CHAPTER IX
A CHANGE OF HEART
GONZALO, after talking for some time with his bride-elect, left his seat, took three or four turns up and down the room, and seated himself by the side of Venturita, with whom he was always on good terms, for they liked laughing and joking together after they had once become friendly. The girl was drawing some letters preparatory to embroidering them.
"Don't come teasing here, Gonzalo; you know how badly I draw," she said, while the look that she gave the youth was so flashing and provocative that it made him drop his eyes.
"I am not so sure of that. You don't draw badly," he replied in a low voice that slightly trembled, as he bent his face down to the paper which Venturita had on her lap.
"Pure flattery. You will acknowledge that it might be better."
"Better—better—everything in the world might be better. This is good enough."
"You are getting quite a flatterer. I don't want you to make fun of me, do you hear?"
"I don't make fun of anybody, much less of you," he returned, without raising his eyes from the paper, and with his voice lower every minute, and evidently agitated. Venturita kept her eyes fixed upon him with a mocking expression, in which the triumph of satisfied pride was plainly visible.
"Come, then, you draw them, Mr. Clever," she said, as she passed him the pencil and paper with gracious condescension.
The youth acceded to the suggestion, as he ventured to raise his eyes to the girl's, but he quickly dropped them as if he feared their magnetism. He took the book from her lap on to his knee, put a piece of white paper on it, and proceeded to draw.
But instead of the letters, he began to sketch, with some skill, the head of a woman; first the hair parted in two braids, then the straight, pretty forehead, then a delicate nose, a pretty, short chin joined to the throat by a soft, graceful curve. It was wonderfully like Venturita. The girl, leaning on the shoulder of her future brother, followed the movements of the pencil, and a vain smile gradually overspread her face. After drawing the head Gonzalo proceeded to delineate the figure, and the peignoir, or dressing-gown, worn by the girl was soon reproduced; but he took some time drawing minutely the silk bows with which it was fastened in front. When the picture was finished, Venturita asked him in a mischievous tone:
"Now put underneath who it is."
The young man raised his head and their smiling eyes met. Then, quickly and decisively, he wrote under the drawing:
"The one I love best in all the world."
Venturita took the paper in her hands and looked at it with delight for some moments; then, with a pout of assumed disdain, she gave it back to him, saying:
"Take it, take it, you rude fellow."
But before it reached Gonzalo's hands Cecilia stretched out hers and snatched it from him laughingly, saying:
"What papers are these?"
Then Venturita sprang from her seat, as if she had been stung, and caught hold of her sister's hand.
"Give it up, give it up, Cecilia! Let go!" she cried, with her face aflame and distorted with a forced smile.
"No, I want to see it."
"You shall see it afterward; let go!"
"I want to see it now."
"Let be, child; let her see it. What does it signify to you?" said Doña Paula.
"I don't like anything being taken from me by force," Venturita cried, turning serious. Then realizing that she was losing ground, she resumed her smile, saying:
"Come, Cecilia, let go; don't be disagreeable."
"Don't make such a fuss! Let go yourself; you are hurting me."
"Who are you to snatch the paper from my hand?" she returned, and really in a rage. "Let go, let go, you ugly thing, you parrot nose, you fool! Let go or I will scratch you," she added, with her eyes flashing and her face distorted with rage.
Seeing her like this, the smile that had suffused Cecilia's face suddenly left it, and opening her large eyes, full of surprise, she exclaimed:
"Goodness, you seem mad, child. Take it, take it; I don't want it."
So she gave up the paper, which was crumpled in her hand, and Venturita, with her face still distorted with rage, tore it into a thousand pieces.
"In all the days of my life I never saw such a mad creature!" exclaimed Doña Paula in amazement. "Ave Maria! Ave Marie! Wherever did you get such a bad temper from, child?"
"It would be from you," replied Venturita sulkily, without looking at anybody.
"You shameless girl! If it were not for folk being here! How dare you answer your mother like that? Don't you know the commandment of the law of God? I will take you to-morrow to confess to Don Aquilino."
"Very well; give my regards to Don Aquilino."
"Wait a bit, wait a bit, you bad girl!" cried the señora, making as though she would rise to chastise her daughter.
But at that instant the figure of Don Rosendo, in his many colored dressing gown and silk tasseled velvet cap, appeared at the door.
"What is the matter?" he asked with surprise at the sight of his wife's excited state.
Suffocated with sobs, Doña Paula then proceeded to give him an account of his daughter's want of respect.
Don Rosendo thought it behooved him to frown severely and say in a solemn tone:
"You have behaved badly, Ventura; go and ask your mother's pardon."
We know that he was absent-minded, always absorbed in some idea, so this domestic episode only partially roused him from his preoccupation. Nevertheless, seeing his child obstinate, supercilious, and angry, he repeated his command with greater firmness.
"Come, daughter, go and ask your mother's pardon, seeing that you have been rude to her."
The girl made her usual scornful pout and murmured under her breath:
"As if I should think of doing such a thing!"
"Come, Venturita, what are you muttering there? Come, before I get angry."
"Do, do, Venturita; don't behave like that," implored all the needlewomen in low tones.
"Don't bother me. Will you leave me in peace?" she retorted, also in a low tone, albeit an angry one.
"Won't you do as I tell you?" now demanded Don Rosendo, with increased severity, "won't you?" But the girl sat silent and motionless.
"Then leave the room at once; get out of my sight!" stormed the father.
Venturita rose from her seat and, stiff and sullen, she made her way through the party, and left the room, slamming the door heavily behind her. Don Rosendo, after standing a moment motionless with his eyes on the door by which his daughter had made her exit, turned round and said:
"I am sorry to have to be so severe with my children, but sometimes there is no help for it."
The fierce expression soon faded from Belinchon's fine face, and was superseded by his habitual look of thoughtful abstraction.
"Gonzalo, if it is not troubling you, I wish you would come with me into my study," he said, turning to his future son-in-law.
The young man, who had several times started and turned pale during the last scene, was now filled with dismay, for he feared that the summons betokened nothing less than that Don Rosendo, having a suspicion of the inconstancy of his feelings, was now about to call him to account. So, with his head bent and very anxious, he followed Belinchon into the study, which was a spacious apartment, furnished with the luxury befitting a rich merchant—a massive table and cabinets of mahogany, loaded with parcels of books and papers, a velvet carpet, sofas upholstered with brocade, and a colossal silver inkstand. A quarter of the room was filled with a heap of little packets, wrapped in paper of various colors, which would puzzle anybody who entered it for the first time. Not so Gonzalo, or any intimate friend of the house. Those packages were full of toothpicks!
"How so?" the reader will ask.
Don Rosendo Belinchon, a cod merchant of such renown, a dealer in toothpicks as well?
