Maria. Maria threw herself into them, embracing him very caressingly;
and Juan himself said to the two:
"In good sooth, you are made one for the other."
"By my troth, my beloved one," continued the sword-cutler after a
while, "if my countenance had only been more pleasing, I should not
have been silent towards you for so many long days, nor would I have
been content with, gazing at you from afar. I should have spoken to
you, you would have made me the confidant of your troubles, and I
would have given you the five hundred _maravedis_ for the cure of your
good father."
And whispering softly into her ear, he added: "And then you would not
have passed that evil moment under the hands of the mayoress. But if
you fear that she may break the promise she made to you to keep
silence as to your cropped head, let us, if it please you, set out for
Seville, where nobody knows you, and thus--"
"No more," exclaimed Maria, resolutely throwing on the ground the
hair, which Juan picked up all astonished. "Send this hair to the
mayoress, since it was for this and not for that of the dead woman
that she paid so dearly. For I, to cure myself of my vanity, now make
a vow, with your good permission, to go shorn all my life. Such
artificial adornments are little befitting to the wives of honest
burghers."
"But rely upon it," replied the master-cutler, "that as soon as it is
known that you have no hair, the girls of the city, envious of your
beauty, will give you the nickname of _Mariquita the Bald_!"
"They may do so," replied Maria, "and that they may see that I do not
care a fig for this or any other nickname, I swear to you that from
this day forth I will not suffer anybody to call me by another name
than _Mariquita the Bald_."
This was the event that rendered so famous throughout all Castile the
beautiful daughter of good Juan Lanas, who in effect married Master
Palomo, and became one of the most honorable and prolific women of the
most illustrious city of Toledo.
THE LOVE OF CLOTILDE
Armando Palacio Valdés
In the dressing-room of Clotilde, leading actress of one of the most
important theaters in the capital, there gathered every night about
half a dozen of her male friends. The reception lasted almost always
about as long as the performances; but it included a number of
parentheses. Whenever the actress, was obliged to change her costume
she would turn towards her visitors with a bewitching smile and
beseeching eyes:
"Gentlemen, will you withdraw for one little moment?--not more than
one little moment."
Thereupon they would all transfer themselves to the ante-room and
remain there patiently waiting. No, I am mistaken, not quite all,
because the youngest of them, a third year student in the School of
Medicine, would avail himself of the chance to take a turn in the
wings to stretch his legs and snatch a fugitive kiss or so. At all
events, the majority remained, either seated or pacing up and down,
until the moment when Clotilde would re-open her door and, putting out
her head, decked as queen or peasant girl, according to the part she
was playing, would call out:
"Now you may come back, gentlemen. Have I been very long?"
Don Jerónimo always lingered. He was the last to withdraw grumbling
and the first to return to the dressing-room. He was never able to
reconcile himself to that modest custom. And although he never allowed
himself to say so openly, yet in the depths of his secret thoughts he
regarded it as a lack of courtesy that he should be ejected from his
seat, merely because the silly child must change her dress,--he, who
for thirty years had passed his life behind the scenes and had been on
intimate terms with every actor and actress, ancient and modern!
He was fifty-four years of age and had been attached to the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs ever since he was four-and-twenty. Each successive
government had regarded him as one of the indispensable wheels in the
machinery of colonial administration. Furthermore, he was a bachelor
and living at the mercy of his landlady. It was said that in his youth
he once wrote a play which won him nothing but hisses and free entry
for life behind the scenes of the theaters. Whether resigned or not to
the verdict of the public, he ceased to write plays and assumed
instead the nobler rôle of patron to unrecognized authors and artists
and to ruined managers.
