THE MARQUESA TELLERÍA.
The Tellería family occupied the whole of their house, so Leon Roch,
willing that there should be as large an expanse as possible of
the habitable globe between them, had taken a pretty house at the
furthest east end of the town. There, two years after his marriage,
we may find him.
“Good-morning, Leon.... Alone? Where is Mariquilla? Ah, at Mass of
course; I had half thought of going too--but now it is too late....
I will go to the eleven o’clock service at San Prudencio.... But
what is the matter? You are pale. Have you quarrelled?... I will sit
down a while--tell me, what did you give for those statues? They are
lovely. You have certainly a beautiful collection of bronzes.... But
tell me, are you going to put more books into this study of yours?
It is like the library of Alexandria already. Well! You are not at
all like the young men of the present day. A silly set of boys. What
will become of the world when the vicious, idle, sickly creatures who
are the ornament of society nowadays are the men of their time, I
do not know! ... However, there is a greater evil still, for if the
young men are frivolous and impudent the old ones are worse; more
vicious, more dissipated, and more indolent.... But I am forgetting
the matter--a very delicate matter--that I came to speak about, my
dear son. Sit down and listen to me for a minute or two.”
The marquesa waving a pretty hand and arm pointed to a seat close by,
and Leon, obeying her, prepared to hear what his mother-in-law had to
say.
She was a woman of good figure, who had grown suddenly old after a
prolonged youth and fallen a victim to those ravages which are severe
in proportion as they are staved off. Nevertheless, certain traces
of past beauty were still visible in the lady’s face; though her sun
was setting behind mists of paint and powder, not always judiciously
or skilfully applied, and it was not a glorious evening of life. Her
tall figure, which had formerly been dignified, was now bent, as
though in anticipation of her descent into the chill tomb, though the
steel ribs of a pair of stiff stays did what they could to buttress
up the decrepit form. Her eyes, still bright and black, were the
only living sparks in the dilapidated mass; they, from time to time,
glistened with eagerness and vivacity, reminding one of a flash of
true inspiration in the midst of the academic dulness of archaic and
commonplace ideas. Her hair, which had long since exchanged its
Andalusian blackness for Venetian gold, had now passed from Venetian
gold to a dull and powdery white. Her complexion, always coarse and
sheenless, was disguised under an artificial texture commingled
with various perfumed chemicals intended to deceive the spectator,
just as in a theatre the painted scenes simulate the greenery of
a glade and even the diaphanous purity of the sky. The effect,
successful to a certain point in embellishing the withered cheeks
of the faded beauty, failed of its result now and then, because
when she smiled the dead whiteness of the paint gave a yellow hue
to her teeth, though they were still perfectly sound and even; and
she constantly displayed them with her gracious and condescending
smile--an old habit that would need to be modified if once that
double row of ivory keys should begin to desert, like an army that
has had enough of fighting. She was always well and elegantly
dressed; she talked indefatigably, attempting--sometimes not without
success--to insinuate some more intelligent formula among the flood
of empty words that usually form the basis of conversation among such
brainless individuals.
“I am listening, Señora,” said Leon.
“I hate circumlocution,” said the lady; “and besides, María has
doubtless spoken to you on the subject. Your father-in-law is a lost
wretch....”
“Nay--that, as it strikes me, is an exaggeration. The marquis likes
amusement.... It is not an uncommon taste with men who have nothing
to do.”
