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The Joy of Captain Ribot

[Illustration: image of the book's cover]




THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE
ORIGINAL OF

A. PALACIO VALDÉS

BY

MINNA CAROLINE SMITH

[Illustration: colophon]

NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S

1900

COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY BRENTANOS.




Introduction


"We Americans are apt to think because we have banged the Spanish
war-ships to pieces that we are superior to the Spaniards, but here in
the field where there is always peace they shine our masters. If we have
any novelists to compare with theirs at their best, I should be puzzled
to think of them, and I should like to have some one else try"--wrote
William Dean Howells in _Literature_.

When a work by one of the world's masters of fiction has called forth a
remark like the foregoing from a leading man of letters in America, it
would be a misfortune if the public to whom the remark is addressed
might not enjoy the privilege of acquaintance with that work. And it was
this most charming novel by Señor Armando Palacio Valdés, "La Alegria
del Capitán Ribot," that prompted Mr. Howells to write those words. Any
reader must be hard to please who would not take the keenest delight in
a story presented with a touch so delicate. The scene is laid in
Valencia, one of the earth's famous garden spots, where the touch of the
classic hand, laid upon the spot ages ago yet lingers. It is a story
dominated by the purest joy, as its serene Mediterranean landscape is
dominated by the purest sunshine.

Every novelist of character must have some purpose in mind in a given
work, and the purpose of Señor Valdés in this is of no slight import. It
happens that, from an unclean quality that distinguishes the fiction of
a certain nation, the minds of many lands have been infected. For the
almost universal aim of its authors has seemed to be so pervasively to
color their pictures of life with one particular kind of sin as to give
the impression that it is a main factor of modern civilization, instead
of something that blots but a small proportion of the lives of men and
women in any land. So, when Señor Valdés wrote to me, several months
ago, about his new novel, he said: "It is a protest from the depths
against the eternal adultery of the French novel." And when I read the
book, I thought that "A Married Woman" would have been a good name for
the story, so nobly and so truly does it present a type of the true and
devoted wife in Cristina Martí--one of the great creations in modern
literature. The trait that makes Señor Valdés one of the most eminent of
living novelists is greatness of soul, finding expression as it does in
a consummate mastery of his art. That trait appears in his "La Fé" as in
no other novel that I know; and in the present story it pervades the
whole work, which, moreover, is clean, sweet, and wholesome in every
part. Magnanimity is a word that somehow implies that greatness of soul
derives itself from greatness of heart, and the magnanimity of Señor
Valdés is of a degree that transcends limitations of race, of creed, and
of patriotism.

He has given evidence that in his catholic sympathies the fact of a
common humanity is sufficient for the inclusion of any man in his
brotherly regard. Of such as he the nations as yet count too few among
their sons. And when one of these speaks, no difference of tongue should
be allowed to bar our listening.

In the same article that has furnished the text for these remarks, Mr.
Howells notes, among the admirable attributes in which this noble-minded
Spaniard excels, "something very like our own boasted American humor
with some other things which we cannot lay special claim to; as a
certain sweetness, a gentle spirituality, a love of purity and goodness
in themselves, and an insight into the workings of what used to be
called the soul." As to the specific qualities of the book before us, I
cannot better express my own sentiments than to continue in the words of
Mr. Howells:

"La Alegria del Capitán Ribot is, as all the stories of this delightful
author are, a novel of manners, the modern manners of provincial Spain;
and, by the way, while we were spoiling our prostrate foe, I wish we
could have got some of these, too; they would form an agreeable relief
to our own, which they surpass so much in picturesqueness, to say the
least. The scene is mostly at Valencia, where Capitán Ribot, who
commands a steamer plying between Barcelona and Hamburg, is the guest of
the civil engineer, Martí. The novel is, as far as Ribot and his two
friends are concerned, a tender idyll, but on the other side it is an
exquisite comedy, with some fine tragic implications. Around all is
thrown the atmosphere of a civilization so different from our own, and
of a humanity so like the Anglo-Saxon, as well as the Russian and the
Scandinavian, even, that we find ourselves charmed at once by its
strangeness and its familiarity. There are the same temptations, the
same aspirations, the same strong desires, the same trembling
resolutions, masking under southern skies and in alien air; but
instantly recognizable by their truth to what all men feel and know."

Mr. Howells has expressed a desire to have Señor Valdés for our own. So
far as a most intelligently sympathetic presentation of this beautiful
story in English can do so, I am sure that my friend the translator has
made him so.

SYLVESTER BAXTER.




The Joy of Captain Ribot




THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT





CHAPTER I.


In Malaga they cook it not at all badly; in Vigo better yet; in Bilbao I
have eaten it deliciously seasoned on more than one occasion. But there
is no comparison between any of these, or the way I have had it served
in any of the other ports where I have been wont to touch, and the
cooking of a Señora Ramona in a certain shop for wines and edibles
called El Cometa, situated on the wharf at Gijon.

Therefore, when that most intelligent woman hears that the _Urano_ has
entered port, she begins to get her stewpans ready for my reception. I
prefer to go alone and at night, like the selfish and luxurious being
that I am. She sets my table for me in a corner of the back shop; and
there, at my ease, I enjoy pleasures ineffable and have taken more than
one indigestion.

I arrived the 9th of February, at eleven in the morning, and according
to my custom I ate little, preparing myself by healthful abstinence for
the ceremony of the evening. God willed otherwise. A little before the
striking of the hour a heathen of a sailor broke a lantern; the burning
wick fell upon a cask of petroleum and started a fire, which we got the
better of by throwing the barrel overboard with several others. But the
pilot-house was burned, together with much of the rigging and some of
the upper works of the steamer. In short, the consequences kept us busy
and on our feet nearly all night.

And this was the reason why I did not go to eat my dish of tripe at the
Señora Ramona's, but notified her, by means of the speaking trumpet, to
be ready for me that evening without fail.

It was about ten o'clock. Peaceful and contented, I descended the ladder
of the Urano, jumped into a boat, and in four strokes of my boat-man's
oars I was taken to the wharf, which stood deserted and shadowy. The
hulls of the vessels could hardly be made out and absolute silence
reigned on board them. Only the silhouette of the guards on their rounds
or that of some melancholy-looking passer-by was vaguely outlined in the
gloom. But the obscurity, that the few street-lamps were insufficient to
dissipate, was soon enlivened by the wave of light that proceeded from
the two open doorways of El Cometa. I fluttered away in that direction
like an eager butterfly. There were only three or four customers left
in the shop; the others had departed--some spontaneously, some because
of intimations, each time more or less peremptory, given by Señora
Ramona, who always closed up promptly at half after ten.

This woman greeted my appearance with a peal of laughter. I cannot say
what curious and mysterious titillation affected her nerves in my
presence; but I can affirm that she never saw me after an absence more
or less prolonged without being violently shaken by merriment, which in
turn inevitably resulted in severe attacks of coughing, inflaming her
cheeks and transforming them from their hue of grainy red to violet. Yet
I was profoundly gratified by that peal of laughter and that attack of
coughing, considering them a pledge of unalterable friendship, and that
I could count, in life and in death, upon her culinary accomplishments.
On such occasions it was my duty to double my spine, shake my head, and
laugh boisterously until Dame Ramona recovered herself. And I complied
therewith religiously.

"Ay, but how good it was yesterday, Don Julian!"

"And why not to-day?"

"Because yesterday was yesterday, and to-day is to-day."

Before this invincible reason I grew serious, and a sigh escaped me.
Dame Ramona went off in a fresh fit of laughter, followed by a
corresponding attack of asthmatic coughing. When at last she recovered
herself she finished washing the glass in her hands, and called to three
or four sailors chatting in a corner:

"Come, up with you! I am going to lock up."

One of them ventured to say:

"Wait a bit, Dame Ramona. We'll go when that gentleman does."

The hostess, frowning grimly, volunteered in solemn accents:

"This gentleman has come to eat some stewed tripe, and the table is set
for him."

Thereupon the customers, feeling the weight of this hint, and
comprehending the gravity of the occasion, lost no time in rising to
depart. Gazing at me for an instant with a mixture of respect and
admiration they went out, wishing us good-night.

"Well, Don Julian!" exclaimed Dame Ramona, her face brightening again,
"that tripe of yesterday fairly was of a kind to make one's mouth water
with delight."

My face must have expressed the most profound despair.

"And that of to-day--won't it do anything?" I inquired in tones of woe.

"To-day--to-day--you will see for yourself."

She waved her fat hand in a way calculated to leave me submerged in a
sea of doubt.

While she was giving the last touches to her work, I took some absinthe
to prepare my stomach adequately for its task, at the same time
meditating upon the serious words that I had heard.

Would it, or would it not, be so well seasoned, piquant, and aromatic as
my imagination depicted?

But when I had seated myself at the table; when I saw the dish before me
and felt its bland fragrance penetrating my nostrils, a ray of light
illumining my brain dissipated that dark spectral doubt. My heart began
to palpitate with inexplicable pleasure. I comprehended that the gods
still held in reserve some moments of happiness in this world.

Dame Ramona divined the emotion that overpowered my soul, and smiled
with maternal benevolence.

"What's that, Dame Ramona?" I exclaimed, pausing with my fork held
motionless in the air. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes, señor; I heard a scream."

"It called 'Help!'"

"Out on the wharf."

"Another scream!"

I threw down the fork and rushed to the door, followed by my hostess.
When I opened it I heard a sound of incoherent lamentation.

"My mother! Help! For God's sake! She is drowning!"

In two jumps I leaped over the rampart between me and the wharf, and
made out the figure of a woman waving her arms convulsively and uttering
piteous screams.

I saw what had happened, and, running to her, I asked:

"Who has fallen in?"

"My mother! Save her! Save her!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

And she pointed out the narrow space in the water between a lighter and
the wharf.

Although narrow, it was too wide for me to reach the craft. I plucked up
courage, however, and sprang for the rigging rather than the deck,
managing to grasp a cable. In this way I dropped to the deck. Seizing
the first rope I came across, I made it fast and slid down to the
water's edge. Happily, the woman had also grasped the rope and so kept
herself afloat. When I got to her I endeavored to seize her by the head.
But only a wig remained in my hand! I made another attempt, and this
time caught her arm. I drew her to the side of the vessel. Then I saw
that it would be impossible to get her out without help. How could I
climb the rope with one hand only? Fortunately the cries of the
daughter, together with my own, aroused the crew of a lighter, composed
of four sailors, and they easily got us out. There were some planks at
hand, and so we reached the wharf with her and took her to an
apothecary's near by, where she was at last restored to consciousness.

While the apothecary was attending her, the daughter, pale and silent,
bent over her, her face bathed with tears. She was a young lady of good
stature, slender, pale, her hair black and wavy; her whole personality,
if not of supreme beauty, attractive and interesting. She was dressed
with elegance, her mother also; and I inferred that they were persons
distinguished in the town. But one of the throng that had pressed into
the shop informed me that they were strangers, and had been but a few
days in Gijon.

When I found that she was neither dead nor hurt to any serious extent,
and feeling the chill of the bath penetrating me and making me shiver, I
wished them good-night.

The young lady raised her head, came towards me with animation, and
seizing my hands cordially, looked into my eyes with tearful
earnestness, and murmured with emotion:

"Thank you, thank you, señor! I shall never forget this!"

I gave her to understand that my service deserved no thanks; that
anybody in my place would have done the same, as I sincerely thought.
The only real sacrifice that I had made was that of the stewed tripe;
but I did not say this, very naturally.

When I reached the steamer and got into my room I felt so chilled that I
feared a heavy cold, if not pneumonia. But I rubbed myself energetically
with alcohol and wrapped myself so warmly in my bed that I wakened as
usual in the morning, healthy and lively, and in excellent humor.




CHAPTER II.


When I had dressed myself, and after I had complied with my ordinary
duties and looked after the carpenters repairing the damages from the
fire, I thought of the lady who had been on the point of drowning the
night before. In strict truth, the one whom I thought of was the
daughter. Those eyes were of the kind that neither can be, nor should
be, forgotten. And with the vague hope of seeing them again I went
ashore and directed my steps towards the apothecary's.

The druggist informed me that they were stopping at the Iberia. So I
went to ask about the lady's condition.

"Is it necessary that you should see them?" the chambermaid asked me.

That was my desire, but I hardly ventured to say so. I told her it was
not necessary, but I should like to know how they had passed the night.
I was told that Doña Amparo (the old lady) had rested fairly well and
that the doctor, who had just gone, found her better than he had
expected. Doña Cristina (the young lady) was perfectly well. I left my
card and went down stairs somewhat depressed. But I had no sooner
reached the street floor than the chambermaid came after me and asked me
to come back, saying that the ladies wished to see me.

Doña Cristina came out into the corridor to meet me. She wore an elegant
morning-gown of a violet color, and her black hair was half-imprisoned
by a white cap with violet ribbons. Her eyes were beaming with delight
and she held out her hand most cordially.

"Good morning, Captain. Why were you avoiding the thanks we wished to
give you? I had just finished a letter to you in which I expressed, if
not all the gratitude we feel, at least a part. But it is better that
you have come--and yet the letter was not wholly bad!" she added,
smiling. "Although you may not believe it, we women are more eloquent
with the pen than with the tongue."

She took me into a parlor where there was an alcove whose glazed doors
were shut.

"Mamma," she called, "here is the gentleman who saved you, the captain
of the _Urano_."

I heard a melancholy murmuring, something like suppressed sighing and
sobbing, with words between that I could not make out. I questioned the
daughter with my eyes.

"She says that she regrets extremely having caused you to risk your
life."

I replied in a loud tone that I had run no danger at all; but even if I
had, I was simply doing my duty.

Again there proceeded from the alcove various confused sounds.

"She tells me to give you a tablespoonful of orange-flower extract."

"What for?" I exclaimed in surprise.

"She thinks that you also must have sustained a shock," explained Doña
Cristina, laughing. "Mamma uses that remedy a great deal, and makes us
all take it too. Just tell her that you are going to take it, and it
will please her immensely."

Before I could recover from my astonishment I did as Doña Cristina
requested, and was immediately rewarded with a murmur of approval.

"I have just given it to him, mamma," she announced, darting a
mischievous glance at me. "Now you may feel at ease!"

"Many thanks, señora," I called out. "I believe it will do me good, for
I was feeling a bit nervous."

Doña Cristina pressed my hand and struggled to keep from laughing. She
said in a low voice:

"Bravo! You are on the way to become a consummate actor."

The strange and unintelligible sounds renewed themselves.

"She asks if you have telegraphed to your wife, and advises you not to
do so, as it might frighten her."

"I have no wife. I am a bachelor."

"Then to your mother," Doña Cristina had the goodness to interpret.

"I have no mother, either; nor father, nor brothers or sisters. I am
alone in the world."

Doña Amparo, so far as I could understand, showed herself surprised and
displeased at my lone condition, and invited me to change it without
loss of time. She also added that a man like me was destined to make any
woman happy. I do not know what qualities of a husband the lady could
have observed in me, except facility in grasping and sliding down a
cable. I responded that surely I desired nothing else; but up to now no
occasion had presented itself. My life as a mariner, to-day in one
place, to-morrow in another, the shyness of men like me who do not
frequent society, and even the fact that I had not met a woman who
really interested me--all this had impeded its realization.

While saying this I fixed my gaze upon the smiling eyes of Doña
Cristina.

A sweet and fanciful thought thereupon came into my head.

"Let us change the subject, mamma. Everyone follows his own pleasure,
and if the Captain has not married it must be, of course, because he has
not cared to."

"Exactly," said I, smiling, and gazing at her fixedly, "I have not cared
to marry up to the present, but I cannot say that I may not care to some
day when least looked for."

"Meanwhile we wish that you may be happy; that you may get a very
handsome wife and a half-dozen plump children--lively and mischievous."

"Amen," I exclaimed.

The frankness and graciousness of the young lady were spontaneously
attractive. I felt as much at ease with her as if I had known her for
years. She invited me to seat myself on the sofa, seating herself there
also, speaking low that her mother might rest, for the doctor had said
that she had better not talk.

I asked for the details of her mother's condition, and was told that she
had suffered a slight contusion on the shoulder, which the doctor had
said was of little account. She had also overcome the ill effects of the
chill. The only thing to be feared was the nervous shock. Her mamma was
very nervous; her heart troubled her, and nobody could say what might be
the consequences of that terrible shock. I did my best to assuage her
fears. Then to make conversation, I asked her if they were Asturians,
although knowing that they were not, both from what the doctor had said,
and because of their accent.

"No, señor, we are Valencianas."

"Really? Valencianas?" I exclaimed. "Then we are almost compatriots! I
was born in Alicante."

So we continued the talk in Valencian, with pleasure unspeakable on my
part, and I think also on her part. She told me that they had been in
Gijon only nine days, having come to visit a nun who was her mother's
sister. They had had this intention for years, and had never carried it
into effect before, on account of the length and discomfort of the
journey. At last they had undertaken it, but unfortunately, it seemed,
for it had nearly cost her mother her life. They were pleased with the
country, although it seemed rather dull in comparison with their own.

"O Valencia!" I exclaimed with ardor, "I who have visited the most
remote regions of the earth and have been on so many diverse shores,
have never found anything comparable to that land. There the sun does
not rise in blood, as it does in the North, nor scorch as in Andalusia;
its light is gently diffused in balmy and tranquil air. The sea does not
terrify as it does here; it is bluer and its foam is whiter and lighter.
There the birds sing with notes more dulcet and varied; there the breeze
caresses at night as by day; there the delicious fruits, that in other
parts are in season only in the heat of summer, are enjoyed the year
around; there not only the flowers and the herbs have scent, the earth
itself exhales a delicate aroma. There life is not sad and weary.
Everything is gentle, everything serene and harmonious. And the
tranquillity of Nature seems to be reflected in the profound gaze of the
Valencian women."

That of Doña Cristina, which was the most gentle and profound I had ever
seen, sparkled with a certain mischievous delight.

"Who would think, hearing you talk, that you were a sea-wolf! You speak
like a poet. I am almost tempted to believe that you have contributed
verses to the periodicals."

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I am an inoffensive poet. I never
write either verses or prose; but you will pardon me for saying that
those eyes of yours revived in my memory various beautiful things, all
Valencian, and the poetry went to my head."

Doña Cristina appeared to remain in suspense for a moment; she regarded
me with more curiosity than gratification, and changing the conversation
she asked graciously:

"And the steamer that you are commanding--does she go to America?"

"Only once in a while. Usually we run between Barcelona and Hamburg."

"And your stop here is for several days?"

"Just long enough to repair the damages from a little fire on board, day
before yesterday."

On my part, I asked how long they proposed to remained in Gijon.

"We had been thinking of leaving the day after to-morrow and stopping
some days in Madrid, where we expected to meet my husband; but now it is
necessary to postpone going on account of what has happened. At all
events, as soon as my mother has completely recovered herself and the
doctor gives permission, we shall start."

I must confess it although it may seem ridiculous--that "my husband"
produced a strange sensation of chill and discouragement in me that I
could scarcely succeed in hiding. How the devil had it not occurred to
me that the young lady might be married? I cannot account for it to this
day. And conceding it to be the case, why should the information cause
such a bitter emotion when it concerned a person whom I was only just
beginning to be acquainted with? I cannot account for that either. I am
tempted to believe in the truth of what happens in the old comedies when
the gallant is fired with love at first sight of the lady. If I was not
on fire, at least I had on board all the materials for the fire.

Nevertheless, reason soon asserted its supremacy. I comprehended the
absurdity and the ridiculous character of my sensations, and, calming
myself, I asked about her husband with natural and friendly interest.
She told me that he was called Emilio Martí, and was one of the
partners in the shipping house of Castell and Martí, whose steamers run
to Liverpool. Moreover, he had various other lines of business, for he
was an active and enterprising man. They had been married only two
years.

"And you have no family?"

"Not as yet," she responded, blushing slightly.

She went on to tell me that they were both born in Valencia, where they
had always lived; through the winter in the city, Calle del Mar; in the
summer time at their villa in Cabañal.

I knew several of the Castell and Martí steamers. I spoke of my
satisfaction in placing myself at the service of the wife of one of
their owners.

We talked a little longer. I was downcast and felt a desire to go. I
managed to take my leave, but not without another dialogue with Doña
Amparo with closed doors and an interpreter. On reaching the street my
unfounded and even irrational depression was soon dissipated, as I
talked with acquaintances and went about my affairs. But all through the
day the figure of Doña Cristina was constantly present to my
imagination. I adore women who are slender and white, with great black
eyes. My friends used to tell me once that in order to suit my taste a
woman must be in the last stage of phthisis. They were not far from
right. My only love had been a consumptive, and she died when all the
preparations were made for our marriage.

The next day I held it to be in the line of my duty to go to the hotel
to inquire about the ladies. Doña Cristina asked me in and received me
with even greater cordiality, putting her finger to her lips and asking
me to speak in whispers like herself, for her mother was sleeping. We
seated ourselves on the sofa and chatted in low but lively tones. Doña
Amparo was well, and required nothing but attention.

"Moreover (I will tell you in confidence), until they have finished her
wig she will not show herself outside her room."

"Ah, the wig! Yes, I remember now."

"Yes, you remember that you tore it off, wicked one!" she replied,
laughing.

"Señora, it was impossible to foresee! It is fortunate that I did not
tear her head from her body."

We both laughed heartily, forcing ourselves at the same time to laugh
noiselessly. A moment later she said, in a way so natural that it
pleased me immensely:

"I am hungry, captain, and am going to have some breakfast. Will you not
join me?"

I thanked her and excused myself. But as I could not say that I had
breakfasted she said that of course I must breakfast with her, and went
out to give some orders. I felt delighted, and even if I should say
enthusiastic it would not be an untruth. While the maid was getting the
table ready in the room where we were, we continued our chat, our mutual
confidence steadily growing. All through the breakfast she treated me
with a cordiality so frank and hospitable that it quite charmed me. She
cut bread and meat for me with her own hands and poured out wine and
water. When I wanted a dish or a plate, with provincial simplicity she
would jump up and take it from the sideboard without waiting for the
maid.

I told her jestingly of the grave occupation in which her cries had
surprised me the night of the accident. She laughed heartily and
promised to make it up to me when I came to Valencia, by cooking a
paella for me by all the rules of the art.

"Not that I have the mad presumption of expecting to make you forget the
tripe of Señora Ramona. I shall be satisfied if you eat a couple of
platefuls."

"Why a couple? I perceive with sadness that you take me for a gross and
material being. I hope to show you, in the course of time, that apart
from these hours of tripe and snails, I am a man naturally
spiritually-minded, poetic, and even, to some extent, delicate."

She ridiculed this, piling up my plate in most scandalous style,
inviting me not to dissimulate my true condition, but to eat as if she
were not present.

"Do not think of my being a lady. Fancy yourself breakfasting with a
companion--the pilot, for instance."

"I have not sufficient imagination for that. The pilot is squint-eyed
and lacks two teeth."

This lively and intimate chat intoxicated me more than the Bordeaux that
she poured for me without ceasing. And her eyes intoxicated me more than
the wine or the chat. Although we talked in whispers and checked our
laughter, occasionally there escaped me an indiscreet note. Doña
Cristina raised her finger to her lips. "Silence, Captain, or I shall
have to sentence you to the corridor before you have half breakfasted."

She asked me to tell her something about my life. I gratified her
curiosity, relating my history, which was simple enough. We discussed
the pleasures of a sailor's life, which she thought superior to those of
any other.

"I adore the sea, but the sea of my home above all. Here it makes me
afraid and sad. If you could see how often I go to the window of our
villa at Cabañal to look at it!"

"But in Valencia I prefer the women to the sea," I remarked, having
reached too lively a stage.

"I can believe it," she responded, smiling. "Oh, they are very
beautiful. I have a little cousin named Isabel who is truly perfection.
What eyes that child has!"

"Are they more beautiful than yours?" I asked presumptuously.

"Oh, mine are of no account," she answered with a blush.

"Of no account?" I questioned with astonishment. "Indeed, there are no
others so bewitching on all this eastern coast, among all the beautiful
ones that there abound. They are two stars of heaven! They are a happy
dream from which one would never wish to awake!"

She instantly became serious. She kept silence for a while, without
raising her eyes from the tablecloth. Then she said with an affected
indifference, not free from severity:

"You have breakfasted fairly well, have you not? But on board the food
is better than at hotels."

I kept silent for a while, in turn. Without responding to her question,
after a moment I said:

"Pardon me. We sailors express ourselves too frankly. We are not versed
in etiquette, but our intentions must excuse us. Mine were not to say
anything impertinent."

She was immediately mollified, and we continued our chat with the same
cordiality until the end of the breakfast.




CHAPTER III.


I went back to the ship in a worse state than that of the day before.
The lady occupied my thoughts more than was desirable for content or
peace of mind. I went back again that afternoon and again the next day.
Her interesting figure, her eyes--so black, so innocent, and so piquant
at the same time, were rapidly penetrating my soul. And as always
happens in such cases, her eyes first began to please me and then her
voice began to enchant me; soon it was her fine hands, like alabaster; a
little after that the soft veil of hair that adorned her temples;
immediately thereupon, three little dimples in her right cheek. At last
I found happiness in a certain defective way she had of pronouncing the
letter R.

These and other discoveries of like importance could not be made, it is
evident, without due attention, all of which, instead of pleasing the
lady, annoyed her visibly. She always received me cordially, but not
with her former frankness of manner. I observed, not without pain, that
in spite of the gayety and animation of her conversation she revealed a
bit of disquiet in the depths, as if fearing that I might again say
something unwelcome. While comprehending this, nevertheless I had not
the force of will to stop gazing at her more than I should.

At last the wig was brought in secret to the hotel. Doña Amparo tried it
on in the most absolute privacy; she found it imperfect. It was returned
to the hands of its maker; various changes were effected in it without
either the public or the authorities becoming aware of the fact, and
after various trials equally secret the good lady emerged as fresh and
juvenile as if my sinful hands had never attacked her charms. For in
spite of all--that is, in spite of the wig, of years, and of
obesity--Doña Amparo had not completely lost her charms.

They invited me to take a drive with them through the environs of the
city. The pleasure with which I accepted may be imagined. On reaching
the country we alighted, and for an hour we feasted our eyes upon that
smiling and splendid landscape. I found myself happy, and this happiness
incited me to show towards Doña Cristina great deference and gentleness
of speech. I felt impelled to say to her everything beautiful and
interesting that occurred to me. But she, as if divining these perverse
tendencies of my tongue, curbed it with tact and firmness, asking me
some indifferent question whenever there seemed to be any danger of my
uttering something indiscreet, leaving me with her mamma while she went
on ahead, or taking pains to make her mother talk. This did not
dishearten me. I was so stupid, or so indiscreet, that in spite of these
clear signals I still persisted in seeking pretexts for directing
various whiffs of incense towards her. I declare, however, that I did
not think I was acting the gallant. I believed in good faith that such
obsequiousness and such flatteries were legitimate; for we Spaniards
from remote antiquity have arrogated to ourselves the right of telling
all pretty women that they are pretty, without other consequences. But
she cast doubts upon the correctness of such a proceeding. That these
doubts were not ill-founded I see clearly enough, now that the mist of
my sentiments has been completely dissipated and I read my soul as in an
open book.

It chanced that that same afternoon, on our way back to the city, seeing
the numerous and handsome country houses that we passed, Doña Cristina
remarked:

"Our place at Cabañal is very charming, but not sumptuous. My husband is
not satisfied with it; he wants something better."

"He wants something better?" I cried without stopping to think. "But if
I were your husband, I could desire nothing!"

The lady kept silence for a moment, turned her face towards the window
to look at the road, and murmured ironically,--

"Well, sir; let us have patience."

I believe that not only my cheeks, my forehead, and my ears turned
scarlet, but even the whites of my eyes. For several minutes I felt on
my face the impression of two red-hot bricks. I did not know what to
say, and seeking escape from my embarrassment I turned to the other
window and remained in ecstatic contemplation of the landscape. Doña
Amparo, who had remarked nothing, spoke in response to her daughter's
observation:

"Emilio is a very good man, very industrious, although somewhat
fantastic."

"How is he fantastic?" exclaimed Cristina, turning sharply, as if
struck. "Because he desires what is better, more beautiful, and seeks to
acquire it? That shows rather his good taste and good will. For if the
world did not have men who aspired to perfection, who always see a
'farther on' and who take steps to approach it, neither these handsome
country houses nor others still better, nor any of the comforts that we
enjoy to-day would exist. The idlers, the spendthrifts, and the poor in
spirit ridicule such ideas so long as they are not realized; but when
the hour comes that the ends aimed at can be seen and touched, they shut
themselves up in their houses and refuse to congratulate those who made
it possible because they do not care to confess their stupidity. Then
you know well that Emilio, however 'fantastic,' has never had the
fantasy to think of himself; that all his efforts are devoted to give
pleasure and prosperity to his family, to his friends, and to his
neighbors, and that all his life up to now has been a constant sacrifice
for others."

Doña Amparo, during this vehement discourse, showed herself strangely
affected. I was astonished to see her stammer, rub her eyes, grow red in
the face, and fall backward as if in a swoon.

"I--is it possible?--my son!"

Uttering these incoherent words, she swayed, then seemed to lose all
sense of the external world. To restore her to consciousness it was
necessary for her daughter to bathe her temples with eau de Cologne and
apply sal-volatile to her nostrils. When at last she opened her eyes
there burst forth a flood of tears that flowed down her cheeks and
poured into her lap like a copious rain, some of which moistened my
coat. At these symptoms Doña Cristina again opened the little satchel
that she carried, that I could see contained numerous little flasks. She
took one of these, together with a lump of sugar, and moistened the
latter with several drops of liquid. She thrust the sugar into her
mother's mouth; that lady gradually recovered her senses and at last was
conscious of her whereabouts and of who was with her.

On my part, being the indirect cause of the unfortunate scene, I
understood that nothing would be more suitable than for me to throw
myself out of the carriage window, even though I should fracture my
head; but imagining that the results of such a procedure might be too
melancholy, I hit upon a decorous substitute by biting at the head of my
cane and staring into vacancy. Doña Cristina did not choose to take
cognizance of these tragic manifestations, but they so penetrated the
heart of her mamma that the latter seized my hands convulsively,
murmuring occasionally:

"Ribot! Ribot! Ribot!"

Fearing that she might again enter into the world of the unconscious, I
hastened to take the flask of salts and hold it to her nose.

The rest of the way back, heaven be praised! was traversed without
further mishap, and I made desperate efforts to have my foolishness
forgotten and forgiven, talking with all formality about various things,
principally of those most to the taste of Doña Cristina. At length I was
rewarded by seeing her bright face again unclouded and her eyes
expressing their accustomed frank joyousness. And, prompted by her
humor, she even went so far as to make gracious fun of her mamma.

"Did you know, Captain Ribot, that mamma never swoons except when she is
with the family, or among persons in whom she confides? The greatest
proof of the sympathy with which you inspire her is that which she has
just given."

"Cristina! Cristina!" exclaimed Doña Amparo, half smiling, half
indignant.

"Now, be frank, mamma! If Captain Ribot has not won your confidence, how
is it you ventured to faint away in his presence?"

Doña Amparo decided to laugh, giving her daughter a pinch. When we
parted at the hotel door they invited me to breakfast with them the next
day, they having decided to leave for Madrid on the day after that.

It could no longer be doubted; if I was not in love I was on the way to
be, with a fair wind and all sails set. Why was it that this woman had
impressed me so profoundly in so short a time? I do not think it was
merely her figure, although it coincided with the ideal type of beauty
that I had always adored. If I had fallen in love with all the white and
slender women with dark eyes that I had met in the course of my life,
there would not have remained any time to do anything else. But she had
a special attractiveness, at least for me, which consisted in a singular
combination of joyousness and gravity, of sweetness and brusqueness, of
daring and timidity, alternately reflected in her expressive
countenance.

The next day, at the appointed time, I presented myself at the hotel.
Doña Cristina was in most delightful humor and let me know that we were
to breakfast alone, for her mother had not slept well the night before
and was still in bed. This filled me with selfish satisfaction,
observing her merry mood. Before going to the table she served me an
appetizer, graciously ridiculing me.

"Since you always have such a delicate appetite, and look so
languishing, I have ordered something bitter for you, to see if we
cannot give a little tone to that stomach of yours."

I fell in with the jest.

"I am in despair. I comprehend that it is ridiculous to have such a
ready appetite, but I am a man of honor and I confess it. One time when
I attempted to conceal it I missed my reckoning. One of my passengers
was a certain very charming and spirituelle lady towards whom I felt
somewhat favorably disposed. I could think of no better means to inspire
her interest than to feign an absolute lack of appetite, naturally
accompanied by languor and poetic melancholy. At table I refused the
greater part of the dishes. My nourishment consisted of tapioca, vanilla
cream, some fruit, and much coffee. Then I complained of weakness, and
ordered glasses of sherry with biscuit. Of course I suffered terribly
from hunger; but I overcame it finely in solitude. The lady became
enthusiastic; she professed for me a profound and sincere admiration,
and despised for their grossness all those at the table who were served
with more solid nutriment. But, alas! there came a moment when she
unexpectedly came down into the dining-saloon and surprised me feasting
on cold ham. That ended the affair. She never spoke another word to me."

"She did right," said Doña Cristina, with a laugh. "Hypocrisy is
something more shameful than a good appetite."

We began our breakfast, and I gave her to understand that now that she
so abhorred hypocrisy I proposed to proceed with all possible frankness.

"That is right! Entirely frank!" And she served me an enormous ration of
omelette.

We went on chatting and laughing in undertones, but Doña Cristina did
not neglect to serve me with fabulous quantities of food, greater, in
truth, than my gastric capacity. I wanted to decline, but she would not
permit it.

"Be frank, Captain! You have promised to be entirely frank."

"Señora, this surpasses frankness. Anybody might call it grossness."

"I do not call it so. Go on! Go on!"

But soon, straightening herself back in her chair a bit, and assuming a
solemn tone, she spoke:

"Captain, I am now going to treat you as if you had not only saved my
mother's life, but mine as well. At one and the same time I wish to pay
you for her life and my own."

My eyes opened widely without my comprehending the significance of such
words. Doña Cristina rose from her chair and, going to the door, opened
it wide. There appeared the maid with a big dish of stewed tripe in her
hands.

"Tripe!" I exclaimed.

"Stewed by Señora Ramona," proclaimed Doña Cristina, gravely.

The joke put me in better humor yet. But how short was the duration of
that intoxicating delight! When we reached the dessert she informed me,
perfectly naturally:

"I have news for you. We are not going to-morrow. My husband is coming
for us the day after."

"Yes?" I exclaimed, with the expression of a man who is forced to talk
under a shower bath.

"Although the journey is a bit uncomfortable, coming and going again at
once, he says that as mamma has probably not yet completely recovered
from her shock he does not like to have us travel alone."

Saying this, she took the letter from her pocket and proceeded to look
it over. "He also tells me to give you a million thanks and is glad that
he is to have a chance to give them to you in person."

I was looking at the back of the letter, but I caught the words of the
ending: "Adiós, life of my soul," and it augmented the sadness of my
mood. However, I expressed my satisfaction at the prospect of knowing
Señor Martí so soon, but it required some effort to say so. As
melancholy began to take possession of me, and as Doña Cristina was not
slow in perceiving the fact, I found no better means of combating it
than to take more cognac after my coffee than was prudent. This produced
an exaltation that resembled, without being, joyousness. I chattered
away, and must have uttered many ridiculous things and some of them wide
of the mark, although I cannot remember. Doña Cristina smiled
benevolently. But when, for the fifth or sixth time, I took the decanter
to pour out another thimbleful, she touched my arm, saying:

"You are already exceedingly frank, Captain. I will free you from your
word."

