CHAPTER I.

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The Joy of Captain Ribot

[Illustration: image of the book's cover]

THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE

ORIGINAL OF

A. PALACIO VALDES

BY

MINNA CAROLINE SMITH

[Illustration: colophon]

NEW YORK

BRENTANO'S

1900

COPYRIGHT, 1900,

BY BRENTANOS.

Introduction

"We Americans are apt to think because we have banged the Spanish

war-ships to pieces that we are superior to the Spaniards, but here in

the field where there is always peace they shine our masters. If we have

any novelists to compare with theirs at their best, I should be puzzled

to think of them, and I should like to have some one else try"--wrote

William Dean Howells in _Literature_.

When a work by one of the world's masters of fiction has called forth a

remark like the foregoing from a leading man of letters in America, it

would be a misfortune if the public to whom the remark is addressed

might not enjoy the privilege of acquaintance with that work. And it was

this most charming novel by Senor Armando Palacio Valdes, "La Alegria

del Capitan Ribot," that prompted Mr. Howells to write those words. Any

reader must be hard to please who would not take the keenest delight in

a story presented with a touch so delicate. The scene is laid in

Valencia, one of the earth's famous garden spots, where the touch of the

classic hand, laid upon the spot ages ago yet lingers. It is a story

dominated by the purest joy, as its serene Mediterranean landscape is

dominated by the purest sunshine.

Every novelist of character must have some purpose in mind in a given

work, and the purpose of Senor Valdes in this is of no slight import. It

happens that, from an unclean quality that distinguishes the fiction of

a certain nation, the minds of many lands have been infected. For the

almost universal aim of its authors has seemed to be so pervasively to

color their pictures of life with one particular kind of sin as to give

the impression that it is a main factor of modern civilization, instead

of something that blots but a small proportion of the lives of men and

women in any land. So, when Senor Valdes wrote to me, several months

ago, about his new novel, he said: "It is a protest from the depths

against the eternal adultery of the French novel." And when I read the

book, I thought that "A Married Woman" would have been a good name for

the story, so nobly and so truly does it present a type of the true and

devoted wife in Cristina Marti--one of the great creations in modern

literature. The trait that makes Senor Valdes one of the most eminent of

living novelists is greatness of soul, finding expression as it does in

a consummate mastery of his art. That trait appears in his "La Fe" as in

no other novel that I know; and in the present story it pervades the

whole work, which, moreover, is clean, sweet, and wholesome in every

part. Magnanimity is a word that somehow implies that greatness of soul

derives itself from greatness of heart, and the magnanimity of Senor

Valdes is of a degree that transcends limitations of race, of creed, and

of patriotism.

He has given evidence that in his catholic sympathies the fact of a

common humanity is sufficient for the inclusion of any man in his

brotherly regard. Of such as he the nations as yet count too few among

their sons. And when one of these speaks, no difference of tongue should

be allowed to bar our listening.

In the same article that has furnished the text for these remarks, Mr.

Howells notes, among the admirable attributes in which this noble-minded

Spaniard excels, "something very like our own boasted American humor

with some other things which we cannot lay special claim to; as a

certain sweetness, a gentle spirituality, a love of purity and goodness

in themselves, and an insight into the workings of what used to be

called the soul." As to the specific qualities of the book before us, I

cannot better express my own sentiments than to continue in the words of

Mr. Howells:

"La Alegria del Capitan Ribot is, as all the stories of this delightful

author are, a novel of manners, the modern manners of provincial Spain;

and, by the way, while we were spoiling our prostrate foe, I wish we

could have got some of these, too; they would form an agreeable relief

to our own, which they surpass so much in picturesqueness, to say the

least. The scene is mostly at Valencia, where Capitan Ribot, who

commands a steamer plying between Barcelona and Hamburg, is the guest of

the civil engineer, Marti. The novel is, as far as Ribot and his two

friends are concerned, a tender idyll, but on the other side it is an

exquisite comedy, with some fine tragic implications. Around all is

thrown the atmosphere of a civilization so different from our own, and

of a humanity so like the Anglo-Saxon, as well as the Russian and the

Scandinavian, even, that we find ourselves charmed at once by its

strangeness and its familiarity. There are the same temptations, the

same aspirations, the same strong desires, the same trembling

resolutions, masking under southern skies and in alien air; but

instantly recognizable by their truth to what all men feel and know."

