But in what part of the brain is the spark of intellectual activity situated? asked the orator. In his opinion this activity has its mainspring in the grayish or bluish substance, and in some way in the whitish substance, which is the conductor of such activity.
He then spoke of the dura mater, the hemispheres of the brain, the frontal, parietal, and occipital parts of the skull, the function of the cerebrum, the seat of the cerebellum.
Here the speaker conceived the happy idea of making a beautiful comparison between the circumlocutions of this gray substance and a heap of intestines thrown promiscuously together. All the faculties which we call the soul are nothing but functions of this gray substance, of this mass of intestines. The brain secretes thoughts, as the liver does bile. The orator concluded by saying that while humanity is ignorant of these truths it can not rise from its present state of barbarism.
Navarro, the veterinary professor, who never wished to be behind the doctor, then asked leave to speak, and after a few words of congratulation on the inauguration of the "meeting" (all the speakers used the English term), he gave expression of a few very rational ideas on the gangrenous quinsy of the pig, and the treatment for its prevention. The orator hesitated, stuttered, and grew hot in the expression of his ideas, but this deficiency of language was compensated for by the novelty and interest of the subject, for numbers of these nice animals fell victims to quinsy at certain seasons in Sarrio.
In spite of the interest and respect with which the public listened to the discourse on the danger which threatened pig-farming, there were certainly signs of impatience to hear the president's speech. After the allusion of Perinolo's son to the fact of a journal, every one was anxious to have the news confirmed. While Navarro was talking a voice from the gallery cried:
"Let Don Rosendo speak!"
And although this rude interruption was rebuked with a prompt "Sh!" it was evident that they had had enough of Navarro.
At last the celebrated man of Sarrio, the standard-bearer of all progress, the illustrious patrician, Don Rosendo Belinchon, reared his majestic figure behind the table.
[Silence! Sh! Sh! Silence, gentlemen! Attention! A little attention, please.]
These were the cries that proceeded from the crowd, although nobody dared move a finger, such was the anxiety of all to hear the president's remarks.
Like all men of a really superior mind and clear intelligence, Don Rosendo wrote better than he spoke. Nevertheless, his quiet mode of speech gave an impression of dignity that was wanting in the orators who had preceded him.
"Gentlemen [pause], I thank [pause] all the people [pause] who have assisted [pause] this afternoon [pause] at the meeting which I have had the honor to convene. [Much longer pause, rife with expectation.] I have a real pleasure [pause] in seeing gathered together in this place [pause] the most illustrious persons of the town [pause], and all those who, for one reason or another, are of consequence and importance."
[Bravo! Very good! Very good!]
After this exordium, received in such a flattering style, the orator maintained that he was moved by the desire to raise the intellectual tone of Sarrio. Then he added that the object of this meeting had only been that of raising this tone. [Long applause.] He considered himself too weak and incompetent to accomplish the task. [No, no. Applause.] But he counted on—at least he thought he could count on—the support of the many men of feeling, patriotism, intelligence, and progress dwelling in Sarrio. [Thunders of applause.] The means that he considered most efficacious to raise Sarrio to its rightful height, and to make it compete worthily with other towns, and even maritime towns of more importance, was the creation of an organ that would support its political, moral, and material interests. "And, gentlemen [pause], although all the difficulties are not yet overcome [pause], I have the pleasure of informing this illustrious assembly [Attention! Sh! Sh! Silence!] that perhaps in the ensuing month of August [Bravo! Bravo! Loud and frantic applause that interrupted the orator for some minutes]—that perhaps in the ensuing month of August [Bravo! Bravo! Silence!] the town of Sarrio will have a biweekly paper."
[Loud applause. Navarro threw his hat upon the stage. Several other spectators followed his example.] Alvaro Peña and Don Feliciano Gomez employed themselves in picking them up and returning them to their owners. Don Rosendo's face shone with an august expression, and his lips, wreathed with a happy smile, revealed the two symmetrical rows of teeth, eloquent proof of dental skill.
"In spite of these expressions of regard [pause], for which I thank you from the bottom of my soul [pause], pride does not blind me. My want of power [No, no. Applause.] makes me fear that the organ about to be started may not come up to the expectations of the public."
[Voices from various sides: "Yes, it will. We are sure it will." Applause.]
"But if, perhaps [pause], the lack of cleverness can be atoned for by faith and enthusiasm, it will certainly be so. My humble pen and my modest fortune are at the disposal of the town of Sarrio."
[Vehement signs of approbation.]
"The new paper," continued the orator, "has a great mission to fulfil. This mission consists in starting the reforms and the advancement which the town requires." The necessity of these reforms and advancement was known to all the world. The covered market was absolutely indispensable; the road to Rodillero was the constant desire of both places; and as to the slaughter-house, Don Rosendo asked with surprise how the town could consent to the existence of a focus of filth like the present one, which was a perfect disgrace to the place.
Gabino from his seat had listened to the speakers with marked disdain and disgust. He turned about in his chair as if it were hurting him, and he was filled with an overwhelming desire to cry out to the orators: "Asses! Fools!" as he was accustomed to in the Club, or to slash out at them with one of his fiercest sarcasms. These fooleries thoroughly upset him. It was not surprising, when we recollect the state of the ex-sailor's liver. He breathed with difficulty, he ground his teeth, he smiled sarcastically, and was paralyzed with rage, thus showing his disapprobation of all that had been said, all that was being said, and all that would be said. Occasionally he gave vent to a "Bah!" or a "Pooh!" or a "Pshaw!" and other peculiar sounds not less significant.
Finally, in the middle of Don Rosendo's discourse, either because his grave eloquence was incontrovertible, or because the applause exasperated him to an intolerable degree, Gabino left the place and walked up and down in front of the door of the theatre in a pitiable state of agitation. In a few minutes he returned, and then went up into the gallery. Then, hearing Don Rosendo touch upon the matter of the slaughter-house, he left his seat, and, arriving in the first row, cried out excitedly, "This is not fair play."
On hearing the remark Don Rosendo stopped suddenly, dumb and pale. A loud murmur of surprise ran through the whole theatre. Some cried, "Out with him!" Others said, "Sh! Sh!" and the eyes of all, after being directed to the gallery, were turned to the chairman. Don Rosendo, quite agitated, said with a hoarse voice:
"Gentlemen, if these remarks have shown that I have had any unworthy thoughts in the convocation of this meeting, my delicacy forbids me to remain in the chair, and I retire."
[No, no! Go on! Go on! Long live the president!]
"I am sure, gentlemen," said the orator, visibly moved, "that the individual who has just called out is not a resident of Sarrio; he was not born in Sarrio! He can't belong to Sarrio!"
Somebody having murmured that the interlocutor was of Nieva, great indignation and confusion reigned in the theatre. A formidable cry of "Down with the bullfinches! Viva Sarrio!" It must be mentioned that the people of Nieva were called bullfinches on account of the great number of these birds there, while the people of Sarrio are called in Nieva chaffinches for a similar reason.