"I am its slave, señora, at the cost of my life," I replied, laughingly.
"But I will drink no more. I am resolved to obey you in this, as in
everything you may command. But nevertheless," I continued, looking
boldly into her eyes, "there are things that intoxicate more than cognac
and all spirituous beverages."

Doña Cristina's eyes fell and her fair face frowned. But instantly
smiling, she said vivaciously:

"But you must not intoxicate yourself in any fashion. I abhor
drunkards."

I did not wish to follow this advice; and though it is true I drank
little more, I insisted upon gazing at the fascinating lady. I continued
chatting like a dentist, and in the midst of my prattle I came near
giving utterance to more than one endearing phrase; but Doña Cristina,
ingeniously and prudently, cut these off before I had a chance to say
them.

We both rose from our seats. We went to the balcony to look at the
traffic and movement on the wharf. With her permission, I was smoking a
Havana cigar. As her beautiful head occupied my thoughts more than the
traffic on the wharf, I noted that a little shell comb was falling out
of her hair.

"If I were this little comb I should be very content with my place. I
would make no effort to escape."

And boldly, with no thought of what I did, I raised my hand to her head
and put the comb back in place.

She turned as red as a cherry, her eyes fell, and she remained silent
for several seconds; at last, looking me in the face with a lofty
expression, she said in a changed tone:

"Señor, I do not know what motive induces you to take any liberties with
me. The service you have rendered us entitles you to my gratitude, but
not to treat me without respect."

My semi-intoxication was dissipated as by magic. It left me petrified
and ashamed as I had never before been in my life and never expect to be
again, and I scarcely had power to murmur a few words of excuse. I
believe she did not hear them. She turned her back disdainfully and left
the room.

In about one moment afterwards there flashed through my mind an idea
that did not lack a certain probability, that is to say, that I was
superfluous in that place. And without waiting to examine it with
sufficient attention in the light of reasonable and serious criticism, I
put it immediately in practice, taking my hat and removing myself before
any grass had a chance to grow under my feet.

Though I was on shipboard and in the consignee's office and in other
parts of the city, shame did not quit me all day long. It was fastened
to my face with a red seal and I was unspeakably mortified. My friends
laughed and murmured such words as "Martel tres estrellas," "Jamaica,"
"Anís del Mono," and others which sounded like marks of liquors, but I
knew what ailed me, and this increased my woe. On the next day, after
washing and scrubbing myself energetically with soap, it seemed as if
there were some bits of that red seal still adhering to my skin.

Of course I did all I could to forget Doña Cristina and her so holy
name, and seemed to succeed throughout the day. But at night her image
would not leave my couch for a moment; it twitched my feet, it pulled my
hair, and later, to make it up to me for these shocking tribulations, it
gently inclined itself towards me and lightly touched my cheek with its
lips.

On awaking, a luminous idea attacked me. Martí was to arrive that day,
and it was my unavoidable duty to go to meet him at the station: first,
for courtesy's sake; second, to prevent his asking for me, and thereby
causing his wife any agitation; third, because my absence would surprise
Doña Amparo; fourth, because it was necessary not to reveal what had
occurred; fifth--I do not know what the fifth reason was, but I have an
idea that there was a fifth reason and that it had something to do with
the mad desire that I felt to see Doña Cristina again.

The mail train arrived in the afternoon. I therefore had sufficient time
to think over the bother of such a step and to change my purpose. But
after considering it in all its aspects and then considering it again
and making infinite efforts for heaven to touch my heart, I still did
not repent, and my feet conducted me to the station almost in spite of
myself.

On reaching the platform I saw my ladies talking with an employee.
Availing myself of the prodigious diplomatic aptitude with which heaven
had been so good as to favor me, I passed along behind them at a slow
pace and profoundly absorbed in the contemplation of a pile of beets.

"Ribot! Ribot!"

I stopped, filled with astonishment. I turned my head to the southeast,
then to the north, next to the northeast, and so on successively towards
all the points of the compass until, after many unfruitful efforts, I
succeeded in locating the direction from which the voice proceeded.

"Oh, señoras!"

I approached them, overflowing with astonishment, and seized the hand of
Doña Amparo. I started to do likewise with Cristina and--did I not say
before that this lady was distinguished by a white skin? The statement
must be corrected. At that moment she might have been born in Senegal.

I asked for her health without venturing to extend my hand, and she
responded, looking in another direction.

"How is this, Captain Ribot?" asked Doña Amparo. "All day yesterday you
did not come, or to-day either."

I excused myself, saying I had been occupied. Doña Amparo would not
accept my explanation and talked to me fondly. This lady showed herself
constantly more affectionate and amiable towards me. While we were
talking, Doña Cristina did not open her lips. I felt hurt and confused.
I did not venture to look her in the face, but observed her from the
corner of my eye and noted that her face, instead of recovering its
ordinary aspect, became more and more cloudy. Her eyes persisted in
gazing in the opposite direction from where I stood.

Doña Amparo, not remarking anything, monopolized the conversation. On my
part, I spoke little and incoherently. My having come at all was
weighing me down fearfully, and I had an impulse to leave under some
pretext, without awaiting the arrival of Martí. But before I could make
up my mind the station-guard sounded his trumpet announcing the train.
So it was no longer possible to go without grave discourtesy.

The train came into the station, and among the goodly number of heads
that suddenly showed themselves at the car windows the eyes of Doña
Cristina discovered that of her husband.

"Emilio!" she cried joyfully.

"Cristina!" he replied in a like tone.

And without waiting for the train to come to a full stop he leaped out
and embraced and kissed her effusively. But she, blushing like a
schoolgirl, and at the same time smiling with pleasure, brusquely freed
herself from his arms.

"Always the same!" he exclaimed, laughing heartily, as he extended his
hand to his mother-in-law.

She, however, was not satisfied with his hand and seized him by the head
like a child and kissed him repeatedly, asking with hearty interest
about his journey as he inquired about her health.

While they were talking I maintained a respectful distance from the
group. And then it was that Doña Cristina turned her eyes towards me
with a friendly smile, at the same time beckoning me to approach. That
unexpected smile caused me such pleasure and surprise that I could
scarcely hide my feelings. I hastened to obey.

"He saved mamma!" she said, with a little emphasis, presenting me to her
husband.

He grasped my hands affectionately, expressing boundless thanks. He was
a man of twenty-eight or thirty years, tall, slender, pale-faced and
black-eyed, his beard also black, silky, and abundant; a Levantine type,
like his wife--but delicate and fragile, at least in appearance.

"Thanks to his bravery, we are not mourning a misfortune to-day,"
continued the lady.

"Señora!" I exclaimed, "the action was of no merit whatever. Any passing
sailor would have done the same."

But she, paying no attention, went on to relate what happened with all
details, exaggerating my conduct.

This panegyric from her mouth, after what had happened, caused me more
shame than pleasure. I felt the pangs of remorse, and what at first had
seemed to me a slight imprudence now appeared a lack of delicacy.

Returning to the town I left them at the hotel door, refusing to stop
with them, in spite of Martí's insistence. In these first moments the
presence of a stranger might be unwelcome. But I agreed to take coffee
with him that evening at the Suizo. I hoped that he might bring his
wife, for she enjoyed taking a walk after dinner.

But the hope was not realized. Martí came alone, saying that his wife
was fatigued and indisposed. I thought this a pretext, and it made me
sad. Perhaps that first moment had exhausted her effusive gratitude, and
distrust and rancor had returned to her heart.

In less than an hour, Martí and I were excellent friends. He struck me
as a sympathetic person, of open nature, affectionate, cheerful, and
candid. The hundred affairs that occupied him did not leave him much
time to give to any one thing. In his conversation he sped lightly from
one affair to another, but showed himself ever wide-awake and energetic.
I let him talk, observing him with intense curiosity. The impression
from that first conversation that best remains with me was his fashion
of rumpling his wavy hair, running his fingers back through it after
the manner of a comb, and giving a little cough when about to express
some idea that he deemed important. This mannerism, which in another
might perhaps seem ridiculous, had in him a gracious effect, boyish and
attractive. I cannot clearly express the sentiments that Martí inspired
in me at that time. They were an indefinable mixture of sympathy and
repugnance, of curiosity and jealousy, which can be accounted for only
by one who has found himself in a situation analogous to mine.

The _Urano_ was to weigh anchor the next day at flood-tide in the
afternoon. In the morning I presented myself at the hotel to take leave
of my new friends. Martí and his mother-in-law warmly expressed their
regret at my departure. Cristina did not make her appearance. She was
shut in her chamber at her toilet, as I understood, and had not the
kindness to have me asked to wait; on the contrary, she dismissed me so
abruptly that she seemed to fear I might.

"_Adios_, Captain Ribot!" she called from within. "Pardon me for not
coming out; it is impossible at this moment. May you have a most happy
voyage; and again you have a million thanks from me. We can never forget
what you have done. A pleasant trip!"

Martí urged me to breakfast with them, but I had much to do and
declined. Moreover, I must confess I felt so melancholy that I wanted
to get into the street. He, as well as Doña Amparo, offered me a
thousand inducements to run down to Valencia on my return to Barcelona,
where the steamer always stayed for eight or ten days. He, as well as
his wife, would take great pleasure in entertaining me at their home. I
was obliged to promise to do so, but with the definite intention of not
complying.

It was always difficult to get away from the ship; and the coldness of
Doña Cristina gave me no encouragement to make such a visit.

In the afternoon Martí came on board to press my hand once more before
my departure. He again urged me cordially not to fail to make them a
visit. Again I made the promise, with the mental reservation already
mentioned. We finally bade each other a most affectionate farewell and I
put to sea, continuing my voyage to Hamburg.




CHAPTER IV.


Not until I found myself on the bridge of my steamer, between the sky
and the sea, could I take account of the impression that the wife of
Martí had made upon me. How many hours I have passed that way, in the
solitude of the ocean, given over to my thoughts! Seldom have they been
sad. My life, after the profound grief caused by the death of my
fiancée, of which I have spoken, has generally had a tranquil, if not
happy, course.

I was born in Alicante, my father a seafarer. In my school days I showed
a fondness for study. My father would have desired me to become a lawyer
or a physician; anything rather than a sailor. But I found such careers
prosaic, and impelled by the romanticism natural to youth, and to my
somewhat dreamy and fanciful temperament, I preferred that calling. My
father agreed to this with apparent reluctance, but was, perhaps,
pleased in reality by the appreciation that I showed for his own
profession. I soon learned navigation, and made two voyages to Cuba. But
my only sister having died and my mother feeling rather lonely, I felt
obliged to stay at home and lead the life of a young gentleman of
leisure. Nobody was surprised at this. As my father was said to have
amassed a reasonable fortune, I was to a good degree exempt from the
hard law of toil.

A few years later I fell in love. My marriage was arranged and would
have taken place had not Matilde, as she was named, been taken ill. Her
recovery was hoped for, but hoping and hoping, the good and beautiful
girl passed from life. My grief was so intense that my health and even
my reason were threatened. My parents could find no more adequate remedy
than to send me to sea again. I agreed with indifference. Now I went as
second officer in a steamer of the same company in which my father was
employed. After a few months my father was crippled by rheumatism, and
while he was undergoing treatment the owners placed me temporarily in
command of the _Urano_. Unfortunately he could not resume his place;
after dragging out a painful existence for some time he died. My mother
would have liked me to forsake the sea and again live leisurely at home
with her; but I had grown so accustomed to the sea, to the varied and
active existence of the navigator, to-day in one port, to-morrow in
another, that I could not be persuaded to forsake it. On board of my
steamer, therefore, to which I had become greatly attached, I reached my
thirty-sixth birthday. My mother died, and a little later the incident
took place that I have just related.

I have said that when alone with my thoughts I comprehended that Doña
Cristina had taken too much possession of them. Her image floated before
me like a dream. That look, now grave, now roguish, of her black eyes;
that impressionable shyness, her blushing like a schoolgirl in contrast
with her gracious self-possession; then her facile forgiveness, and the
repressed tenderness that she showed for her husband--all tended to
idealize her. But more than anything, I confess, my own temperament
contributed to this, and the solitude in which the mariner passes most
of his time. After the death of Matilde no true love had ever occupied
my heart again. Idle affairs, adventures for a few days, amused me along
various degrees of the scale. And so I had come to see the first gray
threads in my beard and hair. But my romantic nature, although dormant
in the depths of my heart, was by no means dead. The adventures in
folly, the coarse pleasures of the seaports, far from choking that
tendency, encouraged its revival. I never felt more thoughtful and
melancholy than after one of those affairs. To recover my equilibrium, I
would stretch out under the awning with a book in my hands; filling my
lungs with the pure sea air and opening my soul to the ideas of the
great poets and philosophers, peace and joy would return. Reading has
always been the supreme resource of my life, the most efficacious balm
for its troubles.

The adventure with Doña Cristina transported me to complete ideality,
and I breathed the atmosphere wherein I found myself most sane and
happy. So I occupied myself with pleasurable thoughts about her, without
considering that unhappy consequences might follow. Many a time, when a
pretty young woman had crossed my path in port, I would afterwards
tenaciously hold her image in my mind's eye. Again, in the solitude of
the sea, fancy would evoke her, I would imagine her in diverse
situations, I would make her talk and laugh, I would make her grow angry
and weep, and would endow her with a thousand charming qualities. And in
the companionship of this phantasm I would pass happy days, until on
arrival in port it would dissolve or be replaced by another.

So now I attempted to do the same. But I could not succeed, even
partially. Doña Cristina had not fleetingly passed me by like many other
handsome women. The impression that she had left with me was much
deeper; she had stirred nearly every fibre of my being. Instead of
representing her as I chose, I saw her as she had appeared in reality.
And again I felt the shame and the sadness that she had made me
experience. On the other hand, her condition as a married woman deprived
my dreams of the innocence that they had had on former occasions; it
tinged them with a sombre shade that was little pleasing to my
conscience.

I therefore determined to clear my mind of these thoughts. I sought to
distract myself from such imaginings, to forget the beautiful
Valenciana, and recover my peace. Thanks to my efforts, and even more to
my prosaic occupations, I succeeded. But on skirting the eastern coast
on my return trip from Hamburg, when I doubled the cape of San Antonio
and there spread before my view the incomparably lovely plain that holds
Valencia and surrounds it with its garden of eternal verdure like a
brooch of emerald, the image of Doña Cristina appeared to me in form
more ideal, more seductive than ever; it took possession of my
imagination never to leave it again.

I do not know how it was, but the day after arriving at Barcelona I
hastily adjusted the most important matters, left the ship in charge of
the first officer, and took the train for Valencia. I arrived at dusk,
went to a good hotel, dined, changed my clothes, and made the most
careful toilette I had ever made in my life. Then I went out to look up
the house of Martí.

Not until then did I take account of the folly I had committed. I well
knew that Martí would receive me with open arms, and would be delighted
at my visit. But what would his wife think of it? Would she not suspect
that its motive was an interested one, and put herself on her guard? The
idea that she might think that I sought payment in annoying gallantry
for my service at Gijon was abhorrent. I was tempted to return to the
hotel, go to bed, and leave the next day without letting anybody know
that I was in Valencia. Nevertheless, an irresistible impulse pressed me
to see her again. An instant, only for an instant, to engrave her image
most profoundly in my soul and then to go away and dream of it through
all my life!

Walking slowly I came to the Plaza de la Reina, the most central and
lively place in the city. The night was serene, the air warm, the
balconies were open; before the cafés people were sitting outdoors. And
to think that there in Hamburg I had left the poor Germans shivering
with cold! I took a seat under the awning of the Café del Siglo, as much
for the sake of calming myself as to wait until they had finished supper
at the house of Martí. When I thought it was time, I entered the Calle
del Mar, which was near by. I followed its course, agitated and joyous,
and stopped before the number that Martí had indicated. It was one of
the most sumptuous houses of the street, elegant, of modern
construction, with a high principal story, crowned by a handsome upper
story. The great portal was adorned by statues and plants and
illuminated by two clusters of gaslights. One of the windows was open
and at that moment there escaped the lively notes of a piano. "Is it she
who is playing?" I asked myself with emotion. I enjoyed the music for a
moment, and at last approached the door. The porter called a servant,
whom I told that I wished to see his master on urgent business. I was
shown into the office. Martí appeared without delay. What a cry of
surprise! what a cordial embrace he gave me! Then taking me through a
corridor, speaking to me meanwhile in a whisper that his wife might not
fail to be surprised, he ushered me into a room full of people.

"Cristina, here comes the bad man!"

She was at the piano. At the sound of her husband's voice she turned her
head; her eyes met mine. She instantly turned them away and back to the
piano just as quickly, as if she had seen something sad or alarming. But
controlling herself almost in the same moment, she rose, and, advancing
towards me with a forced smile, she extended her hand.

"I am very glad to see you, Captain Ribot. We are immensely pleased to
have you visit us."

I felt my heart constricted, and I could not help responding with a
certain carelessness:

"There is no occasion for such feeling. It is entirely casual. I had
some business to look after in Valencia and on that account you see me
here."

Martí embraced me anew.

"I am enchanted with the rude frankness of you sailors! That is just the
way to speak! Away with these conventional lies that deceive nobody and
simply serve to show what actors we are. The main thing is that we have
you here and that your visit gives us genuine pleasure."

Then turning to the company he added, not without a certain emphasis:

"Señores, I present you to the captain of the _Urano_. I have nothing
more to say."

An extraordinarily lean young man approached to give me his hand. His
skin was rough and weather-marked, as if he had come from long and
painful labors in the sun. He was prematurely bald, and from his mouth
there depended an enormous pipe stuffed with tobacco. He was dressed
with elegance, though a little carelessly.

"My brother-in-law, Sabas."

He was followed by a person of about the age of Martí, more or less,
tall rather than short, blonde, his mustache small and silky, his skin
flaccid, most carefully shaven. He was likewise fashionably dressed, and
with a care that contrasted with the negligence of the other.

"My intimate friend and partner, Don Enrique Castell."

These were the only men present. I was next taken before Doña Amparo,
who was working at her crochet, seated in a crimson-velvet chair; I was
then presented to the wife of his brother-in-law, a plump little woman,
round-faced, blonde, and blue-eyed, sitting on a divan and at work with
an embroidery frame on her lap. Beside her was a young girl of seventeen
years whose face of admirable correctness, soft and ivory-like, had the
same expression of timid innocence as the virgins of Murillo. She was
the daughter of a white-haired lady with an aquiline nose and severe and
imposing physiognomy, seated beside a gilded table with a newspaper in
her hands. Martí presented me to her as his Aunt Clara, a cousin of his
mother-in-law.

The entire company welcomed me most kindly, particularly Doña Amparo,
who with tearful eyes seized both my hands, retaining them until the
excess of her emotion obliged her to drop them in order to raise her
handkerchief to her eyes. The conversation first turned upon the mishap
of that lady. My conduct was eulogized to a degree that put me to shame
and made me uneasy, and they discussed the causes of the accident. The
brother-in-law of Martí, with voice cavernous and husky, perhaps from
abuse of tobacco, bitterly censured the conduct of the authorities of
Gijon for not having properly lighted the wharf. I replied that almost
all wharves were lighted in the same way, since they were not intended
for purposes of public pleasure but for the loading and unloading of
merchandise. He insisted upon his position, showing that in all maritime
cities the wharves are places of recreation. I replied that in that case
people must look out for themselves. Martí cut short the dispute by
asking me to what hotel I had gone, that he might send for my luggage.
In vain I opposed his doing so. Seeing that he felt hurt by my refusal I
gave way at last, all the more since the entire family joined in urging
me.

In the meantime Cristina played the piano with careless fingers, talking
all the while with her sister-in-law. She was elegantly dressed in a
loose crimson gown beneath whose folds were revealed the lines of coming
maternity. Whenever I could I gazed at her with intense attention. And
when she observed it she seemed restless and nervous, and took pains
that her eyes should not meet mine. Martí went out to give some orders
about my chamber. His friend and partner, who had kept silent, reclining
negligently in an easy-chair with legs crossed, began to ask me various
questions about my voyages, the fleet of steamers, the ports where we
touched, and everything relating to the commerce in which the ships of
our line were engaged. The talk acquired the character of an
examination, for Castell showed that he knew as much as I did, or more,
about such things. He had travelled much, knew two or three languages
perfectly, and on his travels had not only gained knowledge useful in
commercial affairs but a multitude of ethnographic, historical, and
artistic facts that I was far from possessing. He was a really
accomplished man, but I could not help noting that he was fond of
exhibiting his learning, that he carefully rounded his periods in his
talk and listened to himself, and that, without lacking in courtesy, he
did not conceal his slight appreciation of the opinions of others. On
the whole the man was not congenial to me, although I recognized his
excellent qualities. He had a voice clear and mellow like a preacher,
with grave and noble gestures that enabled him to display his hand,
which was short and beautiful, and ornamented with rings.

Martí returned, and his Aunt Clara, without giving up her newspaper,
questioned him.

"How is it with olives, now, Emilio? Have they not risen twenty centimos
this week?"

"Yes, aunt, I am informed that they have risen and will rise still
further."

"It couldn't be otherwise," she exclaimed in triumphant tones. "I told
Retamoso so last month, and he paid no attention to me. He is obstinate,
like a good Galician, and so short-sighted in business that he can
scarcely see the length of his nose. If it weren't for me, I believe
that he would soon go into bankruptcy."

The voice of the lady was vibrant and powerful; her sculptural head
raised itself so proudly when she spoke, her aquiline nose was held so
high, and her eyes flashed so imposingly that in her presence one might
fancy himself transported to the heroic age of the Roman republic.
Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, could not have been more severe and
majestic.

Martí coughed, to avoid replying, desiring neither to contradict his
aunt nor to offend his uncle.

"And what do you say to the fall in cocoa?" she continued, with the
heroic accent that might be employed in asking a consul about a legion
surprised and overwhelmed by the Gauls.

Martí contented himself with shrugging his shoulders.

"Yet he had the assurance to deny that it is anything serious," she
continued with increasing scorn. "It could only be hid from a man of the
narrowest, most limited judgment, altogether unadapted to ventures in
the wholesale trade. When I saw the Ibarra steamers arriving, loaded
with Guayaquil, I said to myself, 'Yes, indeed, this staple is bound to
fall.'"

"Uncle Diego knows how to tell where the shoe pinches, all the same,"
Martí ventured to remark.

"Yes, indeed! Behind a counter, selling cheese and codfish by the
quarter pound, he would be invaluable. But as a man of business he is a
good-for-nothing; it is only because I have taken the trouble to think
for the two of us that we have been able to get where we are."

At this moment there appeared in the doorway a short stout man, of a
pale complexion, bald, with small eyes, who greeted those present with a
pronounced Galician accent.

"Good evening! How do you do?"

"Hola! Uncle Diego! How do you do, Retamoso?"

Doña Clara, caught in the act, turned her eyes again to her periodical,
without abating an atom of her dignity.

Her husband, who, so far as could be seen, had heard nothing, shook
hands with those about him, kissed his daughter, and coming over to his
wife, said to her in affectionate tones:

"Don't read at night, wife! Now, you know you are trying your eyes."

Doña Clara took no notice. Retamoso, turning to the others, declared
with profound conviction:

"She never can be idle. Isabelita, my daughter, entreat your mamma not
to read! Now, you know that she does too much. When she is not reading,
she is casting up accounts; when not casting up accounts, she goes down
to the warehouse to make out bills; when not making out bills, she
writes letters; when not writing letters, she speaks English with the
Ricartes's governess. Hers is a wonderful head! I don't understand how
she is able to do so many things in turn, without being either disturbed
or fatigued."

I owe it to Doña Clara to say that she seemed suspicious of this
panegyric, for instead of acknowledging it and showing herself gratified
by it, she made the gesture of an offended queen.

"I do not disturb myself for such little things, dear, because I have
trained myself in a manner different from the women of your province. If
there they still go on spinning by the fireside, in the rest of the
world they hold a more brilliant position. Here is a sailor," she added,
indicating me, "who has travelled much, and can confirm this."

I bowed and murmured some courteous phrases.

"Well, all this does not hinder my admiring your ability," went on
Retamoso in a tone of exaggerated adulation. "Does not all the world
know it in Valencia? Am I to be the only one who does not, or pretends
not to know it? How many women might be educated like you, and yet not
have the capacity to accomplish in a month what you do in a day!"

"Tell me, Ribot," queried Doña Clara, addressing me as if she had not
heard her husband, who went on murmuring flattering phrases, opening
his eyes wide and arching his eyebrows to express the admiration which
possessed him, "among all the many ports that you have visited, have you
not met women with as much business faculty as men, or more?"

"I have known some women at the head of powerful commercial houses,
directing with much wisdom, carrying on correspondences in several
languages, and keeping their books with perfect exactitude. But--I
confess freely that a woman engaging in industrial speculations, or
inclined to politics or business, appears to me like a princess with a
taste for selling matches and newspapers in the streets."

"What's this!" exclaimed Doña Clara, throwing up her Roman head. "Then
you believe that the position of woman is nothing more than that of a
domestic animal, caressed or beaten by man, according to his caprice?
Woman should, in this view, remain always in complete ignorance, without
studying, without instruction!"

"Let her be instructed as much as she likes," I replied, "but in my
notion woman has no need of learning anything, because she knows
everything----"

"Just so!" interrupted Retamoso with enthusiasm. "That has always been
my opinion. Isabelita," he went on, turning to his daughter, "have I
not said to you a thousand times that your mamma knows everything before
having to learn it?"

I saw a smile flit over Martí's lips. Cristina rose from the piano where
she had been sitting and went out of the room.

"I do not understand what you wish to say," declared Doña Clara, with a
certain acerbity.

"Women who know how to make us happy, make happiness for themselves
also. What other knowledge can equal this upon the earth? The toils of
men, the callings conquered by civilization, go to achieve slowly and
painfully what woman performs at once and without endeavor, making life
more supportable, and alleviating its woes. Being, as she is, the
repository of charity and of the gentle and beneficent sentiments, she
guards in her heart the secret of the destiny of humanity, and transmits
it by heredity and education to her sons, contributing to progress in
this way more truly than ourselves."

"That is more gallant than exact," interrupted Castell, impertinently.
"Woman is not the repository of progress, and has contributed nothing to
it. You may study the history of the arts, the sciences, and the
industries, and you will not find a single useful discovery that we owe
to the genius or the industry of a woman. This demonstrates clearly that
her mind is incapable of elevation to the sphere wherein move the high
interests of civilization. Woman is not the repository of progress. She
is solely the repository of being; and as this is the case, two things
only ought to be demanded of her, health and beauty."

"You would be right," I replied, "if the unique phase of progress lay in
useful discoveries. But there are others; and, as I understand them,
more important ones--the brotherhood of man, the moral law. This is the
true goal of the world."

Castell smiled, and, without looking at me, said in a low voice:

"For all that, I believe that I could name about fifty-seven other
goals, if I know the world."

And lifting his voice he added: "I have discussed life with many men,
and I can declare that scarcely one has failed to assign his own
especial goal to the world. Among clergymen it is the triumph of the
Church; among democrats, political liberty; among musicians, music; and
among dancers, the dance. And yet the poor world contents itself with
existing, laughing once in a while at so much folly, and trampling
everybody under foot as it goes its way."

He paused and settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair. I felt
annoyed at those words, and especially at the scornful tone in which
they were uttered. I was going to reply with energy, but Castell
continued his discourse, tranquilly expounding his thoughts in a series
of reasonings held together with logic, and expressed in elegant and
precise fashion. I could not help admiring the varied qualities of his
erudition, his penetrative talent, and, above all, the clarity and grace
of his choice of words. Like submissive slaves, all of those in the
dictionary came trooping to his tongue's end, to express his thoughts
easily and harmoniously.

His theories seemed strange and sad to me. The world bears its goal in
its own existence. Morality is the result of especial conditions that
life has unfolded for itself upon our planet. If the human race had been
produced under conditions of life like those of the bees, it would be a
duty for unmarried women to deal out death to their brothers, as the
workers do. All manifestations of life, even to the highest, are ruled
by instinct. The virtuous man, like the degenerate, is moved by an
irresistible impulse of his nature. Morality, which the religious man
admires as a divine revelation, is nothing more than an invention
destined to satisfy this or that instinct.

I really found myself without enough courage to contradict successfully
his audacious assertions. My reading was wide, but desultory, as I had
read more for entertainment than for instruction.

Then, too, I had never cultivated expression; because my profession did
not require it, and I wrestled with great difficulties whenever I tried
to express my thoughts.

Martí came to my aid, cutting off the discussion in a jocular fashion.

"Do you know what is the destiny of woman according to my
brother-in-law, Sabas?"

All looked up, including the one spoken of.

"Sewing on buttons."

"I don't see why you say that," muttered Sabas, ill-humoredly, taking
his pipe in his hand.

"Why shouldn't I say it? There isn't a man in the Peninsula who has lost
more buttons than you! Yet I could not mention one of having gone to
your house and not finding Matilde sewing on some."

Sabas muttered some unintelligible words.

"What does _she_ say?" asked Martí.

"Yes, he loses enough!" said the plump lady, laughing.

But her husband, coloring, gave Martí a severe glance.

"If he loses as many as there are in the world," interrupted Doña
Amparo, from her little red-satin elbow-chair, "buttons are not
everlasting, and I believe that my son would rather go like Adam than
trouble others to sew on his buttons!"

She spoke these words with emotion as if they were accusing her son of a
fault.

"Although he loses more than there are in the world, it is a matter of
no importance, and not worth while for you to put yourself out about, or
be vexed with us," replied Martí.

"I am put out about it because it seems to me that everybody has a
desire to find fault with my son. The poor fellow is always in disgrace.
But until the day he dies his mother will always defend him!"

She uttered these words with even more emotion. I saw with astonishment
that she was preparing to weep.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her son-in-law.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter-in-law.

Both of them appeared contrite and concerned.

"Such is my maternal passion, my children!" went on Doña Amparo,
struggling not to weep. "I cannot help it! We all have faults in this
world, but a mother is not able to endure those of her children. I
suffer horribly when anyone points them out to me, and much more when it
is a member of the family. Some such sad ideas come into my head! It
seems to me that you do not care for--I believe that I could die content
if I knew that you cared as much for one another as I care for you."

Excess of emotion prevented her from saying more. She let her needlework
fall upon her lap, leaned her forehead upon her hand, and seemed half
ready to faint away.

Her daughter-in-law hurried to bring her flask of salts, and she began
to smell it. Martí also assisted, with filial solicitude. Both showered
a thousand affectionate attentions upon her, soothing her and making
excuses. Thanks more to their tender words, I think, than to the salts,
the sensitive mother recovered her faculties. When these were restored,
she tenderly kissed her daughter-in-law's brow and seized Martí's hand,
begging pardon for having offended them.

As I already knew a little of the character and whims of Doña Amparo, I
was not surprised that Retamoso and his wife, Isabelita and Castell,
paid scarcely any attention to this incident, and went on talking among
themselves as if nothing had happened. Sabas, the cause of the disquiet,
tranquilly smoked his pipe.

As soon as he had calmed his mother-in-law, Martí invited me to come
with him that he might show me the room intended for me. It was
luxurious and elegant, exceedingly luxurious it seemed to me who had
passed my life in the narrow confines of a ship's cabin, or in our
modest dwelling at Alicante. When we reached this room, a maid was
making ready my bed under the señora's inspection. As we entered unheard
she was herself smoothing the sheets with her delicate hands. Our
footsteps made her lift her head, and as if she had been caught doing
something wrong, she seemed annoyed, relinquished her task, and said to
the maid with an ill-tempered accent:

"Well, you may go on with this, and see if you can finish it quickly."

She was going out, but her husband detained her, taking her hand.

"Have orders been given for bringing up cold coffee and cognac?"

"Yes, yes; Regina will stay and see to everything," she replied with
some impatience, drawing away her hand and walking out.

I enjoyed her embarrassment with ill-concealed delight. As we went out
again into the corridor I said to Martí, to make talk, and also out of
curiosity:

"It seems to me that Doña Amparo was a good deal upset."

"You saw that!" he exclaimed, laughing in the frank and cordial manner
that characterized him. "The least thing upsets her. The poor thing is
so good! I am as fond of her as if she were my own mother. Her one
desire is for us to love her. She is so sensitive that the least little
sign of indifference, the smallest neglect, affects her deeply, and
almost makes her ill. For that matter, although we all go on carefully,
and are very attentive to her, it is not enough. Fancy this! I have
taken up the custom of kissing her good-night before going to bed! If by
bad luck I forget it for one day, the poor lady cannot sleep, thinking
that I am vexed with her, wondering if she has offended me without
knowing it; and next day she casts timid, anguished glances at me that I
do not understand until my wife explains the enigma to me. I laugh, and
go and smooth her down."

When we returned to the parlor, the company was dispersing. Castell gave
me his well-cared-for hand, shaking mine, expressing with the careless
coolness of a man of the world his pleasure in knowing me. Sabas and his
wife showed more warmth. Doña Clara, majestic and severe, said
good-night to me without mentioning Jupiter or Pollux, or any other
pagan divinity, which surprised me. Retamoso improved a moment of
confusion to say to me half in Galician:

"It may be that you are right, Señor de Ribot, and that women are not
made for business. But mine is an exception, you know. Oh, a marvel! You
have already had opportunity to be convinced of this. A veritable
marvel. Phs!"

And he arched his eyebrows and showed the whites of his eyes, as if he
beheld before him the Himalayas or the pyramids of Egypt.

Cristina took leave of them all from the head of the stair with the
gracious gravity that suited so well her attractive face. I had eyes
for nobody but her. Doña Amparo kissed everybody, kissed her son, her
daughter-in-law, Doña Clara, Isabelita, and also, even, Retamoso. I do
not say she kissed Castell, but I believe it was more from lack of
courage than lack of inclination.

At last we four found ourselves alone. In order to prolong the waking
moments, I begged Cristina to play on the piano a piece from an opera.
She showed herself willing, and, without replying, seated herself on the
piano stool, fingered the keys lightly for a moment, then commenced to
sing in a half-voice the serenade from Mozart's "Don Juan." As I did not
know of this accomplishment my surprise was great, but even greater my
pleasure. Hers was a contralto voice, grave and sweet. The music of the
great masters has always the power to move us, but when the voice of an
adored woman transports the soul, music truly seems as if it had come
hither from the heavens. I enjoyed for some moments a happiness
impossible to describe. My very being was transformed, enlarged,
quickened with love and joy. When the last notes of the lovely
accompaniment died away, I remained swallowed up in a delicious ecstasy,
scarcely knowing where I was.

Martí pulled me out of that abruptly.

"Come, come! The Captain is falling asleep!"

We all rose. Doña Amparo retired to her room, but not until Martí had
kissed her hand, giving me at the same time a mischievous wink.

"If you need anything," said Cristina to me, "you have only to ring the
bell."

And without giving me her hand, she wished me good-night. Martí
accompanied me to my room, and took himself off, chaffing me
affectionately.

"If you are not able to sleep without the smell of pitch, Captain, I
will order a piece brought up and we will set it on fire."

When I found myself alone, all the impressions of the evening were
loosed in my heart like imprisoned birds, and began fluttering about in
a bewildering whirl. Why was I there? What did I expect? How was this
going to end? The kind welcome and frank cordiality of this noble family
moved me. The heartiness of Martí filled me with confusion and shame,
but the lovely form of Cristina rose up before me, adorable,
bewildering, blotting out all the rest. The thought of being so near
her, when I had resigned myself to see her no more, overwhelmed me with
felicity. I asked again and again, how would this end? At last I slept,
kissing the hem of the sheet that her hands had smoothed.