“No, no. It is of no use to try to defend him. His conduct is
indefensible ... and at his age! The strange thing is that in the
prime of life he was a steady and prudent man, content to stay
quietly at home. I assure you I cannot bear to see him behave like an
elderly boy--that describes him exactly: an elderly boy! about two
years since--just about the time when you married my daughter--my
worthy husband began to go to the young men’s club; there he met
with some young fellows who turned his head; he took up a new set of
words, and a new style of dress, stayed out at night, took to gambling
... you must have noticed that he has grown quite young again; you
must have laughed, if you confess the truth, to see his efforts to
look like a boy among boys. Why, you may see him any day with some
party of dandies, fluttering like a butterfly about Madrid.--It
really is too ridiculous--with a flower in his button-hole. Only this
morning I spoke to him rather sharply about it. How he is ever to
pay his tailor I do not know for his outlay in dress is frightful to
think of! ... In short, to you, in the strictest confidence I can say
all this: the fact is my husband spends more money than he has got,
or ever will have as long as he lives. He never was economical, but,
on the other hand, he was not extravagant; he never kept any kind of
accounts but then he never let himself do a mean thing for the sake
of some impossible luxury ... and who is the victim? I--I, who after
having had always to sacrifice myself, must do so now when my health
is failing and I need care and rest and peace of mind. Oh! how I
envy the mistress of this house, and how thankfully I would accept
a corner here, even the humblest. My life is one incessant misery.
My husband spends what he has not got; Gustavo is well conducted and
careful it is true, but he has no great affection for his parents;
Leopoldo neither is, nor ever will be, good for anything, he is a
helpless being and has idle and dissipated habits in spite of all
I have done to prevent his acquiring them. I can only thank God,
who has given me so many trials, for having at the same time given
me such proofs of his mercy; for what greater pride can a mother
have than to be the parent of two such children as Luis Gonzaga and
María?--He, so devoted to his vocation, and promising, as I am told,
to be a shining light in the church; she, married to you, happy with
you, a pattern with you of perfect and harmonious union.--But what
a pity it is that you should have no children!” At this point the
marquesa, giving way to her feelings, shed a few tears, which she
promptly dried with her handkerchief before they could roll down her
cheeks. Then she went on with her description of her woes as a wife
and a mother.
She had suffered much, she explained, from her husband’s levity,
and the refractory or venial conduct of her two eldest sons had
necessitated her passing her youth, and indeed chief part of her life
in heroic efforts to avert the ruin of the family; she had indeed
given up some of her own fortune, which had been considerable; still
she had kept back the larger portion of it, and she intended to keep
it till her husband’s gallantries and her sons’ extravagance drove
her to extremities. She could not expose herself to a pinched and
miserable old age nor look forward to living on the charity of her
daughter and a rich son-in-law. Her habits, her principles, and her
dignity would not allow her to sacrifice her whole fortune to the
reckless man who had dissipated the patrimony of the Tellerías on
the green tables of the gaming houses and in the dressing-rooms of
ballet-dancers. If she were only to tell him all the things she knew!
“Yes, but I will tell you--I can say anything to you,” she exclaimed,
looking at her son-in-law with a vehement flash. “Are you not my
son--the husband of my child? It is your duty and your right to know
your father’s weakness--I am told that the marquis is entangled with
... but you must know her, you must have heard of her ... some woman
they call Paca or Paquilla--no matter which--she is very pretty and
very charming. She ruined the Duke of Florunda of the little he had
left--and would you believe that that old idiot Agustín, with one
foot in the grave!--it is too pitiable to be angry about, do not you
think?”
Leon did not answer.
“What are you thinking of?” she asked.
“That the cardinal virtue in married life is indeed patience,” he
replied.
“Which is as much as to say endurance and fortitude ... but my
whole life has been a martyrdom!--and I could bear everything if my
husband’s extravagance and follies did not threaten to compromise
the honour and good name of the family. But I am terribly afraid of
that.... What do you think? And I feel very deeply having to tell you
that I cannot pay you the sixty thousand reales that you lent me and
that I was to have repaid you this month.”
“It is of no consequence,” said Leon, wishing to avoid this delicate
subject; “do not let that trouble you.”
“Not only that I cannot pay you those three thousand dollars, but
that I am in desperate need of three thousand more.”
“You can have them.”
“What! three thousand more? But it is outrageous--it is abusing your
generosity! It shall be the last time, for I have quite made up my
mind to practise the narrowest economy in the house--I will give you
a lien on my house at Corrales de Arriba.”
