CHAPTER VIII
A MONTH after the scenes we have described, Marisalada was more sensible, and did not show the least desire to return to her father’s. Stein was completely re-established; his good-natured character, his modest inclinations, his natural sympathies, attached him every day more to the peaceful habits of the simple and generous persons among whom he dwelt. He felt relieved from his former discouragements, and his mind was invigorated; he was cordially resigned to his present existence, and to the men with whom he associated.
One afternoon, Stein, leaning against an angle of the convent which faced the sea, admired the grand spectacle which the opening of the winter season presented to his view. Above his head floated a triple bed of sombre clouds, forced along by the impetuous wind. Those lower down, black and heavy, seemed like the cupola of an ancient cathedral in ruins, threatening at each instant to sink down. When reduced to water, they fell to the ground. There was visible the second bed, less sombre and lighter, defying the wind which chased them, and separating at intervals sought other clouds, more coquettish and more vaporous, which they hurried into space, as if they feared to soil their white robes by coming in contact with their companions.
“Are you a sponge, Don Frederico, so to like to receive all the water which falls from heaven?” demanded José, the shepherd, of Stein. “Let us enter, the roofs are made expressly for such nights as these. My sheep would give much to shelter themselves under some tiles.”
Stein and the shepherd entered, and found the family assembled around the hearth.
At the left of the chimney, Dolores, seated on a low chair, held her infant, who, turning his back to his mother, supported himself on the arm which encircled him, like the balustrade of a balcony; he moved about incessantly his little legs and his small bare arms, laughing, and uttering joyous cries addressed to his brother Anis. This brother, gravely seated opposite the fire, on the edge of an empty earthen pan, remained stiff and motionless, fearing that, losing his equilibrium, he would be tossed into the said earthen pan, an accident which his mother had predicted.
Maria was sewing at the right side of the chimney; her grand-daughters had for seats dry aloe-leaves, excellent seats, light, solid, and sure. Nearly under the drapery of the chimney-piece slept the hairy Palomo, and a cat, the grave Morrongo, tolerated from necessity, but remaining, by common consent, at a respectful distance from each other.
In the middle of this group there was a little low table, on which burned a lamp of four jets; close to the table the brother Gabriel was seated, making baskets of the palm-tree; Momo was engaged in repairing the harness of the good “Swallow” (the ass); and Manuel, cutting up tobacco. On the fire was conspicuous a stew-pan full of Malaga potatoes, white wine, honey, cinnamon, and cloves. The humble family waited with impatience till the perfumed stew should be sufficiently cooked.
“Come on! Come on!” cried Maria, when she saw her guest and the shepherd enter. “What are you doing outside in weather like this? ’Tis said a hurricane has come to destroy the world. Don Frederico, here, here! come near the fire. Do you know that the invalid has supped like a princess, and that at present she sleeps like a queen! Her cure progresses well – is it not so, Don Frederico?”
“Her recovery surpasses my hopes.”
“My soups!” added Maria with pride.
“And the ass’s milk,” said brother Gabriel quietly.
“There is no doubt,” replied Stein, “and she ought to continue to take it.”
“I oppose it not,” said Maria, “because ass’s milk is like the turnip – if it does no good it does no harm.”
“Ah! how pleasant it is here!” said Stein, caressing the children. “If one could only live in the enjoyment of the present, without thought of the future!”
“Yes, yes, Don Frederico,” joyfully cried Manuel, “ ‘Media vida es la candela; pan y vino, la otra media.’ ” (Half of life is the candle; bread and wine are the other half)
“And what necessity have you to dream of the future?” asked Maria. “Will the morrow make us the more love to-day? Let us occupy ourselves with to-day, so as not to render painful the day to come.”
“Man is a traveller,” replied Stein, “he must follow his route.”
“Certainly,” replied Maria, “man is a traveller; but if he arrives in a quarter where he finds himself well off, he would say, ‘We are well here, put up our tents.’ ”
“If you wish us to lose our evening by talking of travelling,” said Dolores, “we will believe that we have offended you, or that you are not pleased here.”