No, Don Rosendo did not deal in toothpicks; he made them. And this not from any speculative motive, which would have been beneath him, but from a purely disinterested love of the thing. He had evinced the taste in early youth, but the assiduous occupations of his trade and the vicissitudes of his life had only hitherto permitted him to indulge his passion in a desultory way in leisure hours. But from the time he could leave his office to a few faithful underlings he gave himself up heart and soul to such a simple and useful amusement. In the morning at Graell's shop, in the afternoon at the saloon, in the evening at home, or at Don Pedro Miranda's, he was always working. His servant spent a great part of the day in preparing perfectly equal pieces of dry wood, from which his dexterous hand produced the queen of toothpicks.
And as he never rested from his work, not even on holidays, the production was so excessive that there were not enough purchasers in town, and when the heap reached from the table to the ceiling he was obliged to despatch packets of them to his friends in the capital. Thanks to the noble efforts of this clever representative of his trade, we can say with pride that Sarrio attained the level of the great capitals in this interesting branch of civilization, and that no other Spanish or foreign town could compete with it, for the house of every rich man, as well as every poor one, boasted a well-cut toothpick, irrefutable testimony of the cultured refinement of its inhabitants.
Don Rosendo signed to the young man to be seated on the sofa, which he did in visible agitation. Then the merchant proceeded to take a chair with an air of mystery, and placing himself opposite the youth, he gave him a dig in the ribs and jauntily said with a smile:
"Well, Gonzalito, and what do you think of this question of the slaughter-house?"
"The slaughter-house?" asked the young man, opening his eyes wide with surprise.
"Yes, the new slaughter-house; do you think it ought to be put on the Escombrera, or on the Plaza de las Meanas, or at the back of Don Rudesindo's houses?"
Gonzalo seemed to see heaven open and, smiling with pleasure, he replied:
"I think it would be very well on the Plaza de las Meanas. It is very open—very airy there."
Then seeing that a frown gathered on his future father-in-law's forehead, and that the smile suddenly left his face, he added stammeringly:
"I don't think it would be bad at the Escombrera either."
"Much better, Gonzalo; infinitely better."
"Maybe, maybe."
"But it must be, and I tell you plainly that to have it on the Plaza de las Meanas (this, mind you, quite between you and me) is an act of utter madness; an act of ut-ter madness," he repeated, with additional stress on each syllable.
"And this opinion of mine," he added, "is not, as you imagine, a thing of yesterday, or of to-day, but of all my life. From the time that I was capable of understanding anything I knew that the slaughter-house ought not to be where it is; in a word, that it ought to be moved. Whither? An internal voice always replied: 'To the Escombrera.' Before I was able to give any scientific reason I was as convinced as I am now that it was there that it ought to be, and nowhere else. Now that the discussion of the problem is at hand, I feel obliged to support this opinion, to communicate my idea to the public, and to give it the result of my meditations. If you have nothing to do, I will now read you the letter that I am sending to the 'Progress of Lancia' with this end in view."
And in effect, without waiting for Gonzalo to reply, he turned to the table, took up some sheets of paper that were upon it, put on his spectacles, and, approaching the window, he commenced reading the letter in a voice which betrayed his emotion.
The letter was written on business paper, large and ruled. All the letters that for years past he had sent to the "Progress of Lancia" and to other periodicals had been written on the same sort of paper, on both sides. He did not then know that the paper ought only to be written on one side for the press, but he soon acquired that valuable knowledge, as we shall see.
Don Rosendo Belinchon evinced a taste for writing communications to the press almost simultaneously with that for toothpicks; that is to say, it dated from his early years.
A great advocate of human progress, of reform, of all kinds of discussion and instruction, it was natural that the press should inspire him with respect and enthusiasm. Newspapers had always been an indispensable element of his existence. He subscribed to many, both national and foreign, because, being educated for commerce, he was well versed in French and English, and he never missed devoting a couple of hours to reading the journals even on the busiest days. These hours had increased during later years, at the expense of the codfish business. The delight that our hero felt in the morning, after taking his chocolate, in perusing the leading articles of the "Pabellon Nacional," the events of the "Politica," and the light news of the "Figaro," was so intense that the brightness of his face pervaded the atmosphere.
Like all men of wide and lofty views, he was not exclusive in his press proclivities. He liked a paper as a paper, a pleasant medium of the progress of human reason, or, as he better expressed it, as a "lofty manifestation of public opinion."
The opinions that each supported were secondary matters. He subscribed to papers of every opinion, and enjoyed them all equally. If he had any particular predilection, it was for venomous articles and paragraphs, for their way of saying one thing and conveying another, of twisting phrases in such a manner that an apparently innocent clause was an envenomed shaft, filled Don Rosendo with such delight that he went nearly mad with joy. Sometimes on reading in "La España" a paragraph in this style:
"Yesterday the circular of the Señor President of the Supreme Court to his subordinates appeared at last. We congratulate General O'Donnell, the president of the Liberal party, and Señor Negrete and the Democratic Government party on the colossal work that they have consummated in a few moments of lucidity," he would exclaim, waving the paper in his hand:
"What spite, Caracoles; what spite!"
This liking, or, rather, passion for the press, was not fruitless, as we have said. Even in his youth he had sent two letters to a weekly paper published in Lancia, called "Autumn," describing the annual festivities that took place in Sarrio in the month of September. These letters were read with profit and no little pleasure in the town, which encouraged him to write three more the following year, giving an account of the marvelous number of rockets that were sent off in Sarrio on the 13th, 14th, and 15th of the month, the beautiful illumination of the 16th, and the magnificent ball given at the Lyceum on the night of the 17th.
After tasting the sweets of publicity, Don Rosendo could not do less than indulge in them from time to time.
The least pretext sufficed for him to send a letter or a communication to the papers.
Sometimes he signed them with his name, at other times with some pretty pseudonym or anagram.
If the fisher-folk had a festival in honor of St. Telmo, Don Rosendo immediately wrote his letter to the "Progress of Lancia" or to the "Bee," describing the decorations, the bonfires, the mass, the procession, etc. If a banquet were given in the new school buildings on their inauguration, three or four days later the Lancian paper contained a letter publishing the speeches and improvised sonnets. If a bricklayer fell from a scaffolding, there was a communication from Don Rosendo asking for better protection for bricklayers who have to go on scaffoldings. If the son of Don Aquilino sang at a mass, there would be a letter from Don Rosendo describing the touching ceremony and praising the clear, musical voice and the serene appearance of the young priest. If the tides were high and strong and broke away some stones from the end of the pier, a letter; if the boats from Bilbao declined to take on board the pilots of Sarrio, a communication; if a harvest of maize were lost by the drought, a letter; if the prevailing winds were from the northeast, a letter.
