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.