The excitement having at last abated, Don Rosendo acknowledged the applause with thanks and acceded to the persuasions of the audience, and returned to his place.
"Before again occupying this seat [the president had retired to the back of the stage], I must say that if this popinjay or bullfinch [laughter] wants to force from me an opinion on the subject of the slaughter-house, I have no objection to giving it, because I am always straightforward. [Great interest. You could have heard a pin drop.] I solemnly declare, gentlemen, that in my opinion the new slaughter-house ought not to be put anywhere but on the rubbish chute."
The orator terminated his eloquent speech with a few more words, and the meeting broke up.
The audience left the theatre, half asphyxiated, as much by the many emotions experienced in a short time as by the hundred and four degrees of heat in the place.
ALL this happened in exalted spheres, while in the obscure regions of private life events were transpiring which, albeit not so memorable, were of some importance to those concerned.
On the day following the interview already narrated between Venturita and Gonzalo, the young man did not appear at his betrothed's; he remained at home, feigning a seizure of violent toothache. Such at least was the news that reached Cecilia through Elvira, the maid, who met Don Melchor's servant on the market-place. As the young man did not appear the next day either, the family thought he was still suffering, but Venturita and Valentina were not deceived. The embroideress avoided meeting the girl's eyes, perhaps from fear of embarrassing her, or because she herself felt embarrassed without knowing why. Venturita was as merry as ever; and Cecilia, the only one anxious enough to be silent, took a toothache mixture from her wardrobe, copied out a prayer to Saint Polonia which had been given her, and calling Elvira mysteriously aside, she said with a deep blush:
"Elvira, will you be so kind as to take this bottle and paper to Señor Gonzalo?"
"Now, at once?"
"As soon as you can. If you have nothing to do just now—— But I don't want it to be talked about."
"All right, señorita," returned the pale little brunette, smiling kindly, "nobody shall know a word about it. Your mother was just asking for some starch, so I will go and get some."
When Gonzalo received the little packet, he was overwhelmed with remorse, and paced up and down the room in agitation. Three or four times he was on the point of taking his hat, going to the Belinchons' house, and letting things go on as before. All the feelings of honor, kindness, and goodness inherent in him, the voice of reason which spoke for Cecilia—in one word, the good angel which every man has within him, impelled him to this course. But he could not drive the pretty, graceful image of Venturita from his mind: the fire of her eyes seemed still to pierce his soul, the sweet, voluptuous touch of her golden hair—in fact, his bad angel held him back. Gonzalo was a man of physical health, powerful muscles, rich blood, but with a weak will. Evil spirits fear delicate constitutions more than a fine one like his. The battle fought by his good and bad angels did not last long; it was soon decided in favor of the latter by means of a note from Venturita brought by the other maid of the house. It ran thus:
"Don't be impatient. To-day I will speak to mama. Trust in me. VENTURITA."
The look of the maid as she gave this note seemed, in spite of her smile, to convey a tacit reproach, which somewhat upset him. He dismissed her with a handsome tip; and on opening the letter with a trembling hand, he noticed the sandal perfume, always used by Venturita, and as it recalled to his mind the bewitching, beautiful girl, it set chords vibrating in his being which had hitherto remained untouched. He put the letter to his lips, and intoxicated with passion, he kissed it effusively many times.
Poor Cecilia! She had taken the first piece of paper that came to hand, and without waiting for perfumes, she generally wrote to her lover in pencil.
If women only knew the importance of these wretched details!
Venturita had been hovering about her mother all day, waiting for an opportunity of speaking privately to her. In the evening, when the needlewomen had gone, the mother and daughter were at last alone. Cecilia had retired to her room, a prey to a depression that she had tried to combat by work during the day. Doña Paula was seated in an armchair with her eyes fixed on the window, looking at the last rays of the setting sun, in a melancholy, pensive attitude unusual in her. She seemed to forebode the trouble that was coming. Venturita put the embroidery frames away in a corner, covered them over with a cloth, arranged the chairs in order and dragged the work-basket to one side so that it should not be in the way.
"Have the lights brought," said Doña Paula.
"Why?" returned the girl, taking a low chair by her side. "It is all tidy now."
Her mother turned her eyes again to the window, and resumed her melancholy attitude. At the end of some minutes' silence Venturita took her parent's hand and raised it affectionately to her lips. Doña Paula turned her head with surprise. Seldom, nay never, had her youngest daughter given this respectful kiss. She smiled sweetly, and taking her by the chin, she said:
"Are you pleased with the dress?"
"Yes, mama."
"It makes you a very pretty figure. If it is taken in a little at the waist it will be charming."
The girl was silent, and after a minute she raised her eyes, and, controlling her voice, said in a calm tone:
"I say, mama, what do you think of Gonzalo's retreat?"
"Gonzalo's retreat!" exclaimed the señora, turning her head anxiously. "What do you mean, child?"
"Yes, his retreat, because I don't believe that he is ill; yesterday he was playing billiards at the Marina Café all the evening."
"Bah! bah! you are joking."
"I am not joking; I am serious."
"And who told you that?"
"I know it from Nieves, who was told by her brother."
"The pain probably left him in the evening, and he went out for a little change."
"Well, then, why did he not come to-day?"
"Because the pain no doubt returned."
"Don't you believe it, mama. You can be quite certain Gonzalo does not love Cecilia."
"Do you know what you are saying, child? Be so good as to hold your tongue, before you make me angry."
"I will be silent, but the proofs that he is giving of his affection are not very great."
"That I should have to hear this!" said the señora, turning round proudly. "If Gonzalo is somebody, Cecilia is as good. My daughter is not to be treated with disrespect by Gonzalo, or the Prince of Asturias, do you hear? I will inquire into the truth of what you have said, and if it be true, I will take measures."
Doña Paula was naturally kind and gentle, a friend of the poor, and generous; but she had the unreflective pride and the extreme touchiness of the working class of Sarrio.
"No, mama, I don't mean that. Who said that Gonzalo treats Cecilia with disrespect?"
"You yourself. Why does he not love her then?"
Venturita hesitated a moment, and then replied with firmness:
"Because he loves me."
"Come," said the señora laughing, "I ought to have seen from the first that it was all a joke."
"It is not a joke, it is pure truth, and if you want convincing you can see for yourself."
Then she drew from her bosom a letter which she had ready, and handed it to her mother; whereupon Doña Paula sprang to her feet and cried:
"Quick! a light, quick!"
Venturita took a box of tapers that was on the table, and lighted one.
Mother and daughter were pale. The mother held the letter to the light, and after reading a few lines she dropped into an armchair, and fixing her eyes on her daughter with a sad expression, she said:
"Ventura, what have you done?"
"I? Nothing," returned the girl, letting the taper, which was nearly burnt out, fall to the floor.
"Is it then nothing to you, you heartless, mad creature, to prevent the marriage of your sister, to deceive her so abominably and to give rise to such a scandal in the town as never was seen?"
"I have not done all this. He was the one to declare himself to me. Is it then a sin to be loved?"