In short, nothing happened on terra firma or in the atmosphere of the town worthy of mention without its being tackled by the clever, flowing pen of our merchant. How much work will the future historians of Sarrio be saved by this valuable material, accumulated by one of its most enlightened sons!
With advancing years Don Rosendo Belinchon's letters assumed a character less romantic, we won't say frivolous (for it would not be either correct or respectful to apply such a term to that estimable gentleman); but it was noticeable that the subject-matter was not so much the junketings and recreations of the townsfolk, but something that would tend, directly or indirectly, to forward their moral and material interests. The trades, the schools, the salvage from shipwrecks, the building of a church or a prison, were the matters that he now most frequently treated to his own glory and to that of his birthplace.
One of them, of vital interest for Sarrio, as he maintained, was the slaughter-house. He had not hitherto approached this question, because he knew that his opinion was at variance with that of a large number of his fellow-townsmen. But he considered "that the time had now come to express it without any perambulation or circumlocution."
The letter he now read, the first he had written on the subject, was addressed to the "Progress of Lancia," and it ran thus:
"THE SENOR DIRECTOR OF THE 'PROGRESS OF LANCIA.'
"Dear Sir—The attention now accorded to natural physical science, and especially to the science of hygiene, as the health of places as well as people depends upon it, in view of its great practical utility, the timidity of those who, influenced by an education as erroneous as it was deficient, condemned the study of these great problems, being cumbered with antiquated, dull ideas, is now happily vanishing under the powerful movement of the nineteenth century, rightly called the century of enlightenment."
Don Rosendo's style was always involved. He continued:
"Now that civilization, released from the obstacles that crippled the conscience and the mind, opens a vast field to all, by means of the press, to express our independent ideas and give them forth to the world, trusting in the friendship that you have always accorded me, and in the kindness with which the public has hitherto received the humble efforts of the pen," etc., etc.
After three or four more paragraphs in this perambulatory style (which the editor of the "Progress" always had to curtail) Don Rosendo went into the question, putting forward the slaughter-house, or, as he termed it, "the public massacre-hall," in all its bearings, so as to condemn its establishment on the Plaza de las Meanas in terms that left no room for doubt. The reasons given for the opposition were obvious. For one thing, the southeast winds, prevalent during the greater part of the year, would carry miasmic smells, etc.
For another thing, the difficulty of reaching solid ground for the cementing would cause an enormous expense, etc. The necessity of passing through the town with the cattle, etc. For another thing, the proximity of the houses, the bad effect on the mineral springs, etc.
In fact, Don Rosendo having given more than twenty reasons, in what he termed "a clear, succinct style," he added that they would be given more fully in the forthcoming letters with which he purposed "troubling the readers of the illustrious periodical."
When the reading was over, Gonzalo pronounced the reasoning incontrovertible, and Don Rosendo (with his spectacles on his nose) declared that there was no gainsaying it.
Having arrived at such a perfect understanding, they separated in a befittingly cheerful spirit. Don Rosendo remained in the library to copy his letter, and Gonzalo was about to return to the workroom; but before he left the apartment his future father-in-law called him back to say:
"Mind, not a word to anybody of this."
"Don Rosendo, I swear!" returned the young man, raising his hand in sign of protest.
The merchant, in an expansive frame of mind, continued:
"You will soon know something else which will be a pleasant surprise to you. It is an idea which came to me two months ago, and which I hope to carry out, God willing, very soon. Oh! it is a brilliant idea! It will make a radical change in Sarrio, you know!"
The mysterious manner, the serious, agitated tone of his voice, the look of triumph which fulminated from his eyes as he spoke, surprised Gonzalo not a little. Nevertheless, he did not dare to ask for explanations, and his future father-in-law let him go with a vacant smile.
CHAPTER X
TWO TRAITORS
THE party in the workroom was meanwhile still being entertained by Pablito's conversation, which was embellished by practical illustrations, in accordance with his versatile nature.
Venturita had not yet returned, and Gonzalo reseated himself by the side of his betrothed and began talking to her with undisguised embarrassment and timidity, for, being unaccustomed to hide his feelings, his treachery weighed upon his soul. Sometimes Cecilia raised her head to reply, and her clear, serene, innocent glance made him blush. To overcome his confusion he thought he had better tell her his love and devotion in more ardent terms than hitherto. Like all irresolute natures, in a time of exigency he took the worst course to give himself a moment's respite. Cecilia received the protestations in silence, without evincing the delight that women generally show on hearing expressions of affection from the one they love.
"You are very flattering to-day, Don Gonzalo. I don't like being spoiled," she said at last with a smile.
"But it is a pleasure to tell you what I feel," he replied in a choked voice.
"Well, it is a pleasure I do not understand," she returned sweetly. "The deeper my affection the less I like to speak of it."
"That is because you do not really love."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, in such a genuine tone of reproach that our young man was taken aback.
"Yes, yes; it is because you are naturally cold. The heat of feeling, like physical heat, can not remain long concealed; there comes a time when it rises to the surface like the lava of volcanoes. And of all sentiments, love is the one that can best burst the strings of the tongue. It is only really felt when one can say in every tone and in every manner possible, 'I love you.' What you said just now is absurd, for simultaneously with the birth of love in our hearts for anybody there comes the desire to express it; and to satisfy this desire is the greatest of all delights."
"It may be, it may be," she remarked in a doubtful tone. "Although I have not experienced it, I can well imagine it from what I suffer. But, Gonzalo," she added in a tremulous voice, "for God's sake don't measure my affection by my words. I can not, I can never say what I feel. There seems to be a sort of lump in my throat, and nothing comes but foolish things, insignificant remarks, when I should like to utter words of affection! Oh, it is a torture! It is being like a dog without a tail."
Gonzalo burst out laughing, and the girl, who had spoken more strongly than usual, turned red and bent her head.
"But nobody has cut out your tongue."
"In this matter you must consider that they have."
"Very well; you must express yourself in writing," and at that moment he turned his head quickly toward the door, which had been swung open.
It was Piscis. After muttering a "Good-afternoon," he took his usual seat in the corner, followed by derisive glances of the needlewomen, toward whom, for this and other reasons, he vowed eternal hatred.
After returning their mocking looks with one that was straight and fierce he remained silent for some minutes, but as his soul was burdened with solemn and profound secrets, and Pablito would not cease his attention to Nieves, he was boiling over with rage. After having whistled to attract his friend's attention, he ventured to disburden his mind in public at the risk of his confidences not being understood and appreciated by the feminine element of the party.
"What is it, Piscis?" asked Pablito, hearing the whistle.
"Do you know why Romeo is neighing?"
Then the needlewomen raised their heads in surprise, and Valentina, trying not to laugh, said to Teresa:
"Child, what is he saying?"
"Why does a horse neigh?"
