in
an evil day, a day of wrath! However, from this time forth I shall
insist on managing the affairs of the house, and we shall see whether
I can get it out of the present difficulty, and save our credit at any
rate--save the honour which is no longer a fact but a fiction. I am
deeply vexed that my father should have gone to Leon with the purpose
that I suspect.”
“It is an absurd suspicion.”
“Nay--it is a miracle if I am mistaken. But I will know the truth, for
I will see Leon.”
“You?”
“Yes I. I must know his guilt from himself. I believe him to be in
error, but not in wilful sin; I will talk to him frankly and he will
answer me in the same way. If he is such a wretch he will have to
confess it ... meanwhile be sure you do not let a word of these reports
reach María’s ears.”
“Oh! I shall tell her myself; poor child! It would be a pity that she
should not know all the virtues of her loving husband! Fancy if a
stranger were to tell her, exaggerating or misrepresenting the facts.”
“Say nothing about it to her.”
“Do not interfere in that matter. I shall, and this very night. You
need not teach me my duties as an affectionate and anxious mother;
I know perfectly well what I ought to do. María must be informed of
everything. How do you know that we may not arrange a reconciliation?”
Gustavo was on the point of replying when their privacy was invaded
by a certain poet who was said to be very attentive to the marquesa
and one of her favourite followers--a common, clumsy-looking man, but
older than he seemed. There was no trace in his features of that lofty
refinement which might have entitled him to write, in a dozen different
metres, of the perennial founts of gladness and the mystical union of
souls, or to proclaim his indignation against those who denied or
ignored the existence of God. It was hard to credit so despicable a
person with magnanimity.
“It is admirable, unanswerable!” he exclaimed as he came in.
“What is?”
“Louis Veuillot’s article on modern society--on those base and corrupt
minds who, to smother their own remorse, wish to abolish faith. Do you
want this copy of the _Univers_, Gustavo?”
“You can take it if you will let me have it to-morrow. I have an
article to write on the same subject.”
They went into the drawing-room.
“Then it is understood we sing to-morrow,” said the marquesa to her
friend.
“Yes, to-morrow, without fail.” There was a rustling of silk dresses,
a chorus of: “To-morrow then, to-morrow--” a chirping of kisses and
moving of chairs. The company were dispersing. Some left in pairs:
some went smiling, others frowning. The Tellerias departed, then the
general, and the deputy with his archiepiscopal airs; and with him went
Gustavo, discussing church politics but without losing his expression
of gloom.
“Good-night, Pilar; to-morrow at San Prudencio.”
“Good-night--I will take your message to Padre Paoletti.”
And when they were all gone the Marquesa de San Salomó retired to pray
and to sleep.