Any youth from the provinces who arrived in Madrid with a drama in his
pocket could take no surer road to seeing it produced than that which
led to the home of Don Jerónimo. One and all, he received them with
open arms, the good and the bad alike. There is no denying that,
since he was rather brusque in his ways, he never spared the young
authors who asked his advice and read him their productions, but
criticized vigorously, even to the verge of insult: "This whole
episode is sheer nonsense; spill your ink-well on it!" "Why, look
here, for the love of heaven! How do you suppose that a man who is on
the point of committing murder is going to stand there for sixteen
seconds, without drawing his breath?" "Lord, what tommyrot! Platonic
love for a woman of that class! You must have tumbled out of the nest
unfledged, my lad!"
But anyone possessed of a little tact refused to take offense, but
went calmly on and ended by intrusting his manuscript to the hands of
Don Jerónimo. And he could rest assured that his drama would be
produced. The veteran of the greenrooms exercised a strong influence,
akin to intimidation, over managers and actors alike; when he was
displeased, he gave his tongue free rein; if a play had been hissed,
he would protest, boiling with rage, against the public verdict, and
would continue to support the author more stanchly than ever. If on
the contrary it scored a hit, he merely kept silent and smiled
ecstatically, but never sought out the successful author in order to
congratulate him. And if the latter should complain of his
indifference, his answer was:
"Now that you have shown that you can use your wings, will you please,
my friend, will you please leave me free to succor some other poor
fellow?"
His private life offered little of special interest. Every night,
upon leaving the theater, he betook himself to the _Café Habanero_,
where he habitually consumed a beefsteak, together with a small
measure of beer. And, according to a certain friend, who had watched
him repeatedly, he always managed his repast so artfully as to finish,
at one and the same time, the last mouthful of meat, the last fragment
of bread, and the last draught of beer.
On this particular night the little gathering was unwontedly animated.
The actress's friends indulged more freely than usual in gossip and
laughter. Don Jerónimo, muffled closely in his cape (one of his
privileges), lounging at ease in the big corner chair, and with his
inevitable cigar between his teeth (another special privilege), was
giving utterance to rare and racy stories, which from time to time
caused his hearers to cast a glance in the direction of Clotilde and
brought a slightly heightened color to the latter's cheeks.
Don Jerónimo himself took no notice of this; he had first known her as
such a mere child that he considered he had the right to dispense with
certain courtesies that are due to ladies,--assuming that in the whole
course of his life he had ever shown them to any woman, which is very
doubtful. He had met her first as a mere child and had opened the way
for her to the stage. At the time that he ran across her, she was
living wretchedly and trying to learn the art of making artificial
flowers. Today, thanks to her talent, she earned enough to keep her
mother and sisters in comfort.
Clotilde's attraction lay in her charm of manner rather than her
beauty. Her complexion was olive, her eyes large and black, the best
of all her features; her mouth somewhat big, but with bright red lips
and admirably even teeth. Tonight she was costumed as a lady of the
time of Louis XV, with powdered hair, which was marvelously becoming
to her. She took almost no part in the conversation, but seemed
satisfied to be merely a listener, constantly turning her serene gaze
from one speaker to another, and often answering only with a smile
when they addressed her.
All at once there came the voice of the call-boy:
"Señorita Clotilde, if you please--"
"Coming," she answered, rising.
She crossed over to the mirror, gave a few final touches to her brows
and lashes with a pencil, adjusted with somewhat nervous fingers the
coils of her hair, the cross of brilliants which she wore at her
throat, and the folds of her dress. Her friends became for the moment
silent and abstractedly watched these last preparations.
"Good-by for the present, gentlemen." And she left the dressing-room,
followed by her maid, carefully bearing her train, a magnificent train
of cream-colored satin.
"She grows lovelier every day, Clotilde does," said the medical
student, allowing an imperceptible sigh to escape him.
Don Jerónimo took an enormous pull at his cigar, and instantly became
enveloped in a cloud of smoke. For this reason no one observed the
smile of triumph with which he received the medical student's remark.
