Marisalada, instructed in her toilet by her hostess, presented herself
accoutred in a manner the most ridiculous. She wore a dress of silk,
handkerchief pattern, too short, and blending colors the most
extravagant; her coiffure was most ungracefully intermingled with red
ribbons of unheard-of stiffness; a mantle of tulle, white and blue,
garnished with Catalan lace, exceeded the black of her tint. The
_ensemble_ of this _parure_ could but necessarily produce, and did
produce, the most pitiable effect.
The countess in making some steps towards the Gaviota passed near to
Raphael, and whispered in his ear, applying to the circumstance the
fable of La Fontaine--
“Sans mentir, si son ramage
Se rapporte à son plumage.”
“How many thanks we owe you,” said the countess to Maria, “for your
goodness in wishing to satisfy our desire to hear you! The duke has paid
you so brilliant a compliment!”
The Gaviota, without saying a word, let herself be conducted by the
countess to a seat which had been destined for her between the piano and
the sofa.
Rita, to be near her, had abandoned her ordinary place, and was seated
beside Eloise.
“My God!” she said, on seeing the Gaviota, “she is blacker than a mole.”
“One could swear,” added Eloise, “that it was her greatest enemy who has
dressed her. One would say a Judas of Holy Saturday. How does it seem
to you, Raphael?”
“This wrinkle which she has between her eyebrows,” replied Arias, “gives
her the appearance of a unicorn.”
During this time, in this assembly so numerous and so brilliant, no
symptom of politeness or good feeling was shown towards Maria; who not
the less preserved all her _aplomb_ and her unalterable calmness. Thanks
to her look, always investigating and penetrating, to her quick
intelligence, and the exquisite tact of a Spanish woman, two minutes
sufficed her to remark every thing, and to judge of it all.
“I already understand,” she said to herself, in resuming her
observations, “that the countess is good, and desires my success; the
young elegants make fun of me and of my toilet, which must be frightful;
for these strangers look at me disdainfully, as I am only a simple
country girl: for the old I am a nullity; the others remain neuter. In
consideration of the duke, who is my protector, they will neither praise
nor criticise until after an opinion favorable or the contrary is formed
of me.”
For her part, the good and amiable countess tried to enter into
conversation with the Gaviota, but her laconic responses neutralized all
her good intentions.
“Does Seville please you much?” asked the countess.
“Sufficiently,” replied Maria.
“And what do you think of our cathedral?”
“It is too large.”
“And our beautiful walks?”
“Too small.”
“And what then interests you the most?”
“The bulls.”
The conversation stopped here. It was resumed by the countess after a
long pause--
“Allow me to pray your husband to place himself at the piano.”
“Whenever it pleases you.”
Stein took his place at the piano. Maria, whose hand the duke had taken,
and conducted her, placed herself at the side of her husband.
“Do you tremble, Maria?” Stein asked of her.
“And why should I tremble?” she replied.
There was profound silence. They could then easily distinguish the
various impressions she reflected on the countenances of those present;
with the greater part of whom it was curiosity and surprise; with the
countess a sweet good-nature; around the gaming-tables, which Raphael
called the upper house, there was nothing remarkable but complete
indifference.
The prince smiled with disdain; the major opened his eyes, as if that
would help him to hear; the baron closed his.
Sir John profited by this moment of interval to take off his eyeglasses,
and rub them with his handkerchief.
Raphael fled into the garden to smoke a cigarette.
Stein played without affectation or flourishes the prelude of _Casta
Diva_; but the pure, limpid, and powerful voice of the Gaviota made her
so well heard, that the spectators seemed touched as by a magic wand. On
every countenance was painted astonishment and admiration. The prince
allowed an approving exclamation to escape him.
When the Gaviota had finished singing, a storm of bravos was sent forth
from all the assembly: the countess set the example by applauding with
her beautiful and delicate hands.
“God preserve me!” said the general, stopping his ears; he really
thought he was in the place where bulls are kept.
“Let them alone, León,” said the marchioness; “let them divert
themselves. It is better to be amused than to speak ill of one’s
neighbor.”
Stein acknowledged on all sides his respectful thanks.
Mariquita resumed her seat, as cold and impassive as before. She sang in
succession several variations most difficult, where the melody
disappeared in the midst of trills and cadences. Surmounting without
effort every obstacle, she elicited more and more admiration.
“Countess,” said the duke, “the prince desires to hear some Spanish
songs which have been much spoken of to him; Maria excels in this
species of song; will you procure a guitar for her?”
“With great pleasure,” replied the countess. And she complied at once
with the request.
Raphael was seated near to Rita, after having taken care to place the
major beside Eloise, who tried to persuade the Englishman that the
Spaniards were becoming day by day more desirous of putting themselves
on a level with foreigners, above all in that which relates to
affectation and affected airs; for we know that in servile imitations,
it is always defects which are the more readily imitated.
“What beautiful eyes!” said Raphael to his cousin. “These long black
lashes are magnificent. Her look has truly the attraction of love.”
“It is you who are the lover of strangers,” said Rita. “Why have you
placed the major near Eloise? Listen to the nonsense he is telling her.
I warn you, my cousin, that each day you take the aspect and the
attractions of a dictionary.”
