LA GAVIOTA:
A SPANISH NOVEL.
BY
FERNAN CABALLERO.
TRANSLATED BY
J. LEANDER STARR.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN BRADBURN,
(SUCCESSOR TO M. DOOLADY,)
49 WALKER-STREET.
1864.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864,
BY JOHN BRADBURN,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.
TO
THE HON. GEORGE OPDYKE,
EX-MAYOR OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK.
SIR:
I am honored with your permission to dedicate to you this translation of
the best novel in the Spanish language. This honor I can well
appreciate. The urbanity of your character, and your firm integrity as a
gentleman, a merchant, and while so ably filling the civic chair of this
great city, have rendered you both distinguished and respected.
Glowing hopes and confident expectations were formed of your success in
the performance of the arduous duties of Mayor, when, two years ago, you
were inaugurated. Yesterday was a yet prouder day to yourself and to
your friends, when the mantle of office fell gracefully from your
shoulders, amid the applause and homage of citizens of all classes and
shades of political opinion, the only strife among whom was, who should
show to the courteous, impartial, and zealous retiring mayor the
greatest respect.
Well may the king of Israel have exclaimed: “Let not him that girdeth on
his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off.”
Your career has been marked by the most devoted patriotism, and you have
stood forth at the period of the nation’s trials as an unflinching
supporter of constitutional government, and throughout every loyal State
in the Union will your name be revered as such.
May, sir, at some far distant day, that tribute be paid to you which
honored the memory of the immortal Pitt
“Non sibi, sed pro patria vixit.”
With great respect,
I have the honor to be, sir,
Your obedient servant,
J. LEANDER STARR.
17 LAFAYETTE PLACE,
NEW YORK, _Jan. 5th, 1864_.
PREFACE,
BY THE TRANSLATOR.
Gaviota (sea-gull) is the _sobriquet_ which Andalusians give to
harsh-tongued, flighty women of unsympathetic mien and manners; and such
was applied to the heroine of this tale by a youthful, malicious
tormentor--MOMO.
_Fernan Caballero_ is, indeed, but a pseudonym: the author of this
novel, passing under that name, is understood to be a lady, partly of
German descent. Her father was Don Juan Nicholas Böhl de Faber, to whose
erudition Spain is indebted for a collection of ancient poetry. Cecelia,
the daughter of Böhl de Faber, was born at Morges, in Switzerland, in
1797, and subsequently married to a Spanish gentleman. Indeed, since the
death of her first husband, she has successively contracted two other
marriages, and is now a widow.
We have it on the authority of the Edinburgh Review, that the novels of
this gifted authoress were “published at the expense of the Queen.” The
same authority remarks, “Hence it might have been foretold, that of the
various kinds of novels, the romantic and descriptive was the least
repugnant to the old Spanish spirit; and that in order for a writer
successfully to undertake such a novel, it would be necessary for him to
have a passionate attachment to the national manners and
characteristics, and a corresponding dislike to the foreign and
new--such are the qualities we find united in Fernan Caballero: _La
Gaviota is perhaps the finest story in the volumes_.” Its advent is a
real literary event: the most severe critics have dissected this new
work, and have unhesitatingly proclaimed the authoress to be the Spanish
_Walter Scott_. Among the painters of manners, the best, without doubt,
are the Spanish writers. We are certain to find there truth, joined to a
richness and piquancy of details; and, above all, a spirited tone, which
singularly heightens and sets off their recitals. They have, however,
what in us is a defect, but with them a natural gift--_the being a
little prolix_.
In translating it is easy to avoid this prolixity. This has been
attended to in the present translation. I have preserved all the
character of truth and originality of this novel; curtailing only such
passages as seemed, in my judgment, too long and tedious for those who
are not initiated into those _agreeable familiarities_ of Spanish
intimate conversation, and others, which are without attraction to those
who were not born under the bright sun of Iberia. In regard to the
translation, I would again quote from the review of it by the “Edinburgh
Review:” “One quality which distinguishes their talk it is impossible to
give any notion of in translation, and that is the enormous quantity of
proverbs, in rhyme or in assonance, with which they intersperse their
speech; and even when they are not actually quoting a proverb, their
expressions have all the terseness of proverbial language.”