"I agree with you that she grows prettier every day," said another of
the visitors. "But it seems to me that her disposition has been
undergoing a big change for some time back. You, my boy, have not
known her as long as we have. She used to be a fascinating talker, so
merry, so full of spirits! No one could ever remain out of temper in
her company. But now I find her grave and sad almost all the time."
"It's a fact that I have wondered at the melancholy look in her eyes."
Don Jerónimo took another enormous pull at his cigar. No one saw the
swift flare of anger that passed over his face.
"Changes like that, my boy, have only one cause, and that is love."
"Was she engaged?"
"Precisely,--Don Jerónimo knows the story well."
"Yes, and I am going to tell it to you," said the one referred to,
from the depths of his cloak. "Though you may believe me that it is no
pleasant task to relate such follies. But it concerns a girl whom we
all of us love, and whatever affects her ought to interest us.
"Some three years ago a young man, faultlessly dressed and with the
manuscript of a play under his arm, called upon the director of this
theater. Now there is nothing in the world more impressive and
awe-inspiring than a well-dressed young man who carries the manuscript
of a play under his arm. The director did his best to dodge him, and
held him off with a number of adroit moves; but he was finally
cornered, all the same. In other words, the young man invited him to
breakfast one day, enticing him with the seductive prospect of several
dozen oysters, washed down with abundant Sauterne, and for dessert he
shot off his play at close range.
"As it turned out, the play was no good. Pepe did what you know one
does in such cases: he expressed deep admiration for the
versification, he said 'bravo!' over certain obscurely phrased
thoughts, and finally he recommended a few changes in the second act,
after which the work would be unexceptionable.
"The unwary poet returned home greatly pleased, and set to work
zealously upon the revision. At the end of a fortnight he returned for
another interview with Pepe; this time the latter found the first act
somewhat slow, and advised him at any cost to put more action into it
and make it somewhat shorter. It took the poet a month to rewrite the
first act. When he once more presented himself, the director, while
expressing great admiration for the excellence of the verse and for
some of the ideas, manifested some doubt as to whether the play was
_actable_. That it was _literary_, he had none whatever; on the
contrary, it seemed to him that from this point of view it compared
favorably with the best of Ayala's plays,--but actable, really
actable, ah! that was another matter!"
"What is the difference, Don Jerónimo? I don't understand."
"Then I will explain, my boy. We, who are behind the scenes, mean by
_actable_ a good play, and by _literary_ a bad one."
"I see!"
"After expressing these doubts, the manager concluded by recommending
certain additional alterations in the third act.
"At last the poet understood,--a really marvelous occurrence, because
poets, who understand everything else and can tell you why the condor
flies so high, who soar to the skies and descend into the abyss and
penetrate the secret thoughts of all created things, are not capable
of realizing that there are times when their works do not please those
who hear them. Our young man, whom we will call Inocencio, received
back his manuscript somewhat peevishly, and for a while nothing
further was heard of him. But at last, doubtless after a good deal of
profound meditation, he presented himself on a certain morning at the
home of Clotilde. I hardly need tell you that he carried his
manuscript under his arm.
"He waited patiently in the parlor while our young friend completed
her toilet, and when at last she made her appearance, she saw before
her a blushing and confused young man, who nevertheless was
pleasant-mannered and fashionably dressed, and who besought with
stammering lips that she would do him the favor of listening while he
read his play. Women, you must know, find a singular pleasure in
playing the rôle of patroness, especially in regard to young men of
pleasant manners and fashionable dress. So that it is not at all
surprising that Clotilde listened patiently to the play and even
pronounced it acceptable.
"The young man intrusted himself wholly to her guidance, deposited his
manuscript in her pretty hands, as though it were a new-born child,
and she received it like a doting mother, took it under her
protection, and promised to watch over its precious existence and
introduce it to the world. The young man declared that such an
intention was worthy of the noble heart whose fame had already reached
his ears. Clotilde replied that it was no kindness on her part to work
to have the play produced, but only an act of justice. The young man
said that this idea was exceedingly flattering, because Clotilde's
great talent and the accuracy of her judgments were well known to
everyone, but that he dared not build upon such an illusion. Clotilde
declared that there were many unmerited reputations in the world, and
one of them was hers, but that on this occasion she felt that she was
on firm ground.