“It is quite unnecessary--I assure you....”
“Thanks, a thousand thanks! How good you are, how dear a son! How can
I ever repay you?” cried the marquesa, evidently agitated by sincere
feeling. “You cannot imagine what a kindness you are doing me....
But I am always thinking of you, and not unfrequently I am able to
intercept half-way some cloud that threatens your happiness. Last
night I had quite a quarrel with your wife.”
“With María?”
“Yes, with María: even she has her faults, though they are only
the excessive side of her virtues. You know that she is very
devout--devout to excess; indeed, at times I have felt that this
question of religion has given rise to some little differences
between you.” Leon sighed.
“To some,” he said, “but nothing serious.”
“Well, you need not speak of your annoyance as a mere trifle,” said
the marquesa, vexed that Leon should speak lightly of a matter that
it suited her to treat as important. “The poor child is blindly
attached to you: her love for you is the ruling motive of her life,
and your reputation as an atheist is a standing misery to her. And
you know that my daughter’s opinions are as independent and as
indomitable as the beasts of the desert.” Leon nodded a sad assent.
“You can understand that she sees your lack of religion with very
great pain; that is but natural. We have instilled a faith in which
she will live and die. But she weeps with despair because you will
not go to prayers every day as she does, will not confess once a
month, will not spend your money on trumpery--it is really quite
absurd! How I lectured her last night--in short, she vexed me, I got
angry, I hammered away at her as if her stupid little head had been
an anvil, and at last....”
“Well--at last?...”
“At last I convinced her that it was preposterous to expect men to
carry out practices, which, in us, are all very well, but, in them,
would be ridiculous, purely ridiculous. The men of the present day
have something else to do than to be sitting in church. It seems to
me that María and you--she spending her time in devotions, and you
spending yours at your studies--may both be very happy. What is the
use of discussion? You do not want to prevent her praying to her
heart’s content. The men of the present day have their own ideas and
it is senseless to try to combat them. No one need be more religious
than I am, but I have no notion of enquiring into things that I do
not understand. Women are not learned; their part is to believe,
believe, believe.
“That a married couple should quarrel over that appears to me the
height of folly. But do you know that her ambition is to convert you?
To lead you to abhor your own views and devote yourself to hers--upon
my word I can hardly help laughing when I think of it. Do you know
what she says? That it would be her highest happiness to burn all
those books of yours--what a sin! So beautifully bound as they are!
Much I should care whether my husband were as regular at Mass as I
am, so long as he loved me and cared for no one else--jealous of his
books! Not I indeed, such a woman must be a perfect fool!
“You cannot think how strongly I spoke to her; I told her that you
were the best man living--to that she agreed--I told her that you
were far superior to her--infinitely superior; that all this talk
about atheism is a mere bogey; that though we hear people speak of
atheists there are no atheists--just as we talk of magicians but
there are no magicians. I told her that she was not to think of
such nonsense as trying to convert you, and that the best thing
she could do was to keep the peace in her home and get rid of
her monomania--do not you think so?--She had better change her
confessor--do not you think so? She should do as I do. I am extremely
religious, I perform all my devotions with the greatest exactitude,
I give all I can afford to the church, but that is all; do not you
think that María should do the same?”
Leon did not reply; he sat silent and gloomy. Suddenly he seemed to
shake off some depressing idea, as we wave off a bee that buzzes in
our ears, and looking at his mother-in-law he said:
“I will send you that money to-day.”
“Ah! is that what you were thinking about?” cried the marquesa
and her face shone with satisfaction till it seemed positively
phosphorescent. “Very good; do so, and I will give you a receipt....
But here I have stayed chattering, and in your delightful society I
forget that I have business to attend to--heaps of business! Eleven
o’clock! I shall be too late for Mass!”
She bustled up and held out her hand to her son-in-law. “And Padre
Paoletti is to preach.--Good-bye, I must fly. What shall I say to
your wife? I will tell her to make haste home and that you are very
dull without her.”