In rendering into English the ballads and other poetry, so profusely
interspersed throughout this novel, I had to decide between the
preservation of the original thoughts and ideas, in all their quaintness
and integrity, and wrest from my translation that poetic elegance which,
as English poetry, I could have wished to have clothed it in; or to
abandon all the original, save the mere text, and write independent
stanzas in English, as though I had composed original poetry, borrowing
only the _thought_ from the Spanish text. My habitual desire, in _all_
my translations, being to preserve the _original_ sense in its _fullest
force_, I adopted the former of these two views; and thus, while the
reader will find no poetic beauty, he will have before him the entire
original thoughts. The translation of any foreign poetry into chaste and
elegant English verse is acknowledged to be a very difficult task. At
the end of this volume are four specimens, to satisfy the curious, of a
_strictly literal_ verbal translation of short poetic sprinklings
towards the conclusion of the tale.
A writer remarks, on the Andalusian character: “Seeing nothing about
them but a smiling fertility, the hierarchy of the Catholic Heaven are
to them beneficent beings, to be approached with trust and confidence,
and the familiarity with which they speak of God, the Saviour, the
Virgin, and the saints, _must not be mistaken for irreverence_; on the
contrary, it springs from the belief that they are really the favored
sons of the faith, and from the vividness with which they realize the
existence and beneficent watchfulness of their Divine protectors.”
And again. “There is hardly a bird, or a shrub, or an odor, about which
the Andalusians have not some pious and simple legend. The white poplar
was the first tree the Creator made, and therefore it is hoary, as being
the oldest. San Joseph told the serpent to go on its belly, because it
attempted to bite the infant Saviour in their flight into Egypt.
Rosemary has its sweetest perfume and its brightest blossoms on Fridays,
the day of the Passion, because the Virgin hung on a rosemary-bush the
clothes of the infant Christ. Everybody loves the swallows, because they
plucked out the thorns of our Saviour’s crown on the cross; while the
owl, who dared to look impassively on the Crucifixion, has been sick and
afflicted ever since, and can utter nothing but _Cruz! Cruz!_ The rose
of Jericho was once white, but a drop of the blood of the wounded
Saviour fell on it, and it has been red ever since. Children smile in
their sleep because angels visit them. When there is a buzzing noise in
the ears, it is because a leaf of the tree of life has fallen.”
LA GAVIOTA.[1]
CHAPTER I.
In November, in the year 1836, the steamer “Royal Sovereign” took her
departure from the foggy coast of Falmouth, lashing the waves with her
paddle-wheels, and spreading her sails, gray and wet, in the mist still
grayer and more wet than they.
The interior of the hull presented the uncheerful spectacle of the
commencement of a sea voyage. The passengers, crowded together, were
struggling with the fatigue of sea-sickness. Women were seen in
extraordinary attitudes, with hair disordered, crinolines disarranged,
hats crushed; the men pale, and in bad-humor; the children neglected and
crying; the servants traversing the cabin with unsteady steps, carrying
to their patients tea, coffee, and other imaginary remedies; while the
ship, queen and mistress of the waters, without heeding the ills she
occasioned, wrestled powerfully with the waves, triumphing over
resistance, and pursuing the retreating billows.
The men who had escaped the common scourge were enabled to walk the
deck, either by being so constituted as to withstand the ship’s motion,
or by being accustomed to travel.
Among them was the governor of an English colony, a tall, fine-looking
fellow, accompanied by two of his staff officers. There were several who
wore their mackintoshes, thrusting their hands into their pockets; some
had flushed countenances, others blue, or very pale, and, generally, all
were discontented. In fine, that beautiful vessel seemed to be converted
into a palace of discontent.
