CHAPTER XX
AFTER the complete re-establishment of the health of the countess’s son, came the evening fixed upon to receive Maria. Some of the persons invited had already assembled, when Raphael entered precipitately.
“My cousin,” he said, “I come to ask a favor. If you refuse I will take to my bed, under the pretext of a horrible headache.”
“Jesus!” replied the countess, “how can I obviate so great a misfortune?”
“You shall know immediately: yesterday I received a letter from one of my comrades at the embassy, Viscount St. Leger.”
“Take away the St. and the Viscount, and leave the Leger only,” remarked the general.
“Well,” said Raphael, “my friend, who, according to my uncle, is neither saint nor viscount, introduced an Italian prince to me.”
“A prince! Well,” phlegmatically remarked the general, “why do you not call things by their proper names? He will prove, probably, to be one of the Carbonari, a propagandist, a veritable scourge. And where is this prince?”
“I am ignorant,” replied Raphael. “All I know is, that the letter says, ‘I will feel under a thousand obligations if you will have the goodness, my friend, to introduce to the person I now present to you the most beautiful and the most amiable of your ladies, your most choice reunions, the most remarkable antiquities of ‘Seville, the beautiful,’ this ‘garden of Hesperides.’ ”
“The garden of Alcazar he should rather have said,” observed the marchioness.
“It is probable. When I saw myself charged with the accomplishment of this task, without knowing to which saint to address myself, I caught the luminous idea to address myself to my cousin, and to ask her permission to bring the prince to her soirée; because, in this way he can make the acquaintance of ladies the handsomest and most amiable, society the choicest, and,” he added, in a low voice, pointing to the tresillo table, “antiquities the most notable in Seville.”
“Take care, my mother is there,” murmured the countess, laughing secretly. “You are an insolent fellow. And,” she added, in a loud voice, “I will have much pleasure in seeing your protégé.”
“Good! very good!” exclaimed the general, striking the cards violently. “Take care of them, open to them wide the doors, place them all at their ease; they will accept all this pleasure at your house, and finish by mocking you.”
“Believe me, uncle,” replied Raphael, “that we have our revenge. It is true they pretend admirably. Some foreigners arrive among us with the single object of searching for adventures, persuaded that Spain is the classic land for this. Last year I had one of these monomaniacs in my care. He was an Irishman, related to Lord W.”
“Yes, as I to the Grand Turk,” said the general, sarcastically.
“The spirit of the hero of La Mancha,” continued Raphael, “took possession of my Irishman, whom I will call Green Erin, in default of his true name, which I have forgotten. An extraordinary affection for robbers had brought him to Spain. He wished to see them in all their strength. The pleasure of being robbed was his fixed idea, his caprice, the object of his travels. He would have given six thousand sacks of potatoes to see at his side Don José Maria, in his magnificent Andalusian costume, splendidly mounted, with buttons of doubloons. He brought, at all risk for José, a poignard, with handle of gold, and a pair of pistols.”
“To arm our enemies?” cried the general. “This is his great desire. Always the same.”
“He wished to go to Madrid,” continued Raphael; “but knowing that a diligence might have the bad taste to escort him, he decided to depart in the carriage of a courier. All my arguments to dissuade him were useless. He went, in fact; and a little beyond Cordova his ardent desires were realized: he encountered the robbers, but not the robbers of bon-ton– not fashionable robbers like Don José, who sparkles like a piece of gold, mounted on his fiery chestnut horse. They were little robbers, marching on foot, common and vulgar. You know what it is to be vulgar in England? There is no pestilence, no leprosy, which inspires so much horror in an Englishman as that which is vulgar. Vulgar! at this word Albion is covered with her densest fog; the dandies have spleen of the blackest dye; the ladies have the blue-devils; the misses have spasms; and dressmakers become nervous. Thus it is forbidden as if a lion approached. He did not fight, however, for his treasures, for these he had confided to me until his return. What he valued the most was a branch of willow from the tomb of Napoleon, the satin shoe of a danseuse, scarcely as big as a nut, and a collection of caricatures of his uncle, Lord W.”
“Here is detail enough to paint the man,” interrupted the general.