"On this occasion, yes," replied the señora severely; "at the first sign you ought to have told me. To allow him to speak to you in any other way than as to a sister was treachery to your sister, and does little credit to yourself."
"Well, there it is," returned the girl in a scornful tone.
"Then it shall not be," said Doña Paula angrily, as she rose from her seat. "What do you suggest? Come, say; or rather, what have you suggested?"
"You can imagine."
"To marry each other, eh?" she asked in a sarcastic tone. "Then you are greatly mistaken! The marriage of your sister is broken off—Well, it is as good as broken off—Of course, you are free to marry Gonzalo, but don't you think you will set foot in this house. In the first place, you are a bad girl who ought to pay for your grimacings; and in any case your father and I will not consent to your marrying a man who has treated your sister so disgracefully and deceived us all round. People would indeed say that we were dying to have him for a son-in-law, so give up the idea, child."
"Well, if you like it or not," said Venturita, flouncing to the door, "I shall marry him."
Doña Paula felt inclined to punish this insolence with corporal punishment, but the girl quickly left the room and shut the door; then half reopening it, she said in furious tone:
"I will marry him; I will marry him; I will marry him."
The following day Gonzalo received a letter from Ventura in which she said:
"Yesterday I spoke to mama, and I think she will give in. Keep your spirits up."
And in effect, that same morning mother and daughter renewed the conversation in the daughter's room. It was a long interview, and we do not know what transpired, but at the end of an hour Doña Paula appeared with her eyes red with weeping and her hand on her heart, from which she frequently suffered, and retiring to her room she went to bed.
Ventura came out behind her, quiet but pale, and calling Generosa, her confidential maid, she gave her a letter for Gonzalo, who that evening appeared at nine o'clock in front of Belinchon's house. A few minutes later, Venturita opened the window of the library, which was on the ground floor and protected with iron gratings.
"Everything is settled," she said in a falsetto voice, directly the young man approached.
"No! How? Really?" he asked in a tone of delight.
"It has been a pretty hard task for me! She was furious."
"And your papa?"
"Papa knows nothing about it yet, but he will give in, too. See if he won't give in. The measure taken could not have been more effectual."
"What measure?"
"The one I took. The whole business looked so hopeless that it would have ended by your being forbidden the house, and I should have been packed off to Tejada in disgrace. All entreaties, all arguments were in vain; she was mad with rage, she called you an infamous traitor, you can imagine how she spoke of me! Then I saw that there was nothing for it but to take a strong measure; and it was somewhat strong," she added in a low, changed voice.
"What strong measure?" asked Gonzalo with curiosity.
Venturita was silent for some moments, and then somewhat shamefacedly returned:
"I told her—I told her that there was nothing else for us but to marry each other."
"Why?"
"Why—why—guess why!" said the girl with impatience.
Then Gonzalo divined what she meant, and the knowledge filled him with repugnance and terror. A gloomy silence fell upon him, and Venturita at last said:
"Do you think it was wrong?"
"Yes," he returned dryly.
"All right, my boy; to-morrow I will tell her it was all a lie, and then all is over between us."
"That won't do any good. I do not quarrel with the result, as you must know, but with the way you have managed it."
"I lose more than you."
"Well, I feel it all the same."
"All right, then show it," she returned in a pet, jumping up from the window-sill, where she had been seated.
But Gonzalo put his hand through the bars, and caught her by the dress.
"Stop."
The dress tore.
"Now you have torn my frock, do you see?"
"Well, don't go so quickly."
And succeeding in catching her by the arm, he obliged her to sit down again.
"What rough manners!" exclaimed the girl, laughing; "that must be the way bears make love."
"Do you love me?" asked Gonzalo, also laughing.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Give me your hand as a friend."
The girl then gave him her pink and white hand, and the herculean youth kissed it passionately several times.
"Good-by till to-morrow, and I will tell you all the news," she said, once more rising from her seat.
Gonzalo withdrew, and after taking a few steps he recollected that the news signified the way in which Cecilia would take his disloyal conduct, and his forehead corrugated with an expression of pain. In this state of preoccupation he crossed the Rua Nueva, entered the Plaza de la Marina, went along by the harbor, and reached the end of the mole. The night was mild and clear. The stars shining in the firmament were reflected in the tranquil waters of the bay. The rigging of the anchored shipping stood out distinctly from the dark blue background. The hour for the extinction of lights had not yet struck, and one could see several lights and figures on the ships; the sailors reclining on the upper decks were chatting before retiring to rest.
Occasionally a glance would be cast at a great English steamer anchored in the middle of the harbor, and a sailor would call out, with an exaggeration of the pronunciation:
"All right," and a schooner would echo the words, "All right" and the cry would be taken up by all the tenders, schooners, and fishing smacks. It was a joke upon the English anchored there. But it was received with silence; the great steamer treated it with the phlegmatic, profound contempt that nobody can assume better than a son of Albion.
The end of the mole was the resort of anybody who wished to enjoy the fresh air. It was one of the hottest nights of August. Gonzalo, overwhelmed by the heat and the difficulty of his position, walked along with his hat in his hand. Before he reached the end of the mole he caught sight of a gigantic figure on the second stage.
"I say, uncle," he cried.
The old sailor spent the greater part of his life on that mole in intimate communion with the sea, his old friend and companion. The terrible ocean was an open book to him, either sleeping in its immense bed of sand or awakening and lashing the sky furiously with its foam. He could accurately forecast its rages, its storms, its smiles, and its profoundest working. To him the monster seemed to reveal its liquid heart as to a faithful friend, and told him how it fretted in its granite prison, and how the sight of human wickedness sometimes made it long to rush over the land and submerge this fulsome human ant-hill. And the good man, thinking of all the crimes about which he had read, would reply:
"You are right, friend; in your place it is probable I should feel the same."
Nothing in the world would have induced Don Melchor to forego his morning, afternoon, and evening walks at the end of the mole. During his wife's lifetime, when he was under surveillance, he had to his great vexation been obliged to give up the later walks. But now unfortunately, as he had no one to look after him and keep him in hand, he did as he liked.
Nothing came up to the sea air cure for catarrh. When occasionally he had a pain in his inside, he drank a couple of glasses of salt water and he was all right. There is no better or simpler medicine than sea water. Once he had a bad leg: two ulcers corroded the flesh down to the bone; and the doctors not only gave the leg up for lost, but despaired of his life. In desperation he had himself carried down to the beach and bathed. After nine baths the ulcers were cured. One can imagine what he thought of the curative efficacy of the sea after that!
On the other hand, he had a great objection to rivers. The air of a river made him hoarse, the fogs suffocated him, and gave him asthma. The "shut-in" feeling of the air filled him with aversion and unspeakable dislike. Don Melchor slept little; he rose before sunrise; and directly he got up he ascended to his observatory, and examined the sky and the sea; and after drawing out in his head a meteorological map of the coming day, he went down to the end of the mole to corroborate his observations; ascertained whether the wind was passing, or settled, if it were positively north, or inclined to the east or west, if the weather were going to be good or bad, if the sea would be stormy or calm, how long the weather would remain as it was; to what quarter the wind would veer at mid-day; if the sea would then be calm or rough, etc., etc.