Among all the passengers was distinguished a youth, who appeared to be
about twenty-four years of age; gallant, noble, and of ingenuous
countenance, and whose handsome and affable face gave no signs of the
slightest caprice. He was tall, and of gentlemanly manners; and in his
deportment there was grace, and an admirable dignity. A head of black,
curly hair adorned his fair and majestic forehead; the glances of his
large, black eyes were placid and penetrating by turns. His lips were
shaded by a light, black mustache; his bland smile indicated talent and
vivacity; and in his noble person, in his actions, and in his gestures,
there were evidences of the elevated class to which he belonged, with a
soul freed from the least symptom of that disdainful air which many
unjustly attribute to all kinds of superiority. He travelled for
pleasure, and was essentially good; nevertheless, a virtuous sentiment
of anger impelled him to launch out against the vices and extravagances
of society. He often affirmed that he did not feel it to be his vocation
to battle with windmills, like Don Quixote. He would much more agreeably
consort with those who seek the good, with the same satisfaction and
purity that the artless young damsel feels in gathering violets. His
physiognomy, his grace, the freedom with which he muffled himself in
his Spanish cloak, his insensibility to cold and to the general
disquietude around him, established decidedly that he was Spanish.
He was walking backwards and forwards, observing at a glance the
assemblage which, mosaic-like, chance had thrown together on those
boards which constitute a large ship, and which, in smaller dimensions,
would constitute a coffin. But there is not much to be observed in men
who thus presented the appearance of those who are intoxicated, or in
women whose appearance resembles that of a corpse.
Notwithstanding, he was much interested in the family of an English
official, whose wife had been brought on board greatly indisposed, and
who was immediately carried to her berth; the same was done with the
nurse, and the father followed, with the infant boy in his arms;
afterwards he led in three other little creatures, of two, three, and
four years of age, enjoining upon them to remain silent, and not to move
from thence. The poor children, although they felt inclined to cry,
remained motionless and silent, like the angels which are represented in
paintings at the feet of the Virgin. Little by little the beautiful
bloom of their cheeks disappeared; their large eyes opened wide, and
they remained mollified and stupid; and while no movement or expression
of anger announced that they suffered, such was clearly denoted by the
expression of their frightened and pallid countenances. No one noticed
this silent torment, this amiable and sad resignation.
The Spaniard went to summon the steward, while that official was
answering a young man, who, in German, and with expressive gestures,
appeared to be imploring assistance in favor of some wretched victim of
sea-sickness.
As the person of this young man did not indicate either elegance or
distinction, as he spoke nothing but German, the steward turned his
back, saying he did not understand him.
Then the German descended to his berth in the forecastle, and returned
immediately, bringing a pillow, a quilt, and a heavy overcoat. With
these auxiliaries he made up a kind of bed. He laid the children in it,
and covered them with great care, and stretched himself on the deck
beside them. But the sea-sick man had scarcely reclined, when a violent
vomiting commenced, despite his efforts, and, in an instant, pillow,
quilt, and great-coat were bespattered and ruined. The Spaniard then
noticed the German, in whose physiognomy he saw a smile of benevolent
satisfaction, which seemed to say, “Thank God, these little ones are
cared for!”
He attempted a conversation with him in English, in French, and in
Spanish, and received no other answer than a silent inclination of the
head, and with but little grace, repeating this phrase: “Ich verstehe
nicht” (I do not understand).
When, after dinner, the Spaniard again ascended to the deck, the cold
had increased. He enfolded himself in his cloak, and commenced
promenading. Then he noticed the German seated on a bench, and looking
at the sea; which, as if to exhibit its sparkling, displayed on the
sides of the ship its pearls of foam, and their brilliant phosphoric
light. This young observer was dressed very insufficiently, because his
frock-coat had become worn and unserviceable, and the cold must have
pierced him.
The Spaniard advanced several paces to approach him; but he hesitated,
he knew not how to institute a conversation. Immediately he smiled, as
if a happy thought had occurred to him, and that he was going the right
way towards it, and said to the German, in _Latin_: “You must feel very
cold.”
That voice and short phrase produced on the stranger the most lively
satisfaction, and harmonized, also, with his questioner, they were in
accord in the same dialect; he replied:
“The night is, indeed, somewhat severe; but I was not thinking of that.”
