July was an extremely hot month in Seville. People assembled in the
delicious courts, or near the magnificent marble fountains, and the
_jets-d’eau_ fell behind the innumerable tufts of flowers. From the
circular ceilings of the galleries were suspended large lamps incased in
globes of crystal, and throwing out on every side torrents of light. The
air was embalmed with the perfume of flowers. The richest furniture set
off the sumptuousness of these _fêtes_ every evening, which imparted a
peculiar grace to the beauty of the Sevilleans, whose animated and
joyous conversation rivalled the sweet murmurs of the fountains.
One evening, towards the end of July, there was a grand reunion at the
residence of the young, elegant, and beautiful Countess d’Algar. It was
esteemed a great favor to be introduced into this house; the mistress
was so amiable, and possessed of such graceful manners, that she
received all her guests with the same smile and the same cordiality.
In her eagerness, she had gathered around her all those who had been
presented to her, without consulting the will of her uncle. General
Santa-Maria, warlike _par excellence_, and, according to the spirit of
warriors in those times, a little exclusive, absolute, and disdainful;
in fine, a classic son of the god Mars, fully convinced that all
relations among men consist in those who command and those who obey, and
that the principal object, the sole utility of society, is to class
each of its members; above all, Spanish like Pelayo, and brave like Cid.
The general, with his sister, the Marchioness de Guadalcanal, mother of
the countess, and some other persons, were playing a species of game of
cards called _tresillo_. Several guests were walking under the galleries
discussing politics. The young people of both sexes, seated near the
tufts of flowers of a thousand colors, chatted and laughed as if the
earth produced only flowers, as if echo should send back only their own
joys.
The countess, half reclined on a sofa, complained of a headache, which,
however, did not prevent her from laughing. Her figure was small, and
delicately formed. Her thick blonde hair waved in long ringlets, as worn
by the English, on her alabaster shoulders. Her large brown eyes, her
teeth white as ivory, her mouth, and the oval of her face were models of
perfection. As to her grace, nothing could surpass it. Passionately
cherished by her mother, idolized by her husband, who, without loving
the world, left his wife unlimited liberty, because he knew her to be
virtuous, and had full confidence in her, the countess was truly an
accomplished woman, abusing none of her privileges, such was the
nobleness of her character. It is true she possessed in no degree grand
intellectual faculties, but she had the talent of _heart_; her
sentiments were just and delicate. All her ambition was reduced to the
desire to amuse and please, without effort, like the bird which flies
without knowing it, and sings because she sings. This evening she
mingled in the promenade, fatigued, and a little indisposed. She had
replaced her rich toilet by a robe of white muslin of great simplicity.
The long hanging sleeves garnished with lace, exposed her white and
rounded arms. A bracelet and some jewels were the only ornaments which
she had retained of her first attire. Near her was seated a young
colonel recently arrived from Madrid, after having been distinguished in
the war of Navarre. The countess, with her accustomed frankness, fixed
on him all her attentions.
General Santa-Maria regarded them from time to time, and bit his lips
impatiently.
“New fruit!” said he. “She would not be a daughter of Eve if the novelty
had not pleased her. A white-beak! Twenty-four years of age, and already
colonel! Has one ever seen such prodigality of rank? Here, for five or
six years one goes yet to school; and here one already commands a
regiment! They will tell us no doubt that he owes his grade to his
brilliant actions; for my part, I say that valor does not give
experience, and without experience no one knows how to command. Colonel
at twenty-four years of age! I was one at forty, after having been at
Roussillon, in America, and in Portugal, and I gained the scarf of a
general only on my return from the North, after having fought during the
war of independence. By my faith, gentlemen, in Spain we are all
becoming crazy, some by what they do, and others by what they leave
undone.”
At this moment loud exclamations were heard. The countess herself shook
off her languor, and suddenly rose up. “At last,” she cried, “we again
see him whom we had lost! A thousand times welcome, unfortunate
sportsman, ill-treated señor! You have caused a frightful alarm! But
what is it then? You stand there as if nothing had happened! Is it true,
what has been told us of a wonderful German doctor starting out from the
ruins of a fort, and those of a convent, in the manner of fantastic
creations? Relate to me then, duke, all these extraordinary things.”