“But I do nothing but chatter,” said Raphael. “Adieu, cousin; I go, but I will soon return.”
“How, you go away leaving the poor Erin in the hands of the robbers. You must finish your history,” said the countess.
“I will then tell you, in two words, that the exasperated robbers ill-treated him, and fastened him to a tree. He was discovered by an old woman, who transported him to her cabin, where she took a mother’s care of him during all the illness which his misadventures had brought on him. I was for some time without any tidings from my friend, and recollecting the Spanish saying, ‘Que la esperanza era verde y se la comió un borrico’ (‘Hope is green; an ass might feed on it’), I began to believe that some accident had happened to Green Erin, when I received a letter from my Irishman, containing all the details of his romantic history. He instructed me to give six thousand reals to the woman who had nursed and saved him, so she could not doubt the state of his fortune: then the toilet left him by the robbers was simply that which he wore when he came into the world. As you see, the recompense was becoming. Let us be just; no one can deny the generosity of the English. But here comes Polo, with an elegy in his eyes. The prince waits for me. I will make up for being late by running, at the risk of breaking my nose.” And Raphael disappeared.
“Jesus!” said the marchioness, “Raphael is so restless, he gesticulates so much, he is witty with such volubility, that I lose half of what he says.”
“You do not lose any great things,” growled the general.
“Well,” said the countess, “I could love Raphael for the pleasure which he affords me, if I had never before had a love for every thing that is good.”
“Here, dear Gracia,” said Eloise, entering and embracing the countess, “here is Alexander Dumas’ ‘Travels in France.’ ”
The countess took the book. Polo and Eloise engaged in a long dissertation upon the works of this writer. Our readers will dispense with our reporting it here.
“How well the French know how to write!” said Eloise, resuming this literary dissertation.
“What do they not know how to do, these sons of liberty?” replied Polo.
“But, señorita,” replied the general, “why do you not read Spanish books?”
“Because every Spanish book bears the seal of a coarse stupidity,” replied Eloise. “We are deplorably in arrears.”
“What do you think, then, should constitute a writer of merit in this detestable country,” added Polo, a little piqued, “if we attain eminence in nothing, if we know only how to plagiarize? How would you that we revise our country and our manners, if there is to be found nothing good, nothing elegant, nothing characteristic?”
“At least,” said Eloise, “you do not extol, like the Germans, the orange-tree, with its flowers and fruits; like the French, the boléro; and, like the English, the wine of Jerez (sherry).”
“Ah! Eloisita,” cried Polo, enthusiastically; “here is a spirituelle sally! If she is not French, she deserves to be.” And thus speaking, Polo, as usual, was himself but a plagiarist: he repeated one of the set phrases of France as an axiom.
The general had the good fortune not to hear this dialogue; they summoned him to the card-table. Raphael entered, accompanied by the prince, whom he presented to the countess. She received the stranger with her usual amiability, remaining seated, according to Spanish usage. The prince was tall and slender, and he appeared to be about forty-five years of age; but, beyond his noble title, he possessed no distinction, either of person or of manners. The society was then complete. All waited for the cantora, with an impatience mixed with some doubt as to the real value of her talent.
Major Fly threw himself affectedly into a chair near some young ladies, and cast on them glances as homicidal as the thrusts of a fencing-foil. Sir John held his eye-glass bent on Rita, who paid no attention to him. The baron, seated near an old councillor, asked him if the Moors whitened their houses with chalk.
“I have no documents on this subject,” replied the magistrate. “This point has not had the advantage of having received the attention of our historians.”
“What ignorance!” thought the baron.
“What a silly question!” thought the magistrate.
“You have a very beautiful cousin,” said the prince to Raphael.
“Yes,” he replied; “she is the Ondine of perfumed waters.”
“And the general whom I see so attentive to the game, and who has an air so distinguished?”
“He is the retired Nestor of the army. You have not at Pompeii an antiquity better preserved.”
“And the señora with whom he is playing?”
“His sister, the Marchioness of Guadalcanal, a species of escurial, a solid assemblage of devout and monarchial sentiments, with a heart which emanated from the Pantheon of kings without thrones.”