"Because—"
Although she spoke in a low tone Piscis heard her quite well, and turning from Pablo, who had taken the question quite seriously, and wished to hear about this peculiarity of Romeo's, he said to Valentina in an angry tone:
"Will you be quiet, you chatterbox?"
These emphatic words were received with an explosion of laughter by the workers.
"Don't fuss yourself, Piscis; let them be. Well, you took Romeo out? I am glad of that."
"I harnessed him to the wagonette with Linda," returned the Centaur, with an angry look at the listening Valentina.
"If you could have seen—shiver my shins!—how he behaved! I with the whip, and he, thud, thud, against the dashboard. I returned to the stable and put on the kicking strap. Then I went out again. But what did the creature do this time? He got between the wheel and the traces, and then he began neighing. Dash me! I very nearly broke a lamp."
"I must get to the bottom of this," returned Pablito, profoundly interested, and leaving Nieves to go over to Piscis.
"I must think it over to-night," returned the Centaur, looking very grave, "and we will see to-morrow what we can do."
The two friends then lowered their voices and plunged into an animated private discussion.
Gonzalo was disturbed. He kept casting glances at the door, hoping every minute to see Venturita return. Nevertheless, the time went on and the girl did not appear. His abstraction so notably increased that Cecilia had to ask him the same question three times.
"What is the matter? Your thoughts seem to be wandering."
"It is so," he said, slightly coloring; "I recollect that I ought to write to London to-day on an important matter of business, and it is now about six o'clock."
Whereupon he took leave of his betrothed, of Doña Paula, and the rest of the party, and left the house.
Once in the passage he slackened his steps, and began looking round on all sides without seeing what he wished. Then, with bent head, he slowly and sadly descended the staircase and was about to raise the latch of the door when he thought the string by which it was pulled from upstairs shook. He stood a moment motionless. He again raised his hand to the latch, and again noticed the vibration of the cord. Then he turned back, looked up the staircase, and there above a pretty little face was smiling at him.
"Is it you?" he asked in a falsetto voice, his countenance suffused with joy.
"Yes, it is I," replied Venturita in the same tone.
"Do you want me to come up?"
"No," returned the girl, as much as to say, "Why do you ask, sir?" Gonzalo mounted the staircase on the tips of his toes.
"We must not stay here; we shall be seen," said Venturita, taking his hand and leading him along the passage to the dining-room.
There Gonzalo took a seat without leaving hold of her hand.
"I thought I was not going to see you again to-day. What a temper you have, child!" he said, smiling.
Venturita's face clouded.
"If they did not irritate me every minute, I should not have one."
"But recollect, it was your mother who reprimanded you," he replied with a smile.
"What?" she exclaimed passionately. "Why is my mother to annoy me every hour and every minute? If she thinks I am going to stand it she is greatly mistaken. She does not mind what that boor does; she will do anything for him. There is nothing but spoiling for him! Look here, Gonzalo, if you want us to be friends, don't interfere with me." And at these words, uttered in an angry tone, her eyes flamed with rage, and she gave a violent pull at her hand to release it. But this Gonzalo did not allow, and kissing it passionately several times, he said, laughing:
"But, my girl, don't be angry with me, who have done nothing. If I admire you, it is just because you are so hot-tempered. I don't like women who are milk-and-watery."
"Because you are so yourself," she replied, now calm and smiling.
"Don't believe it. I am not so milk-and-watery as you think. When I am angry, I am so indeed."
"Bah! Once a year!"
"Well, as I am so, I ought to like quiet, sweet-tempered women."
"You make a mistake; one always likes one's contrast. Fair people like dark people, thin people fat, tall people short. Don't I suit you because you are so tall and I so small?"
"Not only for that," he said, laughing and drawing her toward him.
"Why, then?" she asked, giving him a mocking glance.
"Don't you know? Shall I whisper it to you?"
"Why?" she insisted, keeping her eyes upon him.
"Because you are so very ugly."
"Thank you," she returned, with her face bright with gratified vanity.
"There is no one uglier than you in Sarrio; not in the whole world."
"You have seen uglier in the countries where you have been."
"I assure you, no."
"Holy Mother of Amparo! Then I must be a monster," she cried, accepting the flattering hyperbole of the words.
"Somebody is coming!" said Gonzalo, suddenly turning grave.
Venturita went to the door.
"It is only the cook passing," she said, turning back into the room.
"I think we are in danger here. Suppose your mother or one of the girls came in—or Cecilia" (he added in a low voice)—"what excuse could we give?"
"Something or other; that's a slight matter. But if you are nervous, we can go elsewhere."
"Let us go to the drawing-room."
"No, no; wait a moment. I will go first."
Then stopping at the door, and turning back, she said:
"If you give me your word to be good, I will take you to my room."
"On my word of honor," replied the young man with delight.
"No caresses?"
"None."
"Swear it."
"I swear."
"Very well; stop here a minute, and then come on tiptoe. Till we meet again!"
"Till we meet again!" said Gonzalo, taking one of her hands and kissing it.
"I see what it is," she said, pretending to be angry; "before you come you begin to break your word."
"I did not think that your hands were included in the promise."
"Above all things," she said, with severity in her tone and a smile in her eyes.
At the end of two minutes the youth followed her, found the door ajar, and entered. Venturita's room was like its mistress, small, pretty, and seductive.
There was a sandalwood bedstead hung with brocaded silk hangings and covered with a blue silk coverlet; an ebony cabinet inlaid with ivory, which formed a desk when opened; a comfortable blue velvet armchair; a toilet table and looking-glass, also hung with silk; a mirrored wardrobe of sandalwood, like the bedstead; and a few gilt chairs completed the furniture; and the room was as redolent of sweet perfume as the sanctum of an odalisque.
"Oh, this is better than Cecilia's room!" said Gonzalo.
"When did you see that?" asked Venturita.
"A few days ago she showed it to me; bare walls, with a few second-rate pictures, a curtainless bed, a common wardrobe."
"Well, if she doesn't have it as I do, it is because she doesn't care to. I certainly had to get around papa at first. But my sister is so—well, she is as God made her. It is all alike to her. Everything pleases a commonplace person, doesn't it?"
"In this room there is so much taste and so much coquetry, and that there always is about you."
"Why do you accuse me of coquetry, you silly?" she asked, in her old mocking tone.
"Because it is true, and quite right so. Coquetry, when not excessive, adds attraction to beauty as spice adds flavor to food."
"And so I suit your taste! Well, look here; although coquetry may give attraction, or flavor, or what you like, I am not coquettish. You at least have no right to say so. I say—it seems to me—"
"It is true; you are right; you are quite right. I can not call you coquettish, because the coquetry I was speaking of is quite different."
"Do me the favor to sit down, for I think you have grown enough—and let us leave abstract questions."
