Marisalada was already convalescent, as if nature had desired to
recompense the excellent treatment of Stein, and the charitable care of
the good Maria. She was decently dressed; and her hair, well combed and
gathered behind her neck, bore evidence of the attention which Dolores
had shown in putting her _coiffure_ in order.
One day when Stein was reading in his chamber, whose window overlooked
the grand court where the children amused themselves in company with
Marisalada, he heard her imitate the songs of various birds with such
rare perfection, that he closed his book to admire this really
extraordinary talent.
Soon after commenced one of those recitations so common in Spain, and
which consist of playing and singing at the same time. Marisalada took
the part of the mother; Pepe that of a young cavalier who came to demand
of her the hand of her daughter; the mother refused him; the young man
would take possession of her by force of his love; and all this
dialogue, composed of couplets, was sung with exquisite melody.
The book fell from the hands of Stein, who, like all good Germans,
passionately loved music.
Never had so beautiful a voice struck his ear. It was a metal pure and
ringing like crystal, smooth and flexible as silk. Stein hardly dared to
breathe, so much did he fear to lose a single note.
“You are there, all ears,” said Maria, who entered the chamber unknown
to Stein. “Have I not warned you that she is a canary set free?”
And upon this she descended to the court and asked Marisalada to sing
her a song.
She refused, with her accustomed tartness.
At this moment Momo entered, singularly dressed and driving before him
the ass laden with charcoal. He had his hands and face bedaubed and
black as ink.
“_El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!_” cried Marisalada on seeing him. “_El
Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!_” repeated the children.
“If I had nothing else to do,” replied Momo furiously, “but to sing like
you, great mountebank, I would not be daubed from head to foot.
Fortunately, Don Frederico has forbidden you to sing, and you will not
stun my ears.”
Marisalada, as a response, struck out in a song in her loudest tones.
The Andalusian people have at their command an infinite quantity of
songs. There are the _boleros_, now joyous, now sad; the _ole_, the
_fandango_, the _cano_, so pretty and so difficult to execute; and many
others, among which is distinguished the _romance_. The tone of the
romance is monotonous, and we dare not affirm that this song, receiving
the honors of written notation, could satisfy the dilettante and the
melodrama. But its charm, or, if you will, its enchanting grace,
consists in the modulations of the voice in singing, as it were to cast
out certain notes, to blend them, to _balance_ them, so to say, very
softly, in raising or lowering the tone, in swelling it or allowing it
to die. It is thus that the _romance_, composed of a number of notes
strongly bound, presents the great difficulties of expression, and the
purity of execution.
The song belongs so essentially to the peasantry, that the common class
of the people alone, and very few among them, attain perfection. Those
who sing well appear to sing by intuition. When towards evening, in the
country, one hears at a distance a fine voice singing the _romance_ with
a melancholy full of originality, he feels an extraordinary emotion,
which can only be compared to that produced in Germany by the sounds of
the postilion’s cornet, so deliciously repeated by the echoes in the
magnificent forests, and on the splendid lakes. The words of the
_romance_ refer generally to some history of the Moors, or recount
either pious legends or the sad exploits of brigands. That ancient and
celebrated romance which we have received from our fathers like a
melodious tradition, has been more lasting as to some of its notes than
all the grandeur of Spain achieved by her cannon, and sustained by the
mines of Peru. There are still many other popular songs, very pretty,
very expressive, of which the music is specially adapted to words.
Witness that which was sung by Marisalada, and which we transcribe here
in all its simplicity.
“A cursed cavalier
Loved a noble dame;
Who to his love gave ear,
Echoing his flame.
“Her manor, happy once,
Silent entered he;
And in her lord’s absence,
Found security.
“And now the wrapt embrace
Seemed from danger free;
When knelled the master’s voice,
‘Open quick to me.’
“He gayly cried, ‘Sweet dove!
Let me thee embrace;
Fever is it, or love,
Palors now thy face?’
“‘Scold me thou would’st again,
Fear then pales me thus;
The key? Let me explain?
Thy treasure key is lost.’
“‘Gold is preferred to steel,
Then still be calm, my dear;
But say why, if you will,
Is this proud courser here?’
“‘Yours is yon race horse, lord,
Presented by papa;
Who asks, with knightly word,
Your presence shortly there.’
“‘Your father is most kind,
Such noble gift to make;
This pistol, too, I find!
Is there not some mistake?’
“‘’Tis yours, please comprehend,
From him: he bade me say,
He hopes you will attend
My sister’s wedding day.’