The duke, after having received the congratulations which each one
offered him on his happy return and cure, placed himself near the
countess, and commenced the recital of events which the reader already
knows.
Then, after having spoken much of Stein and Marisalada, he finished by
saying, he had persuaded them to come and establish themselves at
Seville, to become known and useful, he by his knowledge, and she by the
extraordinary faculties with which nature had endowed her.
“It was badly done,” earnestly interrupted General Santa-Maria.
“Why so, my uncle?” asked the countess.
“Because these people were living contented, without ambition; and which
once broken up will never more be the same. Do you recollect the Spanish
comedy, the title of which has passed into a proverb: ‘_Ninguno debe
dejar lo cierto por lo dudoso_.’” (Never quit a certainty for an
uncertainty.)
“Do you believe, my uncle, that this woman, gifted with a voice so
remarkable, can regret the oyster bank where she vegetated without
glory, without profit to herself, or to society, or to the arts?”
“Come, my niece, would you seriously make us believe that human society
would make much progress because a woman exhibits herself on the boards,
and sings _Di tanti palpiti_?”
“Go along,” said the countess, “we see very well that you are not
musical.”
“And I greatly thank the Lord that I am not so,” replied the general.
“Would you that, like so many others, I lose my judgment by this
melomaniac furor, by this deluge of notes which is showered on Europe
like an avalanche, according to the expression now-a-days. Would you
that I go, thanks to my stupid enthusiasm, and swell the excessive
pride of those kings and queens of harmony? Would you that my money
serve to increase their colossal receipts, while so many good officers
covered with wounds die of hunger; while so many virtuous, and
meritorious women pass their lives in tears, without having bread to
eat? These things cry for vengeance! Here is a veritable _sarcasm_ (as
they say now-a-days), and that passes unheeded, while the mouths of our
hypocrites are continually uttering the word _humanity_. Shall I go, and
throw bouquets at the feet of a _prima donna_ whose whole recommendable
qualities are reduced to ‘do, ré, mi, fa, sol?’”
“My uncle is the most perfect personification of the _statu quo_. Every
thing new annoys him. I will try to grow old soon, to please him.”
“You will take good care of yourself, my niece; but do not require of me
that I grow young to please the new generation.”
“What is my brother discussing?” demanded the marchioness, who, until
then occupied with her game, had taken no part in the conversation.
“My uncle,” said a young officer, who had entered without saying a word,
and was seated near the duke, “my uncle is preaching a crusade against
music. He has declared war against the _andante_, proscribed the
_moderato_, and gives no quarter to _allegro_.”
The new speaker was of small form, but elegant, well proportioned, of a
distinguished _tournure_, and a handsome face, too handsome, perhaps,
for a man.
“Dear Raphael!” cried the duke, embracing the officer, who was his
relation and his friend.
“And I,” added the young officer, affectionately pressing the hand of
the duke, “I who would have broken my arms and legs to spare you the
painful hours you have passed! But we were speaking of the opera, and I
would not be impious towards the melodrama.”
“Well thought of,” said the duke; “you had better relate to me what has
passed in my absence. What do they say?”
“That my cousin, the Countess d’Algar,” said Raphael, “is the pearl of
women.”
“I asked you what was new,” replied the duke, “and not what everybody
knows.”
“My lord duke,” continued Raphael, “Solomon has said, and many other
wise men--I am of the number--that there is nothing new under the azure
vault of heaven.”
“God grant it!” sighed the general, “but my dear nephew Raphael Arias is
a living contradiction of his axiom. Every day he brings new faces to
our reunions, and it is insupportable.”
“There, already, is my uncle,” said Raphael, “who ever tilts against
strangers. A stranger is the _blue-devil_ of General Santa-Maria. My
lord duke, if you had not appointed me your aid-de-camp when you were
minister of war, I could not have found so many acquaintances at Madrid
among foreign diplomatists, and these gentlemen would not have pressed
me so with their letters of introduction. Do you believe, uncle, that it
is very amusing to me to act as cicerone to every traveller? It has been
my only occupation since my arrival at Seville.”
“And who obliges you,” replied the general, “to open our doors--open
them wide--to all new-comers, and put ourselves at their orders? That is
not done in Paris, and much less so is it the custom in London.”