He could not take his chocolate until he had made all these observations.
And really, however this may look like a mania, I think it is less silly than rising from one's bed to notice if one's neighbor's face is clean or dirty, cheerful or sad, if he eats or if he fasts, if he sleeps or if he wakes, if he be idle or industrious, how long he remains at home, and what road he takes when he goes out. Gonzalo mounted the upper wall with an irresistible desire to unburden his heart and tell his uncle what had happened, for although his character was little adapted for love confidences, the occasion was important and critical. Don Melchor, who walked a little bent under the weight of years, straightened himself at the sight of a man approaching, for he was anxious to hide all signs of weakness from the world, and he liked to be thought a stalwart fellow.
"Is that you, Gonzalo?"
"It is I, uncle."
"That is a wonder! For you like seeing billiard balls roll better than waves."
"No; I have not played billiards to-day. But I am worried and upset, and I want to speak to you about an important matter; in fact I want your advice."
Don Melchor looked at him in surprise.
"An important matter?"
"Yes—look here, uncle; would you marry a woman you did not love?"
"What a question! Matrimony at my age is a thing of the past, my boy."
"But if you were young, would you marry like that?"
"Never."
"Very well, uncle—I do not love Cecilia."
"You do not love Cecilia?" exclaimed the old gentleman in horror.
It must be said that Don Melchor had a blind affection, almost adoration, for his nephew's betrothed—the girl was sacred to him. From the time that he knew Gonzalo's affections were set in that quarter he inspected her as carefully as if he were examining the hulk of a ship before masting her. He had considered her kind, quiet, intelligent, and capable, and his delight at the marriage was only embittered by hearing that the engaged couple were not going to live with him.
He seldom visited Belinchon's house, but when he met the girl in the street he made a point of stopping her and treating her with exceptional courtesy and attention.
"You do not love her?" he repeated. "And why don't you love her, you dunderhead?"
"I don't know. I have made superhuman efforts to love her, and I have not succeeded."
"And you have just found that out—a month before your marriage? Come, Gonzalo, you have got a screw loose."
"It is shameful—I grant it—but I can't resign myself to being unhappy for life."
"Unhappy! And you call it unhappiness, you great fool, to marry the nicest and prettiest girl in Sarrio, for no other can hold a candle to her."
Gonzalo could not forbear smiling.
"Cecilia is a good girl, and worthy of marrying a better man than I am, but pretty, uncle—"
"Pretty, yes, pretty, you fool!" exclaimed the Señor de las Cuevas in a rage; "you would find fault with an angel."
Surprising as the statement may be, the old man was at that time of life when one is more impressed by the poetry of womanhood, seen in exquisite sensibility, resignation, sweetness, and self-sacrifice, than by the ephemeral physical charms before which impetuous youth is so prone to fall captive.
"Do not let us quarrel about it."
"But we will quarrel about it—I won't have Cecilia spoken of like that—so there!"
"All right; then I'll say that Cecilia is a very pretty girl—but—"
"But what?"
"But I can not love her, because I love another."
"What thousand deviltries are you saying now, boy?" returned Don Melchor, taking his nephew by the arm and shaking him.
"I can not help it, uncle. I am madly in love with her sister, Venturita."
"Are you in your senses or out of them, you madman?"
"I am speaking seriously—I love her, and she loves me."
"And you think that this is all there is to be said?" said the old man, getting more and more angry. "Do you think a solemn promise can be broken in that way? Do you think a girl can be made the laughing-stock of a place like this? Do you think any parents will tolerate such infamous conduct?"
"Uncle," returned Gonzalo quietly, "before daring to tell you this, things have occurred which have made me take this step. My position with Venturita is an established fact; her mother knows it, and has authorized it, and by this time her father has also been made acquainted with the circumstances."
"And will give his consent?"
"I am sure he will."
Don Melchor dropped his nephew's arm, and raised his hand to his forehead. It was some time before he could speak. At last he said in slow and melancholy tones:
"All right. I am powerless to prevent this disgrace—for it is a disgrace," he added forcibly. "You are of age, and even if you were not I would have nothing to do with such a business."
"Are you angry?"
"There is no use being angry. I am only very sorry. I am sorry for her, for I am very fond of her—and I am still more sorry for you, Gonzalo. God can not help the man who breaks his word. You were on a safe ship, well built of white, seasoned wood, with the flats well lined, straight strong masts, and bright and smart rigging; and you leave that to embark in a craft that is prettier and showier. You are making a fine experiment, but take heed, lad, the journey is long, the sea wide and wild; when all the calm and beauty of the present becomes a scene of storm, when the soft winds rise to a hurricane, matters become serious, and pretty decorations and designs are of no avail where timber—good strong timber—is required. Give me good timber and I will take you for miles. It is not much good for a ship to leave a port well dressed if her hulk is not equal to her get up. You know that I liked Cecilia—I am very sorry that I can not say the same of her sister. And this is not speaking against her; I do not know her well enough to do that, neither do I feel inclined to, but I can and I ought to tell you my sentiments although you disregard them."
"Oh, uncle!"
"It does not matter, my boy; when a lad's mind is set upon anything, full sail must be set and he must go before the wind. Everything looks ship-shape—but foul weather comes, and I tell you, you are not navigating your ship well, you are not behaving like a gentleman."
"Uncle!"
"The facts speak for themselves. Even if you have got over her parents, and overcome all difficulties, you can't make black white, and make a bad action good. Heave the anchor and unfurl the sails. I am old, and I hope I shall not live to see the storms overtake you. But if it be God's will to punish me thus, if for my sins I have to see you shipping water with bare masts, I shall feel, my boy, that it is beyond my power to help you."
At these last words the voice of the old man shook; Gonzalo's heart strings tightened. For some time they were both silent; and then Don Melchor said:
"Come along to supper, Gonzalo."
"I am not hungry now," returned the young man, "but I will come presently."
"Very well. Good-by," said the Señor de las Cuevas sadly, and turning his steps shoreward, he was gradually lost in the gloom.
Gonzalo remained where he was, with his eyes fixed on the wall of the mole, against which the sea was quietly washing. The waves after breaking against the stone wall with a soft, hollow murmur, receded with a sharp sound like that of curtain rings being drawn. The phosphoric brilliance of the foam proved the presence of the millions of beings existing as comfortably in the watery depths as we do on the dry land in spite of their wild career through space. The monster slept under the dark mantle of night quietly and peacefully, as a child undisturbed by bad dreams. The soft sough of its respiration was hardly audible in the hollows of the rocks.