There was suddenly heard a great noise. It was the major, who, on rising to join Raphael, had upset a vase of flowers. And Raphael cried out, “The major announces his arrival; without doubt he comes to sigh, like the pipe of an organ, over the little note the ladies take of his person.”
“They must be very difficult to please,” remarked the prince; “the major has a handsome figure.”
“I do not say to the contrary. He is a Samson in strength. But, to begin with, he has his Delilah, who will soon be legitimately his, thanks to the millions which tea and opium cast into the coffers of his father. She waits in the midst of the fogs of his isle, while he amuses himself under the beautiful sky of Andalusia. Foreigners who visit Spain are all of one accord in anticipating the pleasures they propose to themselves: the beauty of the climate, the bull-fights, the oranges, the boléros, and, especially, their love conquests. What complaints have I heard from those who came here like Cæsar, and left like Darius!”
During this dialogue, the baron had approached the table, and regarded the game.
“Madame,” said he to the marchioness, “is the mother – ”
“Of my daughter? Yes, sir,” replied the marchioness.
Rita impulsively burst into a fit of laughter.
Raphael, who had stolen away from the major, mixed in the groups of guests, and soon found himself among some young ladies, of whom several were his relations. He had in this feminine squad a large party; but seeing that he had neglected them to devote his attentions to the strangers who were his cousin’s guests, this evening introduced by him, were all leagued against him, and had made up their minds to be revenged.
“Am I transformed to the head of Medusa, that you do not know me?” demanded Arias.
“Ah! is it you?” said one of the conspirators.
“It seems to me so, Clarita,” replied the young man.
“It is so very long since I have seen you, I did not recognize you again. How have you been able to tear yourself away from your strangers?”
“My strangers! I renounce the property.”
“Is it the torments and fatigues these protégés of thine cause thee, which has given thee already the appearance of old age?”
“Señoritas,” exclaimed Raphael, “is this a declaration of war, a conspiracy? What have I done?”
As an only response, he was overwhelmed with appeals, which burst forth in rapid succession, like an explosion of fireworks.
At this moment, the guests who found themselves assembled near the door of the court separated to permit the duke, leading in the Gaviota, to enter. Stein followed.
CHAPTER XXI
MARISALADA, instructed in her toilet by her hostess, presented herself accoutred in a manner the most ridiculous. She wore a dress of silk, handkerchief pattern, too short, and blending colors the most extravagant; her coiffure was most ungracefully intermingled with red ribbons of unheard-of stiffness; a mantle of tulle, white and blue, garnished with Catalan lace, exceeded the black of her tint. The ensemble of this parure could but necessarily produce, and did produce, the most pitiable effect.
The countess in making some steps towards the Gaviota passed near to Raphael, and whispered in his ear, applying to the circumstance the fable of La Fontaine —
“Sans mentir, si son ramage
Se rapporte à son plumage.”
“How many thanks we owe you,” said the countess to Maria, “for your goodness in wishing to satisfy our desire to hear you! The duke has paid you so brilliant a compliment!”
The Gaviota, without saying a word, let herself be conducted by the countess to a seat which had been destined for her between the piano and the sofa.
Rita, to be near her, had abandoned her ordinary place, and was seated beside Eloise.
“My God!” she said, on seeing the Gaviota, “she is blacker than a mole.”
“One could swear,” added Eloise, “that it was her greatest enemy who has dressed her. One would say a Judas of Holy Saturday. How does it seem to you, Raphael?”
“This wrinkle which she has between her eyebrows,” replied Arias, “gives her the appearance of a unicorn.”
During this time, in this assembly so numerous and so brilliant, no symptom of politeness or good feeling was shown towards Maria; who not the less preserved all her aplomb and her unalterable calmness. Thanks to her look, always investigating and penetrating, to her quick intelligence, and the exquisite tact of a Spanish woman, two minutes sufficed her to remark every thing, and to judge of it all.
“I already understand,” she said to herself, in resuming her observations, “that the countess is good, and desires my success; the young elegants make fun of me and of my toilet, which must be frightful; for these strangers look at me disdainfully, as I am only a simple country girl: for the old I am a nullity; the others remain neuter. In consideration of the duke, who is my protector, they will neither praise nor criticise until after an opinion favorable or the contrary is formed of me.”