Mr. Howells has expressed a desire to have Senor Valdes for our own. So

far as a most intelligently sympathetic presentation of this beautiful

story in English can do so, I am sure that my friend the translator has

made him so.

SYLVESTER BAXTER.

The Joy of Captain Ribot

THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT

CHAPTER I.

In Malaga they cook it not at all badly; in Vigo better yet; in Bilbao I

have eaten it deliciously seasoned on more than one occasion. But there

is no comparison between any of these, or the way I have had it served

in any of the other ports where I have been wont to touch, and the

cooking of a Senora Ramona in a certain shop for wines and edibles

called El Cometa, situated on the wharf at Gijon.

Therefore, when that most intelligent woman hears that the _Urano_ has

entered port, she begins to get her stewpans ready for my reception. I

prefer to go alone and at night, like the selfish and luxurious being

that I am. She sets my table for me in a corner of the back shop; and

there, at my ease, I enjoy pleasures ineffable and have taken more than

one indigestion.

I arrived the 9th of February, at eleven in the morning, and according

to my custom I ate little, preparing myself by healthful abstinence for

the ceremony of the evening. God willed otherwise. A little before the

striking of the hour a heathen of a sailor broke a lantern; the burning

wick fell upon a cask of petroleum and started a fire, which we got the

better of by throwing the barrel overboard with several others. But the

pilot-house was burned, together with much of the rigging and some of

the upper works of the steamer. In short, the consequences kept us busy

and on our feet nearly all night.

And this was the reason why I did not go to eat my dish of tripe at the

Senora Ramona's, but notified her, by means of the speaking trumpet, to

be ready for me that evening without fail.

It was about ten o'clock. Peaceful and contented, I descended the ladder

of the Urano, jumped into a boat, and in four strokes of my boat-man's

oars I was taken to the wharf, which stood deserted and shadowy. The

hulls of the vessels could hardly be made out and absolute silence

reigned on board them. Only the silhouette of the guards on their rounds

or that of some melancholy-looking passer-by was vaguely outlined in the

gloom. But the obscurity, that the few street-lamps were insufficient to

dissipate, was soon enlivened by the wave of light that proceeded from

the two open doorways of El Cometa. I fluttered away in that direction

like an eager butterfly. There were only three or four customers left

in the shop; the others had departed--some spontaneously, some because

of intimations, each time more or less peremptory, given by Senora

Ramona, who always closed up promptly at half after ten.

This woman greeted my appearance with a peal of laughter. I cannot say

what curious and mysterious titillation affected her nerves in my

presence; but I can affirm that she never saw me after an absence more

or less prolonged without being violently shaken by merriment, which in

turn inevitably resulted in severe attacks of coughing, inflaming her

cheeks and transforming them from their hue of grainy red to violet. Yet

I was profoundly gratified by that peal of laughter and that attack of

coughing, considering them a pledge of unalterable friendship, and that

I could count, in life and in death, upon her culinary accomplishments.

On such occasions it was my duty to double my spine, shake my head, and

laugh boisterously until Dame Ramona recovered herself. And I complied

therewith religiously.

"Ay, but how good it was yesterday, Don Julian!"

"And why not to-day?"

"Because yesterday was yesterday, and to-day is to-day."

Before this invincible reason I grew serious, and a sigh escaped me.

Dame Ramona went off in a fresh fit of laughter, followed by a

corresponding attack of asthmatic coughing. When at last she recovered

herself she finished washing the glass in her hands, and called to three

or four sailors chatting in a corner:

"Come, up with you! I am going to lock up."

One of them ventured to say:

"Wait a bit, Dame Ramona. We'll go when that gentleman does."