The black outline of Cape San Lorenzo stretched far out to sea on the west where the revolving white, green, and red lights of the lighthouse at the point were visible. The stars were shining in the firmament with wondrous power. Jupiter blazed in the heavens like the god of night piercing the darkness with its golden rays. Suddenly a change came over the scene. The pale crescent of the moon raised its horn in the east over the tranquil water, and irradiated it with a track of light. Lucifer paled before the serene splendor of the goddess, whose slow and majestic ascent eclipsed the brilliance of the starry orbs of every size about her. She rose in a radiant splendid atmosphere emitting, diffusing, and disseminating the ambient soft influence of her wondrous presence. And the ocean, ebbing and flowing since the beginning of the world under this same influence, now kindles like a flame of fire; its vast shining bosom trembles, and it dashes its waters over the rocks of Santa Maria like enormous stratæ of mercury, which in their retreat mingle with the incoming waves.
Sublime silence reigned, and a sense of ineffable peace pervaded the scene so old, and yet so new. Nature herself seemed to stop and listen to the eternal harmony of the heavens. The waves softly kissed each other without daring to interrupt the august serenity of the night with any louder sounds.
In spite of the great uneasiness which the conversation with his uncle had caused him, Gonzalo felt the fascination of the sea, the sky, and the moon, and his uneasiness changed to sadness. The severe words of the old sailor had suddenly awakened his conscience, and the struggle between his good and bad angel recommenced. For one moment his good angel nearly conquered. The young man thought he would go to the Belinchons' house, speak to Doña Paula and beg her to say nothing to Cecilia, but hurry on the marriage. However, at that moment Venturita's image came before his mind, and he felt it would be impossible to live near her without suffering horribly. Then, as it nearly always happens in these struggles, there came a sense of the unendurable.
"The best thing to do," he said, "will be to go at once. I will return to France or England, and not marry either. Then there will be no treachery. The injury I have done Cecilia will soon be forgotten. She will find a more worthy husband than I, and when I return at the expiration of a few years I shall probably find her happy, and surrounded with children. But—but to leave Ventura! to leave that being, radiant with happiness! No more to hear that voice that fills my soul with delight! nor to feel the sweet touch of her hand, fresh and soft as a rosebud! To leave her shining eyes and magnetic smile!—oh, no!"
Drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Mortal anguish filled him at the thought of separation, and to overcome the sense of it being definitely settled he said to himself: "We'll see, we'll see. It would be very difficult to go back now—almost impossible. The mother knows about it now. Don Rosendo too, and probably Cecilia also by this time."
The good angel loosened his hold and let go his hands as, spent and defeated, he gave up the struggle. If not with the eyes of the body, Gonzalo could see with those of the spirit, the white form of the good angel passing through the serene atmosphere, and vanishing on the glistening waters.
Then overwhelmed with a strange sadness, he wept. This kind of struggle can never take place in the human soul without upsetting it for some time. To win happiness he had to wound the heart of an innocent girl, break a promise, and be a traitor.
The words of his uncle still echoed in his ears: "God can not help the man who breaks his word."
And, in fact, he felt himself unworthy of help. A cruel indefinite presentiment of misery, death, and sadness overwhelmed him; and in one moment the awfulness of life without virtue or peace was revealed to him, as to the youth of the legend who embraced a beautiful young woman, and when the light oscillated with the wind, he saw that she was transformed into a hideous, hag-like, bony being.
The waves softly washed the wall at his feet, and with his eyes fixed upon them he abstractedly followed their undulating motion. The seaweed growing in the depths moved with the motion of the water like the hair of a dead person. How quietly he could sleep down there! What peace in those transparent depths! What magic light below! Gonzalo gave ear for the first time in his life to the eloquent voice of Nature inviting him to repose in her maternal bosom—the siren voice sweet with irresistible charm, audible to unhappy creatures, even in their dreams, and so often leading them to place the cold muzzle of a pistol to their temples. It was for one minute, not more. His cheerful and sanguine temperament rebelled against this depression; his vitality, exuberant in his healthy constitution, indignantly repudiated the passing thought of death. An insignificant incident, the appearance of a little green light in the distant horizon, sufficed to divert his attention from these gloomy ideas.
"A ship coming in," he said. "What time is it?" (He drew out his watch.) "Half past ten, already! If it were a little earlier I would stop. I'll go and see if there's anybody at the café, for I should like a game of chapo."
He then took out a fine Havana cigar from his case, and smoking it with gusto he repaired to the Café de la Marina.
Almost at the same time a sad scene was being enacted in the Belinchon household. Doña Paula had remained all that day in bed, a prey to a dreadful pain in the left side, which caused her great difficulty in breathing. With the plebeian's invincible antipathy, nay terror, of science, she did not like to have a doctor, but she prescribed for herself some of the numerous remedies recommended by the many medicine women who came daily to her house to extort money from her with their vile, exaggerated adulations. So there was no end of embrocations of meat fat, cups of herb concoctions, the inside of fowls, etc., etc.
At last, by dint of these formidable therapeutics, the good lady improved in the evening enough to wish to get up; but Cecilia and Pablito would not hear of it. Both of them had sat with her for some time at her bedside; Cecilia especially had only left her long enough to make the embrocations and tisanes. Pablito made frequent excursions into the corridors, where, curiously enough, he nearly always met Nieves, from whom he extorted toll tax. Sometimes their suppressed laughter reached the room of the invalid, and she would smile kindly, and say to Cecilia:
"What silly creatures!"
For it never occurred to her that her adored son could be up to anything but hide-and-seek.
As the pain gradually left her, her mind was oppressed with the thought of telling her daughter the sad news which had made her so ill. She could only cast long and melancholy glances at the girl as she drew deep sighs of distress. She said several times:
"Cecilia, listen."
And each time she stopped, and merely asked for some trifle.
Night closed in. Venturita lighted the shaded lamp, and then withdrew. Pablo, finding his mother better, and seeing no further opportunity of exercising his seignioral rights in the passage, withdrew to the café. Mother and daughter remained in the bedroom, the former in bed and seemingly tranquil, the latter seated near her. After a long silence, during which the Señora de Belinchon turned over in her head a thousand ways of opening a conversation which might lead naturally to the confidence she was obliged to make, she said:
"Have the girls worked well to-day?"
"I don't know, I have scarcely seen them," returned Cecilia.
"I think that if they go on at this rate they will finish too soon."
"Perhaps so."
Doña Paula was at a loss to know how to proceed, and remained silent.
At the end of some minutes she took up the thread afresh.
"The trousseau will be completely finished in this month of August, and I do not think you will be married for some months."
"Some months?"
"I think so. I believe Gonzalo does not wish the day to be so soon," said the señora with a trembling voice.
"Has he told you so?"
"Yes, he has told me so—I mean—no, he has not told me so—but I have guessed it from certain things—from some indirect remarks."
Doña Paula was here overpowered with a feeling of suffocation. Fortunately Cecilia could not see the flaming color of her cheeks.
"I should like to know what those remarks were," returned the girl in a firm voice.
"Don't ask me, child of my soul!" exclaimed the señora, bursting into tears.
Cecilia turned deadly pale, and let her mother kiss the hand she held in hers, astonished at this emotion.
"What has happened, mama?—speak."