CHAPTER V.


According to my morning custom I rose first of anybody in the house, and
went out to take a walk in the city. I had seen much of Valencia, and
was always gratefully impressed by the quiet animation of her streets,
her serene heavens, her perfumed balminess. Yet how different from those
impressions was the sensation that I now experienced.

The beautiful city of the east was awakening from sleep. People began
stirring in the streets; balconies were opened, and faces, pearl-white
and with magnificent Arab eyes, were visible behind the flower-pots. As
a morning greeting the gardens sent forth odors of pinks and
gillyflowers, mallows and hyacinths; the sea its breezes fresh and
wholesome; the sky its rays of radiant light. Valencia awoke and smiled
upon her flower-gardens, her sea, and her incomparable sky. Her
fortunate situation made me think of ancient Greece; and as I saw
passing me the happy, peaceful, intelligent faces of her inhabitants, I
longed to repeat the famous words of Euripides to his countrymen: "Oh,
beloved sons of the beneficent gods! In your sacred and unconquerable
country you reap the glory of wisdom as a fruit of your soil; and you
tread stately evermore with sweet satisfaction beneath the eternal
radiance of your skies."

I doubt if anyone, Greek or Valencian, was ever more content than I was
at this moment. But as a sorrowful moment waits eagerly upon every
joyous one in life, I was disappointed, on returning to the house, not
to see Cristina. Martí and I breakfasted alone in the dining-room; and I
learned from him that his wife had already breakfasted, and was in her
own room.

What man was ever so gay, so affectionate as Martí? He began to tell of
his family, his friends, and his projects exactly as if we had been
friends all our lives. His projects were innumerable--tramways, harbor
improvements, railroads, street widening, etc. I could not help thinking
that for carrying out all these plans not only an enormous capital would
be needed, but also an activity almost superhuman. Martí seemed to
possess it. At that time, besides the steamboat traffic that almost ran
itself and took up but little of his time, he was exploiting some zinc
mines in Vizcaya, was building several wagon roads in several provinces,
and was opening artesian wells in Murcia. In this last he had already
used a large sum without getting much result, but he was sure of
success.

"When we strike water," he said to me, laughing, "I intend to sell it
by the cupful like sherry."

He expressed himself rapidly, incoherently at times; but always
pleasingly, because he put his whole soul into every word.

I contrasted his confused and vehement mode of expression with that of
his friend and partner, Castell, so firm, so clear, so polished. We
spoke of him, and Martí outdid himself in eulogies of his personality.
There was not apparently in all the world a man better informed, more
talented, or upright. He knew everything; the sciences had no secrets
for him; the planet hid no corner that he had not explored. He was,
moreover, highly trained in the plastic arts, and he owned a collection
of antique paintings, picked up on his travels, that was famous in Spain
and in foreign lands.

"But--Castell is a theorist, did you know it?" he ended by saying,
winking one eye. "We are two opposites, and maybe because of this we
have been friends from childhood. He has always been given to studying
the foundation of things, and their reason, philosophy, æsthetics. I
don't understand anything of all that, I have a temperament essentially
practical, and if you will not think me boastful, I will venture to say
that in Spain there is a greater lack of useful men than of
philosophers. Does it not seem as if there is a plethora of theologians,
orators, and poets? If we wish to take our place beside the other
countries of Europe it is necessary to think about opening ways of
communication, making harbors, pushing industries, exploiting mines. In
my modest sphere, I have done all that I could for the progress of our
country; and if I have not accomplished more," he added, laughing, "do
not believe that it is for lack of will, but for want of the precious
metal."

"And Castell is your partner in these enterprises?" I asked him.

"No; we are not associated except in the steamboat line. He is a man who
is fretted by figures. He is rich and wishes to enjoy his fortune
tranquilly. But although he does not mix much in business, when there is
any lack of money he finds it for me without hesitation, because he has
full confidence in me."

"It seems as if this taste for business is in the family. Your Aunt
Clara also shares this temperament," I said, to satisfy the curiosity
that had pricked me since the previous night.

"My Aunt Clara is a notable woman of great talent. But I believe,
without speaking ill of her, that the soul of the house, who has made
all the money, is her husband. Oh, my Uncle Diego looks out for number
one. There is no abler nor more prudent merchant on all the eastern
coast. Believe me, anything he lets go by isn't worth stooping to pick
up."

"Surely, according to what I have been given to understand by himself,
it is the señora who guides him in difficult matters, who really holds
the tiller in the business."

"Yes, yes," said Martí, smiling and a little out of countenance, "I do
not doubt that my Aunt Clara gives him some good counsel, but not of
necessity. In Valencia he is considered a bit crafty. It is possible
that there may be some truth in it. You know the Galicians----"

He coughed to hide his embarrassment, and to change the conversation. I
had already taken notice that it was repugnant to him to find any fault.
He found himself on terra firma only when he was praising people, and he
did this with such ardor that he seemed to taste a peculiar pleasure in
it. Rare and precious quality, that ever made him more worthy of esteem
in my eyes!

When we had finished breakfast, I pretended that I had occupations, and
left him to look after his own. I went out into the streets again, and I
soon encountered Sabas in one of the nearest ones. He seemed to me even
more dried up and black than last night. He saluted me with grave
courtesy, and after turning and joining me, urged me to accompany him to
his house, as it was necessary for him to change his clothes. I was
surprised at this necessity, as I could not see that he was damp or
untidy. Later I found out that it was his custom to change his garb
three or four times every day, following the elegant rules of court
life.

Meantime, as we wended our way to his house, not far from that of his
brother-in-law, he informed me that he had a collection of canes and of
pipes--a very notable collection. It appeared that it was one of the
sights most worthy a visit of any in the city, and with an amiability
that I appreciated highly, he offered to show it to me. He lived in a
charming little house. His wife came to open the door for us, to whom he
said laconically:

"I have come to change."

We went to his room, and he at once proceeded to open the cupboards
wherein he kept the canes. There were, indeed, a lot of them and of many
kinds, and he exhibited them with a pleasure and pride that filled me
with even more astonishment than their number and variety.

"You see this palasan; it has forty-two knots. It had forty-three, but
it was necessary to take off one, because it was too long. Look at this
other one, this violet stick." He stroked it. "Feel it. This one is of
tortoise-shell. It is the real thing--a white one. It was brought to me
by the captain of one of my brother-in-law's steamers."

The door of the room was half-opened and a little red head appeared.

"Papa, mamma let us come to give you a kiss."

"Run away; we are busy now," replied the father solemnly, dismissing
the child with a gesture. But I had gone to the door, and I kissed with
pleasure that little red head. He was a bright child of six or seven
years. Behind him came another smaller one, red-headed too, and leading
by the hand a girl of three or four years, dark, with great black eyes
and curling black hair. I have never seen more lovely little creatures.
I caressed them all warmly, and especially the little girl, whose
velvety eyes were marvellous. But they were all timid, and without
paying attention to my questions, looked doubtfully at their father. His
face showed sternness and annoyance. He seemed offended that I found his
collection of children more notable than his canes. He kissed them as if
in compromise, and when his wife came running to find them, he said to
her sharply:

"Why did you let them come in here while I was busy?"

"They got away while I was getting out a shirt for you," she answered
humbly.

And pushing the chicks before her, she drove them from the room. After
this I felt hopeful that her husband would terminate his exhibition of
canes. He finished at last, and I, knowing that I flattered him, uttered
a thousand exaggerations about his collection, which profoundly
delighted him. He then took the liberty of dressing before me. His wife
began to wait upon him like the most efficient and servile of valets.
She put on his shirt; she put on his cravat; she got down upon the floor
to fasten the buttons of his shoes. This happy husband let himself be
dressed and polished off with a restrained gravity, meantime prattling
about his canes and pipes, these collections being, it appeared, the aim
and end of his existence. From time to time he reproved his meek spouse.

"Don't fasten it so tight! Less dressing and more rubbing on these
shoes! Tell the maid that I wish her to take care not to daub my shoes.
I don't care for that cravat; bring me a scarf that will tie!"

Finding a button off his waistcoat, he was struck dumb. He stared at his
wife with a look so severe that it made her flush.

"I don't know how I missed it," she stammered. "It came off when the
waistcoat was washed. I put it aside to sew it on. I was called to the
kitchen, and after all I forgot all about it."

"Nothing, it is nothing! Of what consequence is one button more or
less?" he said with a sarcastic smile.

"You know I am very sorry about it."

"Have I not told you it is nothing, madam? Why do you worry about it?
One button, one button! What does one button signify compared to a bit
of gossip with the laundress?"

"But, man, for heaven's sake, don't be like that!" she cried in anguish.

"Have I said anything?" he shouted, furious.

Matilde controlled herself and occupied herself with sewing on the
button.

"How _should_ I be? Say!" he persisted with unabated fury.

His wife did not look up.

Sabas then permitted several snorts to escape him, mingled with
incoherent words, and accompanied by a gnashing of teeth that the
sarcastic smile still upon his lips made even more repellent.

With heroic courage I tried to soothe his troubled spirit. The winds
fell, the waves became tranquil, and he said to me affably:

"You are going to dine on a _paella_ to-day. I know it already from
Cristina. My sister has a cook who stews like an angel."

Matilde finished sewing on the button. When she lifted her head I saw
tears in her eyes.

Sabas gave the signal for starting, but first he sent his good lady to
find his gloves, to bring his stick, and then his handkerchief. He
drenched it with scent from a perfume bottle, gave the last polish to
his shoes, and a few touches of the comb to his whiskers. Matilde
fluttered about him like a butterfly, arranging his coat and his cravat
and his hat with her plump white hands. And when he, dismissing her,
took her chin in his hand with a careless, protecting gesture her eyes
shone with a radiant, triumphant expression that seemed to transport her
to the heavens.

In the passage as we were going out we encountered the three children,
who would have thrown themselves upon their father to be kissed, but he
stopped them with a threatening gesture.

"No, I can't now. I should be all slobbered over."

I, who had no fears of being daubed, kissed them with pleasure, wishing
to make amends to them for his crossness. Vain hope! They received my
caresses with indifference, following with their eyes their elegant and
morose papa.

Matilde watched us from the top of the stair, having eyes for nothing
but her husband. She noticed that the collar-band of his shirt did not
fit well, on account of his overcoat, hastened to pull it down for him
and turn it up; and profited by the opportunity to give a few more
touches to his whiskers with her fingers.

It was now eleven o'clock in the forenoon. The streets were full of
people. The sun shone in the sky in all its splendor. We breathed a
perfumed air, proving ourselves to be in the city of flowers. At every
step we encountered servants carrying branches and sprays of them that
loving ones were sending to delight their friends. In Valencia flowers
make up so large a part of life, and their use is so general and
natural, that the sending of flowers is like saying good-morning.
Contemplating this profusion of carnations, roses, and lilies that
rejoice the eyes and make fragrant the air, I could not help saying,
"This is the city where there is so much that is lovely to enjoy that it
matters little what one does with one's days!"

I could have gone about the streets with pleasure until time for dinner,
but Sabas felt himself in duty bound to invite me to take an appetizer,
and we entered a café in the Plaza de la Reina.

While sipping a glass of vermouth Sabas showed himself loquacious and
expansive, but without losing his natural gravity. He talked to me about
his family and friends. I saw at once that he had an analytical
temperament of the first rank, clear perceptions, and a keen instinct
for seeing the weak side of people and things.

His sister was a discreet woman, affectionate, of upright and noble
intentions--but her character was excessively difficult; she enjoyed
opposing people; at times she lacked courtesy; she was wanting in
docility, in a certain meekness absolutely essential in a woman; lastly,
although really generous, she did not make herself liked.

I should have enjoyed protesting against this absurd summing up. It was
precisely these qualities of her character, at once timid and resolute,
and her coldness a bit harsh, that made me more in love than ever. I
abstained, however, for prudential reasons, from speaking.

His brother-in-law was, poor fellow, an industrious man, generous,
intelligent in business--but absolutely incapable, as everybody knew.
All the world imposed upon him and used him. He was of a temperament so
volatile that as soon as he had undertaken one project he was tired of
it, and thinking of another. This had made him lose a great deal of
money. He could not tell how many enterprises Martí had engaged in. Some
of them would have been very successful if he had stayed in them; but he
scarcely encountered the first difficulties in them before he threw them
aside, abandoned them. He had only shown himself persistent where it was
absolutely useless--in the matter of the artesian wells. What a lot of
money the man had already carried off and buried in that wretched
business! The one thing that had really turned out well had been the
steamboats, and these he did not start, but inherited them from his
father.

His friend Castell possessed great learning, expressed himself
admirably, and was immensely rich--but had not a scrap of heart. He had
never shown any affection for anybody. Emilio was mistaken through and
through in thinking that he returned the passionate, fervent adoration
that he felt for him.

"But do not touch upon this point when you are again with him, as I have
tried it several times. Whenever the conversation brings in the name of
Castell it is necessary to open the mouth, roll up the eyes to their
whites, and fall into an ecstasy, as if one beheld a divinity of
Olympus. Castell knows this weakness of my brother-in-law, approves of
it, and gives himself airs over it. For the rest, on the day when he has
any need of him, he will see how the matter stands then."

"But Martí told me that he finds money for him when he needs it in his
business," I put in.

"Yes, yes," he agreed with his sarcastic smile; "I do not doubt that he
finds money for him, but everybody in Valencia knows the meaning of
that."

I asked no questions. Having been admitted into the intimacy of the
family, I would not prompt him. Sabas went on:

"This man is, moreover, vicious and immoral. He has been entangled for
years with a woman who has borne him several children; but this is no
obstacle to his bringing back a charmer with him whenever he makes a
foreign journey. He has already had three, one of them a Greek, a
beautiful woman! He keeps them a while and presently tires of them, like
lackeys who no longer please him. This, you understand, makes a great
scandal in a provincial capital; but as he is named Don Enrique Castell
and owns eight or ten million pesetas, nobody wishes to offend him. The
priests and the canons, and even up to the bishop, take off their hats
to him a league off."

"I have been told of the wealth of your relations, the Retamosos!"

"Oh, no; that is a much more modest fortune; it is counted by thousands
of duros, not by millions; but all that has been earned bit by bit, did
you know it?--peseta by peseta, at first behind a counter, and then at a
desk."

"Your Aunt Clara, it seems, is a lady of much judgment in business."

Sabas roared with laughter.

"My Aunt Clara is an imbecile! She has never done anything in all her
life, except speak English with governesses and show her classic nose in
the Glorieta and the Alameda. But my Uncle Diego is the slyest Galician
born in this century. He laughs at his wife, and he is capable of
laughing at his own ghost. I do not consider that he has ability for any
great enterprises. He has not, as I just said, the genius of affairs;
but I assure you that, among those who handle small amounts, I have
never known, nor do I think you could readily find, a more cautious
man."

In this fashion my elegant friend continued his studies of his family
with a criticism implacable, yet clever and at times witty. From that he
went on to talk about his native city; and I found his observations
concerning the character of the Valencians, their customs, politics, and
administration of provincial affairs, sharp and to the point. I confess
that I had mistaken him. I had at first taken him for a mere coxcomb, a
vapid and frivolous young man. He turned out to be a man of good
understanding, observing and clever, although a little exaggerated in
his analyses, and sufficiently severe.

We went out of the café, and before going to the house, we took another
turn in the streets. Naturally, as I am a native of the east coast, son
of a sailor, and myself a sailor, the aspect of the great Mediterranean
city had an especial seduction for me. The narrow streets, tortuous,
clean, with their profusion of fine shops; the large number of ancient
stone houses with artistic façades, belonging to noble families that
have made their names known and respected throughout the world; the hill
towers, among whose turrets one may imagine still flit the old-time
archers; the bridges with their benches; the Lonja, whose rooms of
exceptional size and beauty shelter the richest traders of Spain; the
lively market-place and open space about--all reveal, together with her
mercantile traditions, an ancient and opulent capital. All spoke to me
of the grandeur of my race.

I gave myself into the hands of my companion, who took me to the
flower-market. We were not long in penetrating an iron-walled passage
where, on one side and the other, leaving space in the middle, was seen
a multitude of pale, black-eyed women exhibiting their
merchandise--carnations, roses, lilies, hibiscus, and iris. Great was
the animation in this little place. Ladies, with their rosaries and
mass-books in their hands, stood before these venders, examining their
wares with liberal and intelligent eye, and bargaining everlastingly
before deciding to buy. Gentlemen laden with branches and sprays were
given numerous instructions concerning their arrangement. Servants and
shop-girls also hastened to the stalls, took their little handful of
flowers, stuck some of them in their hair, and leaving their bits of
copper, marched happily away with others in their hands, to continue
their tasks. With what enthusiasm they would look at their
flower-fillets! With what pleasure they breathed their fragrance!

As we cruised among the stalls I observed that most of the
flower-venders greeted my friend by name, smiling amiably upon him, and
asking him if he had no orders to give.

"You are popular in the market," I said to him, laughing.

"I am a good customer, nothing more," he answered modestly.

And placing his hand on my shoulder, he pushed me towards one of the
doors, where we stationed ourselves, somewhat retired and half-hidden
among the foliage.

"This is a strategic point," he said to me. "You will see how many fine
figures pass by here within five minutes."

And truly the ladies who entered by the other door, after making their
purchases or giving their orders, went out by this one. They passed so
near us that their dresses brushed us. My companion had a compliment or
a pleasant word for all. Many of them knew him and greeted him; some
paused an instant to respond with gracious repartee to his gallant
phrases. I was surprised at the impudence with which this man, married,
and understanding good form, thus paid court to women; and yet more that
they accepted his gallantries without reserve.

I have seen many beautiful faces in the various lands where my wandering
life has carried me, but nowhere so many, so delicate, of such opaline
transparency of complexion, of such exquisite purity as now. Then, what
eyes! The soul moved in their blackness and mystery as if yearning to
enfold you in happy dreams--sweet, voluptuous, unfathomable eyes, that
seemed to hold both love and death. From among the multitude of heads
there was cast upon me a swift glance. It was she; yes, it was she!
While still she was hid in the crowd, I knew it was she who approached!
My heart began to beat violently. In a few moments she appeared. She
was dressed in black, and wore a mantilla. In one hand she carried her
mass-book and a rosary wound about her wrist like a bracelet; in the
other, a bunch of carnations. She was with her cousin Isabelita, and
both were accompanied by Castell. I cannot explain the sort of
impression that man made upon me at this moment. My heart was
constricted as if in the presence of great danger, and the vague
antipathy he had inspired me with the night before was transformed into
hatred. The violence with which this feeling was born within me
surprised me, but I did not confess to myself the cause of it. I held it
well in hand and forced myself to appear as agreeable as I could.

They seemed surprised when they saw us. Castell and Isabelita
congratulated us on the excellent position that we had chosen.

"What doesn't this rogue know about the conduct of gallantries!"
exclaimed the daughter of Retamoso, giving Sabas a tap on the shoulder
with her book. And then, laughing, she blushed like a poppy.

"Come, cousin," returned Sabas, "at least you know that I haven't
offered you any gallantries. But we still have time. You are got up with
so much elegance that on seeing you I forget our family ties."

Isabelita blushed even more, if that were possible. Sabas persisted in
his compliments. Castell came to his aid. Meanwhile Cristina glanced
absently from one to another. I divined that it was to avoid meeting my
eyes.

Sabas spoke to her:

"Little sister, aren't you going to put one of your carnations in my
button-hole?"

"Why not?" she answered.

And handing her book to her cousin, she took the largest and most
beautiful one in her bouquet and fastened it where he bade her.

Moved by a sudden impulse, and with a daring that I thought I had lost
towards this woman, I said:

"And is there nothing for the others?"

"Would you like one?" she asked me, handing me one with a glance.

"No; I desire the honor of having you fasten it in my button-hole," I
replied firmly.

There was an instant of suspense. She showed indecision; but at last
picked out another carnation and hastily put it in its place. I thought
I noticed (it may have been illusion, I do not know) that her hands
trembled. Oh, _Dios_, with what pleasure I could have kissed them!

"And I? Do I not have my turn?" asked Castell then, bowing with an
amiable smile.

"Oh, pshaw! we have already had enough of carnations," she said
crossly, going on out of the door.

"I came too late," murmured the banker in some confusion.

"Would you like one of mine?" Isabelita asked him, timidly.

"Oh, with the greatest pleasure."

And he bowed smiling, and apparently delighted while the young girl
placed the carnation in his coat. Yet I understood that he was
disgruntled.

We all followed Cristina; and her cousin paired off with her, Sabas,
Castell, and I walking behind. But we had not walked far when Sabas saw
a charming shop-girl, and stopped to chat with her. Castell and I waited
for him a moment, but seeing he was not likely to finish soon, we
followed on after the ladies.

"This brother-in-law of Martí's seems to me a youngster of a good deal
of ability," I said to my companion.

"As a critic?" asked Castell, laconically.

"As a critic?" I returned, surprised.

"Yes; he is admirably endowed with power to see the weak and strong
sides of things, to weigh and measure, to compare, to penetrate the
labyrinths of conscience. But these faculties are exercised upon others;
it never occurs to him to apply them to himself. Thus all his analyses,
criticisms, wise and pointed counsels, are wasted; and he is an
absolutely fatuous and useless man. He has undertaken five or six
careers, and gone on in none of them; he wasted his patrimony in
gambling and dissipation; he martyrizes his wife, neglects his children,
and he is at present living on his brother-in-law."

"A good panegyric!" I exclaimed, laughing.

"You will hear the same from all sensible people in town. This does not
hinder him from being an agreeable fellow, popular and generally liked;
and this is because his defects can scarcely be called public, but
private vices."

We joined the ladies at last, and arrived at Martí's about the hour of
dinner. My hosts had invited in my honor the company of the night
before, all of them with the exception of Castell being members of the
family. Emilio made me sit at his wife's right. The touch of her dress,
the perfume that floated from her, and a yet more mysterious fluid
wherewith her nearness filled me, intoxicated and upset me. This went so
far that, desiring to show myself gallant and attentive to her, I could
scarcely say or do the most ordinary things. I spilled water on the
tablecloth, I asked her three times if she liked olives, and dropped the
olive-fork in offering her one. But I was happy, and I could not conceal
it.

She showed herself courteous and a little more kindly disposed,
thanking me for my attentions and gracefully covering up my blunders.

It made me even more happy when Castell fixed his glance upon the
carnation in my button-hole, and asked me with his cold, ironical smile:

"Captain, would you take a thousand pesetas for that carnation you are
wearing?"

"A thousand pesetas!" exclaimed Martí, looking up in surprise.

I was indescribably agitated, as if I had been surprised in the act of
committing a crime. I knew no better than to smile stupidly and exclaim:

"How full of jokes you are!"

But Cristina held up her beautiful head proudly, and turning to Castell,
she said:

"Captain Ribot is a gentleman, and does not sell the flowers that a lady
bestows upon him."

"Ah, so she bestowed it upon you!" said Martí, and turning to Castell
added: "But, Enrique, would you wish Ribot to sell you this carnation,
when, if she had given it to me, I, although her husband, would not let
you have it for your whole fortune?"

And at the same time he gazed at his wife with a look of intense
affection. The innocence and nobleness of that man moved me. He must
have touched the soul of Cristina. Dropping her head again, she murmured
in intense tones:

"Thou art thou--_tu!_"

These simple words were a poem of tenderness.

"It is well known," observed Castell with the same indifference, "that
there are things in the world that cannot be and should not be bought
with money. Unfortunately men are not in the same category with them,
and therefore we pursue material and even gross objects until we secure
them, however remote they may be."

"But I do not find them remote," said Sabas. "It seems to me that money
serves well enough for almost all the cases that present themselves.
Thus you hold another carnation to be better than this. This was given
me by a lady. All right, Castell, I will let you have this one for two
pesetas."

The company laughed. Cristina seemed vexed and said to her brother:

"You are rude; you are a clodhopper. Matilde, do me the favor of taking
the carnation away from that pig. After that, he shall not keep it."

Sabas covered it up with his hands.

"Wait a bit, my girl, wait a bit. If Castell pays the two pesetas, I'll
give it up. Until then we do not separate, no!"

"Here it is!" said Castell, taking the money out of his pocket-book and
passing it across the table.

"There--go!" said Sabas, passing over the carnation.

This jest produced a shout at the table. Yet it did not please Cristina.
She was furious, and called her brother names, and vowed that she would
never give him another flower as long as she lived.

Meanwhile I had had time to recover from the extreme agitation that the
words of Castell had caused me. We finished dining gayly, but Cristina
did not again appear smiling and cordial as before.

Two hours later I took the train for Barcelona, where my presence was
indispensable. I was accompanied to the station by Martí and Sabas.
Martí made me promise another and a longer visit.

"After my next voyage," I told him, "I am thinking of asking the
company's permission to stop at home when they change the order of time
for the ships, six weeks hence. Then I will come down from Alicante and
spend a week or a fortnight with you."

"We shall see if you are a man of your word," he replied, squeezing my
hand affectionately until it was time for me to take the train and be
off.




CHAPTER VI.


I do not know what relation exists between salt water and love, but
experience has made me realize that there exists in it some mysterious
and stimulating virtue. On land I am able to control somewhat my most
vehement sentiments and conquer them. Once on board I am a lost man. The
most insignificant attraction takes on gigantic proportions and in a
little while knocks me flat. So it happened that while in Valencia I
proposed to myself to make nothing of flattering invitations, and never
again in my life to return to stand before Doña Cristina, continuing in
this commendable resolution until I left Barcelona, no sooner did I find
myself afloat than it vanished like the mist, and seemed to me a
veritable absurdity.

It was from Hamburg that I wrote to the shipping house, asking
permission to remain over one voyage at home, to arrange certain family
affairs. Meanwhile it had come about that I was not able to think of
anything but the wife of Martí. Not even in dreams did she leave my
mind; every word she had spoken sounded ceaselessly in my ears, as if I
had in my brain a phonograph charged with conversations, and in my
heart I felt every one of her gestures and movements. On returning
towards Valencia the delight of thinking that soon I was going to enjoy
a sight of my idol produced in me a sentiment of mingled shame and
remorse. I feared a disdainful reception from her, and I feared also an
affectionate and cordial one from her husband.

I did not intend to lodge in his house, to hush my noisy conscience.
After spending six days in Alicante, I went to Valencia with a friend
who chanced along, and made him an excuse for not going to the house of
Martí. I did not go directly to see him, preferring to go later. I went
out first to take a walk in the streets. But while walking through one
of the principal streets, I saw not far distant three ladies looking at
the fashions in a shop-window.

As I drew near I perceived that one of them was Cristina, and the other
two, Doña Clara and Doña Amparo. I hastened up to them, and saluted them
standing behind them. (How could I do such a thing?)

Cristina turned her head; and, as if she had seen something alarming,
she gave a cry and ran forward hastily a few steps. My astonishment was
great and the surprise of these ladies was scarcely less. Perceiving at
once the strangeness of her conduct, and as if ashamed, she turned and
came and welcomed me with unusual amiability. She explained her cry and
her flight by declaring that a few moments ago she had given a bit of
alms to a poor creature who had been a criminal, and all at once,
without knowing why, it seemed to her as if he had followed them and was
going to attack her. Doña Amparo and Doña Clara were satisfied with
this, and laid her attack of nerves to her condition; they wished her to
come into a shop and take a quieting draught, but Cristina said no.

I knew better than this, and walked on with them, saddened because I
knew.

Martí received me with lively delight, professing to be vexed with me
because I had not sought the hospitality of his house; but I, fortified
by my excuse, held fast, and would not give in. Sabas also showed
pleasure at seeing me. I could not do less than offer him my compassion
on seeing in his face traces plainer than ever of his arduous labors
beneath the sun. The result of these, by what I could gather, was the
acquisition of an amber mouthpiece with his initials engraved upon it,
of which he was so proud that it seemed as if all the vigils and
anxieties that it had cost him had been well spent.

It was not necessary to inquire what impression my arrival made upon
Castell. His cold, ceremonious courtesy made unnecessary any inquiries
of that sort. Really it seemed to me that the lightly disdainful
attitude that he held towards all the world was a little emphasized
towards me. Perhaps I was ill-tempered, but a secret instinct warned me
that this man hated me, and I paid him in his own coin.

Cristina was now quite advanced in her maternal expectations. Although
women do not consider themselves beautiful at this time, except to their
husbands, I found her more beautiful and interesting than ever, an
indubitable proof of the depth of the affection wherewith she had
inspired me. Her imaginary fears and her agitations at sight of me only
increased it, and I credited her lack of courtesy to these imaginary
fears. I noted that after the meeting she took pains not to look at me;
but the very haughtiness with which she did it showed that some
agitation ruled her spirit, and that I was not absolutely indifferent to
her. Such was at least my illusion at the time.

Although I was not lodged in his house, the cordiality of Martí and my
secret longing forced me to go every day to dine and spend some time
with them. It was impossible for me to hide my love. At the risk of
being observed (not by Martí, who was innocence personified, but by the
others), I scarcely quitted the sight of Cristina. Whenever occasion
presented, I made plain what was passing in my soul. If she dropped
anything upon the floor, I was there to hasten and pick it up. If she
glanced towards the door, I had already run to close it. If she
complained of any ill feeling, I proposed all the remedies imaginable.
In short, I showed to all concerned a lively interest and anxiety that
came from my heart. She received these attentions with a serious face,
sometimes with a certain diffidence; but I understood that she would not
permit herself to take the slightest notice, and this sufficed me.

One day I grew more daring. Showing no such intention, I went nearer and
nearer to her until my arm touched her dress. Then she got up brusquely
and placed herself elsewhere. These silent rebuffs produced a melancholy
impression upon me. But I was compensated by other enjoyments, fanciful,
perhaps, but that did not hinder their being delicious. When we were
sitting at table, although as I have said she took great pains not to
look at me face to face, she could not help glancing about, and her eyes
would meet and thrill my own. When this happened, I believed I could see
that her face colored slightly.

Love did not wholly stifle my powers of observation. I mean to say that
I loved the wife of Martí and studied her at the same time. I soon came
to see and understand that beneath her rare and gracious mingling of
timidity and ease of manner, of insistent happiness and supercilious
seriousness, there existed in her a depth of exquisite sensibility,
carefully and even ferociously guarded. The modesty of sentiment was so
strong in her that any manifestation of tenderness caused it to retreat.
She preferred to pass for hard and cold rather than that anyone should
read her soul.

Unlike her mamma, who was delighted to receive endearments, and who
kissed everybody, she never gave a caress to any member of her family,
and avoided receiving one whenever possible. Her husband himself, when
he found himself a little rebuffed, took it with his jolly shout,
accepting everything with a laugh. In spite of this they all loved her
dearly, and looked upon her coldness as a graceful oddity, with which it
pleased her at times to snub them a little.

Because of her character, the least expression of affection from her
lips had an inestimable value. But it was necessary to turn it off and
pretend that it was not noticed. If it was observed and she knew it, all
was lost. She returned at once to her brusqueness, cutting off gratitude
with some ironical or disdainful speech. She also had the spirit of
contradiction well developed; that is to say, she was wont to antagonize
other people, not from pride or ill-humor, as I was soon convinced, but
rather because of her great reserve, which made it repugnant to her to
show the real strength of her feelings.

And with all this--an extraordinary thing!--there was never a creature
whose features expressed more fully the movements and emotions of her
spirit, even to the faintest shades of thought. Whatever dominated her
for the moment, whatever stirred her, in spite of barred fortress that
she sought to guard, was revealed in her eyes, in the changeful lights
on her face, in all her gestures and movement.

Martí showed himself every day franker and more cordial towards me.
This, it may be divined, made it possible for none but a villain to
breathe in an enterprise against him. And I, who did not hold myself
that, was embarrassed and saddened. We were inseparable from the first.
Not only did we dine and take our coffee together, but he often insisted
that I should accompany him while he was attending to his business; he
soon made me his confidant and even asked me to give him advice. At
last, after I had been five or six days in Valencia, he joyously
proposed that we should thee-and-thou each other, and without waiting
for my response began to do so with a cordiality that touched me. I
experienced a mingled pride and humiliation, pleasure and pain; thinking
how the confidence of this man brought me nearer his wife, yet held me
all the more removed from her morally. I had occasion to prove this only
a few hours afterwards. When we were again at the house, I, out of
shyness, did everything possible to conceal that we had so soon adopted
a new method of addressing each other. Martí made it plain directly.
Cristina lifted her head surprised, looked at us both an instant, and
dropped her eyes again, but not before I had, I believed, surprised in
them an expression of annoyance. I guessed what passed in her soul.

Martí invited me the next day to visit his estate at Cabañal, where he
had certain orders to give about the house and garden. The family was
usually installed there by May, the present month; but this year, on
account of the happy event that was expected, the moving out had been
postponed.

We made the trip on foot, by the road and across the fields, in order to
see the farms and gardens that lie between the city and the sea. I
consented with good will, and at the hour for the promenade we started
out upon our way, walking slowly until we reached the place.

My companion never closed his mouth after we came out of the house. The
discussion of his affairs engrossed him to such an extent that he paid
no attention to the delicious country, carpeted with flowers, whose
white cottages seemed like doves alighted near us. Round about every one
of the little houses with their sharp-pointed roofs grew a grove of
orange-trees, pomegranates, and algarrobos. Beyond were cultivated
fields with flowers and vegetables, some set with roses, lilies,
carnations, gillyflowers; and others with strawberries, alfalfa, and
artichokes. Running about among them on the well-beaten paths were
beautiful brunette children, who stopped to gaze at us with their deep,
dark eyes. The father of the family, bending to his task, would always
lift his head as we passed and salute us gravely and silently, lifting
his hand to his hat of coarse straw.

Martí did not see this, and scarcely the road we were walking on.

"One of two things! Either this business of the artesian wells will turn
out well, in which case I not only hope soon to get a return on the
capital employed, but I shall also make a good income for myself and my
heirs; or it will turn out badly, and then it will look as if the
capital were lost, but it will not really be so, because of my
disposition and personal knowledge, trained and skilful in this class of
work, which I think I should immediately use in making canals from a
river in the province of Almeria, where there are great tracts of land
that might prove very productive if watered, and which need only
irrigation and ways of communication. It is a project that I have been
turning over in my head for several years. You know well how much time
and money it takes in Spain to get people together for this sort of
business. Not only are directors, capitalists, and superintendents
lacking, but even workmen who know how to carry out a certain class of
works that I undertake. Well, whether the artesian wells turn out well
or ill, I still have this knowledge ready at my command."

"That seems to me exactly the idea," I said, absorbed in the
contemplation of the beautiful, variegated floral carpet that was spread
before us.

"Yes, I think that's it!" exclaimed Martí, with emphasis. "But these
ideas, friend Ribot," he went on, gayly flinging out his arms as if to
embrace all mankind, "these ideas only come after some years of
experience, and not even then unless one has practical sense and a
vocation for business."

"Yes, aptitudes can be developed, but they cannot be acquired."

"There is my brother-in-law, Sabas. I make superhuman efforts to
discover in him some ability, something he can do, and I only succeed in
putting myself out. Whatever matter I confide to his care, even if I
give him precise and definite instructions, he manages to knock all to
pieces. It has got so tiresome that I leave him in peace and employ him
in nothing whatever."

I could not help thinking that this punishment was not found very cruel
by the brother-in-law, and yet it came into my imagination that he might
have purposely provoked it as certain naughty children provoke it from
their teachers, but I kept these and my other observations to myself.