"The young man replied that when the river roars the water toils, and
that when the whole world unites in admiring not only the exceptional
beauty and artistic inspiration of a certain person, but also her
splendid genius and brilliant intellect, it was necessary to bow one's
head. Clotilde said that on this occasion she refused to bow hers,
because she was quite convinced that the world was greatly mistaken
regarding what it called her talent, which was nothing more nor less
than pure instinct. The young man cried out to heaven against such
mystification, for which there was absolutely no excuse. Then,
promptly calming down, he declared himself profoundly moved by the
modesty of his patroness, and swore by all the saints in heaven that
he never had met her equal,--with the result that the manuscript was
momentarily gaining ground in the heart of our sympathetic friend, and
that the young man, overwhelmed with emotion, took his leave of her
until the following day.
"On the following day, Clotilde called upon the manager, and by
threatening to break her contract, forced from him a promise to
produce Inocencio's play as soon as possible. That same afternoon, the
poet expressed his thanks to his patroness and promptly took her into
his confidence. He belonged to a distinguished provincial family,
although without great financial resources. It was in the hope of
bettering them that he had come to Madrid, relying solely upon his
genius. In his native town they said that he had talent, and that if
the verses which he had contributed to the _Tagus Echo_ had been
published in Madrid, he would be talked of as a second Nuñez de Arce y
Grilo. He did not know whether that was so; but he felt that his heart
was full of noble sentiments, and he loved the theater better than the
apple of his eye. Would he succeed in being an Ayala or a Tamayo?
Would he be rejected by the public? It was an insoluble mystery to
him.
"During this interview, Clotilde became convinced of two very
important things: namely, that Inocencio possessed a talent so great
that his head could scarcely hold it, and secondly, that there was no
one else in all Madrid who could wear so conspicuous a necktie with
such charming effect. I need not tell you that their confidential
interviews increased in frequency, and that consequently Clotilde came
day by day more completely under the fascinating influence of that
supernatural necktie. In the end, she yielded herself vanquished, and
surrendered herself to it, bound hand and foot. The necktie deigned to
raise her from the ground and grant her the favor of its affection."
"What about a necktie?" asked one of the company, who had been
nodding.
Don Jerónimo took an immense, an infernal pull at his cigar, in
testimony of his annoyance, then proceeded with no further notice:
"Meanwhile the rehearsals of Inocencio's play had begun. It was
called, if I am not mistaken, _Stooping to Conquer_,--excuse me, no, I
believe it was just the reverse, _Conquering to Stoop_. Well, at all
events, it contained a participle and an infinitive. Before long I
became aware that lover-like relations had been established between
our fair friend and the author, and since, as a matter of fact, even
if Inocencio was a bad poet, as Pepe insisted, he seemed like a good
lad, I was very glad it had happened and I helped it along as much as
I could. Clotilde confided in me, and declared that she was
desperately in love; that her ambitions no longer had anything to do
with the art of the stage, which seemed to her an unbearable slavery;
that her ideal was to live tranquilly, even if it were in a garret,
united to the man whom she adored; that woman was born to be the
guardian angel of the fireside, and not to divert the public, and
that she herself would rather be queen of a humble little apartment
illuminated with love, than to receive all the applause in the world.
In short, gentlemen, our young friend was living in the midst of an
idyllic dream.