"A terrible thing—my heart—an infamous, infamous thing—I would rather die this moment than see the ruin and the misery of one of my daughters."
"Calm yourself, mama; you are ill, and you will do yourself great harm if you allow yourself to become so excited."
"What does it matter! I tell you I would rather die—I would give my life for you not to love Gonzalo—You do love him, dear heart? You love him deeply?"
Cecilia did not reply.
"Tell me, for God's sake, that you do not love him."
Cecilia was still silent; at the end of some minutes, trying in vain to give a firm tone to her voice, she said:
"Gonzalo declines to marry me, is that it?"
Doña Paula was now silent in her turn, and hid her weeping face in her hands.
Some minutes went by.
"Has he anything against me?"
"What could he have? Who could have anything against you, my lamb?"
"Then, if I do not please him, or he does not love me, what is to be done? It is better to be undeceived in time."
"Oh!" cried Doña Paula, breaking into fresh sobs, for under the apparent resignation of her daughter she detected a profound grief which she strove in vain to hide.
"What is to be done, mama? Is it not better for him to say so now than after we are married? Do I not know what a wretched life he would lead united to a woman he did not love? The pain that he causes me now, great as it is, is nothing to what I should feel if my husband did not love me. The pain would get worse and worse until I died, while now it may go, or at least be alleviated—Perhaps when he has gone away and I have not seen him for some time I shall gradually forget him—"
"But he is not going," returned the señora in confusion.
"If he does not go, patience—I will try not to go out, and I shall not see him."
"But, child of my soul, your misfortune is much greater! Gonzalo is in love with your sister."
Cecilia turned still paler, her face became livid, and she was silent.
Her mother again kissed her hand with effusion, and then drew her to her, and covered her face with kisses.
"Forgive me for torturing you like this. Much as you suffer, I suffer more. Yesterday evening your sister came and told me. Imagine my distress and grief. My first impulse was to kill her, for I was sure that she was most to blame. She gave me proof that they have been carrying on for some time, and showed me letters which made Gonzalo's faithlessness very clear to me. When I was convinced of his treachery I said that I would have nobody make a laughing-stock of my daughter, and Gonzalo should not set foot again in this house, that he was as bad as she; in short, I said all that came into my head. But this morning, this morning—I learned something still worse. I learned that your sister has gone farther than I can, or wish to, say. There is nothing for them but marriage, and that as soon as possible. Now you know why I have had this pain, which all but kills me, and would that it did so! Your father and I are both trapped—our hands are tied. If it were not so I would sooner be cut into little pieces than consent to this marriage. The infamous way this man has treated you will make me hate him all my life. Yes, all my life!" she added in an angry tone.
Cecilia did not answer. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her head hanging on her bosom and her horror-struck eyes fixed on the ground.
Neither the vehement broken utterances of her mother nor the sobs which succeeded them made her change her position. She remained thus for some time, motionless, and white as a statue.
In those large, limpid eyes there at last trembled a tear; it grew, it moved, then overflowing, it left a wet track upon her wan cheek, and fell like a drop of fire upon her hand, and there remained. A little later it evaporated. An angel had gathered it up and taken it to God in protest for her who had shed it.
A NEW bright day dawned upon Sarrio after the recent heavy gloom. By the mercy and grace of God the beautiful town was now, when least expected, provided with a press organ, which was to be biweekly, or as the illustrious organizer expressed it, "hepdomenal." Grave obstacles and perilous difficulties were at first opposed to the realization of the undertaking, but the genius of the wonderful man who undertook it overcame them all. The first difficulty was that of money. Fifty shares of a thousand ducats each were issued for the support of the periodical. The friends of Don Rosendo only took up nine. Don Rudesindo had five allotted to him, Don Feliciano two, and Don Pedro Miranda, in spite of his large income, only another two—no more. Alvaro Peña, Don Rufo, Navarro, et al., excused themselves for want of funds, and that with reason; besides, they gave the business the benefit of their brains, which no doubt was a great thing. So Don Rosendo, with a generosity which greatly impressed the rest of the company, was the holder of the remaining forty-one shares.
Messengers were despatched to Lancia in search of a printing press, but the negotiations proving fruitless, the press organizer went himself to the town. At the end of some days he was fortunate enough to find a printer who had been ruined for some years, and no purchaser had been forthcoming for his broken-down, rotting apparatus which lay covered with dust in a dark cellar. When Don Rosendo proceeded to examine it with its owner, he could not help feeling respectful emotion, and grave thoughts filled his mind as he contemplated it.
"Here," he said, "is lying in idleness the most influential instrument of human progress, and this not from any fault of the owner, but through the desertion of mankind. How much information, how much spiritual food might it not have produced during these barren dumb years! While barbarism and ignorance are rampant in the greater part of our country, that printing apparatus, the only agent of their dispersion, stands motionless for the want of a hand to work it and to bring forth from it the secrets of science and politics."
He almost kissed and fondled the machine in his enthusiasm. The printer, seeing his visitor so well disposed in its favor, could not be outdone, and he declared himself so devotedly attached to the very skeleton of his machine that he would not part with it for any money, for it had always been the faithful companion by which he had earned his bread (and according to report, his wine too). He descanted upon its perfections with as much enthusiasm as if he were its offspring and indebted to it for his life's breath; and he moreover made the solemn statement that it printed better and cleaner than all the printing presses of the day.
Hearing these facts Don Rosendo fully concurred in the exordium on the machine, and tried to prove to him that he ought to part with it to prevent its wondrous qualities being lost to the world. But the more eloquent the merchant grew, the more tender and clinging became the printer. Finally, seeing there was no persuading the man to part with his treasure, and he had not the heart to enforce it, he arranged for him to go to Sarrio with it, and settle down there. He was to take a few compositors with him, who were to teach the trade to some of the lads in the town, and he was to be furnished with all necessary materials for the establishment of a printing office. Folgueras, the ruined printer, was thus to be the director and master of the concern, and his salary was to be drawn from the journal, and according to our calculations this proved to be twice as much as what is given in the best printing office in Madrid. However, it is not much if we consider the merit of the machine and the deep love professed for it by the owner.
The title of the newspaper was one of the points in which the inventive, superior mind of Don Rosendo particularly distinguished itself. It was called "The Light of Sarrio," a name extremely impressive and well-sounding, and moreover testifying to its mission, which its founder wished to be that of enlightening and dignifying the town of Sarrio.
He secretly ordered from Madrid an engraving for the head of the paper, and on its arrival a few days later it caused rapturous delight among the shareholders and all those who had the good fortune to see it. It represented a seaport, like Sarrio, in the dark hours of the night—to judge by the black hue of the sky and sea; on the left towered the heights of an ideal mountain, upon which was seen a man, bearing a distant resemblance to Don Rosendo, turning the rays of an enormous lantern upon the town; round about him were the heads of several people, and the shareholders believed in good faith that they represented themselves, and so they felt deeply indebted to the designer.