"It is very different with my friend Castell. Of wide and penetrating
talent, with a remarkable mind, immense learning, a profound knowledge
of the sciences and arts, and even of mechanics--but from the first
moment of application he is discouraged by the least scrap of an
obstacle in his way. He is all obstacles and doubts and scruples. He
loses heart before he begins anything and he has given up business. To
carry out an industrial enterprise a knowledge of the matter is not
enough; it must be studied; it is necessary that the one who undertakes
it should possess an essentially positive mind--above all, that he
should have, like me, an iron will."

Little by little we drew nearer to Cabañal. I have already described
these shores of the sea whose great plain lies blue beneath the sun. We
walked on enveloped in its light and breathing the fragrant air. The
joyfulness of such a scene, serene and luminous as a picture by Titian,
the idyllic bits that we came upon here and there, entered into the soul
and overflowed it with a gentle felicity. In all this joy, this soft
tranquillity, Martí with his beautiful, waving locks, his great,
innocent eyes, did not seem to me so forcible a man as he wished to
appear, not altogether of iron.

Before coming to the first houses of the village we turned off to the
left. There at a distance was a white villa that Martí told me was his
property. On the way I saw a curious plot of ground whose walls were
made of perfectly symmetrical and equal-sized stones. These walls
seemed to be in ruins, and through great openings I could discern
certain structures, great iron pipes, rusted and fallen in pieces to the
ground, wheels and other portions of machinery.

"What is this?" I asked, surprised.

Martí coughed before replying, pulled a bit at his shirt cuffs, and
declared, with a gesture between peevishness and shamefacedness:

"Nothing--a factory of artificial stones."

"But it does not seem to be running."

"No."

"Whom does it belong to?"

"To me."

I shut up, because I understood how much the subject mortified him. We
went on several steps without deigning to cast another look upon the
abandoned factory, when, turning, he suddenly exclaimed:

"Don't imagine that I didn't know how to manufacture stone--all these
walls are built of the products of the factory. Take up a piece of the
stone and examine it."

I took up a piece, examined it, and saw that in fact it had, in
appearance at least, all the necessary qualities of resistance. It gave
me pleasure to say so. Martí explained that the failure of the factory
was due to the scarcity of workmen. Valencia was a province that for
centuries had neglected industrial for agricultural pursuits; it lacked
hands. Then the manager had not properly filled his place; the increase
on tariffs and freights, etc., etc.

The subject was undoubtedly vexatious to my friend. He spoke of it in a
low voice, with a frown on his forehead, and he avoided looking at the
unlucky factory. So in order to mortify him no more, I showed the least
possible interest in all the rusting machinery, and went onward without
bestowing another particle of attention upon it.

We came at last to the walls of his grounds. We entered them by a
wrought-iron gateway, and crossed a handsomely laid-out garden to
approach the house. This was a modest structure, but sufficiently
spacious, and furnished within in considerable luxury. The furniture,
suitable for the summer season, was simple and elegant. But that which
roused my enthusiasm was the extensive park that stretched beyond, whose
walls reached to the seashore, upon which it opened by a wrought-iron
gateway. Formerly this had been a productive field. But first Martí's
father and then himself had transformed it into a vast garden. Shady,
gravelled pathways were bordered by orange-trees, lemons, pomegranates,
and many other sorts of fruit-trees. Here was a little grove of laurels,
and in the middle of it was a stone table surrounded by chairs. There
was a grotto tapestried with jasmine and honeysuckle; yonder was a
thicket of cannas, or cypresses, and in the centre a statue of white
marble. And like a base for decoration, there was the azure line of the
sea, into whose waves seemed ready to fall the oranges that hung from
the boughs. The sun, that was already sinking, enveloped the garden and
the sea with a sudden blaze of illumination; its golden rays were
scattered over the white paths of the enclosure, made the whitewashed
house resplendent, penetrated the thickets of cypress and laurel,
lighting up the marble faces of the statues, and hung drooping from the
branches of the trees like threads of the gold of waving tresses. At the
right were visible over the walls the masts of little fishing boats with
their simple rigging, and yonder extended the town of Cabañal in a rare
and picturesque blending of fishermen's cots and aristocratic mansions
wherein the grandees of the city came to spend the summer. More distant
still was the port and the tall masts of steamboats.

Martí showed me all the grounds, although without much pleasure or
pride. Business, past and future, burdened him; he did not know how to
throw it off. It was only when we came to a corner next the beach that
he was enough distracted for a few moments to point out to me a
summer-house in the Greek style that was admirably introduced into this
smiling landscape. It was adorned within by carved furniture brought
from Italy, statues and vases. It had a little lookout balcony towards
the sea, and over the door was inscribed a name that caused me a slight
tremor.

"The building of this summer-house was a thing of my wife's. That is why
I had her name put over the door."

From thence we returned to the house by new and ever more beautiful and
embowered pathways. Before reaching it, we came upon a little artificial
hill, and, topping it, a bit of a castle. About it was a little pond of
water, imitating a moat. We crossed it by means of a drawbridge, and
ascended by a narrow footpath between hedges of box and orange, arriving
at the top in the time that it takes to tell of it. The path, because of
its artful windings, produced the effect of being measured by rods,
instead of by inches. Over the door of the little castle was engraved
another name that also made me tremble, although in a very different
way.

"The idea of the little artificial hill was my friend Castell's, and,
naturally, it bears his name--which is all the better that it exactly
suits it," he added, laughing.

For me the pun had much less charm. Perhaps the antipathy with which the
subject inspired me had part in this. We entered the diminutive castle
and ascended to its roof. From there were admirably revealed not only
the park, which did not seem so vast, but also a good part of the
cultivated grounds, all the harbor, and the Puerto Nuevo and the grand
expanse of the sea. Above its innumerable wavelets, above the freshness
and dark depths of the water hung the crystal vault of the sky, dappled
with delicate tints of rose. The sun flung a river of gold across the
waves. Among the flowery fields and the fields of maize shone the little
white cottages nestled among their oranges and cypresses. Beyond
Valencia was Miguelete, and in the distance the encircling mountains,
that at this hour seemed all of violet and mauve and lilac.

"What is this hut?" I asked, disagreeably impressed by the sight of an
ugly brick structure which reared itself up on the confines of the park.

"Nothing--that was an attempt at a beer manufactory," replied Martí
dryly.

And again his brow was furrowed by the frown.

"And did it not get to the making of it?"

"Yes, there was some made. It turned out badly on account of the quality
of the water. The maker, whom I got here from England, did not explain
this to me in time, and I was obliged to waste money enough uselessly."

Coughing perfunctorily, he pulled at his shirt-cuffs, ran his fingers
through his hair, and hastily descended the stair of the little castle,
followed by me. There was in every movement of this man when he
expressed pleasure or annoyance so much heartiness, such childlike
innocence, that I felt myself constantly more attracted to him. It
seemed to me that I had loved him for a great while.

When we came away from his estate the sun was already setting behind the
distant mountains. We made our way around the house, and crossed the
grounds again and through the fields of maize, the gardens and orchards.
It was the hour of stopping work, and the laborers in the fields, with
their Valencian kerchiefs about their heads, were resting at the doors
of their cottages under the sweet fresh tendrils of vine-covered arbors.
Their children were climbing upon their knees and dancing about them
while the mothers prepared the rice for supper.




CHAPTER VII.


When we arrived at the house, night had already fallen. The family was
assembled in the dining-room and the table set. Isabelita dined at her
cousin's, and Retamoso and Doña Clara were getting ready to leave
without their daughter. Sabas and Castell dined there also. We were
joyously welcomed, and all, except perhaps Cristina, attacked me with
questions concerning the impression that the country-place had made upon
me. I showed myself enthusiastic, not merely for courtesy, but because I
really was so. I enlarged heartily upon the enchanting situation, the
taste and care with which the place was laid out, the elegance of the
Cristina pavilion (I believe that I insisted too much on this point),
and I finished by saying that I should not find it unpleasant to spend
all my life there.

"In the Cristina pavilion?" asked Castell, with his ironical smile.

"Why not?" I responded boldly, casting a quick look at Martí's wife. She
seemed to be thinking of something else at this moment, but I divined,
none the less, that she did not lose a word of what I said.

"Then it's your taste to live caged like a canary. I also should like
very well to live in that way, but on condition that I should be taken
care of by a hand chosen by myself."

Saying this, he also looked out of the corner of his eye at Cristina,
who kept her face turned the other way, and looked terribly dignified.

"But I, who am not a sybarite, make no condition whatever," I returned,
laughing.

Martí slapped his friend several times upon the shoulder affectionately.

"As if we did not all know you, you old rascal! You would live in the
way you are talking about a fortnight perhaps. At the end of that time
you would be so bored with your cage, with lovely hands, and canary seed
that you would throw it all over."

Castell protested against this judgment, declaring that fickleness in
love depends not so much upon the temperament and its changes as upon
the vague but pressing necessity that we all feel to seek for the being
who can respond to our inmost sentiments, our most intimate aspirations,
our secret longings; or, to speak in more prosaic words, although less
clear also, those that adapt themselves exactly to our physical and
moral individuality.

"I have not found--like you," he concluded daringly, "among so many
women, the one who meets all the necessities of my being, many of them
unimportant perhaps, but none the less existent. If, like you, _or
before you_" (he uttered these words in a peculiar manner), "I had
chanced upon her, then certainly my career of gallantry had ended, and
you would have had no cause to call me, as now, an old rascal."

His attitude, his accents, and the furtive glances that the rich
ship-owner cast from time to time upon Cristina while he was talking,
confirmed me in the suspicion that I had conceived, whereof I have not
before had occasion to speak, that this gentleman was paying court to
the wife of his intimate friend and associate.

The effect of this dawning suspicion upon me was deplorable. I already
hated my rival; now to myself I called him false friend, traitor,
double-faced! But at the same time a voice cried out in my conscience
that I, though a new friend, was not perceptibly better. This voice
distressed me indescribably.

The talk went on, and Castell found occasion to say all he chose to
Cristina, as if nobody but herself could hear. His well-chosen words
admirably fitted the gestures, quick and speaking, wherewith he
emphasized them. Cristina talked with her mother, but by her evident
agitation and by the cloud of vexation which darkened her face I
guessed that she was listening to what Castell said, and that it was not
to her liking. In that moment, with a frown upon her forehead and a
proud expression in her eyes, she seemed to me more adorable than ever.

Retamoso, with his hat already on his head, came up to Castell, and
bending as if to speak in his ear, but in reality talking loud enough to
be heard by his wife, said in his attractive Galician accent:

"Señor Castell, you are in the right--like a saint! The question hits
the mark, hits the mark. If I had not had such good judgment in choosing
a companion, what would have become of me, poor fellow! What a
darling!--eh? What a treasure! Ssh! silence, keep the secret for the
present, but I wouldn't have had two pesetas. Silence, ssh!"

And arching his eyebrows and making up faces expressive of admiration
and restrained bliss, he moved away, shuffling his feet. His beloved
better half, who had heard perfectly well, gave him a sidewise look
which was not shining with gratitude, and turning up her hawk's nose,
she said good-night to us with imposing severity.

We were now all standing up and preparing to seat ourselves at the
table. Martí, observing that his piece of bread was a little broken,
exclaimed jestingly:

"Aha, I think I find here the footprints of my little mouse, don't I,
Cristina?"

She smiled assent.

"I suppose I'll be banished for picking at your bread, some day."

Then, as Martí turned to talk with Castell, I went up to the table
carelessly and, pretending something else, contrived to get a morsel of
the bread that Cristina had picked at, and ate it with inexplicable
pleasure. This did not escape her, and I noticed that her face took on a
slightly annoyed expression.

"Come, come to dinner, and everyone to his place!" she cried, with a
pretty grimace of vexation.

I obeyed humbly, and seated myself in my accustomed place. The dinner
was a gay one.

Martí was talkative and full of fun. As if he had not until then made
enough of the beauties of his estate at Cabañal, he enlarged upon them
with an enthusiasm that I had communicated to him on our walk. He ended
by proposing that we should go there afternoons for picnics, since
circumstances hindered the moving out altogether. It is needless to say
with what delight I heard this proposition. Cristina welcomed it with
pleasure, and also the others at the table. Sabas remarked, with his
habitual gravity, that perhaps he should not be able to go every day.

"No; we know already that we need not count upon you. It would not do,
would it--to throw over all business in the Plaza de la Reina and the
Café del Siglo?" said his sister, laughing.

"It isn't that, my girl!" exclaimed the elegant creature, piqued. "You
know that I am not particularly fond of rural amusements."

"Yes, yes, I know that you are one of the citified, and cannot breathe
except in an atmosphere of tobacco smoke."

Doña Amparo hastened, as always, to the rescue of her son.

"It will please me very much if Sabas does not go, for picnics always
disagree with his stomach."

"What would it matter to Cristina if I had to stay shut up?" exclaimed
the critic with an affectation of bitterness.

"Poor little thing! You get on admirably on late suppers at the club,
with olives and champagne."

Martí intervened and cut off the dispute between them, seeing that Doña
Amparo was already making ready to faint away. Everyone has his own
preferences in the matter of amusements and it was folly to try to
impose our own upon others. "Everybody has a right to be happy in his
own way," and if Sabas found himself happier under a roof than under the
open sky, he had no wish to disturb him.

"All that I beg," he ended by saying, "is, that although he is not to be
of the party, that he will let Matilde and the children come with us."

Sabas generously granted this petition, and all friction seemed to be
ended; but Cristina, who still wished to tease him a little, said with a
mischievous smile:

"Of course we understand that this means the afternoons when she has no
buttons to sew on."

"Cristina, Cristina!" cried Martí, half vexed, half laughing.

We all did all we could to restrain our laughter. Sabas shrugged his
shoulders with apparent disdain, but remained surly the rest of the
evening.

The next day and the days thereafter, without his honorable company but
with that of Matilde and the eldest of his children, we made our
excursions to Cabañal.

Martí and Castell's carriages took us thither directly after breakfast,
and brought us to the city at sunset. This time was spent chatting on
the upper balcony of the summer-house while the ladies embroidered or
sewed, or we went out into the park, where we played like children with
balls or hoops.

Sometimes we left the place and ran about the village or went down on
the beach, where we were greatly entertained by watching the fishing
boats coming in; at other times we directed our footsteps into the
country, visited some of the cottages, usually that of a certain Tonet,
an old servant of Martí's, who owned the little farm where he lived.
There we often rested, and his wife welcomed us with chocolates or
peanuts or served us some other refreshment.

But the important business of the afternoon was the picnic, or rather
its preparation. For it interested us that the picnic was spread and
eaten in the open air. We carried the alcohol stove and the rest of the
things to some distant and shady place in the park. The ladies put on
their aprons; the gentlemen, in shirt-sleeves, made chocolate or coffee,
or fried fish that we had just bought on the beach, and passed a happy
time. How happy I was when the party gave me the task of stewing up some
sailor's dish, and I went about among my scullions and scullionesses
with the stewpan in my hands, despotically giving them exact orders and
sometimes--who would believe it?--going so far as to forget that I was
in love!

Yet I was more and more in love all the time; there is no doubt about
that. Neither when I said to Cristina in an imperious tone, "Bring me
the salt!" nor, when I reproved her sharply for cutting the fish up into
too small pieces, did it even enter my imagination that a more perfect
creature could ever have existed under the sun. In the country the
supercilious severity that I had often remarked in her disappeared. Her
mood was gay, changeful, lively, and she invented a thousand tricks to
make us laugh, while from her lips witticisms flowed continuously. She
was the soul of our excursions, the salt that seasoned them.

I could not keep my eyes away from her. I listened to her and stared at
her like an idiot. Sometimes, though not often, she made me feel that I
was carrying water in a sieve. For example, one afternoon, standing in
the summer-house, she showed us a thimble that she had bought. Everybody
examined it, and I also after the others, then I contrived to keep it
without being noticed. A good while passed; nothing more was said about
the thimble. But when we left the mirador to go to our picnic she
crossed in front of me and said without looking at me:

"Put the thimble in this little basket."

It was of no use to be cunning and crafty with her. She saw everything;
she observed everything.

Another afternoon, when her sister-in-law Matilde was playing on the
piano and she standing turning the leaves of her music, I stole up
silently from behind. Pretending to find myself enraptured by the music
and looking closely at its sheets, I devoured with my eyes her alabaster
neck and the fine, soft hair, there where the black locks of her head
seemed to die away and be lost like exquisite music that melts in
pianissimo. Well, then as if she had eyes for seeing what was behind
her, she raised her hand to the neck of her dress and pulled it up with
a gesture of impatience. It was an admonition and a reprimand. But in
spite of her dumb rebuffs and reproofs and although she used seldom to
look at me, I felt myself happy beside her. And this was because in
these rebuffs and in the sternness of her countenance I found no
distaste for myself, nor desire to mortify me. Everything emanated from
a noble, if exaggerated, sentiment of dignity, without counting the
intense affection that she professed for her husband, of which she
constantly gave clear proof. Nor in this either was she unworthy the
exquisite delicacy of her sentiments. Instead of showing herself tender
and submissive towards him as so many women would have done in her case,
she shunned showing any fondness in my presence and, whenever it was
possible, avoided the caresses that he would have given her. Sometimes
he laughingly asked her the reason for such severity, but she remained
inflexible.

Of her sense of justice and the instinct that inspired it she gave
witness more than once, although it was always tacit. I had gone to the
house one morning. There was no one in the dining-room but herself and
her mother. She happened to ask for a glass of water. I took it upon
myself to anticipate the servant, went to the sideboard, took a goblet
and a little tray, and was about to pour out the water and serve her
when she interrupted me dryly:

"No, let it be. I am not thirsty now; it was a whim."

I was very much crestfallen, and even more saddened than humiliated. I
cut short my visit and retired. That afternoon I stayed at the _fonda_
and did not go to Cabañal as usual.

At night I went to the house when they were finishing supper, entered
with a stern countenance, and did not try to glance at her. But I saw
plainly that she looked at me, and I wished her to keep on until I saw a
humble expression on her face.

In a few moments she addressed me with unusual amiability, seeking to
make amends. I stood my ground rigidly. Then she said in a clear voice
and with a gracious smile that I can never forget:

"Captain Ribot, will you do me the favor to pour a little water into one
of those goblets and bring it to me?"

I served her, smiling. She smiled a little too before drinking it, and
my resentment was melted like ice in the warmth of that smile.

Castell was always one of the party on our excursions to Cabañal.
Sometimes, though rarely, he drove out alone in one of his traps.

I no longer doubted that he paid court to Cristina and had also observed
the love that I felt for her. But he owed it to his immeasurable pride
not to seem to notice a rival so little formidable; I could not see the
slightest change in him. He continued to treat me with the same refined
courtesy, not exempt from patronage, and--why should I not say it?--with
also a sort of benevolent compassion. It is true that Castell extended
this compassion towards all created beings, and I think I should not be
wrong in affirming that it went beyond our planet and diffused itself
among other and distant stars. As a general rule, he listened to nobody
but himself; but at times, if he were in the humor, he would invite us
to express our opinions, making us talk with the complacency shown to
children; listening, smiling sweetly at our nonsensical chatter and our
little mistakes. It was a regular secondary-school examination. When he
deigned to pry into my limited field of knowledge I could not help
fancying myself a microscopic insect that had by chance fallen into his
hands, that he twirled and tortured between his encircling fingers.

They all listened to him with great deference. Martí ever showed himself
proud of having such a friend, and believed in good faith that neither
in Spain nor in foreign lands existed a man to compare with him--in the
world of theory, of course, because in practical matters, Martí was all
there, as I knew.

But Isabelita, Cristina's cousin, listened to him with even more
absorption. It is impossible to imagine a more complete attention, an
attitude more submissive and devoted than that of this girl with a
profile like an angel, when Castell held forth. Her pure and pearl-like
face was turned towards him; she sat perfectly still as if in ecstasy;
the lashes of her innocent eyes did not move.

The one who took the least pleasure in the dissertations of the rich
ship-owner was, as far as I could see, Cristina. Although she forced
herself to hide it, I was not long in divining that the science of her
husband's friend and associate did not interest her. She often grew
absent-minded and, whenever she could find a plausible pretext, she
would leave the room. Can it be supposed that this lack of reverence for
a representative of science lowered her in my eyes? I think not!

I noted further that, although Cristina joined apparently the projects
of her husband, and never contradicted him when he discussed them with
his usual frankness before us, she showed lively vexation when Castell
encouraged them. When the millionaire, therefore, would begin a pompous
eulogy of Martí, praising in affected language his clear sight, his
decision and activity, Cristina's face would change; her cheeks would
lose their delicate rose-color; her brow would be knitted, and her
beautiful eyes would take on a strange fixity. Usually she could not
stand it to the end. She would get up and leave the room abruptly. The
good Emilio, intoxicated with gratitude and pleasure, took no notice of
this.

What a soul was that of this man, how noble, how sensitive, how
generous! Chance brought to my knowledge a magnanimous action that
raised him still more in my eyes. With the freedom that he had given me
from the first, I entered his private office one day unannounced at a
rather inopportune moment. His mother-in-law sat sobbing (for a change)
in an arm-chair, and he with his back towards the door was opening his
safe. On hearing me he turned and quickly shut the door of the safe. He
seemed a little more serious and thoughtful than usual, but the generous
expression of his face had not disappeared. He greeted me, making an
effort to appear cheerful; then turning to his mother-in-law and putting
one hand upon her shoulder, he said affectionately:

"Come, mamma, there is nothing to grieve about. Everything will be
arranged this afternoon, without fail. Come now, go to Cristina and rest
a little. You must not make yourself ill."

"Thank you, thank you!" murmured the suffering lady, without ceasing to
weep and blow her nose.

Recovering finally at least a part of her energies, she left the place,
not without giving me a strong, convulsive grasp of the hand and
drawing her son-in-law to the door for three or four kisses. He shook
his head and said, smiling:

"Poor woman!"

I gave him a glance of interrogation, not venturing to put the question
in words. Martí shrugged his shoulders and murmured:

"Tss! It's the same as always. Her son abuses the bounty of this poor
woman and it gives her a great deal of trouble."

As I perceived that he did not wish to go into further explanations, I
refrained from inquiries, and we talked of other things. But a moment
later Cristina came into the office, not in a good temper, and asked
him:

"Mamma has been begging money of you, hasn't she?"

"No, my girl," replied Martí, coloring a little.

"Don't deny it to me, Emilio. I have known all since this morning."

"Very well, what of it? The thing is not worth wrinkling this little
brow," he answered, touching it tenderly.

Cristina remained silent and thoughtful a few moments.

"You know," she said at last firmly, "that I have never opposed your
expenditures for Sabas. I have enjoyed your generosity towards all, but
your treatment of my brother has especially pleased me. Yet I have
asked myself sometimes, 'Will this generosity of Emilio have really good
consequences? Will it not encourage my brother to continue in his idle
and dissipated habits?' If he were alone in the world, he might indulge
in such luxurious ways without much danger. When he came to want, you
could, by reducing him to strict necessities, keep him on his feet. But
he has a wife, he has children, and I fear that they will have to bear
the consequences of your generosity and of the habits which, thanks to
your kindness, their father does not abandon. And, too," she added in
low tones that trembled a little, "at present we have no great
responsibilities, but we shall have them----"

"I believe you; we shall have them!" exclaimed Martí. "It looks to me as
if the first of them would not be many days in arriving!"

Cristina's cheeks colored swiftly. Emilio, changing his tone, went over
to her, put his arm about her shoulders affectionately, and said to her:

"You are right in this, as you are in everything that you say. You are a
hundred times more sensible than I am. Perhaps I should have refused
Sabas if he had come begging of me, because I am already a little tired
of his affairs; but your mother comes--when I see her crying--you don't
know how that moves me."

Cristina lifted to him her eyes shining with immense gratitude, her
face quivering with feeling; fearing that she could not control her
emotion, she suddenly left the room.

"Poor little thing!" said Martí, smiling once more. "She is very right.
Sabas is a bore."

"He gambles, doesn't he?" I ventured, because of the confidence that had
been shown me.

"It would be better to say he is skinned by sharpers. What a fellow! He
has lost, and promised to pay, five thousand pesetas."

"He promises it, and you have to pay it."

"Possibly. But what is to be done? It is not all his fault. He has a
mother who is too soft."

"And a brother-in-law who is too kind," I thought.

Martí put his arm across my shoulders, and we went thus to the
sewing-room to find Cristina and Doña Amparo. They were both there, the
first frowning and meditative, the other completely overcome by her
emotions. Matilde came in presently to breakfast with them. I perceived
that she was sad and seemed as if ashamed. Soon after two ladies dropped
in for an intimate call, and conversation cleared up the heavy
atmosphere of the room.

Cristina went out for a moment to attend to some of her domestic
matters, and I noted that she left her handkerchief forgotten upon her
chair. Then, with the dissimulation and ability of an accomplished
thief, I went over to it, sat down as if absent-mindedly, and when
nobody noticed, I took the precious object and hid it in my pocket.
Cristina appeared again, and I noticed that she glanced about at all the
chairs in search of her handkerchief; then she shot a glance at me, and,
I firmly believe, guessed from my manner that I had it. Then not daring
to ask me for it aloud and at the same time unwilling to give up and let
it pass that she allowed me to have it, she went about searching in all
the corners of the room, asking:

"Where can my handkerchief be?"

Nobody but me observed it, because all the rest were absorbed in
conversation. At last I saw her sit down in her chair, take up her work,
and go on with it in silence.

I went away to luncheon at the _fonda_, without accepting their
invitation to remain. I had a vehement desire to enjoy my precious
conquest by myself; for I considered it such in my mad presumption after
she gave over looking for it. Once in my quarters and assured that the
door was fastened, and that nobody could see me through the key-hole, I
snatched the kerchief from my pocket and gave myself up to a sort of
madness which even now makes me blush when I remember it. I breathed its
perfume with intoxication, kissed it numberless times, pressed it to my
heart, swearing to be eternally faithful, put it away with the pictures
of my father, took it out to kiss it, and put it away again. At last I
came to the end of all imaginable extravagances, better suited to a
young student of rhetoric than to the captain of a steamboat of three
thousand tons.




CHAPTER VIII.


In the afternoon I was with the family at Cabañal as usual. Martí did
not accompany us, having to attend to a certain business matter. (Did it
have to do with the five thousand pesetas that his brother-in-law had
lost?) At all events, I was selfish enough to rejoice at his absence.
During the trip out and the hours that we stayed at the place, I
observed something in Cristina's manner and gestures that made my heart
tremble with joy and hope. I cannot explain how, without her looking at
me nor once speaking directly to me, I felt overwhelmed by a celestial
happiness, but so it was. We passed all the afternoon in the
summer-house. The ladies worked at their sewing or embroidery. I read or
made believe to read. Cristina, affected by an unusual languor, did not
rise from her chair until the moment of leaving. While the others
laughed and jested, I saw that she kept silence and was grave although
without any apparent cause. Her face was slightly flushed. My
imagination suggested to me the idea that it was because of the thoughts
drifting through her soul and the timidity that they inspired. On the
dark and gloomy horizon of my life light began to dawn; so my heart said
to me. During that unforgettable afternoon, I was as happy as the angels
must be in Paradise, or the author of a drama when he goes out on the
stage to receive applause between the leading old man and young lady.

After dining at my hotel I went to take coffee at the Siglo, with the
intention of going thence to Martí's house. I encountered Sabas on
entering, his pipe in his mouth, seated among several of his friends,
whom he was haranguing in his own solemn and judicial manner. He saluted
me from a distance with a wave of the hand, and presently seeing that I
was alone, separated himself from the group and came to join me.

He was in a jovial mood and did not seem in the least cast down by his
folly of the day before, nor ashamed of it. We talked of our daily
excursions to Cabañal, and I described them as very lively and
delightful. He did not care to contradict me openly, but I understood by
his gestures more than by his words that he looked upon all that as
childishness unworthy a serious and mature man like himself. For one who
could appreciate them, Valencia held pleasures more highly flavored,
other fascinations; and he was sorry that I was out of them without
tasting them. He did not say what they were, but from what I already
knew, it was readily to be supposed that they had some relation direct
or indirect with roulette.

"Have you seen the famous stone factory?" he asked me in serious tones,
although his eyes gleamed with a malicious smile.

"Yes, I have seen it."

"A fine business! And also the celebrated beer distillery?"

"Also."

"Better business yet! isn't it?"

Then sounded in the depths of his throat a chuckle that could not be
uttered because at that moment he was earnestly sucking his pipe. I was
confused, as if he had said something offensive about one of my family,
and I responded vaguely that certain enterprises turn out well, and
others ill, and that their fortunes depend upon fortuitous circumstances
more than upon the intelligence and industry of whosoever undertakes
them.

"Tell that of others, but not of my brother-in-law," he answered with
sarcastic gravity. "Emilio's enterprises are always brilliant, because
his is a practical genius, essentially practical."

"He seems to me a very clever man," I remarked with some embarrassment.

"Not at all; not at all; I will not admit a bit of it. His is a
practical, and his friend Castell's a theoretical genius."

"We have already talked a little about that," I replied smiling, to
turn his scalpel away from the unpleasant subject.

"They are both geniuses, each one in his own fashion, the only geniuses
that we have in Valencia."

I did not know what to say. That sarcastic tone annoyed me extremely.
Sabas must have observed this, because exchanging it at last for another
more serious, he set himself to make, as usual, a careful and reasonable
analysis of his brother-in-law's conduct. It was something to see and to
admire, the gravity, the aplomb, the air of immense superiority with
which that man talked over others, the penetration with which he
uncovered the hidden motives of all their acts, the incontrovertible
force of his arguments, the sorrowful divination with which he
formulated them. It was such that I could not do less than acknowledge
to myself that every one of his observations hit the mark; but although
I knew this, I was both astounded and indignant while I listened. I
tried to hold the opposite side, but I could see that this only served
to make clearer the perspicacity and conclusiveness of his judgments,
and when I had taken my coffee and smoked a cigar, I got away from him.

"For all that," I said, shaking his hand, "I have no room for doubt that
Emilio is a very good fellow, and full of talent."

"Agreed!" he responded, returning the hand-shaking, "but confess that a
little common sense would be useful to him!"

I left the café angry and miserable. I was very glad to get away from
the sight of the dolt who had spoiled my morning. I directed my steps
slowly towards the house of Martí, but on the way my thoughts took a
sadly audacious direction. I was filled with a moral suffering, that had
since morning afflicted me; this, mingling with my flattering hopes,
made me so that I had not strength to mount the steps, and in front of
the door I turned about, went to my hotel, and went to bed.

That was for me a memorable night! As soon as I had put out the light I
understood that it was going to be long indeed before I could woo sleep
to come to me. A whirl of wild thoughts filled my brain, disordering,
agonizing. The lovely vision of Cristina came in the centre of all, but
did not succeed in calming their ardor, nor controlling them. In vain
fancy called up the scene of the handkerchief and that adorable face,
softened and moved, the sight whereof had made me happy all day long. In
vain I invoked the celestial felicity that sooner or later must descend
upon me. Whether it was illusion or reality, I thought that the fruit
was ripening, and already responded with delicate tremors to the
continued shaking that my hand gave the bough. Perhaps it would be long
in falling into my lap. But I ought to confess that this alluring
future possibility did not leave me peaceful and joyous as I had hoped.
I tried to become so by closing my eyes, but this did not do it. My eyes
were only the more widely open. My forehead burned my hand when I passed
it across it. I experienced a strange restlessness that obliged me to
change my position constantly. The curious suffering whose first slight
stings I had felt during the day, now pierced me fiercely and
intolerably.

This suffering was nothing else but remorse. To be really happy it is a
necessity that a man should be contented with himself, and I was not.
Another image, melancholy and grief-stricken, followed always after that
of Cristina in the interminable procession of my thoughts, disturbing
the happiness of which I had had a glimpse. It was that of Martí. Poor
Emilio! so good, so generous, so innocent! His mother-in-law wrung money
out of him and would have ruined him to support her son in his idleness;
his friend, whom he looked upon as a brother, deceived him; his
brother-in-law, upon whom he heaped kindnesses, ridiculed him publicly.
He had no heart near him that was loving and faithful except that of his
wife. And I, an outsider, to whom he had offered so much frank and
affectionate hospitality, I would snatch it away! The idea weighed down
my heart, made me feel myself disgraced. In vain I forced myself to
picture in lovely colors what it would be to be the lover of Cristina,
to taste of the intense pleasure of passion, and the joy of conquest. In
vain I tried to make my fault seem less by recalling to mind the
shortcomings of others. In my ears sounded ever a voice assuring me that
to go on would be to be unhappy. And my quivering nerves kept me tossing
between the sheets with my eyes ever more and more wide open.

The hours went by, sounding slowly, sonorously, and sadly from the
cathedral clock. I tried earnestly to shut my eyes and go to sleep, but
fiery, invisible fingers pressed open my eyelids. At last I bounced out
of bed, struck a light, dressed myself, and began walking the floor. And
when I had paced back and forth for a while, searching the most secret
corners of my heart, I understood what must of necessity be done. I had
recourse to chloral, more chloral than I had ever taken in nights like
this of sleeplessness and struggle. I renounced my desires once for all,
my hopes, the enjoyments of love and the flatteries of self-love. I
entered into my spirit with a lash and drove from it the perfidy of will
which, for the few pleasures that it gives us, causes us so many burning
wounds. This cost me labor, for it hid itself away in all sorts of
corners, obliging me to pursue it closely, leaving it no point to stop
upon. But at last I succeeded in driving it out in sober earnest, and I
stopped in the middle of the room, tired out, perspiring like one who
has performed some heavy task, but at peace. I undressed again, lay down
on the bed, and the winged god, son of sleep and night, bore me away in
his arms to the mysterious palace of his father.

When I awoke, the sun, already high in the heavens, was shedding its
golden rays upon the city. As soon as I had dressed myself I went
directly to the house of Emilio. The husband and wife were together in
the sewing-room, and with them were Doña Amparo, Isabelita, Doña Clara,
a dressmaker, and a domestic. The first question that was asked me was
where I had been the night before. I excused myself with a headache.
Cristina, who was embroidering near the balcony, did not lift her eyes,
but I noted on her face the same expression of gentle compassion that
she had worn during the episode of the handkerchief. And, too, while I
was talking with the others I saw that she stole a swift and timid
glance at me.

I improved a moment when all were occupied, and approached her. Drawing
the handkerchief from my pocket, and in a voice so low that the company
could not hear me, yet not low enough to make any secrets suspected, I
said:

"I have carelessly kept a handkerchief of yours, thinking that it was my
own. Until I got home I did not perceive my mistake. Here 'tis; take
it."

She lifted her head and gave me a look of intense surprise; her face
flushed a vivid carmine; she took with a trembling hand the handkerchief
that I held out to her, and again bent her brow over her embroidery
frame.

After that, tell me frankly if I have not the right to laugh at Cæsar,
Alexander, Epaminondas, and at all the heroes of pagan antiquity in
general! At least I live in the intimate conviction (and this thought
makes me vastly greater in my own eyes) that if Epaminondas had found
himself in my shoes he would not have returned the handkerchief.

I turned anew to the group and joined the chat with animation, although,
perhaps, it was an excessive animation. My soul was profoundly moved and
it should be declared among these frank confessions that, although I
felt no pride in my heroism, neither did I experience that sweet content
that the moralists say always accompanies good actions.

I lunched with them and we went afterwards to Cabañal, where the
afternoon passed as merrily as ever. But my gayety was only feigned;
although I wore myself out pretending it, and to divert myself, I am
sure I cut a sorry figure.

Cristina did not care to hide her preoccupation. All the afternoon she
was thoughtful and serious, even to the point of making herself
remarked.

When night came, praise God! I would have opportunity to turn the key
that locked up my thoughts and weighed down my soul, and ease my pain a
little.