“Then what were you thinking of?” demanded the Spaniard.
“I was thinking of my father and mother, and of my brothers and
sisters.”
“Why do you travel, then, if you so much feel the separation?”
“Ah! señor; necessity--that implacable despot.”
“Why not travel for pleasure?”
“Pleasure is for the rich, and I am poor. For my pleasure! If I avow the
motive of my voyage, then truly pleasure would be very far off.”
“Where then do you go?”
“To the war. To the civil war, the most terrible of all, at Navarre.”
“To the war!” exclaimed the Spaniard, examining the kind and docile,
almost humble, and very little belligerent, countenance of the German.
“Then you would become a military man?”
“No, sir; that is not my vocation. Neither my affections nor my
principles induce me to take up arms, if it were not to defend the holy
cause of the independence of Germany, if the foreigner will become the
invader. I go to the army of Navarre to procure employment as a
surgeon.”
“You do not know the language?”
“No, sir; but I can learn it.”
“Nor the country?”
“Neither. I have never left my native town, except for the university.”
“But you are provided with recommendations?”
“None whatever.”
“Do you count upon any patron?”
“I know nobody in Spain.”
“What then do you rely upon?”
“My conscience, my good-will, my youth, and my confidence in God.”
This conversation rendered the Spaniard thoughtful. He gazed on that
face, in which candor and docility were impressed; those blue eyes, pure
as those of a girl; those smiles, sad, but at the same time confident,
earnestly interested him, and moved his pity.
“Will you descend with me,” he said, after a brief pause, “and accept
some hot punch to keep out the cold? In the interim let us converse.”
The German inclined his head in token of his gratitude, and following
the Spaniard, they descended to the dining-room.
At the head of the table were seated the governor, with his two
officers; on one side were two Frenchmen. The Spaniard and the German
seated themselves at the foot of the table.
“But how,” exclaimed the first, “have you ever conceived the idea of
going to this distracted country?”
The German hesitated, and then related to him faithfully his life: “I am
the sixth son of a professor in a small city of Saxonia, and who had
spent much in the education of his sons. Finding ourselves without
occupation or employment, like so many young paupers you find in
Germany, after having devoted their youth to excellent and profound
studies, and who had studied their art under the best masters, our
maintenance was a burden on our family; for which reason, without
feeling discouraged, with all my German calmness, I took the resolution
to depart for Spain, where the disgraceful and sanguinary wars of the
North opened up hopes that my services there might be useful.
“Beneath the linden-trees which cast their shadows on the door of my
homestead, I decided to carry out this resolution. I embraced for the
last time my good father, my beloved mother, my sister Lotte, and my
little brothers, who clamored to accompany me in my peregrinations.
Profoundly moved, and bathed in tears, I entered on life’s highway,
which others find covered with flowers. But--courage; man is born to
labor, and I felt that Heaven would crown my efforts. I like the
profession which I had chosen, because it is grand and noble; its object
is the alleviation of our fellows, and the results are beautiful,
although the drudgery seems painful.”
“And you made progress?”
Fritz Stein replied in German, inflicting an excited blow on his seat,
and making a slight reverence.
A short time afterwards, the two new friends separated. One of the
Frenchmen, who was placed in front of the door, saw that he was about to
ascend the staircase, and offered to place on the shoulders of the
German his Spanish cloak, lined with fur, to which the other showed some
resistance, and the Frenchman, with a look of scorn, replaced it in his
berth.
“Have you understood what they were talking about?” demanded he of his
countryman.
“Truly,” rejoined the first (who was a commission merchant), “Latin is
not my forte; but the red and pale youth seems to me a species of pale
_Werther_, and I have heard there is in his history something of
Charlotte. So is it with those little children described in a German
novel. By good luck, instead of recurring to the pistol to console him,
he prefers punch; it is less sentimental, but much more philosophical,
and more German. As to the Spaniard, I believe he is a species of Don
Quixote, protector of the destitute, who shares his cloak with the poor;
that joined to these high allurements, his look, firm and ardent like a
flame, his countenance, dull and wan like the light of the moon, form an
altogether perfect Spaniard.”