Gonzalo dropped into the chair the girl offered him, still under the spell of her brilliant, mischievous eyes. From the minute he entered the room he experienced a delight, half physical, half spiritual, which dominated his senses and his spirit. The perfume that he inhaled mounted to his brain, and the magnetic glance of Venturita hypnotized him.
"You did wrong in bringing me to your room," he said, as he passed his handkerchief over his forehead.
"Why?" she asked, opening and shutting her eyes several times, which were like stars at the close of a hot day in summer.
"Because I don't feel well," he returned, with the same smile.
"You really feel ill?" replied the girl, opening her eyes wide with an innocent expression.
"A little."
"Shall I call some one?"
"No; it is your eyes that hurt me."
"Oh, come!" she exclaimed, with a laugh, as if that were of no consequence; "then I will shut them."
"Oh, no; don't shut them, or I shall be much worse."
"Then I will go," she said, rising from her chair.
"That would kill me, my girl! Do you know why I am ill? It is because it kills me not to be able to kiss your eyes."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Venturita, with a burst of laughter. "How bad it must be! I am sorry not to be able to cure you."
"Will you let me die?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. Let me kiss your hair, then."
"No."
"Your hands."
"No."
"Let me kiss something of yours. See, you are doing me a lot of harm."
"Kiss this glove," said the girl, laughing, and taking one from the toilet table. Gonzalo seized it, and kissed it passionately several times.
The reader, who may have denounced Gonzalo in his heart as a disloyal, perfidious fellow, or at least weak, and maybe deserving the appellation of "a disagreeable character," as the critics say when the people in novels are not all as heroic and as clever as might be wished, must imagine himself in that little nest, as full of perfume as the chalice of a magnolia, with the youngest daughter of the Belinchons, dressed in a blue-ribboned peignoir, revealing a good part of her neck, like roses and milk, with her shining blue eyes on him, and a soft, melodious voice that moved his very soul, and if the girl gave him a glove, saying "kiss it," he must think whether he could refrain from doing so.
"You must calm yourself, Gonzalo," she said, with a smile that would have bewitched St. Anthony.
"Yes, yes."
"Very well. Now we must talk seriously and review the situation."
Gonzalo became grave.
"After what you said to me three days ago I did think that before now you would have said something to mama, or papa, or that you would have written. But no; you not only let the time slip by, so that things get worse every day, but I see that you are more affectionate and attentive to Cecilia than ever."
Gonzalo made a negative gesture.
"Yes; I saw you a moment ago through the keyhole of the room. Nothing escapes me. Now this is very bad if you don't love her; and if you do love her, it is treating me badly."
"Are you not yet sure that you alone possess my heart?" said the young man, raising his eyes toward her.
"No."
"Then yes, yes; a thousand times yes. But I can not treat Cecilia in a cold, indifferent manner. That would be very ugly. I prefer to tell her plainly and end the matter once for all."
"Then tell her."
"I do not dare."
"Then don't tell her, and you and I will have done with each other. Better so," returned the girl with impatience.
"For God's sake, don't speak like that, Ventura! I shall think you don't love me. You must understand that my position is awkward, strange, and terrible. To be on the eve of marrying an excellent girl; then without any quarrel whatever, without any warning of any kind, to suddenly say to her: 'It is all over. I can not marry you because I do not love you, and I never have loved you,' is the most brutal and hateful thing that has ever been known. Besides, I don't know how your parents will take my behavior. It is most probable that, justly indignant on her behalf, they will load me with reproaches and forbid me the house."
"Very well; marry her—and go in peace!" said Venturita, turning somewhat pale.
"That I'll never do. I marry you, or nobody."
"Then what are we to do?"
"I don't know," returned the youth, hanging his head in distress.
Both remained silent for some seconds. Then Venturita, placing her hand on his head, said:
"Think it over, man; think it over."
"You can't manage it. Come, then; go along, and leave it to me. I will speak to mama; but you must write a letter to Cecilia."
"Oh, my God! Ventura!" he exclaimed, full of anguish.
"Then what do you want—say?" asked the girl, now in a rage. "Do you think I am going to be made a plaything of?"
"If we could only manage without this letter," returned Gonzalo humbly. "You can't imagine the effort it will be for me. Would it not do if I left off coming to the house for some days?"
"Yes, yes; be off and don't come back!" she replied, taking a step to the door.
But the youth caught her by the tresses of her hair.
"Come, don't be cross, beautiful one; you well know that you have completely conquered and fascinated me, and that I will obey your every command, even to casting myself into the sea. I only told you my opinion—if you don't like it, I have nothing more to say. I only want to avoid hurting Cecilia."
"It is like your conceit!" exclaimed the girl, without turning round. "Do you think Cecilia is going to die of grief?"
"If she is not hurt, so much the better, and I shall be saved remorse."
"Cecilia is cold; she can not love or hate much. She is very good, and does not know what selfishness is; but you will always find her the same, neither happy nor sad. She is incapable of either giving or taking offense; at least, if she does take it, nobody knows it. What are you doing?" she added, turning round quickly.
"I am untying the ribbons of your tresses. I want to see your hair loose again. No sight gives me more pleasure."
"If that is your fancy, I will undo them. Stop," said the girl, who had reason to be proud of her hair.
"Oh, how beautiful! It is a marvel of nature!" exclaimed Gonzalo, putting his fingers in it. "Let me bury my face in it; let me bathe in this river of gold."
And so saying, he hid his face in the fair locks of the girl.
But it happened that a few minutes earlier, as the clock struck seven, the seamstress and the embroideresses had left off their work and prepared to leave. Before doing so Valentina was commissioned by Doña Paula to go to Venturita's room to fetch thence some patterns on the wardrobe. So she pushed open the door at the critical moment in which Gonzalo was bathing his face in that original manner. On hearing the sound he rose suddenly and stood, paler than wax. Valentina blushed up to her eyes, and said stammeringly:
"Your mother wants the patterns, those of the other day; they ought to be on the wardrobe."
"They are not on the wardrobe, but inside it," returned Venturita, without any confusion whatsoever.
And turning to the wardrobe, the girl opened a drawer and drew out a paper parcel, which she gave her.
"Stop a moment, Valentina," said Venturita before she left the room; "be so kind as to tie my hair, for I can not do it with this bad finger."
Then she showed that her finger was bleeding, for she had managed to scratch it when getting the patterns out. Valentina, still quite taken aback, proceeded to tie the ribbon.
"Yes, my hair hurt me, and on untying the ribbon I scratched it with the pin which fastened the bow. Poor Gonzalo could not manage to do it very well, eh?" she added, with a laugh.
"Oh, no!" said the youth with a forced smile, amazed at her calmness. The excuse, well conceived as it was, did not deceive Valentina, who was quite certain of what she had seen.