For her part, the good and amiable countess tried to enter into conversation with the Gaviota, but her laconic responses neutralized all her good intentions.
“Does Seville please you much?” asked the countess.
“Sufficiently,” replied Maria.
“And what do you think of our cathedral?”
“It is too large.”
“And our beautiful walks?”
“Too small.”
“And what then interests you the most?”
“The bulls.”
The conversation stopped here. It was resumed by the countess after a long pause —
“Allow me to pray your husband to place himself at the piano.”
“Whenever it pleases you.”
Stein took his place at the piano. Maria, whose hand the duke had taken, and conducted her, placed herself at the side of her husband.
“Do you tremble, Maria?” Stein asked of her.
“And why should I tremble?” she replied.
There was profound silence. They could then easily distinguish the various impressions she reflected on the countenances of those present; with the greater part of whom it was curiosity and surprise; with the countess a sweet good-nature; around the gaming-tables, which Raphael called the upper house, there was nothing remarkable but complete indifference.
The prince smiled with disdain; the major opened his eyes, as if that would help him to hear; the baron closed his.
Sir John profited by this moment of interval to take off his eyeglasses, and rub them with his handkerchief.
Raphael fled into the garden to smoke a cigarette.
Stein played without affectation or flourishes the prelude of Casta Diva; but the pure, limpid, and powerful voice of the Gaviota made her so well heard, that the spectators seemed touched as by a magic wand. On every countenance was painted astonishment and admiration. The prince allowed an approving exclamation to escape him.
When the Gaviota had finished singing, a storm of bravos was sent forth from all the assembly: the countess set the example by applauding with her beautiful and delicate hands.
“God preserve me!” said the general, stopping his ears; he really thought he was in the place where bulls are kept.
“Let them alone, León,” said the marchioness; “let them divert themselves. It is better to be amused than to speak ill of one’s neighbor.”
Stein acknowledged on all sides his respectful thanks.
Mariquita resumed her seat, as cold and impassive as before. She sang in succession several variations most difficult, where the melody disappeared in the midst of trills and cadences. Surmounting without effort every obstacle, she elicited more and more admiration.
“Countess,” said the duke, “the prince desires to hear some Spanish songs which have been much spoken of to him; Maria excels in this species of song; will you procure a guitar for her?”
“With great pleasure,” replied the countess. And she complied at once with the request.
Raphael was seated near to Rita, after having taken care to place the major beside Eloise, who tried to persuade the Englishman that the Spaniards were becoming day by day more desirous of putting themselves on a level with foreigners, above all in that which relates to affectation and affected airs; for we know that in servile imitations, it is always defects which are the more readily imitated.
“What beautiful eyes!” said Raphael to his cousin. “These long black lashes are magnificent. Her look has truly the attraction of love.”
“It is you who are the lover of strangers,” said Rita. “Why have you placed the major near Eloise? Listen to the nonsense he is telling her. I warn you, my cousin, that each day you take the aspect and the attractions of a dictionary.”
“There it is, raillery, and raillery again,” cried Raphael, striking with his fist the arm of the chair. “You stray from the question, I speak to you of my love for yourself, Rita, of my love which will endure eternally. Know it well, my cousin, a man never loves seriously but one woman in his lifetime. The others – they pretend that they love them.”
“That is what Don Luis has repeated to me often, my cousin; but do you know, in your turn, that you are becoming fatiguing, ennuyant, like a repeating watch.”
“What does this signify?” cried Eloise, seeing a guitar brought in.
“It appears she is to sing some Spanish songs, and I am rejoiced. These songs divert me much.”
“Spanish songs!” sighed Eloise indignantly. “What horror! They are good for the common people, but not in society where bon-ton reigns. What then is Gracia thinking of? Here then is it why foreigners rightly think we are behind other nations; because we will not adopt their manners and their tastes as our models, because we through obstinacy will dine at three o’clock, and because we never will persuade ourselves that all that is Spanish is stupid.”
“But,” said the major in a gibberish sort of Anglo-Andalusian, “I believe indeed, that they do very well to be as they are.”