“Who speaks of travelling in the middle of December?” demanded Manuel. “Goodness of heaven! Do you not see what disasters there are every day on the sea? hear the singing of the wind! Will you embark in this weather, as you were embarked in the war of Navarre, for, as then, you would come out mortified and ruined.”
“Besides,” added Maria, “the invalid is not yet entirely cured.”
“Ah! there,” said Dolores, besieged by the children, “if you will not call off these creatures, the potatoes will not be cooked until the last judgment.”
The grandmother rolled the spinning-wheel to the corner, and called the little infants to her.
“We will not go,” they replied with one voice, “if you will not tell us a story.”
“Come, I will tell you one,” said the good old woman.
The children approached. Anis took up his position on the empty earthen pot; and the grandma commenced a story to amuse the little children.
She had hardly finished the relation of this story, when a great noise was heard.
The dog rose up, pointed his ears, and put himself on the defensive. The cat bristled her hair, and prepared to fly. But the succeeding laugh very soon was frightful: it was Anis, who fell asleep during the recital of his grandmother. It happened that the prophecy of his mother was fulfilled as to his falling into the earthen pan, where all his little person disappeared, except his legs which stuck out like plants of a new species. His mother, rendered impatient, seized with one hand the collar of his vest, raised him out of this depth, and, despite his resistance, held him suspended in the air for some time – in the style represented in those card dancing-jacks, which move arms and legs when you pull the thread which holds them.
As his mother scolded him, and everybody laughed at him, Anis, who had a brave spirit, a thing natural in an infant, burst out into a groan which had nothing of timidity in it.
“Don’t weep, Anis,” said Paca, “and I will give you two chestnuts that I have in my pocket.”
“True?” demanded Anis.
Paca took out the two chestnuts, and gave them to him. Instead of tears, they saw promptly shine with joy the two rows of white teeth of the young boy.
“Brother Gabriel,” said Maria, “did you not speak to me of a pain in your eyes? Why do you work this evening?”
“I said truly,” answered brother Gabriel; “but Don Frederico gave me a remedy which cured me.”
“Don Frederico must know many remedies, but he does not know that one which never misses its effect,” said the shepherd.
“If you know it, have the extreme kindness to inform me of it,” replied Stein.
“I am unable to tell you,” replied the shepherd. “I know that it exists, and that is all.”
“Who knows it then?” demanded Stein.
“The swallows,” said José.
“The swallows?”
“Yes, sir. It is an herb which is called pito-real, which nobody sees or knows except the swallows: when their little ones lose their sight they rub their eyes with the pito-real, and cure them. This herb has also the virtue to cut iron – every thing it touches.”
“What absurdities this José swallows without chewing, like a real shark!” interrupted Manuel laughing. “Don Frederico, do you comprehend what he said and believes as an article of faith? He believes and says that snakes never die.”
“No, they never die,” replied the shepherd. “When they see death coming they escape from their skin, and run away. With age they become serpents; little by little they are covered with scales and wings: they become dragons, and return to the desert. But you, Manuel, you do not wish to believe any thing. Do you deny also that the lizard is the enemy of the woman, and the friend of man? If you do not believe it, ask then of Miguel.”
“He knows it?”
“Without doubt, by experience.”
“Whence did he learn it?” demanded Stein.
“He was sleeping in the field,” replied José. “A snake glided near him. A lizard, which was in the furrow, saw it coming, and presented himself to defend Miguel. The lizard, which was of large form, fought with the snake. But Miguel not awaking, the lizard pressed his tail against the nose of the sleeper, and ran off as if his paws were on fire. The lizard is a good little beast, who has good desires; he never sleeps in the sun without descending the wall to kiss the earth.”
When the conversation commenced on the subject of swallows, Paca said to Anis, who was seated among his sisters, with his legs crossed like a Grand Turk in miniature, “Anis, do you know what the swallows say?”
“I? No. They have never spoken to me.”
“Attend then: they say (the little girl imitated the chirping of swallows, and began to sing with volubility),
‘To eat and to drink!
And to loan when you may;
But ’tis madness to think
This loan to repay.
Flee, flee, pretty swallow, the season demands,
Fly swift on the wing, and reach other lands.’ ”
“Is it for that they are sold?”