"Do you think she was taken in by that story of the scratch?" anxiously asked Gonzalo when the girl had left the room.
"Perhaps not, but I don't mind her; she is the most stupid of the lot."
Valentina took the patterns to her mistress, and then started to go home until the following day.
On crossing the hall she distinctly heard the sound of a kiss, and on looking in its direction, toward the dark room, she caught sight of the black and white checks of Nieves's dress.
"So this is the way the wind blows, is it?" she murmured, with that particular little frown that characterized her. Then she descended the staircase and passed into the street, where Cosme was waiting to escort her home.
CHAPTER XI
MEETING IN SUPPORT OF THE FOURTH ESTATE
THE 9th of June, 1860, ought to be recorded in letters of gold in the annals of the town of Sarrio, for Don Rosendo, supported by Alvaro Peña and his son Pablo, appointed the afternoon of that day to meet at the theatre for the discussion of a subject of vital (Don Rosendo would not for the world have omitted the word "vital") interest to the town of Sarrio and its suburbs.
Only four or five of the most intimate friends of the merchant were acquainted with the noble and patriotic project which had prompted the invitation; so, drawn by curiosity as much as by courtesy, those who had been asked arrived at three o'clock precisely, and many came to the meeting who had not received an invitation.
The theatre was packed quite full. The patrician townsfolk took possession of the boxes and stalls, while the plebeians repaired to the gallery. On the stage there was a writing-table, old and dirty, and round it were placed half a dozen chairs, neither new nor clean, for they served as furniture for any "poorly furnished rooms" in a play. The stage was still empty, although the theatre was full, and the whole house was almost in darkness, for what little light there was came through the dusty panes of a window at the back of the stage.
In time one's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and one could distinguish the people as they entered and proceeded cautiously along the line of boxes, so as to avoid knocking against anybody, touching the craniums of the occupants, in their search for vacant seats.
"There is no room here, Don Rufo."
"Is there no place?" asked the medical man with the vacant smile of the blind.
"No; go up to the stage boxes."
"Come here, Don Rufo; come here," cried some one in the front.
"Is that you, Cipriano?"
And after more pushing and struggling the newcomer managed to get settled. One arrival, more wide-awake than the others, lighted a wax taper, but instantly there arose voices from the gallery:
"Eh, eh! Cat's eyes, Don Juan! When you go at night to Peonza's house you don't have a taper then."
Don Juan hastened to extinguish it, to avoid the insults and shouts of laughter leveled at him by the idle crowd.
As time went on the hum of conversation grew deafening. The patronizers of the gallery expressed their impatience by stamps, cries, and shouts, while exchanging with each other, over the heads of the occupants of the stalls, jokes and remarks which were coarse in the extreme. It was a good thing that there were no ladies present.
At last four gentlemen appeared on the stage—Don Rosendo Belinchon, Alvaro Peña, Don Feliciano Gomez, and Don Rudesindo Cepeda, proprietor of the finest cider distillery. The four men took off their hats as they assembled on the stage. Silence suddenly reigned. Some of the audience—the minority—also took off their hats; the majority, more veiled in darkness, and more inclined to discourtesy, so prevalent in the gallery, remained covered. Don Rosendo and his friends smiled shamefacedly at the audience, and, to overcome the oppressive feeling of nervousness and embarrassment, they began talking to the occupants of the front row of stalls who were within sight. Alvaro Peña, more courageous by dint of his military experience, advanced to the front of the stage, and, giving an exaggeratedly familiar tone to his remarks, and aimlessly smiling like a ballet girl, said:
"Señores, my coadjutors are as anxious as myself for all persons of note in the audience to come up here, so that they may assist us with their support, eh? and with their knowledge, eh?—in short, that they may second us in the enterprise about to be inaugurated." The harbor-master pronounced his r's very much like j's.
The modesty conveyed by this suggestion was received with a murmur of applause from the assembly.
"Is not Don Pedro Miranda here?" asked Peña, now at his ease, and resuming the despotic military air peculiar to him.
"Here he is—here!" cried several voices.
Don Pedro, however, remonstrated with those who pushed him toward the stage.
"But, señores, why? What is the object? There are other people."
But there was no help for it. He was gradually pushed to the stage, and as there were no steps by which to climb, Peña and Don Feliciano Gomez pulled him up by the hands on to the boards.
"Now, Don Rufo, come up."
Don Rufo, the chief doctor of the town, after protesting a little, was also pulled up in the same way. And by the same simple means five or six more gentlemen arrived upon the stage. Each ascent was greeted with loud applause and a murmur of delight from the friendly gathering. The officer then seeing Gabino Maza seated in a chair by the wall, cried out cheerfully:
"Gabino, I did not see you! Come, man; come along."
"I am very well here," cried the huffy ex-officer of the navy, dryly.
"Shall I come down for you?"
Maza returned in a loud voice:
"There is no need."
"Come, Don Gabino, go up. Don't be idle. Men like you ought to be there. There is only you now to go up!"
And at the same time they tried to push him on. But all entreaties were in vain. Maza was as determined to remain in the box as the others were that he should leave it. Then Alvaro Peña came down after him, but after a long altercation he was obliged to retire defeated.
The stage was now almost full. More chairs were brought from the actors' dressing-rooms, the most aristocratic residents of Sarrio took their seats, and then ensued a consultation to decide who was to be the chairman of the meeting.
In this there seemed to be some difficulty in coming to an agreement, and the public gave signs of impatience. The majority was of opinion that the honor of sitting behind the pine-wood table was due to Don Rosendo, but he declined it with a modesty much redounding to his credit. At last, however, he took the chair, as he saw the public was getting tired; the applause was tremendous. Fresh and wearisome discussion ensued as to who was to open the meeting. Alvaro Peña, a man of impulse and action, finally took a few steps toward the curtain; and said in a loud voice:
"Gentlemen."
"Sh! Sh! Silence!" cried several voices, and silence reigned.
"Gentlemen, the object of this meeting is no other, eh? than for us to unite in the support of the material and moral interests of Sarrio. Some days ago our most worthy president informed me that they were deteriorating, eh? and that it was necessary to support them at all costs. Gentlemen, there are many questions at issue in Sarrio at this critical time—the question of the covered market, the question of the cemetery, the question of the road to Rodillero, the question of the slaughter-house, and many others; and I said to my worthy friend, the only means of solving these problems was to call a meeting at which all the Sarrienses could freely give their opinions."
"What?" cried a sharp voice from the gallery.
Peña darted an angry look in the direction of the sound, and as he was known to be a violent man, and had great, fierce mustachios, the fellow trembled in his skin, and did not venture to make a second ejaculation.
"My good friend, whose large heart and love of progress is known to all, said to me some time ago that he was of the same opinion, and that, moreover, he had a plan that he was anxious to lay before this illustrious assembly. Therefore we have called our friends of Sarrio to a public meeting, and here we are—because we have come."