It chanced that Martí had brought from his library the works of Larra,
and he read to us, to pass the time, one of his most delicious pieces,
entitled "El Castellano Viejo." We all laughed and applauded the gifts
and ingenuity of the great satirical writer. From this we went on to
talk of his life and his tragic end in the flower of his youth, for he
was not yet twenty-eight years of age when he voluntarily quitted this
world.

"And why did he kill himself?" asked Matilde.

"For that which men usually kill themselves, for--a woman!" answered
Martí, laughing.

"I believe you! When they don't kill themselves on account of money,"
exclaimed the young wife, showing herself a trifle annoyed.

"That kind have not wholly lost their senses, but there are many more of
the first sort," he returned, laughing.

"Thanks, very much. And was she married or single--this one who
interested him?"

"Married. It is said that he maintained relations with her during the
absence of her husband, that his return was announced, and that then
she, repentant or timid, made known to him her resolution to break off
with him. The grief of Larra was so severe that he was not able to bear
it, so he shot himself."

"But she did right, and he was very stupid to leave life when he was so
young and when there are so many women to choose from and marry."

"He was already married," said Martí.

"He was married!" exclaimed the women indignantly and all together.

"And had several children."

"Then he should be quartered! He ought to be hung! The scoundrel should
be cast out with the other refuse! It would serve him right!"

The wrath of the ladies made us laugh. Someone observed that she also
was married, and that this fact had not seemed to irritate them so much.

"Because women are weak creatures. Because women do not run after men.
Because they are deceived by honeyed words. Because men rouse their
compassion, pretending to be mad and desperate!"

"You are right," I said, to calm them. "The one who resists ought not to
have the same responsibility, if failing at last, as the one who makes
the attack. But coming to the concrete example of which we were talking,
my opinion is that Larra gave more proofs of suicidal egotism than of
high and delicate love. If he had really loved this woman, he would have
respected her penitence, would have considered her all the more worthy
of adoration, and would have found in his own heart and in the nobleness
of the adored being resources to make life worth living. But to leave
life, to deprive his children of a father and his country of a true
Spaniard, makes me, at least, think that he did not love his beloved for
the lovable qualities heaven had bestowed upon her, but for his own
sake."

The ladies joyfully agreed with me. This roused Castell's pride of
wisdom; or perhaps he only gave way to his ever-present desire to
instruct his fellows, believing himself infallible. He leaned back in
his chair, and holding my attention by his little finger glittering with
rings, delivered a complete course in philosophy. His was a well-linked
chain of reasoning, elegant sentences, a great abundance of
psychological, biological, and sociological facts--all to show that "man
is irrevocably fettered to his own sensations;" that "no other sincere
motive exists except that of pleasing them;" "the world is a battle
without a truce;" "struggle is the inevitable condition for the
preservation and upholding of the great machine of the universe," and so
on.

"Without struggle, friend Ribot," he concluded, "we should return to the
condition of inert matter. Combat trains us and strengthens us; it is
the sole guarantee of progress. He who, led away by a mad notion,
strives to suppress antagonism towards other creatures attacks the very
root of existence and attempts to violate the most sacred of its laws."

"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed with emotion. "He would be mad, but I affirm that
he would experience immense pleasure in attacking this sacred law. I
should like nothing better than to get up some morning and smash it into
bits. I have passed the greater part of my life upon an element where
this sacred law demands a fervent worship. In the depths of the sea the
creatures devour one another with indefatigable devotion; the greater
religiously swallow up the less. You may rest assured, Señor Castell,
that the great machine of the universe will not suffer any damage from
their sins. But I confess frankly that I have never become accustomed to
these proceedings, wherein marine animals have the advantage over
terrestrial ones. Some nights in summer, on the bridge of my boat, I
have asked myself: 'Is it possible that man is obliged to imitate this
ferocious struggle everlastingly, and be forever implacable to all who
are below him? Will there not come a day when we will gladly renounce
it, when compassion will rise above interest, and the pain that we cause
not only to our fellow-beings, but to any living creature, become
unendurable to us?'"

"Dreams, nothing more! Nor are you the first who has followed this
chimera."

"Well, then, let us dream!" I cried, with more passion than I suspected
myself capable of, "let us dream that this sad reality is no more than
an appearance, a horrible nightmare from which perhaps the human spirit
will one day awaken. And meanwhile so much!--let every man manufacture
his magic world and travel through it, companioned by love and
friendship and virtue, by all those beautiful visions that make life
joyful. For life, Señor Castell, however balanced and physiological it
may be, is a sad and insipid thing when the imagination is not moved to
adorn it. If capricious fortune should ever drag me, like Larra, into
being enamored of a woman who belonged to another" (here my voice did
not change in the least), "I should not perfidiously attempt to gain her
affection away from her husband, to win pleasure or joy. At least, I
should not hesitate to strike down my own joy pitilessly. I should
rather try to make use of my poor imagination, as great Petrarch made
use of his divine one, to love her, to keep her image sacred in the
depths of my heart, to give her unselfish adoration; and my life, by
contact with this pure love, would gain elevation and nobility."

From the beginning of our talk I had felt the eyes of Cristina resting
upon me. Now I saw her rise hastily and go to the piano to conceal her
emotion. Doña Clara, Matilde, and Isabelita applauded. Emilio, laughing,
threw his arms about my neck.

"What warmth, what enthusiasm, Captain! I am a man essentially
practical, and not in the least able to argue with Enrique; but you
have answered him, and said things very agreeable, and very fine, and,
what is rarer, you know how to say them very well."

This was the truth, in spite of my modesty. It was the first and only
time in my life that I felt myself an orator. And if in that moment the
directors of the Athenæum at Madrid had invited me there, I think I
should not have minded giving in the capital a lecture on "The Future of
the Latin Races," or any other topic however grand!




CHAPTER IX.


From that day her attitude towards me changed materially. She showed
herself less diffident and distrustful; she did not seek so carefully to
avoid looking me in the face. When I entered she did not suddenly turn
serious as she used. Little by little her freedom of manner increased,
making her cordial, and affectionate too, within the bounds of her
reserved temperament. Her delicacy hindered her from recompensing me in
words for what I had uttered in her presence; but she used her ingenuity
to find a way to make me understand that she approved of me.

One afternoon there was talk of certain things that had been bought and
left forgotten in a shop. Martí wished to send a servant for them. She
said with apparent indifference:

"Captain Ribot, do you not go through the Calle de San Vicento? Then do
me the favor to get this parcel and bring it to me to-night."

I was overwhelmed with delight. At night when I delivered it to her she
received it with more indifference than ever.

"Thanks!" she said dryly, without looking at me.

It did not matter. I was sure she had given me a reward. I felt happy
and peaceful.

But next day, after this small bounty and grateful success, adverse fate
had prepared for me a graver alarm than I had ever experienced in my
life of peril and hazard. Neither when I ran aground in the Rio de la
Plata, nor when the sea knocked away the bridge and half our masts in
the English Channel, did I feel my heart so constricted by any sudden
encounter. The agent to furnish me with this most cruel trial was Doña
Amparo. We had been chatting in this lady's sewing-room, Cristina and I.
While they worked I had been turning over an album of portraits of all
of the family and many of their friends. I inquired, and Doña Amparo
told me, who the originals were. Cristina remained silent.

"Who is this charming child?" I asked, gazing at the likeness of a
little girl of ten or twelve years. "What beautiful eyes!"

"Don't you recognize her? It is Cristina."

"Ah!" I exclaimed, surprised. And, looking at her, I observed that she
was crimson.

"She was then in school. Wasn't she very lovely?"

"Yes, I think so," I stammered.

"Mamma, don't say such absurd things. She looks like a picked chicken!"
exclaimed the one under discussion, laughing.

"Like a picked chicken!" cried the mother indignantly; "you were plump
as possible. From that time you have done nothing but lose ground. I
would give something to see you now as you were then. And Ribot will say
the same."

"Señora," I murmured, although in confusion, "no doubt she was very
beautiful at that time, but I think that the present is better worth
while."

Cristina blushed more yet, and bent over her work serious and silent.
Her mother did not choose to drop the subject. I did not venture to
contradict her openly; I only uttered monosyllables or phrases of
doubtful interpretation. At last we gave up this conversation, so
dangerous to me. We were told that the hairdresser had come, and
Cristina went to her room.

I continued turning over the album, and Doña Amparo went on moving back
and forth the ivory needle of her lace-work. We preserved silence; but
three or four times, on lifting my eyes, I observed that she was looking
at me with irritating persistence. Finally I could see that she laid
down her work, doubtless to look at me more to her liking.

"Ribot," she uttered in a low voice.

I thought it well to seem deaf.

"Tss! Ribot."

"What did you say, señora?" I asked, pretending to come out of my great
abstraction.

"Look me in the face."

"How? I do not understand."

"Will you look me in the face?"

As I had not been doing anything else, this petition would have been
tremendously absurd if it had not been even more disquieting.

"Now, move your chair a little nearer."

This new demand appeared to me much more disquieting. I drew up, none
the less, according to orders, dragging the chair with an ill-omened
squeak. Adopting a tranquil and unembarrassed air, distinctly contrary
to what would have suited me at that instant, I waited for what it was
she had to say to me. Doña Amparo gazed at me smiling, and then, with a
deep look, she said:

"Ribot, you are in love with my daughter Cristina!"

I grew pale, then crimson; afterwards other shades of yellow, green, and
blue. Indeed, I think my face was a rainbow for the space of several
seconds.

"Señora! I! How can you suppose it? On my life, what a notion! What an
idea!"

Doña Amparo, on seeing me in such a terrible state of agitation, became
frightened, and turned pale also. She reached out immediately for her
smelling-bottle; with one hand she held up my head, and with the other
put it under my nostrils. I was given salts to smell in such a moment as
that!

I took my bitter cup as best I could, thanked her, and, with smothered
words and faltering tongue, ascribed my emotion to my natural surprise.
The accusation was so grave that really----

Doña Amparo smiled benevolently, doubtless to calm me, and would not
consent that we should say another word before I took a drop of ether to
fortify me. I swallowed it not without difficulty, for my throat was
constricted so that I was scarcely able to breathe. Then, to mollify the
just indignation of this lady, I returned to my discomfited and
incoherent protestations against such a monstrous supposition.

I in love! How could it be possible that I should have the hardihood,
the audacity? Her daughter was a model of all the virtues. Nobody would
have the rashness to offend her with other sentiments than those of
respect and admiration--I least of all, a friend of Martí, who was such
a gentleman, so loyal, who had given me so many proofs of unmerited
esteem, etc., etc.

"All this is very well, Ribot," declared Doña Amparo, emotionally
sniffing her smelling-salts, "but this does not hinder you from being on
fire, mad, lost, for my daughter."

"You deceive yourself, señora. I assure you that you----"

"Come, confess yourself," she said, putting one hand on my shoulder, and
looking at me with a smilingly mischievous face: "nobody can hear."

"Señora, for God's sake!"

"Confess, sinner! Confess yourself!" and she gave a gentle and
affectionate little pull at my beard.

I was terrified, dreading something decidedly unpleasant.

"Let us keep the secret between us two. You are in love with Cristina,
as Castell has been for some time."

"Enough of this!" I said, trying to find a way to escape.

"He is a much worse rake, and, between the two, frankly I prefer you."

I was stupefied. What was it that this señora preferred? Why was she
talking to me in this manner? Where was she going to stop?

"Isn't it true that Cristina is very lovely?" she went on with the same
flippancy. "She is such an interesting type, of such delicacy! It is not
strange that you should become enamored of her. Of course, I will not
have her talked about."

"Señora!"

"No! I know what you would say! She is the best of creatures, virtuous,
incapable of failing her husband. Further, Emilio has no equal, so much
affection, so much loyalty, so splendid! He adores his wife. I am as
proud of him as if he were my own son. I would not consent, for
anything in the world, that he should have the least trouble."

"He will not have any on my account, make yourself easy," I ventured to
say.

"That is honorable in you, Ribot," she replied, pressing my hand. "You
are very good, enough better than that rascal of a Castell," she added,
smiling sweetly. "And, truly, you could not do less than be fond of
Emilio. He is so good. I always find him so affectionate towards me. But
who can blame any poor fellow for falling in love! The wrong is in
murmuring soft nothings in the ear of Cristina when Emilio is not
looking. We will suppose that they are foolish things, that she has eyes
like this and a skin like that. But that is not right. Emilio is his
best friend, and if he suspected, he would be disturbed. You, Ribot, are
much more respectful. You would not let yourself gaze, except by
stealth. But what eyes he makes at her! Come, now, let us see, sinner,
did you fall in love at Gijon or here?"

"I beg of you, señora--I--I feel so much upset, I must ask you to allow
me to retire."

"How reserved you are, Ribot! Well, this pleases me. Men of few words
are those who best know how to care. But with me you ought not to be so
timid. I know the affection you have vowed her. Open your heart to me,
so that I can do everything possible to console it. To whom better than
me can you unbosom yourself?"

"A thousand thanks, señora. Permit me to go. At present I feel that I
should not be able to say anything in reason."

"I understand you! I understand you, dear Ribot!" declared Doña Amparo,
pressing one of my hands with emotion between both her own. "You are
like me, exceedingly sensitive, exceedingly emotional. Don't you want
another drop of ether? Neither you nor I is fit for this world. I cannot
bear to see anyone suffer. Now here you see me, me who, in spite of my
adoration for my son-in-law, for whom I would willingly give my life, am
dissolved in tears at seeing you suffering on account of my daughter. I
am weeping like mad."

And truly Doña Amparo did not in this moment malign herself.

"Frankly, Ribot," she went on rackingly, "if it were possible for
Cristina to care for you without troubling Emilio, I would myself go and
intercede for you."

"Thank you, thank you," I murmured, pressing her hand before I got mine
away.

"Believe me, you are as dear to me as a son, and I would give something
if----"

Here her voice strangled in her throat, and I improved the precious
opportunity to stride with tragic footstep from my scene of trial.

I went out in indescribable confusion. I felt angry, wrathful at such a
woman, who with so much frivolity and folly lifted the veil of the most
delicate secrets, the deepest intimacies of her family life. Between my
teeth I called her coarse, imbecile, a bad mother. My anger carried me
so far as to accuse her of an inclination to trade upon her child's
attractions, of having been born for the part of a _Celestina_. Yet
little by little I calmed myself, and with calmness arrived at last at
justice. Doña Amparo was absolutely idiotic, of this there was no doubt;
but she was not a bad woman. Hers was a heart that spread itself like
butter over the first comer. It was necessary to her to be looked after
and petted like a child or a dog, and like them she knew no difference
between the hands that bestowed caresses. Reflecting thus, my spirit was
little by little inspired with less wrathful sentiments; but I could not
help thinking, all the same, that if the foregoing conversation should
become known to Cristina, she would fall dead of shame.

I encountered her in the office with her husband and Castell. Emilio,
who was beginning to organize and get under way his famous project for
putting canals through the province of Almeria, was in an excellent
humor. I suspected that Castell had finally facilitated the matter with
the needful. Emilio was babbling away, chaffing his friend
affectionately about his scepticism and theories, and his apathy towards
business. If he had Castell's means at his disposal, he would undertake
to become the richest man in Spain, at the same time giving bread away
to many families and furthering the progress of the nation. When I
entered, the torrent of his chaffing was diverted to me, and he
threatened to marry me off within a period of not more than two months.
Then he began talking to me about his project. As soon as the great
family event we were all hoping for had come off, he would go to Almeria
to hasten the preparation for the canal. He drew from the desk a lot of
portfolios and showed me the plans, explaining details, and trying to
stir up in me the same enthusiasm that animated him. I gave him a
religious attention, but only in appearance. I really lost not one
movement of Castell's while I looked over the papers, for I suspected
him. I saw him manage skilfully to get near Cristina, who with one foot
on the balcony sill was turning over a book. When he got near her, under
pretext of examining the book she held, I observed that he brought his
cheek near hers until it almost touched; and although his back was
towards me and I, of course, could not see his lips move, I knew that he
was whispering something to her. The lady moved her head abruptly away
and tried to withdraw; but--oh, what a surprise!--Castell detained her,
taking hold of her wrist. At the same time with his other hand he tried
to put a letter between her fingers. Cristina refused to take it. There
was a struggle in silence. My heart beat in my breast. I was afraid that
Martí would turn his head and see what was going on. Not for sake of the
villain Castell, it may be readily understood, but to save my friends
from the scandal and from cruel trouble, I did everything possible to
keep him occupied. Cristina's frightened eyes were several times turned
towards us; then not getting free otherwise, and fearing that which was
surely going to happen, if this struggle were prolonged a few seconds
more, she decided to take the letter, which she crumpled and hid in her
hand. Then, pale, yet smiling, she came over to us and busied herself
also in looking over the plans, forcing herself to seem at ease. But her
face did not lose its intense pallor and her whole body was trembling.

As for Castell, I never saw anybody cooler, serener, or showing less
emotion of any sort. He remained a little while quiet, his hands in his
pockets, looking out over the balcony into the street. Then he walked
about the room. Now and then he would give Cristina a quick,
scrutinizing glance. In spite of the profound aversion with which he
inspired me, I could not help admiring the man's incredible audacity and
at the same time his perfect self-control and unquenchable confidence
in himself. I have never known anyone to whom other created beings
represented less.

I did not lose sight of the hand in which Cristina had crumpled the
letter. Emilio went on through the portfolios without ceasing his long
prolix explanations. Then rising from his chair and taking Castell's
arm, he halted him in his walk.

"Do you--don't you want to go into such a business?" he said in the
chaffing tone.

"You know already, Emilio, that I can't serve you," replied the other,
with his placid and patronizing smile.

"In work, no--I know that. But as a figure-head you can do me a great
service. As you are rich and are known as a scientific man (you know
that, although you don't care much about it), it is necessary that you
should take the most important position, and be president of the council
of administration. No work will be demanded of you. You shall be given a
comfortable arm-chair, and you can, from time to time, drop off to
sleep, scattering benedictions."

Cristina had remained near the table. Standing up, she, with a lofty
expression, cast one full glance at Castell. Then unfolding that which
she held, she tranquilly tore it up and flung the tiny bits into the
waste-paper basket.




CHAPTER X.


Our way that afternoon lay towards the cottage of Tonet, where some
refreshment was prepared for us. This Tonet, a regular Moor according to
his eyes, his complexion, and his teeth, was a wonder at preparing
_paellas_ and playing on the flute. Whenever it occurred to us to go and
visit him, he received us with the gravity and courtesy of a feudal
señor. Scarcely opening his lips, he made himself understood to his wife
and children by signs, had chairs brought for us under the arbor, and
soon afterwards he used to serve us figs, dates, chufas, and fresh
cinnamon cakes, with which his pantry was always provided. When we had
let him know we were coming, as on the present occasion, he offered us
ice cream, rich with vanilla and filberts. He was a meek, sad man,
seeming careless of all things. He was never joyful, but liked to see
joyousness in others. On Sundays and on many afternoons when his work
was done early, he would come out and sit down alone in front of the
cottage and play softly for a while on his flute. He did not do it for
his own pleasure; it was a lure, nothing more. Little by little he drew
to his own cottage the young people from all the cottages round about,
and a dance was improvised. His eldest son, a boy of fourteen years,
played on the taboret and was almost as grave and silent as he. Both
passed hours, one blowing and the other beating his instrument, serious,
melancholy, with eyes fixed on space, and heeding neither much nor
little the noisy dance that their music evoked.

Sabas, who was of the party this afternoon, marched abreast with me as
we were making our way across the fields of high Indian corn, already
bursting into ears. The first subject that he proposed for my
consideration, sucking his pipe and spitting at regular intervals, was
of a nature essentially critical. Why did his brother-in-law persist in
keeping up this estate with so little of it under cultivation, and at so
much expense, when by so little effort it could be made productive?
Every one of the constituent elements of this proposition was separately
examined by a rigidly mathematical method. To do so he formulated in the
first place certain definitions, clear, distinct, and luminous. What is
an estate for recreation? What is a productive estate? What is an estate
of combined pleasure and utility? After this he laid down certain axioms
as profound as they were indisputable. All that is productive ought to
produce. To attain an end one ought to employ means. Man is not alone in
the world, and ought to consider his family. Vanity should not
influence human actions. One-sided propositions immediately followed
with their premises and corollaries; then he would go on to the end
gently, but with invincible logic to prove the proposition on which hung
the following corollary: Emilio is an active and enterprising man, but
at the same time a careless fellow.

Satisfied, with good reason, by the method and intuition and the logic
wherewith the Supreme Being had so highly favored him, Sabas continued
sucking and spitting with dizzying rapidity. The second subject which
this lucid soul attacked this afternoon directly concerned me.

"Come, tell us, Ribot, have you never thought of getting married?" he
asked me after a long pause, taking out his pipe and fixing a
scrutinizing gaze upon me.

I confess I felt disturbed. I understood that the depths of my soul were
next to be sounded, and trembled, perceiving that this transcendent
critic was disposed to exercise his scalpel on me.

"Tss! Sailors think little of that. Our life is incompatible with family
pleasures."

"Sailors, when they arrive at a certain comfortable condition and have
reached an independent position like you, have the right to retire
peacefully and enjoy a comfortable life," he replied with the gravity
and firmness which marked every utterance that came out of his mouth.

How did he know that I had reached an independent position? Solely by
his marvellous intuition, for I had given nobody an account of the state
of my affairs. I admired such tremendous penetration from the bottom of
my heart, and was humbly disposed to find out how much more he knew
about me.

Sabas meditated several minutes. And while he meditated, sucking his
pipe, his cheeks sunk in a supernatural manner. The energy that he
expended upon that tobacco smoke was such that I was persuaded he must
be swallowing it.

At the same time the intensity of his reflections influenced in like
manner the secretion of his salivary glands.

"Why should you not marry my cousin Isabelita?" he said to me suddenly,
with that brusque and peremptory accent which characterizes men who rule
their kind by their power of thought.

Isabelita was walking on with Matilde in front of us. I grew pale,
fearing she might have heard these serious words, and frightened and
confused, murmured some incoherent words.

"Yes," proceeded the critic, "my cousin is a very nice girl, very
modest, and more, she admires you extremely."

"Admires me!" I exclaimed, amazed. "And for what does she admire me?" I
asked candidly.

Sabas laughed noisily, coughed, and got rid of his nicotine.

"She will tell you that when you are alone with her, hand in hand."

"You do not understand me," I returned, nettled. "What I wish to say is
that I do not see anything in myself to be admired by anybody. And as
for Isabelita, I have always believed that she had dedicated all of her
admiration to Castell."

"That is nothing special. A man with eight million pesetas is an
admirable being. But the admiration, in this case, will not bring any
practical result. All the world knows that Castell keeps the mother of
his children, and no young lady of good family thinks of him. With you
the case is different; it would be possible for it to be quickly carried
to a satisfactory solution; and my opinion is that you ought to leave
your steamboat and try at once for this elegant craft. Isabelita is
sensible, modest, well-educated, diligent; she is accustomed to the
strict economy of a house where they turn a dollar over a hundred times
before parting with it; an only child, and heiress of all her father's
money. And my Uncle Retamoso owns more than people imagine. Who ever can
tell exactly how much money a Galician has? Probably while he lives you
would not have a right of five centimes; but what does that matter to
you? In the first years of marriage you can keep yourself well enough on
your capital, and when necessities grow greater, and certain additional
things become necessary, you can make a raise on your prospects as his
son-in-law, enough to carry you over until a certain joyful event----"

Other wise reflections poured like busy and knowing bees from the mouth
of that extraordinary man. In my life seemed gathered together all the
loose ends of existence, all its aims fulfilled, and the quintessence of
human relations extracted.

While my future was thus being discussed, although I found myself
embarrassed by the new perspective offered to my view, I had, none the
less, enough largeness of mind to admire the logic of his discourse, his
surprising wealth of figures, richness of diction, turns of expression,
subtle and logical distinctions, and the perfect links of his chain of
reasoning. The breathing world, I believe, held no secrets from this
man, and the mechanism of his reasoning worked with the exactness of a
chronometer.

When we reached the cottage and were seated to partake of the
refreshment that had been prepared for us, Emilio, who was near me,
asked me in an undertone:

"Then it is decided that you are going to leave us to-morrow?"

"There is no help for it. The boat is due any moment now."

"What a pity!" he exclaimed in a melancholy tone; and placing one hand
affectionately on my shoulder he added: "Do you know, you rascal, that
we are getting used to you!"

I was moved by his words, and more yet by the cloud of sadness that
darkened his cheerful, sympathetic face. I kept silence. He did the
same. Throwing himself back in his chair, he remained unlike himself,
thoughtful and melancholy. At last he turned to me and said, almost in
my ear:

"If you would take my advice you would give up your sea-faring life,
which, say what you will, is a little risky, and marry and settle down.
Why be always alone? Do you never think of old age, and how sad it would
be to pass the last years of your life in the power of self-seekers,
without children to make bright your home, without a wife who of herself
brings order and comfort?"

"But I am an old fellow already," I answered smiling, but sad in the
depths of my soul, "I am thirty-six years old."

"That is a good age for a man. And then, by your looks and strength and
suppleness, you are only a boy. I know," he added, casting a mischievous
glance towards the place where Isabelita was, "a girl of eighteen Aprils
who would marry you in preference to all the young bucks of the city."

"Bah! this girl would laugh if you should propose to her a man double
her age."

"Don't you believe it! Because you know it already, I will tell you in
confidence that Isabelita admires you."

"But, man----"

"No, no. I know particularly that she admires you."

The thing was serious. This unexpected admiration made me anxious and
timid. I could not see my face in a mirror, because there was none
there; but a glance at my shaggy, brown hands and at my feet, neither
small nor especially well-shod, made me unable to divine the nature or
extent of my charms.

Well, well, the least that a man can do when, with reason or without, he
finds himself admired by a girl, is to pass her the plate of olives and
ask her if she likes them. This is exactly what I did a little after I
had had it brought to my notice that I had fascinated Retamoso's
daughter. She pricked one with her fork, and at once her lovely face was
covered with blushes, as if she had pricked my heart. I was not sure,
but I figured that the next thing after this was to serve her a bit of
sausage. The same blushes dyed her brow for this hash as for the olives.
The consecutive repetition of this physiological phenomenon filled my
spirit with alarm. My gallant sentiments grew so animated that I did not
stop offering her entertainment at very short intervals for some time. I
think that if she had taken all I offered her that afternoon, medicine
would have been powerless to counteract the effects of my attention, and
that angelical being would have spread her wings for heaven, the victim
of an indigestion.

Once started on the downward path of soft nothings, I did not hesitate
to sit down beside her and let her know that she had wonderful eyes,
indescribable; cheeks that were smooth, rose-colored, indescribable;
hands little and shapely and charming and--also indescribable. The
knowledge of these facts caused her profound surprise, to judge by the
look of incredulity that appeared upon her countenance. She told me that
truly I knew very well how to go on, and that only a rascal of a sailor,
accustomed to flatter women all along the coast, could find such a
proceeding possible. Saying this, she grew redder than a cherry.

The conversation went on for some time in this sweet and pleasant
fashion, as if we were playing at fencing in a comedy, and while it
lasted the blood ebbed and flowed constantly in the face of Isabelita. I
outdid myself, as the critics say of bad actors in the journals; that
is, I was jolly, smart, full of chaff, and absolutely stupid. Our chat
attracted the attention of the rest, and I could see that they looked at
us with curiosity and glanced mischievously at one another.

I don't know now what fatuity made me do it, but I begged Tonet to play
on his flute, and I proposed that, when the company came, we should
dance together. She accepted readily, and laughed a good deal (was it at
me?) when we were thus matched. I invited Isabelita, that's sure, and I
began jumping about with her like a rattle-pated student, and I was not
long in discovering that in a little while everybody was watching us
attentively. My agitation was not calmed by this. However, I went on
hopping about at a great rate, while everybody applauded, crying
_vivas_, and looking at us with laughing eyes. Only the silent Tonet and
his immobile son fixed theirs upon us as grave and melancholy as if they
wished to remind us of the nothingness of all things human, and the
brevity of existence.

Cristina, who until then had been quiet, and on whose brow I could see
the lines marked by the scene of the morning, now began quickly to wake
up a bit. Her face was so lively that everybody admired it. They had not
seen her like that in years. Doña Amparo declared that since she was a
little girl, when her playfulness and tricks had caused her mother more
than one start, Cristina had not frolicked in such fashion. We
encouraged her, applauded her, threw her _chufas_ and almonds until she
began to show a wish to dance also. Emilio and her mother would not let
her, on account of her condition. But nonsense and witticisms kept on
issuing from her mouth, splitting everybody's sides with laughter. She
had a lively wit, and she got her words off with a brusque naturalness
that gave them a great effect. Some things that she said seemed to me a
little dashing, but I admired her so much that I did not mind them. When
anyone talks a great deal of nonsense, it is almost impossible to keep
within strictly prudent limits.

"This is all right," said Sabas in my ear, seating himself beside me.
"Now you have a chance to strike while the iron is hot. Get in with my
uncle. Talk to him about the subject that will butter your bread."

I laughed, but took no further notice. I went on paying court to
Isabelita with everybody's good will. I mistake--Doña Clara looked at us
now and then with eyes whose expression was a trifle more severe than
usual, and she sniffed her Roman nose when we chanced to take a little
luncheon of _chufas_. I do not know but I may be wrong, but two or three
times I had a notion that I heard her murmur the English word,
"Shocking!" This would have been nothing strange, for in difficult
places this illustrious matron preferred the Anglo-Saxon language to her
native idiom. That which I can fearlessly affirm, and nobody will
contradict, is that I saw her eat more than a kilo of chocolates, and
that this operation, however vulgar in itself, did not make her lose one
atom of her majesty.

The hour arrived for us to go back to the house for our carriages, to
return to the city. But at the moment of starting to walk, Cristina felt
very badly. I saw that she grew pale and put her hand several times to
her head and heart. The sal-volatile of Doña Amparo was of no avail;
neither was the orange-flower water nor the Melisa water, nor other
remedies that, like faithful friends, accompanied this nervous lady
everywhere. Cristina begged us to leave her alone a moment with Tonet's
wife, who would bring her a cup of _tila_. A quarter of an hour later
she came out of the cottage, serene, but with reddened eyes. The nervous
crisis had ended in tears.

The sun had already disappeared when we started on our walk through the
fields of Indian corn and the little fruit orchards. Calming my dashing
gallantry and stifling the gush of vanity that had burst forth in my
spirit at the supposed admiration of Isabelita, I remained silent and
sad. As I was walking apart in company with her and Matilde, I did my
utmost to hide it; but seeing that this was impossible, and fearing that
they would notice my mood, I made a feint for the purpose of falling
back to walk alone. I was displeased with myself. The gallantry of that
afternoon seemed to me a treason to my true sentiment, to the sweet and
delicate love that I guarded like a treasure in the depth of my heart. I
could not but think with disgust that I had descended to the most
trivial cheapness. I was afraid, with good reason, that Cristina, whose
regard and esteem for me had seemed increasing, would despise me from
that hour, and this thought hurt me deeply.

Since her indisposition she had not turned towards me or looked at me,
nor spoken a word to me. Luck made it so that she could not help
speaking. She had forgotten her watch and left it in the cottage and
wished to go back for it. I quickly anticipated her. When I returned
with it, she waited for me, a little apart from the others.

"Thank you," she said, with a hard, cold face, and tried to rejoin the
rest.

Whoever has experienced the pangs of love will believe me when I say
that that gloomy countenance gave me inexpressible joy.

"Listen to me a moment, Cristina; I have something to say." I spoke with
a voice not quite under control.

"You may say it," she replied, looking over my head at the horizon, and
in a glacial tone that, for a like reason, warmed instead of chilling
me.

"I wish to beg advice of you and I scarcely dare. Did you notice that
this afternoon I paid a little more attention to your Cousin Isabelita,
as if I were courting her?"

"No. I have noticed nothing," she answered, more sharply still.

"Because this is the truth--and I venture to say it, it is only because
of the great difference in age between us--I only did it because
Isabelita admires me."

She gazed at me stupefied, as if she suspected that I had gone mad.

"At least this is what I have been informed in turn by Sabas and
Emilio."

"What idiots!" she exclaimed, her lips smiling, understanding my
meaning. "They are capable of making sport of everything. Fortunately
you are a man of sense, and take no stock in such nonsense; and if not,
you would stop at my poor cousin."

"In this case, I have, after all, taken certain steps towards winning
her good will, and before going farther I wish to obtain your approval."

"My approval!" she exclaimed, agitated, and with a choking voice. "But
what need have you of my approval? I have no part in the matter. Beg it
of her parents."

"Before begging it of her parents I desire it from you. I know that you
have no direct interest in the matter, but it has to do with your
cousin, of whom you appear to think a good deal, who has distinguished
me with her esteem, however little merited. Nobody can give me true
counsel in this case better than you; so I beg it of you, in the name of
our good friendship, as a favor which I shall appreciate all the days of
my life."

She remained silent for some time.

We walked on together through the high-growing corn which made even
dimmer the fading twilight.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye, and it seemed to me that I
could detect slight, almost imperceptible, changes sweep over her face.
Soon her brow contracted and her lips moved several times before a sound
escaped them. At last she said in a trembling voice:

"It makes me very happy that you have made your choice at last. Men
ought not to live alone, and especially those who, like you, have an
affectionate, indulgent temperament, and know how to appreciate the
delicate heart of a woman. Isabelita is almost a child; I can tell you
little about her character. You will take it upon yourself to form her.
But I can assure you that she knows how to fulfil the duties of a
housewife. She is industrious, careful, economical; and under these
qualities are hid others that will show themselves. She is very pretty,
too."

"You have forgotten the one which makes her dearest and most attractive
to me."

"What?"

"That of being your cousin."

Her beautiful face darkened; she frowned and replied in a sharp tone:

"If you do not care for my cousin for herself, if you would take her as
a toy to distract you from other illusions, or, which would be worse, to
follow and nourish them in secret, you would commit a great sin; and I
should in such case advise you not to think of her, but to leave her in
peace."

Uttering these words, she hastened on and joined the others, leaving me
alone.

When we got into the carriages to return to the city, I was melancholy,
too wrapped up in serious meditations to go on playing the boy with
Isabelita. Under pretext of a headache I found a place alone at the
back, and to support my pretext I did not go up to Martí's house, but
retired to my hotel.

At eight o'clock in the morning I heard the cheerful voice of Emilio,
who came into my quarters like a hurricane, threw open the windows, and
sat down on my bed.

"You can't go to-morrow, Captain!" he cried, laughing, and pulling my
beard to finish waking me.

"Why?" I asked sleepily.

"Because to-morrow you are going to be god-father to a little girl more
beautiful than the morning star."

"What! Cristina----?"

"Yes; Cristina was taken ill after you left us. We thought that it was
to be like her afternoon indisposition; but she, who ought to know,
begged us to send for the woman she had engaged for the case. I was
afraid she might not succeed, and sent for the doctor; but Cristina
would not consent that he should come into her room. When the woman took
charge of her, the poor--Oh, what courage, what suffering, Captain! Not
a groan, not a moan. I walked about dead, torn to pieces, praying God
that she would scream. I don't understand suffering without a sound. I
am appalled by temperaments like Cristina's, that not one complaint
escapes in the worst of pains. At two o'clock in the morning my brave
little woman came through her trouble, making me father of the
prettiest, healthiest, cleverest little one the sun of Valencia ever
shone on. I'm sure of it, although I have not yet seen it."

He got up from the bed, took several turns in the room, came back and
sat down, got up again, and went through a series of evolutions that
showed the delightful agitation of his spirit. I felt deeply moved too,
and congratulated him with hearty words. When he stopped at last, I
asked him:

"So you do me the honor of being god-father?"