“There it is, raillery, and raillery again,” cried Raphael, striking
with his fist the arm of the chair. “You stray from the question, I
speak to you of my love for yourself, Rita, of my love which will endure
eternally. Know it well, my cousin, a man never loves seriously but one
woman in his lifetime. The others--they pretend that they love them.”
“That is what Don Luis has repeated to me often, my cousin; but do you
know, in your turn, that you are becoming fatiguing, _ennuyant_, like a
repeating watch.”
“What does this signify?” cried Eloise, seeing a guitar brought in.
“It appears she is to sing some Spanish songs, and I am rejoiced. These
songs divert me much.”
“Spanish songs!” sighed Eloise indignantly. “What horror! They are good
for the common people, but not in society where _bon-ton_ reigns. What
then is Gracia thinking of? Here then is it why foreigners rightly think
we are behind other nations; because we will not adopt their manners and
their tastes as our models, because we through obstinacy will dine at
three o’clock, and because we never will persuade ourselves that all
that is Spanish is stupid.”
“But,” said the major in a gibberish sort of Anglo-Andalusian, “I
believe _indeed_, that they do very well to be as they are.”
“If this is a compliment,” replied Eloise with emphasis, “it is so much
exaggerated that it resembles mockery.”
“It is the Italian lord,” said Rita, “who has asked for these Spanish
sonnets. He likes them, and understands them; that’s one proof that they
merit being heard.”
“Eloise,” added Raphael, “the _barcarolles_, the _tyroliennes_, and the
_ranz des vaches_ are the popular songs of other countries; why will we
not admit in the society of distinguished people our _boleros_ and the
other songs of the Spanish people?”
“Because it is more vulgar,” replied Eloise.
Raphael shrugged his shoulders, Rita laughed outright, and the major
comprehended nothing of it.
Eloise got up, and under pretext of a headache left, accompanied by her
mother, to whom she said in departing--
“Let them know at least that there are in Spain young ladies
sufficiently distinguished and sufficiently delicate to fly from such
buffooneries.”
“How unfortunate will be the Abelard of this Heloise!” said Raphael, on
seeing her retire.
Maria, beyond her beautiful voice and excellent method, possessed, as a
daughter of the common people, the infusing of science in the songs of
Andalusia; and that grace, that charm which a stranger could not
understand nor value, without having resided a long time in the country,
without having, so to speak, become identified with the national
character. There is in these songs, as well as in the airs of the
dances, a richness of imagination, an attraction so powerful, an
enchainment of surprises, complaints, bursts of joy, of languor, and of
exaltation, that the audience, at first astonished, soon finish by being
captivated and intoxicated.
Thus when Maria took the guitar, and sang--
“Si me pierdo, que me busquen
Al lado del Mediodia,
Donde nacen las morenas,
Y donde la sal se cria,”[4]
admiration became enthusiasm. The young people marked the measure by
clapping their hands, repeating “Good! Good!” to encourage the singer;
the cards fell from the hands of the players; the major could no longer
contain himself, and beat the measure in the wrong time; Sir John swore
that the song was even better than “God save the Queen;” but that which
was the triumph of the Spanish music was, that it smoothed the brow of
the general.
“Do you remember, brother,” the marchioness smilingly asked him, “the
time when we sang _el Zorengo_ and _el Tripili_?”
“What is that, the Zorengo and the Tripili?” asked the baron of Raphael.
“They are,” replied Arias, “the fathers of _Sereno_ and of _la
Cachucha_, and the forefathers of _la Jaca de Terciopelo_, of _Vito_,
and other songs of the day.”
These particulars of songs and of national dances, of which we have
spoken, may seem in bad taste, and they would certainly be so in other
countries. But to abandon one’s self without reserve to sentiments which
instigate our songs and our dances, one must have a character like ours;
it must be that grossness and vulgarity be, as they are with us, two
things unknown, two things which do not exist. A Spaniard may be
insolent, but rarely will he ever be gross, because it is not in his
nature. He lives according to his inspiration, which will never efface
in him the stamp of a special distinction. This is what gives to Spain,
despite of an education but little nourished, that finish of manner and
frank elegance which render their intercourse so agreeable.
Mariquita left the hotel of the countess as pale and as impassible as
she had entered it.
When the countess was alone with her friends, she said with a triumphant
air to Raphael--
“What think you now, my dear cousin?”
“I think,” replied the young man, “that ‘the warbling is better than the
plumage.’”
“What eyes!” cried the countess.
“One might say, two black diamonds in a casket of Russia leather.”
“She is grave,” said the countess, “but not haughty.”
“And timid as a woman of the common class,” said Raphael.
“But what a voice!” added the countess; “what a divine voice!”
“There should be engraven on her tomb,” replied Raphael, “the epitaph
which the Portuguese composed for their celebrated singer Madureira--
“Aqui yaz o senhor de Madureira,
O melhor cantor do mundo:
Que movieu porque Deus quiseira,
Que si naon quiseira naon.
E por que lo necisitó na sua capella,
Dijole Deus: canta-cantou cosa bella!
Dijo Deus á os anjos: id vos á pradeira,
Que melhor canta o senhor de Madureira.”[5]
“Raphael,” said the countess, “you are an eternal railler, and nothing
escapes your love of fun. I will go and order your portrait under the
figure of a mockingbird.”
“In that case,” replied Raphael, on going away, “I will make a beautiful
masculine Harpy that would have the advantage of being able to propagate
his species.”