This collapse produced an excellent effect on the audience, who laughed and clapped their hands good-naturedly.
"Gentlemen," continued the captain, encouraged by the sound of merriment, "I believe that what this place requires is to be roused from its state of lethargy to the life of reason and progress, eh?—to rise to the height of the progress of the century, to take stock of itself and its powers. Hitherto Sarrio has been a town under the sway of theocracy; plenty of nones, sermons, and rosaries, and no thought of the advance of its interests and the knowledge of anything useful. We must get out of this state, eh?—we must shake off the theocratic yoke. A place governed by priests is always a backward and a squalid place." (Laughter and applause, mingled with hisses.)
The officer spoke better at the conclusion of his speech, and even acquired a certain aplomb during his denunciation of priestcraft.
"May I be allowed to say a word?" cried a clear voice from a box.
"Who is it? Who is it?" asked the audience and the dignitaries of the stage of one another.
"It is Perinolo's son."
"Who?"
"Perinolo's son. Perinolo's son."
These words were repeated in a low tone all over the theatre.
Perinolo's son was a pale youth with large, prominent eyes. Nothing else was visible in the semi-darkness of the place, which was fortunate for him, for a good light would have revealed the crumpled front of his shirt and the disheveled locks of his hair, and the holes in his boots and his threadbare trousers would have been seen through the balustrade of the box. But all the people of Sarrio knew him from meeting him constantly in the street or at the cafés. I must say that, in spite of his appearance, he was a lad of gentle mien and disposition.
His father, Señor Maria el Perinolo, the boot-maker in the town, was quite an institution. He was one of the few old artisans who in the middle of the century still retained the jacket and large hat of former times. He was a Carlist fanatic, a member of all the religious confraternities; he told his beads in the afternoon as the bell from the Church of St. Andrew rang for prayer; accompanied by several womenfolk, he joined in the processions of Holy Week with its disciplinary garb and a crown of thorns, and he had under his care the Chapel of the Nazarene, in the Calle de Atras. This poor saint, who had never given anybody cause to speak against him (supreme testimony of honesty among the lower classes), brought up his own son, Sinforoso, and two others in the holy fear of God, and the strap, scourgings, penances on his knees, days on bread and water, ear-pullings, and blows, constituted the tender memories of Sinforoso's childhood.
As he grew from boyhood and youth he showed signs of having profited by his father's teaching. Perinolo made up his mind that the lad's vocation was not in the direction of boot-making, but of becoming a pillar of the Romish Church. Means, were, however, wanting to send him to the seminary at Lancia, so Don Melchor de las Cuevas, Don Rudesindo, and the parish priest spontaneously came to his assistance, and allowed the lad three pesetas a day until he could intone the mass. But at the end of the second year of theology these gentlemen received from the seminarist an elegantly expressed letter in which he stated that he did not feel called by God to an ecclesiastical career, and that rather than be a bad priest he would learn his father's business, or go to America; and it ended by entreating in fervent terms that he might be allowed to exchange theology for the law, for which he had a predilection, so as to modify the disappointment of his father. His benefactors acceded to the request, and Sinforoso finally became a pillar of the state instead of the church, as Perinolo had wished.
While pursuing his studies with marks of commendation from the beginning to the close, he contributed several articles to the daily papers, by which achievement he considered himself entitled to let his hair grow and wear eye-glasses. So that the licentiate returned to Sarrio with an aureole of glory befitting one who had won his spurs and still waged war in the press of the day. He attached himself to the most advanced Liberal party, which alienated him from his people. His father was greatly enraged with him, and it was only through his mother's intercession that he let him remain in the house. He never spoke to him or gave him a centime for his expenses, but merely let him sleep under his roof and partake of their scanty fare. At the end of a few months the youth's boots became shabby, and his clothes looked wretched; but the man of letters carried it off by the reserve and gravity of his physiognomy and the self-importance of his deportment. He spent the morning reading in bed, and the afternoon and evening in loud discussions at the café of what he read in the morning. The townfolk did not like him, but they respected his talents and dignity.
"Who asked permission to speak?" queried Don Rosendo.
"Suarez—Sinforoso Suarez," said the youth, bending over the rail.
"Then you have it, Señor Suarez."
The young man coughed, ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, leaving it rougher and more tumbled than ever, put on his glasses that he wore hanging by a string, and said:
"Gentlemen."
The quiet, impressive tone with which he said this word, the long pause that followed it, during which he fixed his glasses on his nose and looked at the audience in a superior way, inspired silence and attention.
"After the brilliant speech which has just been given us by Señor Peña, my respected friend, the illustrious harbor-master of this port [the captain, who had never spoken to Suarez more than three times in his life, bowed graciously], the assembly is quite convinced of the generous and patriotic feelings which prompted the promoters of this meeting. There is nothing so beautiful, nothing so grand, nothing so sublime as to see a town met together to discuss the dearest, highest interests of life.
"Ah, gentlemen, when listening just now to Señor Peña I imagined myself in the Agora of Athens, a free citizen, with other citizens, free as myself, discussing the destiny of my country; I imagined I heard the ardent, eloquent words of one of those great orators who adorned the Hellenic State. Why, the eloquence of my dear friend, Señor Peña, was like the overwhelming passion that characterized Demosthenes, the prince of orators, and like the fluency and elegance that distinguished the discourses of Pericles. [Pause, with his hand to his glasses.] He was bright and animated, like Cleon; deliberate and temperate, like Aristides; his intonation was quiet and precise, like that of Esquines, and his voice was pleasant to the ear, like that of Isocrates.
"Ah, gentlemen, I, like the eloquent orator who has preceded me on the subject, desire that the place which gave me birth may awake to the life of progress, to the life of liberty and justice. Sarrio! What sweet recollections, what ineffable happiness does this single word awaken in my soul! Here were passed the days of my childhood. Here my mind began to form. Here love made my heart palpitate for the first time. Elsewhere my mind has been enriched by the knowledge of science, and the grand ideas engendered by the study of law; here my soul has been nourished by the sweet and holy feelings of the hearth. Elsewhere my intelligence has been sharpened by polemics and the light of ideas; here my affections have been fostered by tender family love.
"Gentlemen, I will say it again, come what may, Sarrio is called to a great destiny. It has a right to be one of the first towns on the Biscayan coast, an emporium of activity and riches, by reason of the excellent position which nature has given it, a harbor second to none, as well as the integrity, industry, and the great gift of intelligence of its inhabitants."
[Bravo! Bravo! Unanimous and loud applause.]
The silence, caused more by surprise than any bad feeling, was now broken, and the "bravos" and applause continued without intermission. Never had the industrious, honest, intelligent people of Sarrio heard any one speak so fluently and eloquently before.