The hostess, frowning grimly, volunteered in solemn accents:

"This gentleman has come to eat some stewed tripe, and the table is set

for him."

Thereupon the customers, feeling the weight of this hint, and

comprehending the gravity of the occasion, lost no time in rising to

depart. Gazing at me for an instant with a mixture of respect and

admiration they went out, wishing us good-night.

"Well, Don Julian!" exclaimed Dame Ramona, her face brightening again,

"that tripe of yesterday fairly was of a kind to make one's mouth water

with delight."

My face must have expressed the most profound despair.

"And that of to-day--won't it do anything?" I inquired in tones of woe.

"To-day--to-day--you will see for yourself."

She waved her fat hand in a way calculated to leave me submerged in a

sea of doubt.

While she was giving the last touches to her work, I took some absinthe

to prepare my stomach adequately for its task, at the same time

meditating upon the serious words that I had heard.

Would it, or would it not, be so well seasoned, piquant, and aromatic as

my imagination depicted?

But when I had seated myself at the table; when I saw the dish before me

and felt its bland fragrance penetrating my nostrils, a ray of light

illumining my brain dissipated that dark spectral doubt. My heart began

to palpitate with inexplicable pleasure. I comprehended that the gods

still held in reserve some moments of happiness in this world.

Dame Ramona divined the emotion that overpowered my soul, and smiled

with maternal benevolence.

"What's that, Dame Ramona?" I exclaimed, pausing with my fork held

motionless in the air. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes, senor; I heard a scream."

"It called 'Help!'"

"Out on the wharf."

"Another scream!"

I threw down the fork and rushed to the door, followed by my hostess.

When I opened it I heard a sound of incoherent lamentation.

"My mother! Help! For God's sake! She is drowning!"

In two jumps I leaped over the rampart between me and the wharf, and

made out the figure of a woman waving her arms convulsively and uttering

piteous screams.

I saw what had happened, and, running to her, I asked:

"Who has fallen in?"

"My mother! Save her! Save her!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

And she pointed out the narrow space in the water between a lighter and

the wharf.

Although narrow, it was too wide for me to reach the craft. I plucked up

courage, however, and sprang for the rigging rather than the deck,

managing to grasp a cable. In this way I dropped to the deck. Seizing

the first rope I came across, I made it fast and slid down to the

water's edge. Happily, the woman had also grasped the rope and so kept

herself afloat. When I got to her I endeavored to seize her by the head.

But only a wig remained in my hand! I made another attempt, and this

time caught her arm. I drew her to the side of the vessel. Then I saw

that it would be impossible to get her out without help. How could I

climb the rope with one hand only? Fortunately the cries of the

daughter, together with my own, aroused the crew of a lighter, composed

of four sailors, and they easily got us out. There were some planks at

hand, and so we reached the wharf with her and took her to an

apothecary's near by, where she was at last restored to consciousness.

While the apothecary was attending her, the daughter, pale and silent,

bent over her, her face bathed with tears. She was a young lady of good

stature, slender, pale, her hair black and wavy; her whole personality,

if not of supreme beauty, attractive and interesting. She was dressed

with elegance, her mother also; and I inferred that they were persons

distinguished in the town. But one of the throng that had pressed into

the shop informed me that they were strangers, and had been but a few

days in Gijon.

When I found that she was neither dead nor hurt to any serious extent,

and feeling the chill of the bath penetrating me and making me shiver, I

wished them good-night.

The young lady raised her head, came towards me with animation, and

seizing my hands cordially, looked into my eyes with tearful

earnestness, and murmured with emotion:

"Thank you, thank you, senor! I shall never forget this!"

I gave her to understand that my service deserved no thanks; that

anybody in my place would have done the same, as I sincerely thought.

The only real sacrifice that I had made was that of the stewed tripe;

but I did not say this, very naturally.

When I reached the steamer and got into my room I felt so chilled that I

feared a heavy cold, if not pneumonia. But I rubbed myself energetically

with alcohol and wrapped myself so warmly in my bed that I wakened as

usual in the morning, healthy and lively, and in excellent humor.