The printing press was to be set up in a storehouse of Don Rudesindo's, to whom, of course, a rent was to be paid; and at the printing office there was to be another room, but these plans required some consideration before they could be carried out. The printing press was finally set up, but not without heavy, unexpected expenses, for Folgueras, who pretended he was furnished with all that was necessary, had nothing at all, and they had to send to Madrid for sets of type, have type galleys made, buy tables, etc., etc.
At last everything was in order. Don Rosendo worked like a slave, and busied himself with the smallest details, and his talent as organizer was more shown than ever on this occasion. He made Sinforoso Suarez chief editor with a salary of twenty-five crowns a month, and he made Don Rufo's eldest son manager. But the paper for printing had not come. They had telegraphed to Madrid for a supply and it had not arrived. The impatience of Belinchon knew no bounds. Telegrams went and came by the electric wires. They said it was detained at Lancia—a telegram to Lancia asking for it. Then they heard it had not left Valladolid—telegram to Valladolid. Then that it had not left Madrid—telegram to Madrid. Don Rosendo swore he would have no more paper from Madrid, but that he would order it henceforth from Belgium. But disappointment changed into delight, as it often does, when the news came that several bales had arrived at Lancia, and were there awaiting a cart to take them to their destination.
As the copy for the first number had been ready for some days, the printing was immediately proceeded with, and it had to be done on an extensive scale, for Don Rosendo intended to circulate it through the provinces, to send it all over Spain, and even to introduce it into foreign countries. Both he and his partners took a personal interest in seeing the printing press started, and they never wearied of admiring its complicated machinery, the wonderful precision of its movement, and the marvelous velocity with which it worked, for it cast off no fewer than two hundred copies in one hour. Its illustrious founder could not restrain the press ardor which consumed him; he tore off his coat in the presence of everybody, and literally put his shoulder to the wheel until the sweat poured copiously from his manly brow. A striking instance of enthusiasm and love of civilization to which we like to draw the attention of the rising generation!
At last "The Light of Sarrio" appeared in great style, for its founder had seen that the paper was good, and it was fairly well printed. The only faulty feature was the engraving on the front page, for the majority of the people thought that the individual holding a lantern in his hand was a negro, instead of the respectable individual we have mentioned. It contained a leading article in large type called "Our Objects." Although it was signed by the staff, it emanated entirely from the pen of Don Rosendo. The purport of the appearance of "The Light" in the press was chiefly to defend cap-a-pie the moral and material interests of Sarrio, to combat ignorance in all its forms, and in the fierce battles of the press to fight unweariedly for the triumph of the reforms that the progress of the times requires.
"The Light" maintained that the hour had struck for breaking with the doctrines of the past. Sarrio earnestly desired to emancipate itself from the thraldom of pettiness and conventionality; it wished to break the bonds which had hitherto restrained it, and enter into full possession of its own conscience and rights.
"We trust," said the writer, "that a period of moral and material activity will date from the appearance of our publication, and that we shall assist at one of those social reformations which mark an epoch in the annals of the town. If our voice is successful in awakening the town of Sarrio from its long sleep and apathy and we soon see the dawn of an era of labor and study befitting the reform movement that we hope to inaugurate, we shall feel amply repaid for our efforts and sacrifices."
The language could not have been more noble and patriotic, and modesty, as usual, tempered the tone of the authoritative eloquence.
"We do not aspire," he said, "to being the vanguard in this great battle of thought about to take place in the town of Sarrio, but we do aspire to fighting like common soldiers, for we do expect a place in the rear-guard. There we shall fight like good men, and if we finally fall vanquished, we will envelop ourselves in the sacred banner of progress."
The military allegorical style was very effective in the town, and it contributed not a little to the enthusiastic reception accorded to the paper.
In short, the article was so rich in expression, so replete with deep remarks, and the style was so concise, that the public was at a loss to attribute it to any one but the illustrious director—and in this it was right.
Then the periodical contained a long article by Sinforoso on "Woman." It consisted of two close columns of poetic prose, embroidered with all the flowers of rhetoric, describing the sweet influence of this half of the human race.
He maintained, in fervent language, that civilization can not exist apart from matrimony; conjugal love is its only basis. Everything is holy, everything is beautiful, everything is happy in the intimate union of a young married couple. The man, rendered happy by his companion, feels his faculties increase, and is capable of carrying out enterprises otherwise impossible to him. The influence of the woman presses him onward to virtue and glory; it is the sweetest and at the same time the most powerful of social forces. Sinforoso queried with surprise, "How could some beings consider woman inferior to man? She with her beauty, delicacy, grace, sweetness, perspicacity, and patience is the highest work of creation. But the mission of woman is to be a wife and mother. Without being these she is not fully evolved, she fades like a flower without perfume." The writer concluded by advising woman to bear this in mind, and for no earthly consideration to consent to be voluntarily deprived of the two conditions of her honor and glory.
This exordium on matrimony, although addressed to the fair sex in general, was written for the special edification of a certain pretty cigarette-maker of the Calle de Caborana, whom Sinforoso had courted in vain for some years. The public thought that the girl would end by accepting him, partly by reason of the poetic terms in which he made his case clear, and partly because of the fifty reales a month which the suitor now received for his work on the staff.
Then followed a contribution from the professor, Don Jeronimo de la Fuente; it was a serious, violent attack on Kepler's three great laws of the motions of the planetary bodies, or rather on two of them, for he preserved silence on the first, which treats of the elliptical orbit of the planets. He fiercely opposed the second, maintaining and demonstrating by means of a most brilliant calculation that the areas described by the radius vector are not in any degree equal to the time employed in making them, but they concord with the attractive or repulsive force of the celestial bodies. But the chief object of his attack was the third law, for Don Jeronimo rejected as antiquated and absurd the idea that the time taken for the revolutions of planets was proportionate to the cubic feet of their distances from each other; for he showed not merely by empty words, but by figures, that there was no ground for such a calculation.
He announced another article for the next number, which was to establish a new basis for the celestial mechanism which would quite smash up the old one. In it he maintained that the stars were attracted by one pole and repelled by another like electric bodies, and upon this great principle he satisfactorily explained the movements of the celestial bodies, their disturbances, and many problems which had hitherto been deemed insoluble.
Thanks to the telescope in the window of his house, Don Jeronimo had made a series of prodigious discoveries which set at naught all the existing knowledge of astronomy. It was not astonishing that the learned professor, filled with legitimate pride, exclaimed at the end of his article:
"Down with Kepler, Newton, Laplace, and Galileo from the pedestal upon which man's ignorance has placed them and all colossal standard-bearers of false science! All their calculations have vanished like smoke, and their magnificent systems are like dry leaves, fallen from the tree of science to rot and decay."
Some verses by Periquito, the son of Don Pedro Miranda, were also inserted that confided to a certain mysterious "G" that he was a worm, and she a star; he a branch, and she a tree; she a rose, and he a caterpillar; she a light, and he the shadow; she the snow, and he the mud, etc.