"Inocencio was, to all appearance, no less in love than she. I
frequently encountered them walking through the unfrequented by-paths
of the Retiro, at a respectable distance from her mother, who lingered
opportunely to examine the first opening buds of flowers or some
curious insect. Mothers, at this critical period of courtship, are
under an obligation to be admirers of the works of nature. The young
pair of turtle-doves would pause when they caught sight of me and
greet me blushingly. I cannot conceal from you that, however much I
felt the loss to art, I was delighted that Clotilde was going to be
married. A woman always needs the protection of a man. And there is no
question that so far as outward appearance went, they were worthy of
one another. Inocencio certainly was a most attractive young fellow.
"At the theater they talked of nothing else than of this wedding,
which was still in the bud. Everybody was delighted, because Clotilde
is the only actress, since the beginning of the world, who took it
into her head to attempt what until now was regarded as impossible, to
make herself beloved by her companions.
"I observed, nevertheless,--for you know that I am an observant
person: it is the only quality that I possess, that of observation, a
thing to which the authors of today attach no importance. Today, in
the drama, everything is so much dried leaves, a lot of moonshine,
which, they let filter down through the foliage of the trees, a lot of
description of dawn and twilight, and a lot of other similar
pastry-shop stuff. That's all there is to it! When any fledgling
author comes to me with nonsense of that sort, I say to him: 'Get down
to the facts! Get down to the facts!' The facts are the drama, which
doesn't exist in the great part of the above-mentioned."
"Aren't you exciting yourself, Don Jerónimo?"
"Well, as I was telling you, I observed that as the rehearsals
progressed the ascendency of Inocencio over our young friend
increased. The tone in which he addressed her was no longer the humble
and courteous tone of earlier days; he corrected her frequently in her
manner of delivery, he dictated the attitudes and gestures which she
should adopt, and sometimes, when the actress did not quite understand
his wishes, he allowed himself to address her publicly in rather
severe terms, and the way he looked at her was severer still. Our poet
was already thundering and lightning like a true lord and master.
"Clotilde accepted it with good grace. She, who had always been so
haughty, even towards the most distinguished authors, stretched out
and shrank back like soft wax in the hands of that insignificant
jackanapes. You ought to have seen the humility with which she
accepted his suggestions, and the distress which his censures caused
her. All the time that the rehearsal lasted she kept her eyes steadily
fixed upon him, watching like a submissive slave to catch the wishes
of her master. The poet, lolling at ease in an arm-chair, with a
brazier of hot coals before him, directed the action in as dictatorial
a manner as either Gracia Gutierrez or Ayala could have done. A mere
glance from him sufficed to make Clotilde flush crimson or turn pale.
The other actors made no protest, out of consideration for her. When
she had finished her scene she came eagerly to take her seat beside
her betrothed, who sometimes deigned to welcome her with a haughty
smile, and at other times with an Olympian indifference. I, meanwhile,
looked on, scandalized.
"On one occasion I came upon them from behind, and overheard what they
were saying. Clotilde was speaking, and hotly maintaining that
Inocencio's _Stooping to Conquer_ or _Conquering to Stoop_ was better
than _A New Drama_. The young man protested feebly. On another
occasion they were speaking of their future union. Clotilde was
picturing in impassioned phrases the nook to which they would go to
hide their happiness; some lofty spot on the hills of Salamanca, a
dear little nest, bathed in sunlight, where Inocencio could work in
his private study, writing plays, while she sat by his side and
embroidered in absolute silence. When he was tired they could talk for
a while, to let him rest, and then she would give him a kiss and go
back again to her work. In the evening they would go out, arm in arm,
to take a short walk, and then home again. But no more of the
theater; she abhorred it with all her soul. In the spring they would
go every morning to take a walk in the Retiro and take chocolate under
the trees; in the summer they would spend a month or two in
Inocencio's birthplace, so as to bring back from the country a supply
of good color and health for the coming winter.
"The description of this tender idyl, which, even if I am a confirmed
bachelor, set my heart beating within my breast, produced no other
effect upon the new author than an insolent somnolence which would not
disappear until he suddenly raised his imperious voice to admonish
some one of the actors.