“‘Contemptuous of law,
Thus in my wedded bed;
Who is the wretch to dare,
My fatal ire to goad?’
“‘My youngest sister ’tis,
Whom father to me sent;
To share with me my bliss,
And see how sweet life went.’
“But suddenly the truth,
Flashed on the husband’s mind;
‘Father! take back thy Ruth,
I but a traitress find!
“‘No longer is she mine,
Betwixt us is a gulf;
But vain ’tis to repine,
Be man! avenge thyself.’
“The wife paid for her wrong,
At the sharp poignard’s point;
And the false knight was hung,
The only death he’d grant.”
Marisalada had scarcely finished singing this ballad, when Stein, who
had an excellent ear for music, took his flute and repeated, note by
note, the song he had just heard. At this the young girl nearly fainted
with astonishment; she looked around on all sides to discover whence
came this echo so pure and faithful.
“It was not an echo,” cried the little girls, “it was Don Frederico, who
whistled in a reed pierced with holes.”
Marisalada then quietly entered the chamber of Stein, and began to
listen with the greatest attention, her body bent forward, a smile on
her lips, and her soul in her eyes.
Within this instant the rude ferocity of the fisherman’s daughter was
changed, and her regard for Stein induced a certain confidence and
docility which caused the greatest surprise to all the family.
Maria advised Stein to profit by the ascendency he obtained day by day
over the mind of Marisalada, to engage her to be instructed and employ
her time in learning the law of God, and to try and become a good
Christian; a woman of sense and reason; a good manager.
The grandmother added, that to obtain the end proposed, to bend the
entire character of Marisalada, and to make her abandon her bad habits,
the best thing would be to pray the Señora Rosita, the mistress of the
school, to be so good as to take charge of her, because she was a very
honest woman, fearing God, and very expert in all her handy-work.
Stein much approved of this idea, and obtained the consent of
Marisalada. He promised, in return, to go and see her every day, and
play airs on the flute to divert her.
The disposition of the young girl awakened in her an extraordinary taste
for the study of music, and the first impulse was given her by the
ability of Stein.
When Momo found that Marisalada had put herself under the tuition of
Rosa Mistica, to learn there to sew, to sweep, to cook, and above all,
as he said, to have judgment; when he knew that it was the doctor who
had decided this, he declared he believed what Don Frederico had
recounted respecting his country, where there were certain men whom all
the mice followed when they heard a whistle.
Since the death of her mother, Señorita Rosa had established a school
for little girls. School is the name which they give in villages; but
the school in cities bears a more pompous title, and it is called an
academy. The little village children attend school from the morning
until midday; all the information is composed of Christian doctrine and
of sewing. In cities they learn to read, to write, to embroider, and to
sketch. It is true that these schools cannot create the wells of
science, nor become the nurseries of artists, or produce models of an
education equal to that of a _mujer emancipada_; but in return they
produce ordinarily good workers and excellent mothers of families, which
is still better.
The invalid perfectly cured. Stein urged upon her father that he would
confide his daughter for some time, to the honest woman who would
replace the mother she had been deprived of, and who would instruct her
in the duties of her sex.
When it was proposed to the Señorita Rosa to admit to her house the
_indomitable_ daughter of the fisherman, her first reply was decidedly
negative, as she was accustomed to make, in such circumstances, to
persons of her character.
Notwithstanding, she finished by consenting, when she was made to
understand the good effects expected to result from this work of
charity. It is impossible to recount all that the unfortunate
schoolmistress suffered during the time she had Marisalada in charge. On
one side were mockeries and rebellion; on the other, sermons without
profit, and exhortations without result. Two causes exhausted the
patience of Rosa; with her patience was not an inborn virtue, but
laboriously acquired.
Marisalada had succeeded in organizing a kind of conspiracy in the
little battalion commanded by Rosa. This conspiracy burst forth one fine
morning, timid and undecided at first, then audacious and walking with a
lofty head. Thus was the event:
“The rose mallow does not please me,” suddenly said Marisalada.
“Silence!” cried the mistress, whose severe discipline forbade
conversation during school-hours.
Silence was re-established.
Five minutes after a voice, sharp and insolent, was heard:
“The moon-roses do not please me.”
“No one asked your opinion,” said the Señorita Rosa, believing that this
declaration had been provoked by Marisalada.
Five minutes after, another conspirator said, on picking up her thimble
which had fallen--
“I do not like white roses.”
“What does it signify?” cried Rosa, whose black eye shone like a beacon.