"That discourse was a revelation of the modern parliamentary style!" So Alvaro Peña said when the meeting was over.
The speech continued half an hour longer, amid the increasing enthusiasm of the audience, when one of the notabilities on the platform thought that his throat must be dry, and that it was time to give him a glass of sugared water.
The idea was communicated in an undertone to the president, who interrupted the orator with the remark:
"If Señor Suarez is fatigued, he can rest. I am going to have a glass of water sent him."
These words were received with a murmur of approval.
"I am not tired, Señor President," the orator replied gently.
[Yes, yes; rest. Make him rest. Let him have a glass of water. He will hurt himself. Let him have a few drops of anise.]
The audience, suddenly inspired with tender sympathy, manifested quite a maternal solicitude for Perinolo's son, who, inflated with delight, smiled on the audience and continued:
"Fatigue is fitting for valiant soldiers. Those who, like myself, are accustomed to the tribune [he had spoken a few times in the Academy of Jurisprudence in Lancia], do not easily become fatigued."
We must now say that Mechacar, a shoemaker, a neighbor, and a rival of many years' standing of Señor José Maria Perinolo, who had known Sinforoso from his birth, and had often given him two or three beatings with the strap, when on his return from school he annoyed him by calling him by some contemptuous nickname, was in the gallery with his hands resting on the rail, and his face, alert and attentive, on his hands. No enthusiasm shone in those eyes under the lowering brows, as in those of the others; but envy, hatred, and malice were visible on the countenance. When the honeyed words of his rival fell upon his ears he felt powerless to stand the farce, and he called out in a rage:
"Stop that rubbish, you fool!"
[Indescribable indignation of the audience. All eyes were turned to the gallery. Voices were heard saying:]
"Who is this brawler? To the prison with him! Out with the fool!"
The president asked with terrible severity:
"Are we in a civilized town, or among Hottentots?"
The question thus formulated produced a profound impression upon the audience. Suarez, slightly pale, and in an agitated voice, finally said:
"If the meeting desire it, I am ready to sit down."
[No, no. Go on! Loud and prolonged applause for the orator.]
The indignation against the rude disturber increased to such a degree that sounds of threats were audible, and several shook their fists in the direction whence the voice had proceeded. Alvaro Peña, the Greek orator, more indignant than anybody, finally went up to the gallery and put Mechacar out of the theatre by force, amid the applause of the public.
The storm abated, the orator continued. He made a wide digression through the fields of history to prove that from the Roman conquest, when Spain was divided into citerior and ulterior Hispania, and afterward into Tarraco, Betica, and Lusitania, and so on down to the present day, the Sarrienses had on all occasions given proof of a powerful intellect, very superior to that of the people of Nieva.
Such assertions were received with great signs of approval. Then suddenly passing into the region of law, he gently touched upon branches of knowledge that are not common, particularly in Sarrio—the science of Tribonianus and Papinianus.
On arriving at a certain point he said, with a modesty that did him credit:
"What I have just observed, señor, has no scientific value whatsoever. Every boy and girl knows it who has made the acquaintance of the pandectas."
Don Jeronimo de la Fuente, a schoolmaster of the town who had studied the modern methods of pedagogics, and knew something of Froebel and Pestalozzi, a celebrated man who had written a primer on irregular verbs and kept a telescope at his window always turned toward the heavens, now rose from his seat and said:
"Corporal punishment has been stopped in the schools for some years."
"I did not say 'palmetas' [blows]; I said 'pan-dec-tas'" [digest of law], returned Suarez, smiling with some vexation.
Don Jeronimo was angry at having made such a mistake.
The orator continued, and finally resumed his seat, saying, like the eloquent officer who had preceded him, that Sarrio must awake to the life of progress; that she must arise from the lethargy in which she lay, and that she must take part in the struggle of ideas, which are always fruitful; and that she must let the radiant sun of civilization rise on her horizon.
"If it be true, as I have heard, that, thanks to the patriotic and generous initiative of a most worthy citizen of this town, the Fourth Estate of modern powers is about to celebrate its advent here; if, in fact, Sarrio will be presented with a periodical which will reflect her legitimate aspirations, let it be the palladium for the exercise of her intelligence, the promoter of her dearest interests, the advanced protector of her tranquillity and peace, the organ, in short, by which she may have communion with the intellectual world. Let us congratulate ourselves with all our hearts, and let us also congratulate the illustrious patrician whose efforts will bring to us a ray of this luminous star of the nineteenth century which is called the press."
[Bravo, bravo! All eyes are turned to the chairman. The face of Don Rosendo beams with dignity and delight.]
After the son of Perinolo came Don Jeronimo de la Fuente.
The illustrious professor of the instruction of youth was very anxious to rise in the eyes of the public after his slip about the pandectas. He began by saying that he shared the opinions of the worthy orator [notice that he did not say eloquent, or illustrious, but worthy, nothing more] who had preceded him on the subject; that he, destined by his profession to light the torch of science in infantile brains, could not do less than be a devoted partizan of all modern enlightenment, more especially of that of the press. In corroboration of this statement he begged to say that as soon as a periodical in Sarrio was an established fact he would have the pleasure of laying before his fellow-citizens the solution of a problem which until now was considered insoluble, that of the trisection of the angle, to which he had devoted much time and trouble, and which, fortunately, now was crowned with success.
He spoke, moreover, with great emphasis on other matters—of physical geography and astronomy, clearly and briefly explaining the earth's rotation and progression, the composition of air, the formation of the clouds and dew, the origin of the salt of the sea, of springs and rivers, the scientific cause of tides, and also something about the cause of volcanoes.
Afterward, just by the way, he passed on to an explanation of the celestial mechanism, and particularly the law of universal attraction, discovered by Newton, by which planets move round the sun in elliptic orbits. Then he explained with great brilliancy the nature of an ellipsis.
Finally, speaking of our satellite the moon, he remarked that the time of its revolution round the earth was sensibly diminishing, which indicated the decrease of its orbit. This, according to the orator, would sooner or later result in the moon falling into the earth, when both would be shattered.
Don Jeronimo then resumed his seat, leaving the audience quite crushed under the weight of this alarming prophecy.
The proceedings went on until the lamps were lighted.
Don Rufo, the town doctor, a tall, lean man, with a pointed beard and gold eyeglasses, then got up and declared explicitly in a few words that thought was only a physiological function of the brain, and the soul an attribute of matter, and that the greater or less degree of intelligence in animals depends on the cerebral lobules and the weight of the brain. The orator computed that its weight in a man was three pounds and a half. Then he gave the calculation of the phosphoric matter that it contains. Man's brain contains more phosphorus than animals', while theirs have more than birds'. In children the quantity of phosphorus increases considerably at the natal hour, and it continues to increase rapidly with the course of time.