“If this is a compliment,” replied Eloise with emphasis, “it is so much exaggerated that it resembles mockery.”
“It is the Italian lord,” said Rita, “who has asked for these Spanish sonnets. He likes them, and understands them; that’s one proof that they merit being heard.”
“Eloise,” added Raphael, “the barcarolles, the tyroliennes, and the ranz des vaches are the popular songs of other countries; why will we not admit in the society of distinguished people our boleros and the other songs of the Spanish people?”
“Because it is more vulgar,” replied Eloise.
Raphael shrugged his shoulders, Rita laughed outright, and the major comprehended nothing of it.
Eloise got up, and under pretext of a headache left, accompanied by her mother, to whom she said in departing —
“Let them know at least that there are in Spain young ladies sufficiently distinguished and sufficiently delicate to fly from such buffooneries.”
“How unfortunate will be the Abelard of this Heloise!” said Raphael, on seeing her retire.
Maria, beyond her beautiful voice and excellent method, possessed, as a daughter of the common people, the infusing of science in the songs of Andalusia; and that grace, that charm which a stranger could not understand nor value, without having resided a long time in the country, without having, so to speak, become identified with the national character. There is in these songs, as well as in the airs of the dances, a richness of imagination, an attraction so powerful, an enchainment of surprises, complaints, bursts of joy, of languor, and of exaltation, that the audience, at first astonished, soon finish by being captivated and intoxicated.
Thus when Maria took the guitar, and sang —
“Si me pierdo, que me busquen
Al lado del Mediodia,
Donde nacen las morenas,
Y donde la sal se cria,”4
admiration became enthusiasm. The young people marked the measure by clapping their hands, repeating “Good! Good!” to encourage the singer; the cards fell from the hands of the players; the major could no longer contain himself, and beat the measure in the wrong time; Sir John swore that the song was even better than “God save the Queen;” but that which was the triumph of the Spanish music was, that it smoothed the brow of the general.
“Do you remember, brother,” the marchioness smilingly asked him, “the time when we sang el Zorengo and el Tripili?”
“What is that, the Zorengo and the Tripili?” asked the baron of Raphael.
“They are,” replied Arias, “the fathers of Sereno and of la Cachucha, and the forefathers of la Jaca de Terciopelo, of Vito, and other songs of the day.”
These particulars of songs and of national dances, of which we have spoken, may seem in bad taste, and they would certainly be so in other countries. But to abandon one’s self without reserve to sentiments which instigate our songs and our dances, one must have a character like ours; it must be that grossness and vulgarity be, as they are with us, two things unknown, two things which do not exist. A Spaniard may be insolent, but rarely will he ever be gross, because it is not in his nature. He lives according to his inspiration, which will never efface in him the stamp of a special distinction. This is what gives to Spain, despite of an education but little nourished, that finish of manner and frank elegance which render their intercourse so agreeable.
Mariquita left the hotel of the countess as pale and as impassible as she had entered it.
When the countess was alone with her friends, she said with a triumphant air to Raphael —
“What think you now, my dear cousin?”
“I think,” replied the young man, “that ‘the warbling is better than the plumage.’ ”
“What eyes!” cried the countess.
“One might say, two black diamonds in a casket of Russia leather.”
“She is grave,” said the countess, “but not haughty.”
“And timid as a woman of the common class,” said Raphael.
“But what a voice!” added the countess; “what a divine voice!”
“There should be engraven on her tomb,” replied Raphael, “the epitaph which the Portuguese composed for their celebrated singer Madureira —
“Aqui yaz o senhor de Madureira,
O melhor cantor do mundo:
Que movieu porque Deus quiseira,
Que si naon quiseira naon.
E por que lo necisitó na sua capella,
Dijole Deus: canta-cantou cosa bella!
Dijo Deus á os anjos: id vos á pradeira,
Que melhor canta o senhor de Madureira.”5
“Raphael,” said the countess, “you are an eternal railler, and nothing escapes your love of fun. I will go and order your portrait under the figure of a mockingbird.”
“In that case,” replied Raphael, on going away, “I will make a beautiful masculine Harpy that would have the advantage of being able to propagate his species.”