“For that,” affirmed his sister.
During this time, Dolores, carrying her infant in one hand, with the other spread the table, served the potatoes, and distributed to each one his part. The children ate from her plate, and Stein remarked that she did not even touch the dish she had prepared with so much care.
“You do not eat, Dolores?” he said to her.
“Do you not know the saying,” she replied laughing, “ ‘He who has children at his side will never die of indigestion,’ Don Frederico? What they eat nourishes me.”
Momo, who found himself beside this group, drew away his plate, so that his brothers would not have the temptation to ask him for its contents. His father, who remarked it, said to him —
“Don’t be avaricious; it is a shameful vice: be not avaricious; avarice is an abject vice. Know that one day an avaricious man fell into the river. A peasant who saw it, ran to pull him out; he stretched out his arm, and cried to him, ‘Give me your hand!’ What had he to give? A miser – give! Before giving him any thing he allowed himself to be swept down by the current. By chance he floated near to a fisherman; ‘Take my hand!’ he said to him. As it was a question of taking, our man was willing, and he escaped danger.”
“It is not such wit you should relate to your son, Manuel,” said Maria. “You ought to set before him, for example, the bad rich man, who would give to the unfortunate neither a morsel of bread, nor a glass of water. ‘God grant,’ answered the beggar to him, ‘that all that you touch changes to this silver which you so hold to.’ The wish of the beggar was realized. All that the miser had in his house was changed into metals as hard as his heart. Tormented by hunger and thirst, he went into the country, and having perceived a fountain of pure water, clear as crystal, he approached with longing to taste it; but the moment his lips touched it, the water was turned to silver. He would take an orange, and the orange was changed to gold. He thus died in a frenzy of rage and fury, cursing what he had desired.”
Manuel, the strongest-minded man in the assembly, bowed down his head.
“Manuel,” his mother said to him, “you imagine that we ought not to believe but what is a fundamental article, and that credulity is common only to the imbecile. You are mistaken: men of good sense are credulous.”
“But, my mother, between belief and doubt there is a medium.”
“And why,” replied the good old woman, “laugh at faith, which is the first of all virtues? How will it appear to you, if I say to you: ‘I have given birth to you, I have educated you, I have guided your earliest steps – I have fulfilled my obligations!’ Is the love of a mother nothing but an obligation! What say you?”
“I would reply that you are not a good mother.”
“Well, my son, apply that to what we were speaking of: he who does not believe except from obligation, and only for that, cannot cease to believe without being a renegade, a bad Christian; as I would be a bad mother, if I loved you only from obligation.”
“Brother Gabriel,” interrupted Dolores, “why will you not taste my potatoes?”
“It is a fast day,” replied brother Gabriel.
“Nonsense! There is no longer convent, nor rules, nor fasts,” cavalierly said Manuel, to induce the poor old man to participate in the general repast. “Besides, you have accomplished sixty years: put away these scruples, and you will not be damned for having eaten our potatoes.”
“Pardon me,” replied brother Gabriel, “but I ought to fast as formerly, inasmuch as the Father Prior has not given me a dispensation.”
“Well done, brother Gabriel!” added Maria; “Manuel shall not be the demon tempter with his rebellious spirit, to incite you to gormandize.”
Upon this, the good old woman rose up, and locked up in a closet the plate which Dolores had served to the monk —
“I will keep it here for you until to-morrow morning, brother Gabriel.”
Supper finished, the men, whose habit was always to keep their hats on in the house, uncovered, and Maria said grace.
CHAPTER IX
MARISALADA was already convalescent, as if nature had desired to recompense the excellent treatment of Stein, and the charitable care of the good Maria. She was decently dressed; and her hair, well combed and gathered behind her neck, bore evidence of the attention which Dolores had shown in putting her coiffure in order.
One day when Stein was reading in his chamber, whose window overlooked the grand court where the children amused themselves in company with Marisalada, he heard her imitate the songs of various birds with such rare perfection, that he closed his book to admire this really extraordinary talent.