“You know,” said the first, “that in my quality of painter of history, I
go to Tarifa with the object of painting the siege of that city at the
moment when the son of Guzman made a sign to his father to sacrifice him
before surrendering the place, and this young man will serve me for a
model, and I am thus sure to succeed with my tableau. I have never in my
life seen nature approach so near the ideal.”
“There, then, ye gentlemen-artists! Always poets!” replied the
commercial traveller. “For my part, if I am not deceived by the natural
grace of this man, his lady foot well cast, the elegance of his profile,
and his form, I would characterize him as a taureador (bull-fighter).
Who knows? perhaps it is Montés himself, possessing the joint
attractions of riches and generosity.”
“A taureador!” cried the artist; “a man of the people! You jest.”
“Not at all,” said the other; “I am very far, indeed, from jesting. You
have not lived, like me, in Spain, and you do not know the aristocratic
type of the nation. You will see, you will see. This is my opinion.
Thanks to the progress of equality and fraternity, the insulting
manners of the aristocracy disappear daily, and in a short time hence
they will be found only among the men of the people.”
“Believe that this man is a taureador!” repeated the artist, with a
smile so disdainful that the commercial traveller, wounded by the reply,
rose and said:
“We will know very soon who he is; come with me, we will get information
of him from his servant.”
The two friends mounted to the deck, where they were not long in meeting
the man they searched for.
The commercial traveller, who volunteered to converse with the Spanish
servant, led the conversation, and, after some trivial remarks, asked:
“Your master,” he said to him, “has he retired to his chamber?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, casting on the questioner a look full
of penetration and malice.
“Is he rich?”
“I am not his intendant, I am only his valet-de-chambre.”
“Is he travelling on business?”
“I do not believe he has any.”
“Is he travelling for his health?”
“His health is excellent.”
“Is he travelling incognito?”
“No, sir; he travels with his name and Christian names.”
“And he is called--”
“Don Carlos de la Cerda.”
“An illustrious name, very certainly,” cried the painter.
“My name is Pedro de Guzman,” added the servant, “and I am humble
servant to you both.” He then made a very humble reverence, and went
away.
“Gil Blas is right,” said the Frenchman, “in Spain nothing is more
common than glorious names. It is true that in Paris my boot-maker was
named Martel, my tailor called himself Roland, and my laundress, Madame
Bayard. In Scotland, there are more Stuarts than paving-stones.”
“We are humbugged! That insolent servant is mocking us. But, every thing
considered, I have a suspicion that he is an agent of the factions, an
obscure emissary of Don Carlos.”
“Certainly not,” replied the artist; “it is my Alonzo Perez de Guzman
the Good--the hero of my dreams.” The other Frenchman shrugged his
shoulders.
When the ship arrived at Cadiz, the Spaniard took leave of Stein. “I am
obliged to remain some short time in Andalusia,” he said to him. “Pedro,
my servant, will accompany you as far as Seville, and take a place for
you in the diligence for Madrid. Here are some letters of recommendation
for the Minister of War and the general-in-chief of the army. If it
happens that you have any friendly service to ask of me, write to me at
Madrid, to this address.”
Stein, stifled with emotion, could not speak. With one hand he took the
letters, and with the other he pushed back the card which the Spaniard
presented to him. “Your name is engraven here,” he said in placing his
hand on his heart. “Oh! I will not forget it while I live; it is that of
a soul the most noble, the most elevated, the most generous; it is the
name of the best of men.”
“With this address,” replied Don Carlos, smiling, “your letters would
never reach me. You must have another, more clear and more brief,” and
he handed him his card, and departed.
Stein read: “The Duke of Almansa.”
And Pedro de Guzman, who was close by, added: “Marquis de Guadalmonte,
de Val-de-Flores, and de Loca-Fiel; Comte de Santa-Clara, de Encinasala,
et de Laza; Chevalier of the Golden Fleece, and Grand Cross of Charles
III.; Gentleman of the Chamber of his Majesty; Grandee of Spain, of
First Class; &c., &c., &c.”