“You mock me!”
“Moss roses do not please me,” said one of the smallest girls, hastily
hiding under the table.
“Nor the passion roses, me.”
“Nor the roses of Jericho, me.”
“Nor the yellow roses, me.”
The strong and clear voice of Marisalada drowned all other voices--
“I cannot bear dry roses,” cried she.
“I cannot bear dry roses,” repeated all the scholars in chorus.
Rosa Mistica, who at the commencement was only astonished, rose up on
seeing so much insolence, ran to the kitchen, and returned armed with a
broom.
At sight of this all the conspirators fled like a flock of birds. Rosa
remained alone, let fall her broom and crossed her arms.
“Patience, Lord!” she exclaimed, after having done every thing possible
to subdue her emotion. “I will support a sobriquet with resignation, as
thou, Lord, supported thy cross; but I yet lack that crown of thorns.
Thy will be done!”
Perhaps she might have decided to pardon Marisalada this escapade, but
the adventure which soon after followed obliged her to send her away.
The son of the barber, Ramon Perez, a great amateur of the guitar, came
every night to touch the chords of his guitar and sing amorous couplets
under the strongly fastened windows of the devotee.
“Don Modesto,” said she to him one day, “when you hear this bird of
night, Ramon, whose voice wounds your hearing, do me the kindness to go
out and order him to carry his music elsewhere.”
“But, Rosita,” replied Don Modesto, “would you that I get on bad terms
with this eccentric fellow, when his father (may God repay him!) has
shaved me for nothing since my arrival in Villamar? And, see how it is.
_I_ like to listen to it, because none can deny that he draws from his
voice and instrument modulations of excellent taste.”
“I congratulate you,” said Rosa. “It is possible that your ears are
proof against a bomb-shell. If it pleases you, it is not convenient to
me that he comes and sings under the windows of an honest woman. It
produces neither honor nor profit.”
The physiognomy of Don Modesto expressed a mute answer divided into
three parts. In the first place--astonishment, which seemed to say,
What! Ramon make love to my hostess! In the second place--doubt; as if
he had said, Is it possible? Lastly--the certainty embodied in these
phrases: The thing is sure; Ramon is audacious.
After this reflection, Rosa continued:
“You might cool yourself in passing from the heat of your bed to the
fresh sea air; you had better remain quiet, and it is I who will say to
this magpie, Do you wish to divert yourself? then buy yourself a doll.”
Precisely at midnight was heard the sounds of a guitar, and a voice
which sang--
“The black of thy black hair I love,
Believe me, much more fully,
Than ivory whiteness e’er can prove,
Or the majestic lily.”
“What folly!” cried Rosa Mistica, springing out of her bed. “See how he
continues this annoyance which he sings so profitlessly.”
The voice continued:
“To thy prayers, to the church so superb,
All resplendent thou seemest in vain;
Tread thou gracefully then the light herb,
For the herb will be green soon again.”
“God assist us!” murmured Rosa, in putting on her third petticoat: “he
mixes up the Church with his profane couplets, and those who hear him
will say that he sings thus to insult me. This beardless barber! does he
believe he can mock me? It required only that.”
Rosa entered into the saloon, and caught a view of Marisalada, who,
leaning against the shutter, listened to the singer with all the
attention she was capable of. Then she made the sign of the cross,
exclaiming--
“And she is not yet thirteen years old! There are no more children.”
Taking her scholar by the arm, she drew her away from the window, and
placed herself there at the moment when Ramon powerfully touched his
guitar, and strained his throat to entone the following couplet:
“My loved one to the window came,
Now all around here is obscure;
But thy bright eyes will soon illume,
For love will be the Cynosure.”[3]
Then the music of the guitar continued the air with more vehemence and
ardor than ever.
“It is I who will lighten thee with a torch of hell!” cried Rosa
Mistica, in a sharp and angry voice. “Libertine! Profaner! Everlasting
and insupportable singer!”
Ramon Perez, recovered from his first surprise, set off to run lighter
than a buck, and without casting a single look behind.
This was the decisive _coup_. Marisalada was sent back to her room, in
spite of the timid efforts at reconciliation tendered in her favor by
Don Modesto.
“Señor,” replied Rosita to her guest, “charges are charges, and while
this shameless girl is under my responsibility, I must render account of
her actions to God and to men; each one has enough of his own sins,
without charging himself or herself, in addition, with those of others.
You view it otherwise, she is a creature who will never follow the good
path. When she is pointed to the right, she turns always to the left.”