Soon after commenced one of those recitations so common in Spain, and which consist of playing and singing at the same time. Marisalada took the part of the mother; Pepe that of a young cavalier who came to demand of her the hand of her daughter; the mother refused him; the young man would take possession of her by force of his love; and all this dialogue, composed of couplets, was sung with exquisite melody.
The book fell from the hands of Stein, who, like all good Germans, passionately loved music.
Never had so beautiful a voice struck his ear. It was a metal pure and ringing like crystal, smooth and flexible as silk. Stein hardly dared to breathe, so much did he fear to lose a single note.
“You are there, all ears,” said Maria, who entered the chamber unknown to Stein. “Have I not warned you that she is a canary set free?”
And upon this she descended to the court and asked Marisalada to sing her a song.
She refused, with her accustomed tartness.
At this moment Momo entered, singularly dressed and driving before him the ass laden with charcoal. He had his hands and face bedaubed and black as ink.
“El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” cried Marisalada on seeing him. “El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” repeated the children.
“If I had nothing else to do,” replied Momo furiously, “but to sing like you, great mountebank, I would not be daubed from head to foot. Fortunately, Don Frederico has forbidden you to sing, and you will not stun my ears.”
Marisalada, as a response, struck out in a song in her loudest tones. The Andalusian people have at their command an infinite quantity of songs. There are the boleros, now joyous, now sad; the ole, the fandango, the cano, so pretty and so difficult to execute; and many others, among which is distinguished the romance. The tone of the romance is monotonous, and we dare not affirm that this song, receiving the honors of written notation, could satisfy the dilettante and the melodrama. But its charm, or, if you will, its enchanting grace, consists in the modulations of the voice in singing, as it were to cast out certain notes, to blend them, to balance them, so to say, very softly, in raising or lowering the tone, in swelling it or allowing it to die. It is thus that the romance, composed of a number of notes strongly bound, presents the great difficulties of expression, and the purity of execution.
The song belongs so essentially to the peasantry, that the common class of the people alone, and very few among them, attain perfection. Those who sing well appear to sing by intuition. When towards evening, in the country, one hears at a distance a fine voice singing the romance with a melancholy full of originality, he feels an extraordinary emotion, which can only be compared to that produced in Germany by the sounds of the postilion’s cornet, so deliciously repeated by the echoes in the magnificent forests, and on the splendid lakes. The words of the romance refer generally to some history of the Moors, or recount either pious legends or the sad exploits of brigands. That ancient and celebrated romance which we have received from our fathers like a melodious tradition, has been more lasting as to some of its notes than all the grandeur of Spain achieved by her cannon, and sustained by the mines of Peru. There are still many other popular songs, very pretty, very expressive, of which the music is specially adapted to words. Witness that which was sung by Marisalada, and which we transcribe here in all its simplicity.
“A cursed cavalier
Loved a noble dame;
Who to his love gave ear,
Echoing his flame.
“Her manor, happy once,
Silent entered he;
And in her lord’s absence,
Found security.
“And now the wrapt embrace
Seemed from danger free;
When knelled the master’s voice,
‘Open quick to me.’
“He gayly cried, ‘Sweet dove!
Let me thee embrace;
Fever is it, or love,
Palors now thy face?’
“ ‘Scold me thou would’st again,
Fear then pales me thus;
The key? Let me explain?
Thy treasure key is lost.’
“ ‘Gold is preferred to steel,
Then still be calm, my dear;
But say why, if you will,
Is this proud courser here?’
“ ‘Yours is yon race horse, lord,
Presented by papa;
Who asks, with knightly word,
Your presence shortly there.’
“ ‘Your father is most kind,
Such noble gift to make;
This pistol, too, I find!
Is there not some mistake?’
“ ‘’Tis yours, please comprehend,
From him: he bade me say,
He hopes you will attend
My sister’s wedding day.’
“ ‘Contemptuous of law,
Thus in my wedded bed;
Who is the wretch to dare,
My fatal ire to goad?’
“ ‘My youngest sister ’tis,
Whom father to me sent;
To share with me my bliss,
And see how sweet life went.’
“But suddenly the truth,
Flashed on the husband’s mind;
‘Father! take back thy Ruth,
I but a traitress find!