"It will give me great pleasure if you will accept. To tell the truth, I
thought first of Castell. You don't mind, do you? Enrique is more than a
friend and brother to me. It would be the natural thing. But I will tell
you privately, Cristina opposed it. Religious scruples, do you see?
Enrique professes such upsetting ideas and declares them with such
excessive frankness, the ladies cannot forgive him. It is all because he
is not a practical man. He might hold all the notions he liked if he
would keep them a little more to himself when he is among women. As for
me, I laugh at his materialistic ideas. Enrique a materialist, when
there is not a more generous man in the world! Because, in spite of his
great talents and his wonderful powers of illustration, do you know,
Enrique is a child, a heart of gold!"

As he uttered these words with an accent of conviction, he shook his
black, curly head in a way that made me want to laugh and to weep at the
same time.

"And what does Cristina say to the substitute?"

"When I proposed your name, she was delighted."

I was delighted too, hearing this. I dressed hastily and marched off to
make the acquaintance of the new star. The next day we went to church,
and I performed my duty with emotion, yes, bursting with pride. Later I
took the train for Barcelona, promising my friends to return soon to
visit them, and to make the visit permanent by settling my camp in
Valencia.




CHAPTER XI.


I thought this matter over, and my purpose became fixed during my
voyage. I found that, although not rich, I had enough to live
comfortably on; and when I returned to Barcelona I offered my
resignation to the shipping house.

I cannot clearly explain the sentiments whose tumult at that time filled
my soul. Confusion reigned therein. Intense love for Cristina, the
angelic beauty and innocence of Retamoso's girl, the desire for repose
and for a comfortable and tranquil life that all men feel on arriving at
a certain state, and the sharp prickings of conscience that questioned
my right to obtain it under such conditions, struggled together within
me. But there was one sentiment which, however silenced, was stronger
than the others--the ardent desire to be near Cristina, to live in her
intimate circle, and never to lose sight of her charming face. I held no
thoughts against the peace of her heart or the honor of her husband, but
only to be happy enjoying her presence all of my life.

In this mind, neither saint-like nor criminal, I took the train for
Valencia two months after I had left it. In a train that passed mine in
a station on the way, I caught a glimpse, through a window, of the
silhouette of Sabas, and near it the red head of a woman who was not
Matilde.

"Sabas, Sabas!" I called.

When he saw me, he saluted me affectionately with his hand. The lady who
was beside him also smiled cordially; I did not see why, for I did not
know her. I remained puzzled. I was doubtful if I had not been mistaken.
Was it really Matilde? I was not long in finding out.

I reached Valencia before dark. After leaving my things at the inn, I
hired a conveyance to take me out to Cabañal, where I knew that Martí
was now installed. I was anxious to consult with him about my plans. As
I drew near the country house I felt my heart beating violently. This
roused anew my sentiment of honor. "Are we like this?" I said to myself
scornfully. "While thinking of binding yourself by a sacred fetter, of
offering yourself to an innocent young girl, you cannot control your
impulses! You are going to press the hand of a friend, to make him your
confidant, your kinsman, while still your spirit is not cleansed of
traitorous thoughts!"

The family was assembled in the dining-room. I observed at once a
certain sadness and unusual gravity on their faces. They all wore long
faces, filled with a consternation that alarmed me excessively. Martí
embraced me, however, with his accustomed cordiality, showing sincere
delight at my arrival. I gave my hand to the others and, coming to
Matilde, I said to her, without stopping to think:

"So you are a widow? I saw your husband in a station. We had no chance
to speak, but we greeted each other."

I had not finished uttering these words before I was stupefied by her
beginning to weep bitterly. She pressed my hand convulsively and,
between the sobs that rent her breast, said:

"Thanks, Ribot! Many thanks! My husband was running away with the young
lady."

"I saw a red-headed lady beside him, but I did not think--" I stammered,
abashed.

"Yes, yes, the young lady," she sobbed.

"Forgive me, but what has been said can't be unsaid; but, yes, she
seemed young to me."

"She would like to seem young! She is more than thirty years old!" she
cried angrily; "more painted and bedizzened than a doll in a bazaar. You
should see her mornings on her balcony!"

Martí came to my aid, saying in low tones:

"She was the young lady in the company acting at the theatre."

"Ah!"

Everybody kept still and looked at the floor as one does when paying a
visit of condolence. Nothing could be heard in the room but the
increasingly poignant sobs of the outraged wife. The situation was
trying, agonizing in the highest degree. Fortunately Doña Amparo had the
happy inspiration to faint away, and this accident introduced an element
of variety into the scene which we immediately improved. We ran to her
aid. We opened flasks with shining stoppers. The dining-room was filled
with the penetrating fragrances of the apothecary's shop. Tears,
embraces, sighs, kisses. At last her equilibrium was restored, and she
came to herself.

I thought I would lose my head in the odor of ether; but before this
could happen Martí drew me from the room, and carried me off to his
office.

"Did you ever see such a wretched affair?" he cried, shaking his head in
immense annoyance.

"But what is it all?"

"Nothing; the other night he won three or four thousand pesetas at play,
and he has gone gayly off to spend them with an actress."

"What madness! But he will come back!"

"I believe you; he'll come back when he has run through with every
dollar, as he did the other time."

"The other time?"

"Yes; three or four years ago he eloped with a circus-rider. But then he
carried off more money than this time."

I had no wish to seek for more details, for I saw that Martí was going
to break down. There is nothing sadder than the sadness of a happy man.
To distract him, I turned the conversation, and talked of myself and the
projects I had under way. His face changed at once, and a cheerful smile
played about his mouth.

"Bravo, Captain! At last you are going to be our own," he cried, hugging
me until he choked me.

We talked the matter over carefully. At last we decided that,
considering my age and character, I must not conduct myself like a
youth, but with all due formality. After gaining the consent of
Isabelita, which Martí seemed to think already assured, I must, before
entering upon our relations, visit her people and talk seriously with
them. This plan captured his imagination and he drove along assuredly.
He cheered me, embraced me several times, calling me cousin, and
promising me to help me all that he could, and promised, too, that
Cristina would do the same.

We returned to the dining-room. Our cheerful countenances were in great
contrast to the solemn and dejected ones there. Doña Amparo's eyes still
showed the water-marks of their recent flood. Matilde--there is no
saying how she was. Isabelita, who was staying with her cousins,
received me with the same blushes, but without any great signs of
rejoicing, which I attributed to the trouble her family was in. Castell
was, as always, cold and disdainful. Cristina--I cannot express how I
found Cristina. Her eyes had a strange sadness, which impressed me
painfully. I at once imagined that she found herself bowed beneath the
burden of some great wrong, and that this could be nothing else but the
infamous gallantry of Castell. Perhaps he had narrowed the circle.
Perhaps--oh, what a thought!

All at once I saw her eyes brighten with delight at the entrance of the
nurse with my god-daughter in her arms. She was a beautiful rosebud,
fresh, sweet, delicate, and probably, as that is the rule, dowered with
marvellous intelligence. Martí would have testified to that with his
blood.

To carry conviction to our minds, he found no more adequate means than
to enter upon a series of mimic representations, certain of which had a
surprising success. First he intoned a hymn of the Church with the voice
of a precentor. The little girl at once began to put up her lips and
burst out crying. Then he sang some _sequidillas_, and the youngster at
once cheered up and began to bounce, trying to get down on the floor,
doubtless to run away on all fours. He barked, he mewed, he crowed like
a cock, and we understood at once that the little one had no lack of
zoölogical notions, but had an idea of the classifications introduced in
the animal kingdom.

Martí demonstrated the thesis in a way which left no room for doubt, and
proud of the impression on the assemblage that his notable experiments
succeeded in making, he considered it proper next to take the child from
her nurse's arms and toss her up and down in his own like a bottle of
ink. Maybe he imagined that by this method of concentration he would
invigorate still more her psychic faculties. But he did not go on with
this long enough to make her black. The little creature, not
familiarized with his novel method, objected to it with loud screams and
all the indignation of her soul. Cristina took her, did all that she
could to hush her, and gave her again to the nurse, who was the one who
really brought calm into her outraged heart.

Before we went in to supper, they obliged me to dismiss my cab. Castell
would take me back in his own. I tried to get out of this, because the
company of this gentleman grew constantly more distasteful to me; but it
was not possible. Emilio, with his characteristic impetuosity and slight
knowledge of men, gave the order to the coachman to depart.

They placed me beside Isabelita. Everybody would say that that was
perfectly natural, and that I ought to have been whispering to her all
the evening. Of this I have nothing to say. Perchance, if they had been
asked if I should touch her foot gently with my own and fondle her hand
underneath the table, some of them would have held a contrary opinion
and would have discussed it more or less at length. But I, deciding that
the majority would finally decide in favor of it, did not hesitate in
anticipating the decisions of such a tribunal.

At twenty minutes after ten I settled down in a corner of the
dining-room where Retamoso's girl was, and where I could chat freely
with her. I told her first that she was the only woman in the world who
could make me happy; second, that by my frank and sympathetic character,
and by my honorable intentions--and because of the voice I said it in--I
deserved what would make me happy. In accordance with these things I was
resolved that on the following day I would give an account of this
matter to Señor and Señora Retamoso. It was then twenty-five minutes
after ten.

Our deliberations continued a little longer. Castell was accustomed to
depart at eleven, and he asked me politely if I wished to do the same. I
agreed, as was proper, since the family would wish to retire, and we
betook ourselves to the city. During the ride I had occasion to think
once more that it was an error of nature that I had hair on my face, and
that instead of a hat I should have covered my childish thoughts with a
thick hood. That gentleman, penetrating into the secret laboratory of
life, arranged the facts of being in his mind, taking pains to pit his
ideas against my inexperienced reasonings; sometimes yawning, again
smilingly pardoning my puerilities. Take it all together, he handled me
so well that, in consequence, I could feel a real hood on my head. But
that which stirred me up most was his gracious manner of considering me
a man; and the recognition of this attitude towards me irritated me more
than ever, and I swore between my teeth that I would never ride again in
his cab, but would, instead, go on my own feet.

Next day, solemnly attired in a coat which had made the voyage to
America eleven times and to Hamburg thirty-seven, I presented myself at
the Retamoso house. It was situated on the Plaza del Mercado, not far
from the Lorija, and was more substantial than beautiful, of modern
construction, only one floor above the business rooms, with a plain
front destitute of ornamental carvings, with three large doors and three
little stone balconies. But it was much more spacious than its exterior
promised. Its warerooms, occupying the corner part, were large and high
as the salons of a palace. Great piles of codfish, barrels of flour and
of alcohol, cases of sugar and cocoa filled it, forming narrow and
intricate passages. Through these I went, half-suffocated by the
distasteful odors of these products of overseas, and preceded by a
clerk with a pen behind his ear, until I reached the back of the room,
where there were three glass doors, giving upon a _patio_. Near one of
these was a low railing of pine, painted green; in the middle, a single
table and a big desk; and behind the table and the desk, a little man
with an embroidered velvet skull-cap. It was himself, Señor Retamoso.

"Señor de Ribot! What good fortune is this?" he exclaimed, rising to
come out of the enclosure, making numberless bows, and lifting his hand
as many times more to his skull-cap. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"I wish to speak a few words to you," I answered, casting a significant
glance at the clerk, who, understanding, disappeared in the zigzag
passages.

The face of Señor Retamoso underwent an enormous change. The delight
that had overspread it was swiftly succeeded by a deep sadness. It was
as if a cloud had intercepted in an unexpected fashion the rays of life
and warmth, withering and drying up that which a moment before had been
joyous welcome.

"Very well. I will be with you in a moment," he murmured, re-entering
the enclosure, carefully locking the safe and putting the key in his
trousers pocket.

This done, he came out and, facing me, said in a glacial way:

"I am at your service."

"This good man thinks I have come to beg money," I said to myself,
surprised at this change.

"The occasion of this visit," I said with hesitation, "is a little
delicate. It is possible that you know."

"I know nothing," he declared, resolutely cutting me short.

"I meant to say it is possible that you have suspected----"

"I have suspected nothing," he said in turn, more dryly still.

A little irritated by these interruptions, I said with spirit:

"It is all the same. You are going to know now. It has to do with a
certain sympathetic understanding established between your daughter
Isabelita and me. As this sympathy might in time be transformed into
affection, and be carried to the point of loving relations, I thought
that I ought to consult the will of her parents. My age forbids
flirtations or a clandestine courtship. Further, the friendship that
binds me to Martí, in whose house I had the honor of meeting your
daughter, and the kindness, however unmerited, with which your wife and
you have honored me, oblige me to conduct myself frankly and loyally."

The round face of Uncle Diego resumed its first expression. The cloud
that intercepted the rays of delight had been chased away.

"Oh, Señor de Ribot! What do I hear? I knew nothing. I had heard
nothing. I am a poor man. Why not go to my wife, who understands it much
better, and will know what I ought to answer?" he exclaimed smiling, all
honey, lifting his hand to his embroidered skull-cap, and throwing back
his leg so as to make a deeper bow.

"I thought of seeing both of you."

"Oh, Señor de Ribot! But why? Come, come with me. I will take you to the
place where you can adjust this account. I know nothing about these
experiences, but there is one in the house who knows more than Merlin.
Take care, Señor de Ribot, take good care. Keep your stirrups. Whoever
has to come to an understanding with my lady needs the use of his head."

Going on like this, he conducted me to a staircase, and by it we
ascended to the principal story. Once arrived, he squeezed my hand hard
between his own, and, in a falsetto voice, recommended me to look out
for myself when talking before his wife, and not be disconcerted in her
presence. He promised that he would help me all that he was able, but
that I must not expect much, as he also felt constraint before Doña
Clara.

"She is a deep woman, Señor de Ribot. When I say this, I say all."

Without freeing me, he led me to the door of a parlor, and gave two
knocks upon it with his knuckles; the voice of Doña Clara was heard,
saying:

"Enter."

Retamoso again squeezed my hand to encourage me, and we entered the
apartment.

Doña Clara was discovered dressed in black, as correct and elegant as
ever, seated in a leather chair, with a book in her hands. She took from
her aquiline nose her gold-bowed glasses and let them hang suspended
over her breast by their golden chain. She gave me her hand, at the same
time casting upon me a look so imposing that, in spite of the valor
wherewith her spouse had inspired me, I could do no less than tremble.
Then she took her tragic figure up out of her chair and went and sat
down in the middle of a sofa of green velvet, inviting us by a gesture
to place ourselves in the arm-chairs that were on either side. We obeyed
orders, and Retamoso, finding no more excellent resource as a
preparation for the session than to rub his knees with the palms of his
hands, looked at me meanwhile sadly and anxiously.

"Señor de Ribot," he said at last, "I beg you to tell my wife what you
have just had the kindness to tell me."

"It has to do, señora," I said in a trembling voice, "with a delicate
matter that I desire to submit to the approval of you both. So if I take
the liberty of speaking of it to you, it is solely that, no matter
what, it cannot be said that I lacked in showing the respect and esteem
with which you inspire me. Between Isabelita and me an especial
friendship, is beginning to take shape----"

"I know it," interrupted Doña Clara solemnly.

There followed a moment of suspense, then I went on:

"Isabelita, because of the gifts of character, innocence, and modesty
which adorn her, deserves not only affection, but hearty admiration. I
cannot, naturally, explain all the charm that she has for me since I
have felt myself attracted towards her. I found courage to give her to
understand this, and I flatter myself to think that she did not take it
ill. Until now no bond has existed between us, except a sensitive
attraction----"

"I know it," said Doña Clara once more, with the same solemnity.

I felt even more constrained. Retamoso gave me several encouraging
grins, and taking breath, I was able to go on:

"From then until now I can affirm that there has been nothing serious
between us. I could not do otherwise, as I would never think of aspiring
without the permission of her parents. But however this inclination may
seem unexpected, when I embarked for Hamburg two months ago, I carried
the thought with me, and the resolution to strengthen this dawning
friendship----"

"I know it," once more said Doña Clara with even more solemnity, if that
were possible.

I remained mute and confused, giving up my disclosures, which the
supernatural penetration of this lady left useless. But I could not help
admiring the singular contrast between these consorts--he knew nothing,
she knew everything.

Retamoso gave me several mischievous winks, making me understand that
this was to be expected and had nothing surprising in it. Doña Clara, at
the end of a short silence, held herself up still more erect, and
blowing her nose in a manner to inspire a monkey with awe, said:

"Before going farther, I beg you to let us continue the conversation in
English. The subject is so serious and delicate that it demands it."

I profess and have always professed a great admiration for the language
and literature of Great Britain. On the little book-shelf of my cabin
voyaged always the "Tom Jones" of Fielding, the "Don Juan" of Byron, and
certain books of Shakespeare. But, in spite of this admiration, I had
never supposed that it was the only idiom in which grave and delicate
subjects could be treated. I did not seek, however, to oppose this fine
philological stroke, nor to discuss the preference that the stern mamma
of Isabelita showed for one branch of the Indo-European languages over
its sister tongues, and hastened to yield to her request. With this the
surprise, delight, and grins of Retamoso reached a climax. He put his
finger to his forehead, arched his eyebrows, opened his eyes absurdly,
and several times when Doña Clara could not see, being turned towards
me, he lifted his hands to heaven, murmuring unheard:

"What a woman! What a woman!"

Doña Clara, without being at all set up by this idolatrous worship, let
me know in guttural and emphatic English that nothing of all I had said,
done, or thought had been hid from her, and that she knew also all that
had been said, done, or thought by her daughter Isabelita. This
declaration filled my mind with a feeling of littleness and limitation
that ended by humbling me. In the impossibility, then, of supplying any
facts she did not know, or of uttering one thought worthy of the
intellectual height of this lady, I took upon myself the role of calming
down, submitting my feeble reasons beforehand to her own.

After sniffing several times like a ship displaying its banner on
weighing anchor in a port, and after fixing upon her nose her gold-bowed
glasses to contemplate me for a while in silence, Doña Clara found it
well to give me some account of her intentions. Isabelita was a child, I
was a man. Laying down these two propositions, at first sight
undeniable. Doña Clara logically deduced from them that it was necessary
to be careful. A child does not generally know what she wants; a man is
in duty bound to know. Further, it was impossible to put aside what I
wished for.

"Señor de Ribot," Retamoso at this point interrupted, "will you be so
kind as to put what my wife says to you into Castilian for me?"

This was done, and when he found out what was meant, he expressed noisy
enthusiasm, exclaiming energetically:

"Just so! That's it! Exactly! That's it, that's it! Just so! That's it!"

Doña Clara did not pay the slightest attention to these words, and
keeping her nose pointed the same way, submitted me to a long and
careful examination. Although I was sufficiently upset, I answered her
questions clearly, and had the satisfaction of noting certain slight
signs of acquiescence that touched my pride. She examined my
pretensions, and (as a result of the conscientious investigation
concerning my conduct, which was carried to the extreme) Doña Clara
declared at last, turning her head slowly towards her husband like a
globe revolving on its axis, that I was "a decent person," a thing that
I had never doubted in my most extravagant moments.

Every phase of the investigation was successively and faithfully
interpreted by me into Castilian, so that Señor Retamoso could
understand. Everything won from him the same warm approval, and was
greeted with a salvo of "That's it's!" and "Just so's!"

Doña Clara terminated the interview by rising from the sofa, and with
the same firmness, the same impassive calm and sang-froid, let me know
that here would be my home, and that she would have much pleasure in
receiving me whenever I wished to come. Saying this, she let her glasses
drop by means of a clever and surprising jerk of her nose, and presented
me her hand. I took it with the greatest veneration.

"Permit me, Señor de Ribot! One moment, one moment, no more!" exclaimed
Retamoso, who, following our example, had also risen. "I have not the
knowledge that my wife has, nor do I understand foreign tongues. So I am
not sure that I understand all that you desire. It seemed to me that I
understood that there is something between you and Isabelita."

"Are we still there?" I said between my teeth, looking at him with
surprise and anxiety. As for Doña Clara, she cast a look upon him that
might have ground him to powder.

"Yes, señor," I replied shortly at last.

"Bear with me, Señor de Ribot. I am a little slow of understanding, and
especially in matters so fine as these. Yet I believe I understood
(pardon me if I mistake) that you desire our permission to pay court to
her. Pardon me, for heaven's sake, if I do not express myself like you
two."

"Yes, señor, I desire your authorization to confirm my relations with
Isabelita."

"Precisely! That's it! I see that I am not mistaken. Well, then, sir, I
am agreeable to all that Doña Clara has said, and if she had said more,
I should be still more agreeable. You already know my opinion of you,
Señor de Ribot. When there is a head in the house capable of giving
useful advice in all affairs, why bother one's head discussing them?
Only I desire that in this nothing is promised on our side. For the
present, nothing is settled. If later, Señor de Ribot, we are of the
same opinion, and all come to an understanding, we shall be able to talk
in another fashion. My wife has already talked in another fashion, and I
have not cut her short; but you understand me, señor?"

I understood perfectly that this crafty Galician, before giving his
word, wished to find out exactly how much I was worth. I let myself be
imposed upon by the ruse. I accepted what he proposed, saying that my
visit was not an official one, but merely a simple call of courtesy and
respect, and that I desired that they should retain their liberty, as I
retained my own.

"That's it! Just so! Nothing is settled."

Doña Clara had maintained her rigid and immovable position while we
were talking, gazing into space over our heads in an attitude solemn and
disdainful; nothing would give an idea how grandiose it was, except the
Minerva of Phidias on top of the Acropolis, if by chance this work of
the antique pagan master had been preserved intact until our time. She
remained thus until I, taking myself to the stairway, disappeared from
her horizon. Retamoso went down stairs with me, took me as far as the
door, pulled off his skull-cap, and uttering a thousand oh's and ah's,
pressed both my hands with inexplicable tenderness, and said in my ear,
as he dismissed me, "It is understood, Señor de Ribot, that nothing is
settled, isn't it? My opinion is that nothing should be settled."

My good Martí laughed not a little when I related to him the details of
this interview. He congratulated me warmly, and, carried away by his
fanciful optimism, he sketched out twenty plans, each more agreeable
than the last, for my future. I was to become very rich, and be
associated with him and Castell in a steamboat line whose direction
should be my charge. I should also have a part in the business of the
artesian wells when they began to strike water. In regard to the canals
from the river, he expressed sincere regret that it was impossible at
present to give me anything to do. I replied that that did not weigh on
me; I would try to live without it. My resignation moved him so much
that he finished by saying, running both hands through his tresses:

"I shall be very much annoyed if, after all, we don't find a way for you
to get a show in this business, for it is going to be the best thing
ever done in Spain before to-day."

When what had taken place was made known to Cristina, she showed herself
more affectionate and kind to me than usual. I observed, none the less,
on her face a melancholy expression that she tried in vain to conceal.
She made a visible effort to appear gay, but at the best she seemed a
bit absent, and her great black eyes were often fixed upon space,
revealing deep absorption.

I stayed to supper with them. We were at table, besides the married
couple and their mamma, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde, with all her
children, who entertained us very much. The deserted wife, whose eyes
were now always red, smiled sadly, seeing the tenderness and enthusiasm
with which these little creatures inspired me. There was not lacking
someone--I think it was Doña Amparo--to hint that I was going to be a
most affectionate father, which caused Isabelita a veritable suffocation
of blushes. This color came back several times during supper, because
Martí thought well to season it with more or less transparent allusions
to our future kinship. Above all, when he opened a bottle of champagne,
and, lifting the goblet, drank to the wish "that Captain Ribot would
cast anchor in Valencia for life," the cheeks of his cousin did not set
fire to the house, because, fortunately, there was no combustible
material stowed near them.

When we rose from table to take a turn in the garden, I offered my arm
to Cristina. I had a lively desire to talk with her, to sound her soul,
which seemed to me to be disturbed. Before seeking refuge in another
port, where the fate that was controlling me was drawing me, I ought to
know that it was the will of God; but never, never could I forget that
dream of love. This was the truth. Although I had made heroic efforts to
drive it away, thinking of other scenes, other joys, other duties, it
returned persistently to charm my nights and to disturb my conscience.

I had already taken her hand upon my arm when Castell, coming up to us
and making a little bow, said:

"Have we not arranged that this evening I was to be your escort?" At the
same time he cast upon her a particular look; it was threatening, and
did not soften the cold smile that played about his lips.

Cristina responded with a timid glance and hastened to release my arm
from her own, saying in an altered voice:

"Thank you, Captain Ribot. Enrique had invited me before----"

And they departed down the stairway. From above, when the light of the
vestibule fell upon their faces, I could see that Castell was talking to
her with an angry gesture, as if he were making recriminations, and that
she was excusing herself with the greatest humility.

Oh, God! the veil that had hid the truth from me was swiftly torn away.
That man must even now be her lover. All the blood in my veins rushed to
my heart. I felt giddy and was obliged to grasp the railing so as not to
fall.




CHAPTER XII.


I can swear that no anger entered into the agitation that I experienced.
My pride did not resent her preference. I only felt a mortal sadness as
if the last illusion left to me in life had flown away and escaped. And
more, the deep love wherewith she inspired me was not quenched or
lessened. The respect and idolatry of my sentiment were weakened, it is
true, but its tenderness was at the same time increased. The goddess had
fallen from her pedestal and was transformed into a woman. Losing in
majesty, she had gained in charm.

During the days following, I observed that the humble expression of her
face that had so much surprised me grew more marked. From this I judged
that she acknowledged her fault and begged my pardon. Instead of showing
myself troubled, I did everything possible to appear more respectful and
cordial than before. She recognized this, and constantly gave me proofs
of her affectionate friendship. Her heart was noble; if she had fallen
in her own sight, it was owing to fatal circumstance, and not to her
vicious inclination. Such were then my sentiments.

And Martí? Poor Emilio! Every time that I saw him I felt more and more
attracted by his generosity and innocence. I thought that he was a
little thinner, but always cheerful and always confiding. We spent one
afternoon alone at the seaside. As neither he nor I was out of humor our
conversation ran playfully from one subject to another, and we laughed
at the anecdotes we happened to remember. One of those that I told had
better fortune than it deserved. He laughed so much that at the end he
grew pale, put his hand to his chest, and, to the great terror of us
both, threw up blood. I helped him as well as I could, carried him to a
fountain near by, where he drank water and washed himself. I was much
startled by this. I could scarcely speak. I encouraged him, however,
telling him that this was not important, and citing numerous cases of
friends who had had this sort of thing without any serious consequences.
When he had composed himself, he smiled.

"You are right. It is nothing. I am sure that my lungs are perfectly
sound, because until now I have never even coughed. I will take a little
better care of myself, and when summer comes, I will go as a
precautionary measure to Panticosa. But it is necessary to keep all this
from Cristina. You know how women are. Don't say anything to Castell
either. He is very pessimistic, and his affection for me would make him
alarmed. He would be capable, in his anxiety, of revealing it to
Cristina."

My eyes, in spite of myself, filled with tears. Seeing this, he appeared
surprised; there was a moment of suspense; then, laughing aloud, he
embraced me, exclaiming:

"You are very original, Captain! There is some strength to be desired
here too! But I confess that if I had not such a practical temperament,
and were not accustomed to examine every subject coolly, this would make
me apprehensive. Fortunately, I know what to count on in the strength of
my constitution."

"My emotion was caused by surprise," I hastened to say, to mend matters.
"And then I am not very well these days; my nerves are upset. But, as I
have said, this means nothing, especially for you, who seem to be such a
robust man."

"The most robust of men! I have nothing more than a rather weak stomach,
and sometimes a little kidney trouble. Except for this, I am an oak. If
this were not so, how could I endure all the work loaded on my
shoulders, the frequent journeys, and all that I have to carry?"

"Exactly. I have no doubt of it. And you have never before felt any pain
in your lungs?"

Martí took a few steps, looked at me closely, and in a voice made to
seem strong by a special effort, answered:

"My lungs are those of an athlete!"

"Indeed?"

"Those of a gladiator," he insisted, shaking his head with an air of
unquenchable conviction.

Upon this he launched into a panegyric of his respiratory apparatus with
much enthusiasm and warmth. He could not have been more eloquent if he
had been a commercial traveller and was offering it as a sample to a
great commercial house. I congratulated him with equal enthusiasm on the
possession of such a perfect example. Inspired by his own eulogies, he
struck his chest, taking deep breaths, then sang the last aria of
"Lucia." After that, who could have any doubts of his organs?

We returned to the house, he in an excellent humor, but not I; for in
spite of his weight of testimony, I was not able to dismiss certain
apprehensions. Indeed, as our pathway narrowed, and he walked ahead of
me, his narrow shoulders, his long neck and drooping ears, did not
remind me of the figure of Milon of Crotona nor any other winner in the
Olympian games. It seemed to me that such magnificent lungs as he said
he had would not have chosen such a poor lodging.

It was the hour of twilight. The park began to be filled with darkness
and mystery. Although we were in the last days of September, the fresh
blossoming flowers of that fortunate region filled the air with
fragrance. The trees were as green and leafy as in early spring; the
turf shone in eternal freshness. But mingled with the luxurious,
romantic scent of heliotrope, roses, and violets came from surrounding
orchards other heavier breaths of ripe fruits. The fruitful earth filled
the air of heaven with the perfume of grapes and melons, pears and
apples, drying hay and Indian corn.

In front of the house, seated in rocking-chairs, we found Cristina and
her mother, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde. Her children were running
about the garden, cackling and gabbling like parrots, while their
unhappy mother watched them with a melancholy smile. When we appeared in
front of a close thicket of Indian cannas, Castell was seated beside
Cristina, talking to her in low tones. She cast one glance at her
husband, then at me, and at once lowered her eyes with a serious,
pondering expression on her face; but raising them again, she
scrutinized Emilio carefully, while he sat down, chatting and laughing
with exaggerated volubility. Cristina got up, went over to him, and
said:

"Emilio, you are pale. Do you feel ill?"

"I? What an idea! I never felt better. It is because I have been
laughing all the afternoon. The captain has a stock of delicious
anecdotes. At supper we must tell some of them; not all, though, for
they are all colors."

She was not satisfied; but although she went and sat down, her eyes
never quitted him. Castell made efforts to attract her attention,
talking into her ear. The conduct of that man seemed to me the height of
cynicism.

Soon it was quite dark, and we went into the dining-room, where it was
light and the table ready. Just as we were going to sit down at it, a
servant entered, and calling Martí apart, gave him a letter, with an air
of mystery. He opened it at once and was not able to repress a movement
of annoyance. Pocketing it and excusing himself for a few moments, he
took his hat and went out. Our curiosity was excited, but nobody said
anything. At last Cristina, whose anxiety was evident, asked the man:

"Who gave you the letter?"

"A gentleman."

"Did he wait for an answer?"

"No, señora. He wanted to speak with the señor, and he went across by
the main door to wait for him."

The unusualness of the incident, and the mysterious manner of the
servant, increased our curiosity extraordinarily. We had not long to
wait for its satisfaction. Martí presented himself in a few moments,
and, putting his hat down on a chair, asked jocularly:

"Don't you all know whom I shall have the honor to present to you?"

We all looked eagerly at him.

"A gentleman whose name begins with an S."

"Sabas!" exclaimed Matilde.

Her next act was, with quivering face and violent gestures, to hurry her
children out of their chairs, and, pushing them wildly before her, get
them out of the room, herself following after.

We all stood up in our agitation. The nose of the deserting husband was
promptly stuck in at the garden door, and behind it entered its
interesting proprietor. A groan from Doña Amparo. A convulsive embrace
next, tears in abundance.

Sabas, although in the arms of his mother, cast a wandering and
afflicted glance about the dining-room.

"Matilde! My children!" he cried in a dramatic manner.

"All have abandoned thee except thy mother!" responded Doña Amparo in
most pathetic accents.

Sabas leaned his head, a resigned victim, against the maternal bosom. At
this Doña Amparo hugged him yet more fervently, ready to give her
life-blood for her abandoned son. He freed himself at last, arranged his
cravat, and held out his hand to us solemnly, in the dignified attitude
of a general who concludes a capitulation after a heroic resistance.

He went up to greet Cristina, but she turned her back upon him, and went
out of the room. He shook his head in a sentimental manner, and gave us
a sweet, expressive glance. Then he raised his eyes to heaven, as if
petitioning for the justice that earth denied him.

I was truly alarmed to see that his face was black and the skin peeled
off in some places, especially the nose.

He looked as if he had returned from a scientific and civilizing
expedition into Central Africa, rather than from a romantic expedition
with a young lady to the capital of Catalonia.

Doña Amparo made him drink a glass of orange-flower water to calm him.
There was no need of it. His attitude on that critical occasion, at once
tranquil and resigned, impressed us profoundly. However, when he had
drunk the orange-flower water, he said with astonishing firmness:

"I must see Matilde."

And, joining the action to the word, he proceeded, full of majesty,
towards the door. He went on into the inner rooms. And we all followed
him, we were so fascinated by his noble and severe manner.

We were filled with anxiety concerning the dramatic scene that was going
to take place. Sabas opened two or three doors consecutively, without
being able to find his wife. But his intrepid heart was not cast down.
Without uttering a word he mounted to the upper story. We followed him
anxiously.

Matilde was in her room, and Cristina was with her. At sight of her
husband she groaned wrathfully, and started towards another door to try
to get away again. Cristina tried to detain her.

"Let me go!" she cried madly; "I don't wish to see him."

"Matilde, for heaven's sake!" cried Cristina, embracing her.

"Let me go, let me go! Everything is over between us two!"

Then the fugitive, standing in the middle of the room, showed that his
strength was leaving him. He put his hand feebly to his forehead, his
legs doubled under him, and, taking just enough steps towards a sofa to
reach it, he fell across it in a swoon.

We all ran to his aid, and his offended wife was not the last one. On
the contrary, it was she who, grieving and trembling, bathed his temples
with water, and unfastened his waistcoat and shirt to help him breathe,
exclaiming wildly:

"Sabas, my Sabas! Forgive me!"

Meanwhile, Doña Amparo applied to his nostrils various chemical products
of a stimulating nature. The rest of us helped on the restorative work
more or less modestly, bringing a carafe of water, uncorking bottles, or
giving air to the fainting man by means of a fan.

The only one who remained inactive, seeming indisposed to offer any
hygienic aid to her brother, was Cristina. Standing erect near us, she
looked strangely severe. Doubtless her behavior might seem to some
persons cruel and unnatural; but not to me, for my deep, unreasoning
love for this woman made all that she did seem right and proper, her
every movement adorable.

At last Sabas returned to the world of consciousness, and asked of his
mother, who was in front of him, that which has been asked so many
times:

"Where am I?"

"With your wife!"

"With your mamma!"

"Who adores you!"

"Who idolizes you!"

Four feminine arms embraced him, and four lips were pressed almost at
the same time above his skinned nose.

His eyes wandered about the room at all of us as if he did not know us,
and were fixed at last upon his wife; then he groaned frightfully:

"Matilde! Matilde! Matilde!"

Then he hugged her and fell back in an attack of convulsive laughing.
His loud laughter joined to the sobbing of his wife and the wails of
Doña Amparo made a terrifying mixture that would have melted the hardest
heart. More, by virtue of the contagion that all the world knows lies in
this sort of an attack, I felt a shocking desire to laugh also. By hard
work I managed to stifle it. I left the room and went down again to the
dining-room. The others were not long in following me, leaving Sabas
restored and at peace with his wife and his mother. Ten minutes later
they came down also. Cristina gave the order to serve the soup, and I
observed with some astonishment that Sabas dined with an excellent
appetite, and during dinner showed himself as gay and disputatious and
smart as ever. His wife devoured him with eyes of pure affection, and
devoted herself to waiting upon him.