There were reasons for suspecting that this "G" was a certain Gumersinda, the wife of a corn merchant, a woman remarkable for her stout figure, which caused her some difficulty in walking. Periquito had a particular fancy for ladies who were plump and married. When both these qualities were combined in one being his passion knew no bounds. And such was the present case. One must not think by this that the young man was a vicious creature. The husbands of Sarrio were not disturbed about him. Periquito was always in love, sometimes with one, sometimes with another lady, but he never dared to address them or send a love letter. Such courses were not in his line, which consisted chiefly in fascinating them by his gaze. Therefore, whenever he came across one of these fair creatures at church, or in the theatre, he first managed to take a seat at a convenient distance, and once he had taken up his position, he directed the magnetic power of his eyes straight at the passive object of his experiment until she occasionally glanced at him with an expression of surprise. The respectable matron, often not considering herself worthy of such particular attention, would look round and ask those with her if she had a spot on her face, or if her hair were out of order.
Periquito was indefatigable, and went through all these performances with the gravity they deserved. Sometimes he spent an hour or more with his eyes fixed on one person, and often when the hour had elapsed, and the enamored youth thought his soul must have filtered through the pores of the obese lady to the affection of all her faculties and feelings, this same lady would say in an undertone to her companions:
"Goodness, how that fellow Don Pedro does stare!"
How far the poet was from supposing that the star of his dreams held him in such small account!
Sometimes, but very seldom, Periquito got a little farther. When he was quite sure that the husband was not at home, nor even about the town, he sent the mysterious lady a bunch of flowers which was really a passionate eloquent letter, if the lady had only been as well versed as he was in the language of flowers. Unfortunately, the supine ignorance of the fair sex in Sarrio made these ingenious modes of communication null and void. The same can be said of certain other delicate attentions to which Periquito resorted to show his devotion. If he saw the lady wear a blue dress, he donned a cravat of the same color, a blue striped shirt and a blue flower in his buttonhole; and if the lady continued wearing the same dress, he went as far as to adopt blue trousers; and if the color were green, brown, or gray, he also followed suit. If the unhappy lady were of a religious turn of mind, Periquito voluntarily imposed on himself the terrible ordeal of rising early, and attending the mass to which she went; and if on Saturday, Monday, or Thursday she approached the sacred table to communicate, he also received the spiritual food from the priest on the same days. If the lady had plants in her window, Periquito promptly ascertained her hour of watering them, and took care to pass by at that time, when he was in the seventh heaven if perchance a few drops fell from the watering-pot on his hat. In the small hours of the night he wandered about the house, making invocations to the moon, and praying it might watch over the dreams of his love.
On one occasion, when he was in love with the wife of a lieutenant of the carbineers who was ordered to Burgos, he nearly died of grief. His mad passion inspired him with the idea of going off to get a glimpse of her, so after writing a letter of farewell to his father and taking twenty dollars of his savings he started for the City of the Cid; but in Venta de Bañas he unfortunately came across a married lady of the Civil Guard who attracted him to Palencia; there he saw another lady who took him farther, and so on, until he came back to Sarrio. This was not his only escapade. On another occasion he went fifteen miles on foot merely to cast an amatory glance at a certain lady as she sat at the window, and this lady was married to a second husband.
As the final touch to this description we must add that Periquito, to use his father's expression, ate like Heliogabulus, and yet he never grew fat.
"The Light of Sarrio" was for our impressionable young man an admirable means of airing the vague fancies, anxieties, joys, and distresses which consumed his soul, and declaring himself in mysterious acrostics to all the matrons, more or less stout, who paraded their plump forms in the streets of the flourishing town.
Finally came the columns of "Intelligence" under different headings. The genius of Sinforoso and the rest of the staff of "The Light" shone in this portion of the paper. The paragraph called "Going and Coming" referred to the visitors who had come to Sarrio in view of the approaching festivities.
Another, headed "Sarriensians out Walking," maintained in a graceful, sparkling style that the weather was delicious, and that the people of Sarrio could not do better in the evening than take a turn in the pretty, leafy environs of the town.
Another, "The Mayor to the Fore," was an appeal to Don Roque to have gutters put to several houses.
Later on this section dropped the title of "Intelligence" for that of "News to Hand," which Don Rosendo put in in imitation of "Nouvelle à la Main" of the "Figaro."
The journal ended with a charade in verse.
The fiction was Don Rufo's department, and as he had been studying French on the Ollendorf system for a year and a half, he decided to translate for the paper the six volumes of the "Mysteries of Paris." It is unnecessary to say that although "The Light of Sarrio" lived for some years, it never got as far as the third volume. Don Rufo was a wonderful translator. If he had a defect it was that of translating too literally. Once he wrote: "The carriage went off at a quick trot, inside a lady fair and frail."
In another passage, he said that Monsieur Rudolph passed his youth in the perusal of the chief works of antiquity. Finally, he represented the Countess as taking hold of the button (instead of buttonholing) of the secretary, and this provoked so much derision from ignorant folk that Don Rufo lost his temper and resigned the work, which then was undertaken by a pilot who for several years had made the run to Bayonne.
The success of the first number, as was expected, was prodigious: the article by Sinforoso, the learned dissertation by La Fuente, the "Intelligence," and even Periquito's verses, were all read with due appreciation by the public. But Don Rosendo's article headed "Our Objects" made the profoundest impression on people of a serious turn of mind. The well-turned phrases, so full of spirit and fire, the noble thoughts, the enthusiasm for the interests of Sarrio, the frankness and modesty that characterized it, filled their hearts with joy, and made them feel as if an era of prosperity and well-being had dawned.
That night the band, conducted by Señor Anselmo, with his great shining key, serenaded the staff. The front of the publishing office was illuminated with Venetian lamps, and, as usual, the pretty light-hearted artisans of Sarrio took the opportunity of dancing country dances and mazurkas on the hard stones of the street. The worthy individuals who gave voice to their admiration and enthusiasm for the staff of "The Light" in the language of music were inspired thereto by De Rueda's wine and cigars. Joy reigned in every heart, and overflowed in embraces as hearty as they were spontaneous. Don Rosendo embraced Navarro, Alvaro Peña, Don Rudesindo, Don Rufo, Sinforoso, and Don Pedro Miranda, the printer Folgueras. The musicians embraced each other, and they all embraced their conductor, Señor Anselmo. Outside the printing office, Pablito, also in commemoration of the auspicious day, embraced the fair Nieves under the shadow of a doorway, and several other lads, following his example, openly distributed their commemorative kisses among the happy girls.
The only thing that disturbed the general happiness was the peculiar sadness that came over Folgueras after he had imbibed several litres of wine. The recollection of Lancia, his natal town, suddenly occurred to him and threw him into a state of depression difficult to describe. Just when cheerfulness and gaiety had reached their height he called Don Rosendo aside, and with tears assured him that life away from his adored town was an unsupportable burden to him; better to die than lose sight of the humble dwelling which saw his birth and the streets trodden by his baby feet. The same week, please God, he hoped to leave Sarrio and return to Lancia with his belongings.