“ ‘No longer is she mine,
Betwixt us is a gulf;
But vain ’tis to repine,
Be man! avenge thyself.’
“The wife paid for her wrong,
At the sharp poignard’s point;
And the false knight was hung,
The only death he’d grant.”
Marisalada had scarcely finished singing this ballad, when Stein, who had an excellent ear for music, took his flute and repeated, note by note, the song he had just heard. At this the young girl nearly fainted with astonishment; she looked around on all sides to discover whence came this echo so pure and faithful.
“It was not an echo,” cried the little girls, “it was Don Frederico, who whistled in a reed pierced with holes.”
Marisalada then quietly entered the chamber of Stein, and began to listen with the greatest attention, her body bent forward, a smile on her lips, and her soul in her eyes.
Within this instant the rude ferocity of the fisherman’s daughter was changed, and her regard for Stein induced a certain confidence and docility which caused the greatest surprise to all the family.
Maria advised Stein to profit by the ascendency he obtained day by day over the mind of Marisalada, to engage her to be instructed and employ her time in learning the law of God, and to try and become a good Christian; a woman of sense and reason; a good manager.
The grandmother added, that to obtain the end proposed, to bend the entire character of Marisalada, and to make her abandon her bad habits, the best thing would be to pray the Señora Rosita, the mistress of the school, to be so good as to take charge of her, because she was a very honest woman, fearing God, and very expert in all her handy-work.
Stein much approved of this idea, and obtained the consent of Marisalada. He promised, in return, to go and see her every day, and play airs on the flute to divert her.
The disposition of the young girl awakened in her an extraordinary taste for the study of music, and the first impulse was given her by the ability of Stein.
When Momo found that Marisalada had put herself under the tuition of Rosa Mistica, to learn there to sew, to sweep, to cook, and above all, as he said, to have judgment; when he knew that it was the doctor who had decided this, he declared he believed what Don Frederico had recounted respecting his country, where there were certain men whom all the mice followed when they heard a whistle.
Since the death of her mother, Señorita Rosa had established a school for little girls. School is the name which they give in villages; but the school in cities bears a more pompous title, and it is called an academy. The little village children attend school from the morning until midday; all the information is composed of Christian doctrine and of sewing. In cities they learn to read, to write, to embroider, and to sketch. It is true that these schools cannot create the wells of science, nor become the nurseries of artists, or produce models of an education equal to that of a mujer emancipada; but in return they produce ordinarily good workers and excellent mothers of families, which is still better.
The invalid perfectly cured. Stein urged upon her father that he would confide his daughter for some time, to the honest woman who would replace the mother she had been deprived of, and who would instruct her in the duties of her sex.
When it was proposed to the Señorita Rosa to admit to her house the indomitable daughter of the fisherman, her first reply was decidedly negative, as she was accustomed to make, in such circumstances, to persons of her character.
Notwithstanding, she finished by consenting, when she was made to understand the good effects expected to result from this work of charity. It is impossible to recount all that the unfortunate schoolmistress suffered during the time she had Marisalada in charge. On one side were mockeries and rebellion; on the other, sermons without profit, and exhortations without result. Two causes exhausted the patience of Rosa; with her patience was not an inborn virtue, but laboriously acquired.
Marisalada had succeeded in organizing a kind of conspiracy in the little battalion commanded by Rosa. This conspiracy burst forth one fine morning, timid and undecided at first, then audacious and walking with a lofty head. Thus was the event:
“The rose mallow does not please me,” suddenly said Marisalada.
“Silence!” cried the mistress, whose severe discipline forbade conversation during school-hours.
Silence was re-established.
Five minutes after a voice, sharp and insolent, was heard:
“The moon-roses do not please me.”
“No one asked your opinion,” said the Señorita Rosa, believing that this declaration had been provoked by Marisalada.
Five minutes after, another conspirator said, on picking up her thimble which had fallen —
“I do not like white roses.”
“What does it signify?” cried Rosa, whose black eye shone like a beacon. “You mock me!”
“Moss roses do not please me,” said one of the smallest girls, hastily hiding under the table.
“Nor the passion roses, me.”
“Nor the roses of Jericho, me.”
“Nor the yellow roses, me.”