When we finished, he rose before taking his coffee, lighted a good
cigar, and asked his brother-in-law if he would let him take his cab.

"But are you going out?" his wife asked him with surprise and annoyance.

"Yes; I am going to take my coffee at the Siglo. I haven't seen a single
one of my friends yet. I shall be back soon."

Matilde tried to keep him, begging that he would not go that night,
caressing his hands, with no result except to make him cross. Observing,
however, the bad effect this had upon us, he changed his tone and
embraced her, saying in endearing accents:

"Goosie! Aren't you going to let me go and celebrate our
reconciliation?"

With this the infatuated wife was satisfied and content, brushed the
dust from his shoes, and went with him to the cab door.

We remained in the dining-room some time. Emilio was the first to start
to bed, saying that he felt sleepy. I thought that his hemorrhage had
affected him more than he had acknowledged. Matilde went up to put her
children to bed. We remained chatting, Isabelita and I in one corner,
Cristina and Castell in another, while Doña Amparo embroidered by the
light of a lamp between.

This state of things impressed me uncomfortably. We seemed like two
pairs engaged in courtship, watched over by the mamma; and this idea, so
far as it concerned Cristina and Castell, could not but fill me with
great repugnance. Such was my faith in that woman that I scarcely
believed what I saw. I was absent and melancholy, and with difficulty
kept up the conversation with my intended.

My intended! The winds were driving me upon a coast where I didn't know
whether I was going to be shipwrecked or find a snug harbor. I confessed
to myself with alarm that since my dreadful convictions about Cristina,
my heart was less inclined than ever to admit another woman.

When Matilde came down after getting her children to bed, in order to
get out of this scarcely decent situation, and also to rid myself a
little of the sadness that overpowered me, I proposed that we take a
turn in the park. The proposition met with favor, and Cristina was the
first to accept it, rising from the sofa where she had been sitting. But
Castell said, with his usual decision:

"I don't feel equal to it. It is much too damp in the park at this
hour."

Cristina turned and sat down again beside him.

"We are not so much in fear of dying, are we, Matilde?" I said smiling.
She and Isabelita followed me. Doña Amparo stayed with her daughter and
Castell. We went to the end of the garden, and from there entered the
open spaces of the park, where the balmy air did me a great deal of
good, for my brow had been burning and my heart filled with mournful
presentiments.




CHAPTER XIII.


The park, wrapped in the shades of night, seemed like a forest; it was
more grand and mysterious. The magnolias, cypresses, and araucarias that
half covered the ground might be imagined cavaliers wrapped in their
cloaks, silent and threatening. The foliage did not stir; the gravelled
roads scarcely showed their whiteness; the footpaths were submissive to
the darkness. We followed the first of these in a sort of vague
disquiet, exchanging few words. The same emotion seemed to seal our lips
and oppress our hearts. When I recall those first moments of that night
and the overwhelming melancholy that oppressed me, I cannot help being a
bit superstitious.

But if the darkness inspired sadness and a vague dread, the fragrances,
some sweet, some keen, that filtered through the silent leaves, invited
us to go farther. We inhaled, as we went on our way, a thousand
delicious odors, from the scarcely perceptible breath of violets to the
strong, dominating perfume of the magnolia.

On arriving at a certain place, a sort of little opening where the
languorous, sensuous perfume of heliotrope dominated all others,
Matilde made a gesture of pleasure. It was her favorite fragrance. She
would not let us go any farther, and made us sit down on a rustic bench
so that she could get her fill of it, as she said. But, unluckily, that
perfume, subtle with Oriental love, immediately recalled to her memory
the poetical image of her spouse. And, fascinated by this recollection,
she entertained us for some time by relating the most interesting
particulars of his domestic life--at what hour this extraordinary being
got up in the morning, how soon afterwards a glass of water with lemon
in it was introduced into his precious organism, how many slices of
toast he took with his coffee, how many pipes he smoked, how he walked
about the house, and even how, every Thursday, he took magnesia to
cleanse and purify this splendid work of nature.

As if in sympathy with her enthusiasm, and desiring to give testimony to
the admiration that such a rare and beautiful subject inspired, a gentle
light suddenly shone over the place. We turned our eyes towards the sea,
and saw the moon coming up above its quiet waves. The waters smiled; in
the park the silver, smooth leaves of the magnolias, the silky-whiteness
of the roses, the tops of the cannas and laurels glittered in luminous
points of light. The darkness fled away into the depths of the thickets,
forming dense, impenetrable masses. Soon the moonlight began
penetrating these also, as the moon rose higher in the azure vault,
scattering golden rays.

Matilde, who was reminded by everything in heaven or on earth of Sabas,
thought that it was now time to get his bed ready for him, and asked us
to come into the house. Isabelita did not wish to go so soon. The night
was delicious; she would stay alone with me. I did not wish to say
anything about the unusualness of this, to disturb her angelic
innocence. We sat for some moments on the same bench, chatting about
indifferent matters.

I was not long, however, in bringing the conversation to our projected
marriage. It interested her immensely. She must have six dozen of
chemises, and four of petticoats, and three of this, and eight of that.
I could not help her much in all that. I was absent-minded or critical,
and, without knowing why, responded but poorly and with little tact when
she consulted me. But my attention was held when the child began to talk
about our house, and the expenses it would occasion, and the
expenditures we must count upon to furnish it. I was surprised at the
ease and capacity wherewith she discussed economic subjects. She not
only understood what concerned her father's business, but also exchange,
discounting bills, stocks, and so on. For some time I listened with
amazement while she discussed the probable rise of certain public
stocks that her father had recently bought, of the transferring of
others that he held, of the sudden fall of the stock of the tobacco
company, of treasury bonds, and a thousand other things of whose
existence I scarcely knew. This financial erudition did not impress me
agreeably. I understood the necessity of a woman's having some knowledge
of affairs in order to rule over her house properly; but so much
mercantile knowledge shocked my temperament, which was not at all
practical, and, more yet, the idea it gave me of this young creature. It
seemed impossible that such old words could issue from such youthful
lips.

But this was not the only thing. Going on from one thing to another with
strange smartness, the child reached the point of inquiring the amount
of my capital. I did not try to hide it from her. At the first hint I
told her, with complete clearness, one house, a little land, a few bonds
of the company in whose service I had been--about sixty thousand dollars
all reckoned.

Isabelita kept silence a moment.

"It isn't much," she said at last, with a certain antagonistic
inflection I did not know in her.

And, after another pause, she added, with a forced smile:

"My father thought that you were much richer."

"But you perceive how mistaken he was," I said, with a smile still more
forced. "We are almost always deceived about others, sometimes thinking
them richer than they are, sometimes more noble."

This was all that I said. I felt an enormous, overwhelming repugnance,
almost a nausea. In one instant I had made up my mind. I would not marry
this self-hawker, with her angelic profile, for all the treasures of
earth.

And, curiously, as soon as I made this resolution, I felt at peace and
almost happy. I felt as if I had thrown off a great load. So, to the
surprise of Retamoso's daughter, who had remained thoughtful, and a
little put out by my words, I began to show myself gay and never more
merry.

But the evening was advancing, and as I was not interested in
conversation, and wished to be alone and think over the proper method
for breaking off with her, I proposed that we should return to the
house. As we got up we heard a murmur as of people coming; we did not
know any other way except to sit down again. Castell and Cristina sailed
into the little open space. From the darkness of the place where we were
sitting, we could see them plainly, for the moonlight completely
enveloped them. I perceived at once that the conversation was a serious
one. He came along smiling, bending his head insinuatingly towards her,
to talk close to her ear. Cristina was pale, with frowning brow, her
gaze hard, and fixed on space. I wished to get up at once, but
Isabelita held me back. They passed before us without seeing us. As for
him, we could not hear him, because he spoke very low; but some of her
words reached our ears distinctly.

"There is nothing more to be said about that."

This sentence, uttered with unusual energy, impressed us forcibly.
Isabelita grasped my wrist with a nervous hand and stood up to follow
them. And, truly, if curiosity excited her, my own was no less; but as I
knew where that would lead me, and as it seemed to me indecorous to
surprise such a secret, I tried to stop her. It was useless. The girl
pulled away from me, and was off after them. I followed also,
determining to do something to attract their attention in some way. But
by this time I could no longer see Isabelita. I went forward in the
darkness, which was there very dense, guided only by the sound of their
voices. In a few moments I realized that Castell and Cristina had
stopped. I still advanced and saw that they were in a glorieta, or
arbor, formed by four great laurels, planted a little distance apart,
whose branches interlaced. I approached with a cautious step. Isabelita
was outside the arbor with her ear glued to the branches. When I came up
to her, she flashed one hand over my mouth and the other arm about my
neck so hard that she hurt me. I was stupefied by such violence, whose
reason I could not imagine. Weakly, and because I thought it would save
Cristina's modesty, I remained passive and quiet.

"Perhaps you consider," said Castell, "my patience of several years, my
sufferings, the silent, constant service I have given you, a mere
caprice. Perhaps you suppose that my self-love is concerned in this
rather than a deep, irresistible passion. Have I not an equal right to
suppose that the disdain with which you have so many times humiliated me
is the work of pride and of obstinacy more than of virtue?"

"You may suppose whatever you like. The way you judge me--"

"I know you," interrupted Castell. "Nobody could be more charming. I
have never found a woman whose beauty and whose character appeared to me
more interesting and worthy of admiration."

I heard a slight sniff of disdain and then these words:

"I would prefer you to admire me less, and let me live more at peace.
But it is not about this that I wish to talk at present. I consented to
come out with you, and find myself here at this improper hour, at the
risk of my husband's honor, which is dearer to me than life, because I
see a way to solve the problem of my life. Rich or poor, happy or
disgraced, I am resolved to live in honor and peace."

Nobody can imagine exactly what went on within me at that moment. The
horrible suspicions, almost certainties, which had smeared the image of
my idol, fled like black spectres. I saw her again in all her purity,
with an aureole of virtue that was her glory and charm. A celestial
happiness descended into my heart. All my body trembled, seized with an
irresistible emotion.

"You might search everywhere, you might look the wide world over, for
one whose happiness concerns me more than your own, and you could not
find one," said Castell.

"That is very little to say," replied Cristina with a sarcastic accent.

"Because you think that nothing on earth moves me or interests me, don't
you? There you are wrong. Before I gave rein to this disgraceful
passion, I lived in a state of perpetual interest in all things. Cities,
mountains, rivers, the ocean, society, art, passing affections,
everything moved me and attracted me. To-day all these things are
objects of loathing in my eyes. Barren boredom, a wearing contempt, and
a causeless weariness dog me everywhere, surrounding me like poisonous
vapors. All the nerves of my life are parched--except one. When this is
stirred, my being trembles, my faculties are roused, the horrible spell
that binds me is broken, and daylight breaks upon my spirit----"

"Better say night. A bad conscience has need of night."

"Conscience always stops on the steps of the temple of love. Did you
ever know anyone who, truly in love with a woman, devoured by desire for
her, has been hindered by conscience? I know nobody. If any human being
came to me with a tale like that, I should tell him frankly that he
lied. No mouse ever hesitated before cheese; no man before a woman, in
fear of his conscience."

"All the worse for men if that is so. But I repeat it is not about this
that I wish to speak at this moment. At the risk of your carrying out
your half-veiled threats, I am resolved to put an end to this
persecution, and it shall be ended. Indeed, it shall be ended!"

"Do you know one thing, Cristina? I have come to think that you enjoy
being obstinate rather than virtuous."

"Do you know another thing, Castell? I have always thought that there is
no love whatever in your make-up, but, instead, a monstrous vanity that
has need of satisfying itself at the cost of the honor and happiness of
your best friend."

"If there was nothing in me but vanity, how long would it have taken it
to be revenged upon this scorn, these insults? I doubt if there is a
woman in the world who knows how better to cut the heart with a gesture,
envenom the soul, and fill it with mad anger by a glance. I am
persuaded that you cannot love, but only scorn, a man. If you condescend
to your husband, it is because he is a poor, miserable thing who doesn't
dare hold up his head in your presence."

"Spare your insults! This is well! If you had always talked like this, I
should have been saved much pain. Now let us come to the other matter.
It is absolutely necessary that from this night henceforth you must
cease to mortify me, either with words, looks, or hints of any kind. It
is absolutely necessary that, if you cannot treat me with respect as the
wife of your friend, I should be to you as any indifferent person. And,
further, I am resolved, thinking everything over, to give an account of
what has passed to my husband."

"This is decreed?" he asked in a mocking tone.

"This is decreed!" she said angrily.

There was a pause.

"And are you not afraid," he asked at last, speaking slowly, "if
following upon the thousand tortures and humiliations that you have made
me suffer, and my despair of ever being successful with you, if no
compassion follows, that my love might be turned into hate, and that I
take means that the event which overthrows me should engulf you and
yours in yet more frightful ruin?"

"No, I am not afraid," she replied with fiery pride.

"You do well. I shall not take any revenge whatever."

"You may do it if you choose," she interrupted him impetuously. "Emilio
is a man who likes luxuries and comforts, I know, but he cares very much
more for his wife and his honor. If the alternative were offered him, he
would give his fortune gladly, if not also his life. So you may ruin him
as soon as you please. If nothing is left us, we two can go to work. But
when he finds himself in somebody's office as a humble clerk, nobody can
come up to him and call him a complaisant husband; and when I go through
the streets, the people in Valencia may lean out of their balcony
windows and say: 'This poor woman that we see there with a basket on her
arm used to have her carriage and go dressed in her silks;' but they
shall not say, I swear it, 'She who goes yonder is a prostitute.'"

Her voice sank as she uttered the word. I felt my throat constrict.

"Oh, oh! this is too much!" exclaimed Castell.

"Yes." She repeated the word firmly. "And it is all the same whether one
sells oneself for fear or to get money."

"Pardon me, Cristina, but it seems to me that you are giving the
conversation rather a romantic turn. 'A basket on her arm.' This is
folly! I call your good judgment in against such nonsense. Here is a man
who loves you with all the strength of his soul, who to win your love
would be capable of making any sacrifice, even of his life. You have
already taken away all my hope, and, in abandoning the contest, at least
don't make me out a seducer in a novel of the kind that stirs up the
wrath of dressmakers."

"Let us stop talking. I cannot stay here any longer," she said. I could
see that she stood up.

"Yes, let us put an end to it. I give up trying for you, but not loving
you. I renounce the idea of vengeance, as I have told you. But
understand, however, that this is only a truce. My hopes that you will
love me some day will not be banished. Separated from you, I shall wait
with patience for a time when our paths shall cross again and I shall
offer you the poor heart that you have coldly trampled upon."

"Very well. Good-by."

Castell also stood up. More by Cristina's next words than by what I
could really see, I understood that he was holding her.

"Let me go!"

"Before you go, I want the reward that my sacrifice merits. Let me kiss
these glorious eyes."

"Let me go!" she repeated forcibly and fiercely.

"I have renounced all," he said as energetically, but lowering his
voice; "but I swear to you I will not renounce this kiss, if it costs me
my life."

"Let me go, or I shall scream."

"Scream as much as you like. If you want to make a scandal and perhaps
kill your husband--his death for one kiss--I am willing."

At that moment I entered the glorieta and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Who is it? Who goes there?" he exclaimed, giving a jump that separated
him widely from Cristina.

"There is no need of being alarmed. It's me."

"And who are you?" he replied, drawing a revolver and pointing it at me.

"Keep your gun for thieves, or hold it in readiness for some traitor
who, abusing the confidence reposed in him, tries to seize upon honor
and happiness. There are no thieves or traitors here."

"If there are no thieves, there are at least persons about devoting
themselves to overhearing private conversations. But for such persons a
whip would be more suitable than a revolver," he returned in sarcastic
tones.

"Keep your sarcasms likewise for a more opportune occasion. Nobody here
has tried to overhear conversations. They are heard when they come to
one's ears, and I am sincerely sorry that I was here at this time to
hear them. If I had been asleep in my bed, I should have avoided the
sorrow of entering into the foul and hidden corners of the human
conscience."

"You lie!" he cried, coming wrathfully towards me. "You were spying
upon us. How can you talk of foulness when you are sunk in filth
yourself? You have been spying upon us, I repeat it. I have seen you
doing that for some time past. By what right do you follow our steps and
pretend to interfere in the affairs of this family, you who are an
outsider?"

"An outsider interferes when he sees anyone is in need of help," I
replied calmly. "Moreover, I have not the habit of following any path,
except those of the ocean currents. I have not insulted you, and you
have no right to insult me as you have been doing."

Then he, perhaps taking my calmness for cowardice, or possibly wishing
to provoke a violent scene, so as to extricate himself from his
difficulty, grabbed me by the lapels of my coat, shook me, and bringing
his threatening face up to mine, yelled:

"Yes, señor, you have followed us, and I will not endure it. Do you
hear? Yes, I have insulted you, and why? Are you not satisfied with one
insult? Then here goes for another."

I caught his arm in air. I caught hold of the other one also, and
holding him like a vise, because here my greater muscular strength was
of service, gave him several shakings and forced him backwards into the
foliage of the arbor.

A voice sounded in my ears:

"Give up, Enrique, give up! Don't risk your life for anybody!"

I paused, stupefied. My fingers relaxed their hold and released their
captive. Turning my head, I saw before me the virginal figure of
Isabelita. Yes, it was she.

"Thank you very much," I said smiling.

But I was of no consequence. She did not even glance my way. With an
agitated countenance, her eyes fixed upon Castell, she took his hand and
led him out of the glorieta.




CHAPTER XIV.


Cristina was sitting down, her face hidden in her hands. I went up to
her.

"Forgive me for coming in here. I was not master of myself."

"You did exactly right; thank you," she murmured, without changing her
position.

We remained silent. Presently, rising abruptly, she exclaimed:

"Come, let us go in! let us go in!"

And emerging from the glorieta, she went hastily towards the house. I
followed her, and catching up with her, suggested the propriety of not
presenting herself in such a disturbed state to Emilio.

She did not reply to me, but she changed her direction, and turned her
steps towards a narrow acacia path, where the light of the moon could
scarcely penetrate. I soon lost sight of her. I paused a moment,
debating whether to go on to the house or follow her. I decided upon the
last, because I was afraid she might stumble anew upon Castell.

I followed the path, and saw her as she came out in front of the little
pavilion that bore her name. I joined her and advised her to rest there
a moment.

The salon, profusely adorned with statues and vases, offered at this
hour a mysterious enchantment. The moon shone through the crystalline
windows. The polished furniture, the porcelains, the pictures hanging on
the wall, reflected the moonlight mournfully. The marble statues threw
huge dark shadows upon the walls, tragic and threatening.

Cristina dropped upon a sofa, and I sat down beside her.

We remained silent for some time.

"When, for the first time," I said at last, "I had the pleasure to enter
your house, I felt as if I saw a little bit of heaven below--joy,
cordiality, serene and innocent happiness, the tender love of a wife who
inspires respect, the restful felicity of a husband free from any of the
suspicions that embitter existence--a yoke of love and peace; and about
you plenty, riches, all the good gifts of life. Shall I surprise you if
I say that among the leafage of so many joys I have seen uplifted the
head of the serpent?"

"I do not doubt it," she replied pensively, looking out at the heavens
through the crystal-clear windows.

"If I could not see your face, I should still be able to divine what you
are feeling. Your eyes are not able to conceal what passes in your
soul. How happy you would have made me by confiding to me your troubles!
I am a new friend, I know, but the affection that you and Emilio inspire
in me could not be more sincere."

"Thank you, thank you, Captain Ribot," she murmured, "but it is not
possible."

"It is not possible, truly. How could it be when I lack skill to
persuade you of the sincerity of my sentiments? I confess that there
have been reasons why you should not give me your confidence. I have
repented with all my soul, and I beg your forgiveness."

As if these words agitated her, she rose, pushed aside a hanging
curtain, went to the piano that stood open, ran her fingers over the
keys, then came and sat down again.

"I understand by what I overheard," I said, after a pause, "that Castell
has some hold over you--that you are in his debt."

"Our entire fortune is in his hands."

"What!"

"Emilio has been to him for money to use in his business, which was
ruined."

"And this was given in the hope of obliging you to accept his devotion?"

"It is possible. Castell is more of a business man than a lover. No
matter what he pretends, buying and selling is his business. He has
always had the idea of getting absolute control of the steamboat line."

"I suppose that after what has been overheard, he will desist for a
little in trying to get possession of it."

"I don't know."

She sat thoughtful for a few moments. Then, as if she were talking to
herself, she said in a dull voice:

"The day that Emilio and I were married he was at my house from the hour
of the ceremony until I went to change my dress. We were going to Madrid
to spend a few days. When I came down, I stumbled upon him waiting for
me on the stairs. He made some gallant speeches to me at that time, and
begged a spray of my orange flowers, which he put next his heart. I gave
it to him against my will, from bashfulness, from timidity. He was
repulsive to me from the first moment. Later, when we were at the
station, and he came to give me his hand for good-by, he said, almost in
my ear, 'If some day it chances that you get tired of him, remember that
he has friends who admire you as much or more than he does.'"

"What insolence!"

"I did not like to say anything to my husband then; I have not wished to
since. The friendship that united them was strong, and I hesitated to
break it. How many times since then I have asked myself if I did right
or wrong!"

"And before that he had not addressed you especially?"

"Yes, and no. Once we were at Denia. Castell was there, and I danced
with him at a ball at the house of some friends; it was several months
before I knew Emilio. That evening he made a little love to me and
almost declared himself. I took that for what it was, the diversion of a
traveller who does everything he can think of to keep from being bored.
And, indeed, he left Denia, and Spain, and spent nearly two years in
travelling. When he came back, I was going to be married to Emilio. It
was only a fortnight before the wedding."

"Providence has been cruel placing such a man in your pathway, and
giving him power to cause you so much trouble."

She did not answer. She remained thoughtful for a while; at last,
looking at me with her great eyes full of interest, said:

"But you are so very, very good, Ribot. Don't let us talk any more about
my troubles, but think of those that _you_ have to bear."

"Bah! 'tis quite the contrary with me. I should give thanks to God that
I have been undeceived in time. Somehow I have always suspected that the
girl was in love with Castell, although Emilio and Sabas were so certain
of something else. And, to be frank, I also love someone else better."

"Then why don't you marry her?"

"Because, because--I don't know why; that is to say, if I knew and if
you also knew--but there are things that I do not care to confess to
myself."

These words made her look troubled. I was repentant at once, as the rays
of the moon let me see on her forehead that frown dreaded of yore.

"No, Cristina, no!" I hastened to say vehemently, "I beg you not to
think that which I read in your eyes. I have been through bitter
struggles, despairing conflicts with myself. I have stumbled, and fallen
too, but I have risen; and--I can say it without pride--never shall
treachery find shelter in my breast. I have not Castell's brilliant
qualities. I am far from possessing the advantages that make that man
admired and sought after; but if I possessed them all, I swear I would
not use them to stab a friend in the back. Far more than the
satisfactions of love, more than all the enjoyments of earth--and even
those of heaven if they were offered me--I hold the peace of my own
conscience."

The warmth of my tones and the sincerity of expression with which I
uttered these words made her lift her head and look at me in a slight
amaze. Her brow grew calm, and a sweet smile lingered upon her lips.

"Yes, I have already come to see that you are more original in that way
than could at first have been imagined. I think it much better this
way."

And saying so, she graciously held out her hand to me, and I pressed it
with as much respect as emotion. At this moment a shadow fell across us,
then one appeared before us, saying:

"Good-evening."

Both Cristina and I were painfully startled.

"You here, Emilio? I thought you had gone to bed," she said, instantly
controlling herself.

"No, no; I didn't go to bed. I felt the heat, like the rest of you, and
came out for a turn in the garden. I heard the sound of conversation, so
I came in."

In spite of the natural voice he made a point of using, there was
something in his manner and a strangeness in his tones that disquieted
us immensely.

"It is a very beautiful night," he went on, beginning to walk up and
down the place with his hands in his pockets. "The month of September
has not fallen behind August. Even in the mornings it is scarcely cool
yet. I found I had no desire to go to bed."

I replied to him in words as unimportant as his own. He gave no sign of
having heard me. He went on walking up and down in an absorbed manner,
and at last he went over to the balcony and stood motionless looking out
through the glass. Then he opened one of the windows and stepped outside
to get more of the cool night air.

Cristina gazed at him without moving an eyelash. In her eyes a great
anguish was visible. She seemed alarmed. Thus several minutes passed in
silence. At last, as if unable longer to endure this tension, she rose
impetuously, went to her husband and put her hand on his shoulder,
saying:

"Come, let us go to the house."

"As you like," he replied dryly.

We went out of the pavilion and along the avenue of acacias that led to
it. I tried to walk with Martí and to talk with him. I saw that he
shrank from my company, and answered with few words. Before reaching the
house he took his wife's arm and went on ahead, leaving me behind. This
mute rebuff made my heart ache. I followed with a sadness that presently
gave way to decided impatience, thinking with what injustice I was
treated. As we went along in this fashion, there came into my mind the
strong resolution to enter into a clear and definite explanation with
him, and disclose to him all that had passed.

We arrived at the door of the house and paused under the glass portico.
Through the opened window of the dining-room I could see Isabelita,
Castell, and Doña Amparo.

"Come," I said, with affected indifference, "you two are going to bed
and I into the city."

"Won't you wait until we can order the carriage?" asked Cristina
timidly.

"No; I have an appetite for a stroll in the light of the moon. _Hasta
mañana._ Good-night."

I offered Emilio my hand.

"No," he said, with an unusual gravity. "I am going with you as far as
the farthest gateway. I, too, feel like a stroll."

I gave my hand to Cristina. For the first time in her life she pressed
it with singular force, at the same time giving me an anxious look of
supplication. I, moved to the depths of the soul, answered her eyes with
my own, promising her in that way that she might depend upon me.

We walked away slowly, taking the path that led to the entrance gate.
Martí walked with his hat in his hand, and preserved an obstinate
silence. I waited for him to break it before we parted, promising myself
to be faithful to the silent promise that I had made to Cristina. So it
was he who, as we approached the boundary wall, paused and, without
looking at me, spoke:

"Married men, Ribot, often have an exaggerated susceptibility. Not only
do their own affections torment them, but the fear of becoming objects
of ridicule sometimes obliges them to be suspicious even when they are
by nature confiding. The friends of such men do well to avoid awakening
this susceptibility, conducting themselves on all occasions with care
and delicacy. By this means friendship is yoked to gratitude."

"You are right," I replied. "So far in my life I have managed to fulfil
this obligation towards all men with whom I have had to do, not merely
towards friends, as you say, but towards men of my general acquaintance.
An unfortunate accident placed me in a situation that wounds your _amor
proprio_, if not your honor. Understand, however, that Cristina----"

"We will not talk of Cristina," he interrupted, gazing firmly into my
eyes. "Every night of the year before going to sleep I give thanks to
God for having united me to her. To-night will be the same as the
others."

"We will talk about me, then. An unfortunate accident, I repeat, placed
me in a situation to hurt the susceptibility that has been mentioned. I
deplore this with all my soul, although I do not find myself to blame.
In any case, it would have been an indiscretion. However, these matters
are of such peculiar delicacy that a recent friendship cannot risk the
consequences of the slightest annoyance. If you feel any such annoyance,
I am resolved to take myself away from here, and never again set foot in
your house."

There was no response. We pursued in silence the remaining distance to
the gate. When we reached it, he paused and, without looking at me, said
in a trembling voice:

"Although I feel it very much, I cannot do less than accept your
resolution. Perhaps I am making myself ridiculous in your eyes and in
those of anyone who might know of what has passed; but what would you? I
prefer to be considered absurd rather than see disturbed in the
slightest degree the tranquillity that until now I have enjoyed."

"You are right," I said. "In your place I should do the same. To-morrow
morning early I shall leave Valencia, and it may be that we shall never
meet again. I desire you to know, none the less, that this is one of the
profoundest griefs of my whole life. I appreciate your friendship more
than you realize. I am grateful for your affectionate hospitality, and I
shall never console myself for having unintentionally caused you the
least trouble. If some day you have need of me, all that I have is
yours."

"Thank you, thank you, Ribot," he murmured, moved.

He put one hand on the latch of the gate, and with the other lifted his
hat. I did not care to let him see that I knew he did this to avoid
taking my hand, so, without extending my own, I went out into the road.

"_Adios_, Martí," I said, turning my head, "God keep you always as happy
as you have been until now."

"_Adios_, Ribot. _Muchas gracias._"




CHAPTER XV.


The gate closed. Through its bars I could see him going farther and
farther away, his uncovered head bowed, until he was lost to sight among
the trees. I stood alone in the middle of the road. A profound
depression filled me; it was as if I had lost something that had been
the chief interest of my existence.

With slow step I began my departure from that pleasant place, believing
that I should never return to tread this path again. Indeed, these
latest events had followed one another so hastily and precipitately that
I could scarcely realize them. One moment I had been in that house as
the accepted friend about to become a member of the family. The next, I
left it as a stranger whose name would soon be forgotten. Yet in the
midst of my sorrow, in the mournful night that had fallen upon my heart,
shone one consoling star; it was Cristina's look of supplication. In
that house, perhaps, my name would now no more be spoken, but she would
never forget it. This thought gave me inexpressible consolation. I went
on my way with a firmer step, and when I came to the last corner of the
walls surrounding the estate, I stopped beside it. I looked at it
sorrowfully for a little, then, going up to the stone, I kissed it many
times. Then I went on again, blushing as if someone had seen me.

The moon on high bathed the country in luminous purity, transforming it
into a sleeping lake. The plain stretched before me, bordered by the
mountains whose crests seemed floating in the distance in a white mist.
Here and there the little groves of orange-trees and laurel stood out in
the fleecy whiteness, or great cypresses rose solitary and still,
casting their shadows across the road. Beyond smiled the sea, reflecting
the light of the moon.

The sweetness of that night penetrated my heart, refreshing it. The
fields, still abounding in flowers and fragrant with the odors of ripe
fruits, soothed my senses and calmed the fever of my thoughts. I went on
with a lighter step. Valencia already slumbered lightly upon her couch
of flowers. Her street lights shone afar like stars of earth. Those of
the heavens formed a rich canopy above, protecting that fortunate city.

When at some distance from the country house, I felt the need of resting
a little while. I did not care yet to be among people. It was necessary
to get my thoughts together and contrive some plan of life in place of
that that had, in one moment, been upset. I sat down on a stone, drew
out a cigar, lighted it, and calmly began smoking. I had not been
sitting there long when I heard the sound of an approaching carriage. At
first I did not know whether it was coming from Valencia or Cabañal.
When I was convinced it was from the latter, I felt strangely uneasy,
and thought of concealing myself; but instantly changing my mind, I
determined to remain where I was. Soon I descried the horses; they drew
near. It was Castell's cab, as I feared.

When he was quite close I planted myself in the middle of the road and
called to the coachman in an imperative voice:

"Stop!"

He made a gesture of surprise, but stopped the horses almost as they
came upon me. As he was pulling them in with the reins, obliging them to
stop in time, the man recognized me and said:

"Good evening, Don Julian."

Castell had been leaning half out of the window. When I approached him
he looked at me in surprise, then springing up with a fiery gesture he
reached for his pocket, crying:

"If this is an attack, take care!"

"No, it is not an attack," I said, lifting my hand in sign of peace; "I
wish to speak with you."

"Send me your seconds and I will speak with them," he said haughtily.

"Before doing that, it is necessary to speak with you a moment," I
replied.

He stared at me a little while as if trying to discern my intentions.
Convinced, doubtless, that they were not bellicose, he opened the cab
door and said coolly:

"Get in!"

I sat down facing him. The carriage went onward.

"I desire to know," I said, at the end of a moment, "if it was you who
let Martí know that he would find Cristina and me alone in the
pavilion?"

He opened his eyes wide in no feigned surprise, and answered in an
ungracious manner:

"I don't understand what you are saying to me."

I perceived that this was true, and I went on, modifying my tone.

"After you and I separated, she and I went along the acacia path to the
pavilion, for the purpose of giving Cristina time to recover herself
before going to the house. She found herself very much upset and did not
care to present herself to her husband in that state. After we had been
there a little while, Martí came unexpectedly. He was angry, naturally;
sought an explanation with me, and in consequence I have left his house
never to return."

"I knew nothing of it. Although I feel no obligation to give you any
satisfaction whatever, since there is a question between us to be
settled on other grounds, I will yet tell you that I did not speak one
word to Martí about the affair. It rests with you to believe me, or not.
But it certainly surprises me that after having had an explanation with
him, you should leave his house and now be talking with me as cordially
as ever."

"It is very simple. I did not speak one word about what I had just
heard."

"You have allowed him to suspect you of treachery?" he asked in the
greatest surprise.

"Yes, señor."

"And why have you done so?"

"For my pleasure."

He cast a hostile, suspicious glance at me, shrugged his shoulders, and
remained silent. I broke the silence after a moment.

"The pleasures of men, Castell, are as varied as their physiognomies.
However much you may have thought yourself in love with Cristina, I
believe I was more. I adored her with all my soul, with all the powers
of my heart. But to win her by treacherous means would, far from causing
me joy, be the worst misfortune that could befall me upon earth. I
should never sleep quietly again. I have made a cruel sacrifice, but I
have made it for love of her, for the peace of my conscience. The tears
that you see in my eyes now refresh my soul; they do not scorch it. I am
going away, going away for good. You will remain, and perhaps time may
bring it about that you can gain what I have so much desired; but
wandering upon the sea, alone on the deck of my ship, I shall be happier
than you. The stars of heaven shining above me will say: 'Be joyful, for
you have done right.' The wind whistling through the rigging, the waves
breaking against the sides will say: 'Joyful, joyful!'"

The light of the moon illuminated his face. I saw a smile gradually
spread over it.

"These same waves that will say such agreeable things to you will think
nothing of swallowing you like a fly some day. The winds will help them
finish the task, and the stars of heaven will be present with all
possible serenity. You are living in a profound error, Ribot. There is
no other happiness upon earth except in possessing what one desires."

"Although to get it you stab a friend to death from behind?"

There was a moment of suspense, but he presently said firmly:

"Although to get it 'twere necessary to walk over men."

"There is neither good nor evil, then?"

"In life the good of some is the evil of others, and it will be so to
the end of time. You may have seen some time a nest of swallows? The
little ones wait anxiously for the arrival of the mother; she comes
gently, opens her bill and, with loving care, feeds them one by one. How
interesting! How full of tenderness such a sight! But the insects that
have been destroyed and fall into the beak of the swallow to serve her
in feeding her children--does the spectacle seem so tender and
interesting to them? On the other hand, you see a man go stealthily up
to another, knock him down with a blow, take the money out of his purse
and carry it away to his house to buy bread for his children. How
horrible! You shudder and hurry quickly away from such a scene. But why?
If you were an insect you would go along there buzzing joyously."

"But we are given a conscience."

"Conscience does not prevent us from being fatally fettered. You find
yourself in love with Cristina, the same as I am; both of us desire her.
You are held back by fear of remorse, but I pursue my undertaking with
no fears whatever. We both follow an instinct. Mine is more sane,
because it tends to augment my vitality, while yours tends to diminish
your strength. You need not laugh nor be so much surprised. Remorse in a
world where necessity rules is absurd. Think you that the heroes of
Homer and Aeschylus hesitated at fratricide or incest? Yet they were,
nevertheless, the most noble examples of human kind."

"I am far from opposing you in augmenting your vitality," I replied,
ironically; "but would it not be better that you seek a wife of your
own, rather than another's."

"Another's, another's!" he repeated under his breath. "That is
conventional, like all the rest."