“My uncle,” said the countess, “all people have their peculiar
characteristics; each society its usages. Strangers are more reserved
than we, and they have the same reserve among themselves: be just.”
“Has any one recently arrived?” demanded the duke. “I ask you this,
because I expect Lord G., one of the most distinguished men I know. Is
he in Seville?”
“I think not,” replied Raphael. “At present we have here, first, Major
Fly, whom we call _Mosca_--it is the translation of his name. He serves
in the Queen’s Guards, and is nephew of the Duke of W., one of the grand
personages of England.”
“Yes, nephew of the Duke of W.,” said the general, “as I am of the Grand
Turk.”
“He is young,” pursued Raphael, “elegant, and a good fellow, but of
colossal stature: he should be placed at a certain distance from you to
have his whole form appreciated; close, he appears so large, so robust,
so angular, so stiff, that he loses a hundred per cent. When he is not
at table, he is always at my side, whether I am at home, or whether I am
out. When my servant told him I was out, he replied that he would wait
for me; and when he came in at the door, I escaped by the window. He has
the habit of using his cane as a weapon: his thrusts, however, are very
innocent, and wound only the air. As he has very long and vigorous arms,
and as my room is small, he damages all the walls; and he has already
broken, I do not know how many squares of glass. Seated on a chair, he
so moves about, so tosses, and stretches himself out in such a fashion,
that he has already broken four of them.
“The sight of this man is sufficient to throw my hostess into a rage.
Sometimes he takes a book; and it is the best thing he could do, for it
puts him to sleep. But conquest is his mania--his fixed idea--his
war-horse. In it lies all his hopes, which, however, are yet in embryo.
He has for the fair sex the same illusion that the Castilian peasant who
goes to Mexico has for the hard dollars: the poor man arrives in Mexico,
believing that he has only to present himself to grasp them. I have
tried to undeceive the major, but I have preached in the desert. When I
speak reasonably to him, he smiles with an air of incredulity, caressing
his enormous mustache. He is in correspondence with a millionaire
heiress; and that which is very curious, is, that this Ajax of thirty
years, who devours four pounds of beef-steak and drinks three bottles of
sherry at a single repast, makes his betrothed believe that he is
travelling for his health! The other knave, as my uncle would call him,
is a Frenchman, the Baron de Maude.”
“Baron,” replied the general maliciously, “yes, a baron as I am a pope.”
“But in truth, my uncle,” replied the countess, “what reason is there
that he should not be a baron?”
“The reason is, my niece, that real barons--not the barons of Napoleon,
nor the Constitutional barons, but the barons of good stock, neither
travel nor write books for money; and they are not either so badly
educated, or so curious, or such fastidious questioners.”
“But, uncle, he can be both a baron and a questioner. They lose not
their nobility because they question. On his return to his country he is
to be married to the daughter of a peer of France.”
“Certainly he will marry her,” replied the general, “as I will marry the
Grand Turk.”
“My uncle,” said Arias, “is like St. Thomas; he must see to believe. Let
us come back to our baron: we must admit he is a very handsome man, and
of noble deportment, although he has, like me, ceased to grow. His
character is one of the most amiable; he has it as a man of learning
and as a writer; he converses with the same ease on music, statistics,
philosophy, agriculture, and the fashions. He is occupied at this moment
in writing a _serious_ book, which may serve as a ladder by which to
mount to the Chamber of Deputies. This book is to be entitled: ‘Travels,
scientific, philosophical, artistic, and geological, in Spain, formerly
Iberia; with critical observations on the government, the cooks, the
literature, the routes, the agriculture, the dances, and the system of
imposts of that country.’ With an affected negligence in his toilet, he
is grave, circumspect, economical in the extreme; it is an imperfect
fruit of that warm greenhouse of public men, who give precocious
products without spring, without vivifying breezes, and without free
air--products without savor or perfume. These men precipitate themselves
into the future blindly, at the discovery of what they call a position;
and it is for that they sacrifice all: sad, tormented existences, for
which life has no aurora.”
“Raphael, you talk like a philosopher,” said the duke, smiling; “do you
know that if Socrates existed in our time, you would more likely be his
disciple than my aid-de-camp?”