The strong and clear voice of Marisalada drowned all other voices —
“I cannot bear dry roses,” cried she.
“I cannot bear dry roses,” repeated all the scholars in chorus.
Rosa Mistica, who at the commencement was only astonished, rose up on seeing so much insolence, ran to the kitchen, and returned armed with a broom.
At sight of this all the conspirators fled like a flock of birds. Rosa remained alone, let fall her broom and crossed her arms.
“Patience, Lord!” she exclaimed, after having done every thing possible to subdue her emotion. “I will support a sobriquet with resignation, as thou, Lord, supported thy cross; but I yet lack that crown of thorns. Thy will be done!”
Perhaps she might have decided to pardon Marisalada this escapade, but the adventure which soon after followed obliged her to send her away.
The son of the barber, Ramon Perez, a great amateur of the guitar, came every night to touch the chords of his guitar and sing amorous couplets under the strongly fastened windows of the devotee.
“Don Modesto,” said she to him one day, “when you hear this bird of night, Ramon, whose voice wounds your hearing, do me the kindness to go out and order him to carry his music elsewhere.”
“But, Rosita,” replied Don Modesto, “would you that I get on bad terms with this eccentric fellow, when his father (may God repay him!) has shaved me for nothing since my arrival in Villamar? And, see how it is. I like to listen to it, because none can deny that he draws from his voice and instrument modulations of excellent taste.”
“I congratulate you,” said Rosa. “It is possible that your ears are proof against a bomb-shell. If it pleases you, it is not convenient to me that he comes and sings under the windows of an honest woman. It produces neither honor nor profit.”
The physiognomy of Don Modesto expressed a mute answer divided into three parts. In the first place – astonishment, which seemed to say, What! Ramon make love to my hostess! In the second place – doubt; as if he had said, Is it possible? Lastly – the certainty embodied in these phrases: The thing is sure; Ramon is audacious.
After this reflection, Rosa continued:
“You might cool yourself in passing from the heat of your bed to the fresh sea air; you had better remain quiet, and it is I who will say to this magpie, Do you wish to divert yourself? then buy yourself a doll.”
Precisely at midnight was heard the sounds of a guitar, and a voice which sang —
“The black of thy black hair I love,
Believe me, much more fully,
Than ivory whiteness e’er can prove,
Or the majestic lily.”
“What folly!” cried Rosa Mistica, springing out of her bed. “See how he continues this annoyance which he sings so profitlessly.”
The voice continued:
“To thy prayers, to the church so superb,
All resplendent thou seemest in vain;
Tread thou gracefully then the light herb,
For the herb will be green soon again.”
“God assist us!” murmured Rosa, in putting on her third petticoat: “he mixes up the Church with his profane couplets, and those who hear him will say that he sings thus to insult me. This beardless barber! does he believe he can mock me? It required only that.”
Rosa entered into the saloon, and caught a view of Marisalada, who, leaning against the shutter, listened to the singer with all the attention she was capable of. Then she made the sign of the cross, exclaiming —
“And she is not yet thirteen years old! There are no more children.”
Taking her scholar by the arm, she drew her away from the window, and placed herself there at the moment when Ramon powerfully touched his guitar, and strained his throat to entone the following couplet:
“My loved one to the window came,
Now all around here is obscure;
But thy bright eyes will soon illume,
For love will be the Cynosure.”3
Then the music of the guitar continued the air with more vehemence and ardor than ever.
“It is I who will lighten thee with a torch of hell!” cried Rosa Mistica, in a sharp and angry voice. “Libertine! Profaner! Everlasting and insupportable singer!”
Ramon Perez, recovered from his first surprise, set off to run lighter than a buck, and without casting a single look behind.
This was the decisive coup. Marisalada was sent back to her room, in spite of the timid efforts at reconciliation tendered in her favor by Don Modesto.
“Señor,” replied Rosita to her guest, “charges are charges, and while this shameless girl is under my responsibility, I must render account of her actions to God and to men; each one has enough of his own sins, without charging himself or herself, in addition, with those of others. You view it otherwise, she is a creature who will never follow the good path. When she is pointed to the right, she turns always to the left.”