He remained thoughtful for several minutes, looking out at the landscape
through the window. I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and
repugnance. Those blue eyes of his with their steely reflections
inspired me for the first time with a sudden dread.

"The virtuous? Draûpadî," he began saying slowly, without taking his
eyes from the scene, "one of the most interesting heroines of antiquity
had five husbands, all brothers. Those heroes enjoyed her love in
common, without dishonor or remorse. If we lived in like simplicity, to
aspire to Cristina would be moral and plausible; we should be offering a
woman two new protectors. Why does it cause you so much horror to share
a woman with a friend? The world began in that way and will end in that
way."

"It may end as it chooses!" I exclaimed. "Now and evermore, it will be a
sin voluntarily to cause pain."

"Don't be a child, Ribot," he replied with his irritating
self-sufficiency. "There is only one undeniable truth in this world, and
that is the common impulse of plants and animals, insects and man. In
the serene region where life abides, everlasting life, sorrow and death,
signify nothing. The one supreme end of the universe is to augment the
intensity of this life."

I did not respond. I remained thoughtful and silent in my turn for some
time, gazing out of the other window at the road. At last I saw the
first houses of the suburbs.

"Will you have the kindness to ask the man to stop?" I said; "I wish to
get out here; and to-morrow I leave Valencia without fighting with you.
Attribute this to cowardice if you like. It will be a new sacrifice for
me to make on the altar of my love, and to the friendship that I owe
Martí. I do not aspire to be a Homeric hero like you, nor dream of
leaping triumphantly upon the bodies of my enemies. Will you stop?"

He gave me a big, contemptuous stare, and pulled the cord, saying
coldly:

"I don't know whether or not you are a coward; but I can tell you on the
spot that you are one of those people who are self-deceived, and live in
delusions concerning themselves and the world about them."

The cab stopped. I opened the door and stepped out upon the ground.

"_Adios_, Castell," I said, without giving him my hand. "You may seek
that happy region which I do not desire to know. I will remain in this
other that is more sorrowful yet more honorable."

He shrugged his shoulders without answering, and turned his eyes away
from me disdainfully, as he again pulled the cord. Then he leaned back
comfortably. The carriage departed, and I began walking slowly towards
my hotel. I followed the white highroad whereon scattering houses now
cast shadows, until I reached the city's streets, and lost myself in
their labyrinth.

In the Calle del Mar I found myself in front of the house of Cristina.
On her bedroom balcony grew a rose-mallow. I made sure that nobody saw
me, then I climbed up to it and picked some of its leaves. I went to the
hotel, and up to my room, and was soon sleeping sweetly with those
leaves held fast in my hand.




CHAPTER XVI.


Once more the sea! Port traffic, the noise of loading and unloading,
troublesome business in the consignees' office--afterwards lonely,
tranquil hours lulled by the songs of the sailors and the murmur of
waters against the keel! I did not let my dream of love weigh down my
soul. At the end of several months, it remained a tender and poetic
impression which gave reality to my existence. Yet when one night we
passed Valencia, and I saw the lights of Cabañal shining in the
distance, I was surprised to find myself singing on the bridge in a low
voice the farewell from "Grumete"--

    "_Si en la noche callada_
     _Sientes el viento!_"

And, without being able to help it, my eyes filled with tears like a
sentimental female. But that soon passed, and I soon recovered the
joyous mood which seldom, thank heaven, forsook me.

I heard from a friend in Barcelona that Castell had married Isabelita
Retamoso. Much good may it do! I learned from the same man that the
steamship company, Castell and Martí, had gone to pieces, and that both
partners were involved in a ruinous lawsuit. On hearing that, I could
not refrain from exclaiming with exquisite delight:

"Ruined, it may be! but dishonored, no!"

My friend stared at me surprised, and it cost me not a little to evade
an explanation. Did not some self-satisfaction enter into my pleasure? I
am almost sure it did. I do not give myself out for a saint, and not
even the saints are able to get rid of self-love entirely. At last, on
my return from Hamburg, after one of my voyages, I found in Barcelona a
letter that had been waiting for me several days. It was from Martí,
although written in another hand. He told me that he was very ill, and
in trouble, and invited me in extremely affectionate terms to come and
make him a visit if it were possible. He did not explain what his
troubles were, nor allude in the least to the misunderstanding that had
been between us, perhaps not to let his amanuensis into our secrets; but
the whole letter breathed of his hearty desire to be all right with me
again, and to make me forget my unhappy departure from his house.

I took the train immediately for Valencia. I entered the city at
nightfall, one year and three months after leaving it. I went to the
hotel where I had then stayed. The hotel-keeper received me with cordial
demonstration, and told me, without my asking, many details of the
lawsuit between Castell and Martí. Martí was ruined. He had lost his
directing share in the steamboat line, in which his partner still
remained. Following that, to reimburse himself for capital loaned,
Castell transferred Martí's credit. The creditors sold all his property
at auction, including that at Cabañal and the house in the Calle del
Mar.

"If, in spite of all this," said my host, "Don Emilio enjoyed good
health, he could easily get up again, for he is young and he has a great
head for business. But the poor man is very ill, very ill. I have not
seen him for some time, but by all that I hear it is his last sickness."

These words made me very sad. It was dinnertime; but, although I went
and sat down at table, I could scarcely take a morsel of food. I went
out afterwards, intending to go to the house of Martí--he was living now
in an apartment in the Calle de Caballeros. Before arriving I turned
about, fearing to disturb him at that hour, or cause him any emotion
that might hinder him from resting well. I directed my steps to the
residence of his brother-in-law, Sabas, that he might prepare Martí, or
at least advise me when it would be best for me to go to see him.
Sabas's plump wife, as lively, busy, and sweet as ever, received me with
her usual affability. Her idolized husband had gone out.

"He is at Emilio's house?" I said, as the natural thing.

"No, I believe--" she hesitated. "You had better go to the theatre.
Maybe he is there. As the doctor found Emilio better to-day, he said
that he would go and celebrate."

She blushed as she uttered these words. I showed no surprise, in order
not to increase her confusion. After kissing my old friends, her
children, I went off to the theatre that she named in search of their
elegant papa.

When I entered, the play had already begun. I took up a position in a
corner behind the stalls and scrutinized the theatre. I was not long in
seeing him in his place in a proscenium box. These boxes in the
provinces, as in the capital, are the sacred spots, whence the superior
beings of each locality radiate their splendors. Accustomed to lay down
the law for the multitude, the gilded youths who meet there, converse,
argue, smoke, and yawn, firmly convinced that they have no duties to
fulfil towards the masses, those who listen placidly from the stalls.
They dwell separate like the gods of Olympus, in conscious enjoyment of
their perfections and their power, grinning at the actors, tossing
compliments to the actresses, and from time to time talking in loud
voices with their kind in the opposite boxes, over the heads of the
rabble of the unfashionable.

Sabas belonged to the ruling caste, although his face showed none of the
marks that characterize it, neither the flabby flesh, the pallid skin,
nor the loose mouth, signs of the life of self-indulgence.

His dark, sunburned face, peeled in places, offered rather an extremely
industrious aspect. It would not have been strange if he had arrived
that same night from Madagascar or Java, after enriching himself in a
caoutchouc expedition. This was doubtless the opinion of the contralto
of the company (much richer in avoirdupois than in voice), to judge by
the timid admiration and the blushes wherewith she received his ardent
compliments every time that the exigencies of the piece obliged her to
go near his box. I sat down in one of the _butacas_ and waited for the
fall of the curtain. I confess that I was less interested in what was
going on on the stage than in the play that was revealed between the box
and the footlights. Sabas, leaning his chin in his hand with a purely
Oriental languor, fixed his gaze of serpent-like fascination upon the
contralto. She, overcome with an irresistible terror, made efforts to
flee from that glance and escape. In vain. In spite of herself, even in
the most important scenes and against all the demands of the play, she
would break abruptly away from the tenor in a love duet and turn towards
that tropical and fascinating man of the quivering nostrils. She
listened with eagerness to his voice vibrating like a cry in the
desert, hoping ever that he would end by offering her fifty elephants, a
necklace of pearls, and the heads of three rajahs, his enemies.

When the act was ended I went without delay to the box. Sabas received
me with the grave indifference which, in all perfectly cultivated
countries, expresses elegance. I explained my wishes at once. He
accepted them benignly; disdaining his conquest, secure like all heroes
of arriving always in time to conquer, he took his hat and we left the
theatre. We walked for some time in silence. I felt my heart oppressed
with sadness wherein I perceived with alarm a certain anticipation of
something pleasant. This something could be nothing else than the
presence of Cristina. Yes, I recognized it with shame; yet in that sad
hour it absorbed me more than anything else in the world.

Sabas stopped after a time, took his pipe from his mouth, and, looking
at me attentively some moments, remarked solemnly:

"You see how it is, friend Ribot. The madness of my brother-in-law has
carried him to the extreme that I have prophesied so many times."

"Poor Emilio!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, poor indeed. At present he hasn't a peseta, nor anybody who will
lend him one."

"The worst of all is, according to what has been told me, his illness is
very serious."

He found nothing to answer to this. After a while he again took out his
pipe and paused.

"Does it seem to you, friend Ribot," he exclaimed in indignant accents,
"as if a man with a family has the right to throw away his capital
according to his own caprices and reduce that family to destitution?"

I shrugged my shoulders, without knowing what to answer, suspecting that
Sabas included himself among the most important members of that
suffering family.

He put his pipe back between his teeth, and having, doubtless, thus got
himself in connection with his electric current, contrived to move
onward. He was not long in interrupting it, by taking out the pipe
again, spitting, and going on talking.

"I understand perfectly how a bachelor can dispose of his means as he
pleases; how, getting up some morning out of humor, he could go out on
the balcony and toss over everything that he owns. At most there is only
himself to pay for the consequences of his whims. But when a man who is
not alone in the world, who has assumed sacred obligations to fulfil,
throws himself into senseless speculations and wastes an important
property, his conduct seems to me not merely imprudent, but also
immoral."

I did not doubt that Sabas included among these sacred obligations that
of providing him with means to submit to his own fascinations all the
sopranos and contraltos who presented themselves on the Valencian
horizon; and not to say anything impertinent, I determined to hold my
peace. In this manner, using his pipe like a manipulator of an electric
machine to retard or hasten his fancy, and slopping over in a torrent of
critical wisdom, we reached at last the house where his brother-in-law
lived. It was not so sumptuous as that in the Calle del Mar, but new and
elegant. We mounted to the apartment on the second floor, which was the
one that Martí occupied, and rang. Regina, the old _doncella_, came out
to open for us, and on seeing me could not refrain from a cry of
surprise.

"Oh, Don Julian!"

"Silence!" I exclaimed, putting my finger on my lips.

Next, I seized upon my god-daughter, taking her in my arms and silently
covering the child with warm and tender kisses. But she did not receive
them in the silence that was to be desired. Frightened by my beard, and
perhaps pricked by it, she began at once crying to heaven.

I heard the voice of Cristina.

"Who is there?"

And she appeared from the end of the corridor. On seeing me, she paused
for an instant, then immediately came on to me, holding out both hands
with an affectionate gesture.

"Oh, Captain! My poor Emilio is dying!"

I saw her eyes cloud with tears. I pressed those beautiful hands that I
held, and murmured some words of hope. Perhaps her fears were
exaggerated. Emilio had always enjoyed good health; but this sort of
temperament bore disease for many years. I asked if it were possible to
see him at that hour, and, having been answered affirmatively, made
ready to go in. Cristina would not let me enter until she had first
prepared him. He was very nervous, and a sudden emotion might injure
him. While she was gone to perform this gentle duty, Sabas improved the
opportunity to give me his hand, dark as an Asiatic colonial's, in
good-by and departed with his energetic characteristic importance.
Through the door that still stood open I saw him go down the stairs
carrying in his ardent glance desolation and tears for the contralto.

"Come in, come in this minute!" It was the voice of Emilio, a little
hoarse, but as vigorous as ever. I hastened towards the place whence
came the sound, and entered a room where the luxury of the furniture was
in contrast with the modesty of the things in the rest of the place. He
was reclining in an arm-chair with two cushions at his back, wearing an
elegant dressing-gown. The light of a candle fell on his face, where I
could see very clearly the fatal signs of tuberculosis. But that face
was beautiful, more beautiful and more interesting than any I had ever
seen. The hair of head and beard was longer; this with the whiteness of
the skin and the great, black, melancholy eyes made him look like the
Nazarene. Those eyes shone at sight of me with a frank and cordial
expression. He took my hand and, pressing it affectionately between his
own, said several times in a low voice:

"Captain! Captain! Captain! How good you are!"

I found myself too much moved to speak.

"How do you find me? In a very bad way, don't you?" he asked at last,
after a long silence.

"I hope I shall see you better soon," I answered, making an effort to
control myself and hide the emotion that mastered me.

At the same time I took the candle, and bringing it nearer his face,
pretended to examine it with close attention.

"Do you know what ails you?" I asked. "It's _morriña_!"

"What is that?" he asked, opening his eyes wide.

"It is an illness that attacks the Galicians when they lose an amount
exceeding fifty centimos."

I saw a smile steal over his lips and, glancing gayly at his wife, he
exclaimed:

"The same as ever! He doesn't seem to me a bit changed--no!"

I understood that the kindest thing I could do at that moment was to go
on joking. I plucked up my courage and unlocked my stock of
buffooneries, although they can't be called very witty. Soon I had the
pleasure of hearing him laugh heartily. His face brightened, his eyes
shone; in a few minutes we were chatting together with the same gayety
as if he were perfectly well and had not lost a centimo of his capital.

Cristina watched us with a melancholy smile. She was happy in seeing her
husband so cheerful, although she knew that this could not last long.

And, indeed, a violent attack of coughing soon came to interrupt most
sadly our chat. He became livid and half-stifled, holding his head
between his hands.

"The chill of the night air is bad for you. It is the chill of night
that brought it on, Emilio," said Cristina. "It is time for you to go to
rest."

He lifted his hand, making lively signs of negation with it. When the
attack subsided, and he could speak, he exclaimed:

"No, don't take him away from me! I feel much better. The captain is a
mouthful of oxygen. He brings me the good sea air."

I stayed half an hour longer, to please him. At last I went, not before
promising to return early the next day. I did not wish to go in that
night to pay my respects to Doña Amparo. I had already had notice from
Sabas that she had taken up a fashion lately of fainting away at sight
of any friend whatsoever. As the hour seemed to me unseasonable for such
an organic phenomenon, I deferred it until another more suitable.

Cristina came with me to the door.

"How do you find him?" she asked, fixing an anxious look upon me.

"I don't find him well. But while there is life, who knows? who knows?"

Nobody could help knowing. She also knew; but the unhappy lady sought
some way to hide the truth from herself.

I went away with my head in a whirl, and my heart torn and rent. The
force I had used to appear cheerful upset my nerves, and I could not
sleep. Poor Martí! Never had he seemed to me more hearty, more innocent,
more worthy to be beloved. Not one word, not the most insignificant
allusion to the treacherous actions of his friend Castell, nor the
inhuman manner in which he had ruined him. And in the days following it
was the same. His soul not only knew how to avoid filth like the feet of
ladies, but did not believe in it.

I wrote to our shipping house to say that, for reasons of health, I
wished to stay on land during the next voyage, and constituted myself
companion and nurse to my unfortunate friend. I was seldom away from
him. When I left him I saw a sadness in his eyes so sincere that I
wished to stay. Every day he lost strength; I saw that he grew
constantly weaker. He began to have cruel stiflings that threatened his
life. While they lasted I fanned him, and Cristina bathed his temples.
But when he came out of these attacks like a man who has succeeded in
escaping an imminent peril and unexpectedly finds himself safe and
sound, he would be talkative and gay, assuring us that very soon he
would be able to go out into the streets and take up his business again.

His business! Neither illness nor ruin had been able to uproot his
passion for projects and his liking for great industrial enterprises.

"If you could guess, Captain, the idea which I have had for days in my
head!" he said to me once, looking at me with his candid eyes and
pushing back his hair. "A grand project, and sensible, too, at the same
time. At fifteen kilometres from Valencia there is a river that can be
made to produce a waterfall of a thousand horse-power. Suppose that two
hundred are lost in harnessing it, there would still be eight hundred,
which, well distributed, would move almost all the industries of the
city and give light to it all. Manufacturers and the city would save an
enormous amount, and to become the owner of that waterfall would be a
brilliant stroke of business. Because, as you can see----"

Here he took a paper, drew out a pencil, and set himself to scheming
with figures with as much enthusiasm as if the operatives were already
installing the great electric machine that was to distribute power to
all the factories of Valencia, with so many horse-power and such and
such qualities as if he had the magazine in the house.

Cristina and I exchanged a look over his head, and we knew not what to
say. Formerly this passion had been his peril. Now it seemed to console
him. So, not to go against him, we followed his fancy, and praised his
project to the skies. This made him so happy that his cheeks burned and
his glassy eyes shone with pleasure. Cristina could not control her
emotion, and hastily left the room. I went on admiring the project
warmly, so that he would not notice her going, and went so far as to
promise to invest my small capital in the enterprise. With this his
gayety came to an end. Quickly changing his expression, he pressed my
hand, and, looking at me sorrowfully, exclaimed:

"No, Ribot, no! Although the affair is all plain enough, there might be
some bad luck. I will not risk your capital!"

"There would not be any risk," I replied; "I would gladly put it in,
because it seems to me that this is a sure thing."

"Absolutely sure!" he said, with the accent of unquenchable conviction,
which at another time would have made me smile. "But I won't give you
any shares in it until it is under way and has begun to pay dividends."

Poor Martí! He was going fast. His cheeks fell in, the circles under his
eyes grew deeper; he passed his nights in coughing and his days in
torment between pain and choking.

The fainting fits of Doña Amparo grew constantly more frequent and
prolonged. Her sensibility became so over-excited by this, that the
fluttering of a butterfly was enough to throw her into a convulsion,
from which she could only recover by covering everybody's face, as of
old, with tears and kisses. As for me, being the friend most often at
hand, I received the greater part of these inundations.

Sabas came every day at eleven o'clock, before going for his usual
promenade to the café where he took his vermouth. If the doctor had said
that the invalid had less fever (and he often said it to encourage him),
this gave our dandy so much satisfaction that he could not do less than
celebrate by going to breakfast at the café, and then go off on an
excursion with friends of both sexes.

We saw the end approaching. As the fatal hour drew near, Emilio showed
himself less and less apprehensive, occupying himself constantly with
making calculations and planning out new schemes. Even in the middle of
the night he would beg for paper, and scratch down figures.

"Next week I think I shall be able to be out," he said to me one
morning. "There is nothing ailing me now. The pain in the kidneys is all
gone; my tongue is almost clean. If this cough that keeps me awake would
only leave me, I should be quite well. To-day I feel just like walking,
like taking a good long walk."

And he proved his words by getting up from his chair and taking several
steps.

"I am going to the dining-room," he said, opening the door; "see what a
surprise I am going to give Cristina."

And he walked down the passage. I stood looking at him from the
threshold of his room. When he had got about half-way, the poor fellow
toppled, and before I could get to him, fell his length upon the floor.
Several years have passed since then, and yet they have not been able to
obscure in my soul the shamed and melancholy smile he gave me as I came
to him.

"That's bad, Captain!"

I lifted him and carried him in my arms back to his chair. He weighed no
more than a child. Cristina, as well as I, reproved his imprudence, but
we readily convinced him that his weakness came from lack of
nourishment. If he would eat more his strength would increase rapidly,
and we should soon see him able to walk out in the garden as of old.

Although Cristina knew the seriousness of his condition, and made
herself no illusions regarding the outcome, I observed in her a sort of
ignorance or disregard which, at such a time, could not fail to make me
anxious. She thought certainly that his illness was unto death, but by
every word that came from her mouth I perceived that she judged the end
to be very far off. I could see that it was very near. And yet it was
nearer than even I supposed. On the day following his fall in the
passage, I went to see him between ten and eleven o'clock in the
morning. Contrary to his custom, he had not dressed. He said he found
himself a little fatigued from coughing. I cheered him up by calling him
only lazy, and sat down beside him. I found him indeed very feeble, and
looking very much discouraged. In spite of this he was chatty and
cheerful as always. At last he decided to get up, but before doing so we
decided that he should take a little cup of broth to give him strength.
Cristina went out to prepare it. A few moments after, the sick man had
an attack of coughing and choking that nearly overcame him. I did not
call Cristina, not wishing to alarm her, and began to fan him, as usual,
to give him air, hoping that he would quickly recover. Yet, without
knowing why, I felt more disturbed than usual. My heart beat violently,
seeing that pallid face, with its closed eyes and the opened mouth
struggling for breath. As the seconds went by, my anxiety increased in
like measure, and I reached my hand towards the bell-button. But at that
moment Martí opened his eyes and smiled sweetly. I calmed myself and
said:

"Now you are better! It has passed."

"Open the shutters. I can't see well," he answered me. These words
brought back my alarm. The shutters were open. Yet I made a movement to
go, to please him; but as I tried to leave him, he seized one of my
hands.

"Ribot, Ribot!" he cried, gazing at me with sightless eyes. "Do not
leave me! I am dying, do not leave me!"

He raised up, convulsively grasping my hand. His expression changed
quickly, his eyes glazed. His head rolled about as if it would be
disjointed, then he fell heavily backward. Horror and stupefaction kept
me a moment stunned, gazing at the floor. But recovering myself, I took
his head between my hands and held it against my breast, crying:

"Martí! my friend, my brother! Canst thou hear? In this world of
treachery there are few men left like thee!"

And I kissed that brow where had never fallen the shadow of a sinful
thought.

At that moment a hand touched my shoulder. I turned as if it had stabbed
me and saw her eyes straining wide with terror and her trembling form
that fell prone upon the ground.




CHAPTER XVII.


It is impossible to describe what took place in that house upon the
death of Emilio. Everybody adored him; to all he was like a loving
father, ready to sacrifice his own wishes for those of others.

The grief and woe of Cristina were so great that we feared for her life.
After a few days, however, it was necessary to think about business
matters. Those of Martí were so much entangled that his unfortunate
family was likely to become quite destitute. The only one to call upon
in regard to his affairs, as the nearest relation, was Sabas; but this
profound person, for whom the human heart had no hidden corners,
despised the prosaic details of existence. He lived like a god in a
state of perpetual joy, removed from the toils and anxieties that
afflict mankind. It was necessary that I grasp the reins. I begged
permission to do this, and took hold of the work with little knowledge,
but with illimitable interest and good will. At the end of six months of
hard work, struggling with creditors, lawyers, and clerks, I succeeded
in disentangling the snarl. The debts were all paid and a small income
was rescued for Cristina, sufficient to enable her to live comfortably
but without any luxuries. I breathed freely again, and enjoyed my
success as much as if I had brought through successfully some gigantic
undertaking.

The gratitude of Cristina was my sweetest reward. In a grave and
reserved way, as she did all things, she made me understand it
constantly. This gratitude, joined to the innocent caresses of my
god-daughter, who now began to prattle, calling me "Uncle Ribot," as if
I were of her own blood, fully repaid me for all my endeavors. All that
troubled me was to note with what scrupulous care Cristina reduced the
expenses of her house, and the straits she endured. I told her this care
was exaggerated--her income would permit her a little more leeway, but I
did not succeed in making her see it. After a while I came to understand
that her economy did not cause her the slightest pain. I thought she
rather enjoyed it, and by this means was saving up to add to the small
inheritance of her little daughter. Later I found out, not without
indignation, that these savings served to support the household of her
elegant brother. He had gone on applying the scalpel to all of our
actions. Persuaded after a while that neither the kindness of his sister
nor my business ability would henceforth provide him with means
sufficient to make the conquest of even one single chorus girl, he
decided at last to go to work, watching the bank in a gambling club.

None of her ancient splendors seemed to be missed by Cristina, as far as
I could ascertain, neither handsomely furnished rooms, nor carriages,
nor servants. The property at Cabañal alone excited in her a melancholy
regret. Only when we mentioned that did she become sad and pensive. This
was very natural. Her passion for the country, for a free and peaceful
life was strengthened now by the gentle memories that that estate kept
for her heart. There had fleeted the happiest hours of her life. After I
had observed this on a number of occasions, the thought was born in my
brain to try to buy the place. I quickly thought over the state of my
property. As I was a man of few wants, I could part with a third of what
I had, and there would still be enough left me to live upon. As soon as
I was convinced of that, every hindrance got on my nerves. I could not
rest until I had gone to Barcelona, where lived the banker to whom the
estate had been assigned, and had had a talk with him. Cabañal had gone
at auction for eighteen thousand duros. I soon saw that its present
owner would like to get it off his hands for the same money, then his
profits would not all be eaten up in the expense of keeping up the place
as it had formerly been. At last, after several conferences and enough
bartering, we agreed upon the contract and the deeds were passed, I
making him promise to keep the transaction a secret. Then I made a deed
of gift to my god-daughter of the property. With both documents in my
pocket and with my heart light with joy, I returned to Valencia. Before
taking possession of the country house it was necessary to buy, and
instal there, furniture as nearly as possible like that which the house
had had before. It cost me some labor, but I performed it with
inexplicable enjoyment. It is needless to say that where I laid myself
out to have everything perfect was in Cristina's own room--her
_tocador_. By means of untiring search I was able to find some of the
same pieces of furniture that had been there before, and I bought them;
others I ordered copied, and they turned out very like. As soon as all
was ready I took possession of the place, cautioning all persons who had
served me, and the gardener, too, not to let the matter get noised
abroad before it was time to open the house.

The birthday of my god-daughter arrived. Several days before, I had all
the furniture put in place in the country house, and I took pains to see
that all was placed as nearly as possible as it had been formerly. I
knew so well every arrangement of that house that it was not difficult
for me to make it look very homelike. Cristina's room took a good deal
of time, for I aspired to have it lack not one detail. The furniture,
the curtains, the articles on the dressing-table, even the coverlet on
the bed, had been restored or copied with utmost exactness. On the
birthday I carried my god-daughter a fine toy in the morning, promising
her another for the afternoon. And for the afternoon I invited her, with
her mamma and Doña Amparo, to take an excursion into the country, to
picnic in some secluded spot, to celebrate that memorable date. The
coachman, previously instructed by me, drove us about for a time, then
brought up in the neighborhood of Cabañal. There I made him stop and
said:

"Señoras, I don't know whether I have committed an indiscretion. If I
have, I beg your pardon beforehand. Knowing Cristina's passion for
Cabañal, I have had our picnic prepared there. I am a friend of Puig,
who bought it, and when I was in Barcelona he gave me permission to go
into the house, and to take as many people with me as I liked. I repeat,
you must forgive what I have done, if you do not approve of it."

Doña Amparo declared it very nice, and was joyful to the soul at
visiting once more the place that had always pleased her. But Cristina's
face was something to behold. She had never let me see it so forbidding.
She controlled herself, however, in silence; and I, taking no notice of
her annoyance, ordered the coachman to go on. The gardener and his men
played the drama of receiving us as guests, and conducted us to a
glorieta where I had had the table spread. Before our picnic, I invited
them to take a little walk, but Cristina refused emphatically, affirming
that she had hurt her foot. As Doña Amparo did not care to leave her
alone I went with my god-daughter; the little one and I amused ourselves
by running and frolicking about in those shady avenues. When we returned
I observed that Cristina's eyes were red and that her mamma was drooping
with evident intentions of popping off.

But I did not care to go into any of that. Joyful and merry as I had
never been, I began to open the baskets and distribute their contents,
aided by the little girl and the man who had brought them from the
hotel. By a great effort, and to conceal her suffering, Cristina took a
few, but very small, mouthfuls. Doña Amparo, however, ate heartily. But
Julianita, the little one, and I knew how to do our duty. To finish off,
I opened a bottle of champagne. Then, standing up and taking my
god-daughter on one arm, I swung the glass high with the other,
exclaiming:

"To the health of Julianita! To the health of my little girl!"

I drained the glass, then gave the baby the drops in the bottom.

"I promised thee a present for this afternoon, and thou shalt see that I
keep my promise. Thy present is this estate, of which thou hast been
despoiled. I bought it for thee some days ago. Receive it, my daughter,
with this tender kiss which I place upon thy cheek, and may heaven bless
thee with many and happy days!"

Cristina rose up from the bench, pale and trembling.

"Captain Ribot! It cannot be!" she cried in a choking voice.

"Here is the deed of the property, and here is the deed of gift," I
answered, presenting the documents.

"But my daughter cannot accept such an enormous sacrifice!"

"I have few necessities and no near relations. The law gives me the
right to choose my heir. I have already chosen her," I added, placing my
hand on the curly little head of my god-daughter.

She remained quiet with her eyes fixed upon the ground. At last she went
out of the glorieta, and without opening her lips started towards the
house. I followed her at a distance, leaving the fainting form of Doña
Amparo to the care of the child and the servant. I observed that she
walked faster and faster. When she reached the door she was almost
running. She paused a moment, kissed the wall, and entered.

I followed her as she went about the rooms; I heard her exclamations of
delight, and even saw her go into her own room. At sight of that, a cry
escaped her, and she fell sobbing upon the white-wood bed.

I went over to her and said:

"This room holds yet within its walls the perfume of a sacred and
peaceful life. The furniture had been scattered through the city; and
these pieces, that could claim nobody as one master, on finding
themselves together again will speak to you, Cristina, in the sweet and
mysterious language of their souvenirs. I consider myself happy in
having restored them, and happier yet in having worked for so many days
to arrive at this moment."

She rose from the bed, and, holding out her hand, said to me in a
trembling voice:

"Thank you, Ribot, many thanks. You are indeed a faithful friend to us.
God will reward you for all the good you have done, for I can never
repay you."

I was moved to the depths of my soul by those simple words.

"Cristina," I replied, "I accept the title that you so nobly bestow upon
me. I have been a loyal friend to you and to Emilio; I have watched over
his interests and his honor with ceaseless care. But I have watched over
my thoughts with even more diligence; because thoughts are restless
things, and might, against my will, go straight away and annoy you. I
have nothing to reproach myself with. I have always loved you as I love
you now, with the respect that divine beings inspire. But in spite of
all my efforts to stifle it, a strong desire lifts itself in my soul,
and I feel that I shall never find peace if I do not suffer it to live,
or at least need not kill it. Forgive me, Cristina, for the question I
am going to ask. But may I not hope that some day you will call me by
another name than friend?"

She remained grave and silent, looking down at the floor. Then she sat
down in a chair near the candle-stand, leaned her elbow on the little
table, and her head in her hand, and there she sat in a thoughtful
attitude. I knelt down beside her and let myself hope.

"Get up, Ribot," she said, giving me a sad and affectionate glance. "It
causes me pain and almost shame to see at my feet the man who sweetened
the last hours of my husband, who has sacrificed himself for me, and his
fortune for my daughter. My heart tells me that this man should not be
refused my very life if he asks it. But do you not think, Ribot, that
there is something between us that ought to stop us, something that
would overshadow the happiness that you have a right to? Remember the
circumstances when we first knew each other. Examine the secret impulses
that brought you to this place, those that you have felt since, your
struggles, your thoughts, your joys and pains during these three years
and a half. And tell me frankly if you do not imagine that conscience
would not whisper to us that we had not acted with perfect delicacy. I
believe it would; and I think I know you well enough to know that it
would be enough to disturb the serenity of your life. This is what I
hear speaking within my secret heart. While it is there, do you not
think that if we were united there might rise in our world an infamous
suspicion that would wound, even in his grave, our cherished one?"

I understood the truth of these words and my heart sank. The tears
rushed to my eyes. I hid my face in my hands to conceal them.

"What? Do you weep, Ribot?" she exclaimed, leaning her head upon mine.
"No, in God's name! no, do not weep, my friend! I have no right to cause
you the slightest pain. I will do as you wish."

I shook my head and answered:

"Let me weep for a moment. It will pass."

My tears fell abundantly. When I lifted my head I saw that they were
also streaming down her cheeks. I stood up and, drawing out my
pocket-handkerchief, said smiling:

"Do you see! It's over! Sadness and I were never very constant friends."

Then she took my hands and, pressing them warmly, looked into my eyes,
exclaiming:

"Yet, truly, I would not hurt you! After my husband, no man has ever
inspired me with so deep an affection!"

"These noble words not only give me strength to live," I answered, "but
they make life lovely to me. How many times, leaning on the bridge of my
ship, I have felt happy gazing at the shining stars! And why not now,
when I can see these sweet eyes, so frank and so serene? Let me see them
all my days, and I promise you I will always live in joy and peace!"




CHAPTER XVIII.


I kept my promise. Since then my days go on, happy and full of peace. I
fixed my residence in Alicante, but for long spaces of time, indeed
during almost half the year, I am in Valencia. And when I am there, I am
looked upon at Cristina's house not merely as a friend, but as a member
of the family. Nobody fails to show delight when I am seen arriving, but
most of all does my coming please my god-daughter, an enchanting little
girl of five years, with eyes as luminous as her mother's. As soon as
she hears my step, she comes running to meet me, laughing and jumping,
throws herself upon my neck, covers me with kisses, and pulls my beard
in a way to bring tears--of pleasure.

I can hear her voice on the stair at this moment calling:

"Uncle Ribot! Uncle Ribot!" While I stay in Valencia she comes to the
hotel for me every morning with her nurse. We go out together. We walk
about the streets and in the Glorieta. We go into the confectioners'
shops (Julianita knows all the best ones that are to be found in the
Hacienda) and buy sweets. We go to the flower-market and buy flowers.
And when luncheon time comes, we go to the house loaded with parcels and
sprays of flowers. The mamma comes and opens the door for us. Her
beautiful eyes shine with joy, and always glisten with gratitude.

There is nothing more that I long for. Secure in the affection of these
beings that I love, and in my own self-respect, I watch calmly the
fleeting of the hours. Snow has begun to show slowly about my temples,
but it does not touch my heart. Neither envy nor boredom enters it. And
if, as I have heard Castell say many times, life has no flavor, I am
persuaded that he does not know what it can give. For me it has a
delicate, exquisite savor. I am an artist in happiness. This thought
increases my pleasures.

And when inexorable death knocks at my door I shall not wait for him to
call twice. With firm step and tranquil heart, I will go to meet him,
and giving him my hand say:

"I have done my duty, and I have lived happily. Nobody has suffered
because of me. Whether I am led to a sweet eternal sleep, or to a new
incarnation of this impalpable force that fills me, I have no fear. Here
I am!"

But, no! it is not death that will in that moment knock at my door. It
is life, radiant, immortal, divine! From my opened window I feel it and
see it. The sun rises in the firmament and sheds its rays upon the
garden. The flowers, shining, exhale their perfume. This light and these
odors intoxicate me. Everything is riant, stirring, singing, in the
world that I behold from my balcony. Beautiful is life! Her fruitful
breath meets my own softly. What joy in the freshness of this springtime
morning! The birds among the boughs sing joyfully with melodious voices
in concert with the sunbeams.

But I would not exchange all their melodious voices for one that is now
calling me impatiently from the stairway:

"Uncle Ribot, I am waiting for you!"

"I am coming, my girlie; I am coming."

       *       *       *       *       *

Press of J. J. Little & Co.

Astor Place, New York

       *       *       *       *       *

The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext
transcriber:

He had also overcome the ill effects of the chill=>She had also overcome
the ill effects of the chill

The world bears it goal in it own existence.=>The world bears it goal in
its own existence.

irresistible impluse of his nature=>irresistible impulse of his nature

Si en la nocha callada=>Si en la noche callada

       *       *       *       *       *







End of Project Gutenberg's The Joy of Captain Ribot, by Armando Palacio Valdés