“I would not change my place of aid-de-camp for an apostleship, my
general,” replied Arias. “But the truth is, that were there not so many
ignorant disciples, there would not be so many bad masters.”
“Well said, my good nephew,” cried the old general. “What of new
masters! each one of them teaches his dogma, preaches his doctrine more
and more new and advanced: the progress! the magnificent and inevitable
progress!”
“General,” replied the duke, “to maintain the equilibrium of our globe,
it is necessary that there be fluid, that there be solid materials;
these two forces ought to regard each other reciprocally as necessary,
in lieu of wishing to destroy them with so much fury.”
“What you advance,” replied the general, “savors of the doctrines of the
odious half-way, which, more than all others, have ruined us with these
shameful opinions, and these discourses, as low as insipid, as the
people say, who often have more good sense than the _learned_ sectarians
of moderatism, grand hypocrites of beautiful outward show and bad heart,
adorers of the Supreme Being, who do not believe in Jesus Christ.”
“My uncle,” hinted Raphael, “so hates the moderate, that he loses all
moderation in combating them.”
“Hold your tongue, Raphael,” replied the countess; “you attack and rail
at all opinions, and you have none yourself, without doubt, so as to
avoid the trouble of defending them.”
“My cousin,” said Raphael, “I am liberal; my empty purse says so.”
“What have you to be liberal with?” exclaimed the general, in a
commanding voice.
“And why should I not be? The duke is so.”
“You would be liberal!” said anew the old soldier in a terrible tone,
sounding like the roll of a drum.
“Well!” murmured Raphael, “one easily sees that my uncle will only
accord the title liberal to the arts which bear that denomination.
General,” he added, excited with refined joy, “why cannot the duke and I
be liberal?”
“Because the military,” replied the general, “have no right to be any
thing but the supporters of the throne, the sustainers of order, and the
defenders of their country. Do you understand, my nephew?”
“But, my uncle--”
“Raphael,” interrupted the countess, “do not take so much trouble:
continue your recital.”
“I obey. Ah! cousin, in the army which you command, I have never
committed the fault of insubordination. We have still another stranger
in Seville, a Sir John Burnwood. He is a young man of fifty years,
somewhat fair, smiling, with hair worthy of the veriest lion of Atlas;
an eye-glass unremovable--smile ditto; great talker, hullaballoo,
turbulent, full of vivacity, like that German who, for a whim, threw
himself out of a window; great lover of jollity, celebrated sportsman,
and proprietor of vast coal-mines, which produce him an income of twenty
thousand pounds sterling.”
“Twenty thousand pounds of coals, perhaps,” said the general.
“My uncle,” replied Raphael, “resembles the frequenters of the exchange,
who cause the funds to rise or fall, according to their caprice. Sir
John has bet that he will appear on horseback at the Giralda, and it is
the grand motive that has brought him to Seville. He is in despair,
because they have not permitted him to take part in this royal pastime.
Now he wishes, in imitation of Lord Elgin and Baron Taylor, to purchase
Alcazar, and to carry him to his lordly residence.”
“My general,” said the duke, “do you not see that Raphael changes the
colors of his tableaux, and that he relates to us only extravagances?”
“There are no extravagances,” replied the general, “that are not
possible to the English.”
“You do not yet know the best!” continued Raphael, fixing his looks on a
young and handsome person seated beside the marchioness, and noticing
her play. “Sir John is in love with my Cousin Rita, and has asked her
hand. Rita, who does not at all know how to pronounce the monosyllable
_yes_, replied to him by a dry, hard _no_.”
“Is it possible, Rita,” said the duke, “you have refused twenty thousand
pounds a year?”
“I have not refused the money,” replied the young girl; “I have refused
the money’s master.”
“You have done well,” replied the general, “everybody should marry in
his own country, it is the way to avoid exposing ourselves to taking a
cat for a hare.”
“It was well done,” added the marchioness. “A protestant! God preserve
us!”
“And what do you say, countess?” asked the duke.
“I am of my mother’s opinion,” she replied.
“And besides,” said Rita, “he is in love with the dancer, Lucea del
Salto; and thus, when even if he had been to my taste, I ought to have
made him the same answer. I do not like to share, and, above all, with
these _señoritas_ of the green-room.”