“Twenty thousand pounds of coals, perhaps,” said the general.
“My uncle,” replied Raphael, “resembles the frequenters of the exchange, who cause the funds to rise or fall, according to their caprice. Sir John has bet that he will appear on horseback at the Giralda, and it is the grand motive that has brought him to Seville. He is in despair, because they have not permitted him to take part in this royal pastime. Now he wishes, in imitation of Lord Elgin and Baron Taylor, to purchase Alcazar, and to carry him to his lordly residence.”
“My general,” said the duke, “do you not see that Raphael changes the colors of his tableaux, and that he relates to us only extravagances?”
“There are no extravagances,” replied the general, “that are not possible to the English.”
“You do not yet know the best!” continued Raphael, fixing his looks on a young and handsome person seated beside the marchioness, and noticing her play. “Sir John is in love with my Cousin Rita, and has asked her hand. Rita, who does not at all know how to pronounce the monosyllable yes, replied to him by a dry, hard no.”
“Is it possible, Rita,” said the duke, “you have refused twenty thousand pounds a year?”
“I have not refused the money,” replied the young girl; “I have refused the money’s master.”
“You have done well,” replied the general, “everybody should marry in his own country, it is the way to avoid exposing ourselves to taking a cat for a hare.”
“It was well done,” added the marchioness. “A protestant! God preserve us!”
“And what do you say, countess?” asked the duke.
“I am of my mother’s opinion,” she replied.
“And besides,” said Rita, “he is in love with the dancer, Lucea del Salto; and thus, when even if he had been to my taste, I ought to have made him the same answer. I do not like to share, and, above all, with these señoritas of the green-room.”
CHAPTER XVII
RITA was niece to the marchioness and the general. An orphan since her birth, she had been brought up by her brother, who loved her with tenderness; and by her nurse, who adored and spoilt her, – without which she might have made a good and pious young girl. The isolation and independence in which she had passed the first years of her life, had impressed on her character the double seal of timidity and decision. Slightly brilliant, because she detested noise and éclat, she was proud and at the same time good; simple and capricious, a mocker and reserved.
To this piquant character was added an exterior the most beautiful and attractive. She was neither too large nor too small; her form, which had never been submitted to the precision of the corset, had all the suppleness and flexibility which French romances falsely give to their heroines, fastened in by narrow strips of whalebone. It is to this graceful suppleness of body and of movement, united to that frankness of manner, so natural and enchanting when elegance and good nature accompany it, that the Spaniards owe their charming attractions, which we may call their distinctive characteristic. Rita had the tint of unpolished white; it was of the purity and regularity of a marble statue. Her admirable head of black hair, and those large eyes of dark brown, surmounted by eyebrows which seemed painted by the hand of Murillo, were most attractive. Her mouth, of extraordinary freshness, and almost always serious, opened from time to time to let escape, between her white teeth, a joyous burst of laughter, which her habitual reserve made her as soon take back; for nothing was to her more painful than to attract attention, and when by chance that happened she could not conceal her displeasure. She had made a vow to the Virgin of grief to wear a habit: it was for this she was always clothed in black, with a belt of polished leather; and a little golden heart, pierced with a sword, ornamented the upper part of her sleeve.
Rita was the only woman whom her Cousin Raphael seriously loved; not with a passion elegiac and weeping, which no way belonged to his character, the least sentimental the east wind ever blew upon, but of a true affection, earnest, sincere, and constant. Raphael, an excellent youth, loyal, judicious, as noble in manner as in birth, and possessed of a handsome patrimony, pleased in every way the family of Rita; notwithstanding, the young girl, spite of her brother’s surveillance, had surrendered her heart to another without his knowing it.
The object of her preference was a young man of an illustrious origin, a handsome boy, but a gambler; and that was sufficient for Rita’s brother to oppose her love, and he had forbidden her to see or speak to him. Rita, with her firmness of character and Spanish perseverance – which she could have better employed – quietly waited, without complaint, without sighs or tears, the attainment of twenty-one years of age, when she would have the right to marry whom she pleased, without scandal, and in spite of her brother’s opposition. During this time, her lover walked the streets, exhibiting to everybody his national costume of majo (gallant), and riding superb horses. It is useless to explain here that the two lovers had established between them a daily correspondence.
This evening, as usual, Rita had arrived at the reunion without making any noise, and was seated in her accustomed place, near to her aunt, to witness the card-playing.
Raphael glided behind his cousin, and whispered in her ear:
“Rita, when can I demand the dispensation?”
“When I give you notice to do so,” she replied, without turning her head.
“And what can I do to merit the advent of that happy moment?”
“Recommend yourself to my patron saint, who is the advocate of impossible things.”
“Cruel! you will one day repent having refused my white hand. You lose the best and most grateful of husbands.”
“And you – you will lose the most ungrateful of women.”
“Listen, Rita,” continued Arias: “our uncle, who is opposite to us, how is it that he prevents you turning your head towards those to whom you speak?”
“I have a stiff neck.”
“This stiff neck is called Luis de Haro. Are you always occupied with him?”
“More than ever.”
“And you will let me die?”
“Under my frowns.”
“I will make a vow to the devil to gild his horns, if one day he will carry off Luis de Haro.”
“Wish him evil! the wishes of the envious fatten.”
Raphael rose up furiously.
“I know what is the matter with you, Raphael,” said a young girl, before whom he passed, to him in a languishing tone.
This new speaker had arrived from Madrid.
The journey had completely modernized her. Reading French novels was her incessant occupation. She professed for the world a kind of worship; she adored music, and looked with contempt on all that was Spanish.
“What, then, is the matter with me?”
“A deception,” murmured Eloise.
“A deception! I have them by hundreds; but the fact cannot be disputed,” said Raphael, “that you are most beautiful with this coiffure, and that your toilet is in perfect taste.”
“It pleases you?” cried the elegant Eloise, smirking.
“It is not extraordinary,” continued Raphael, “that this Englishman, whom you see here opposite to you, is dying for Spain and for the Spaniards.”
“What bad taste!” said Eloise, with a gesture of disdain. “He said there was nothing more beautiful in the world than a Spanish lady with her mantle, her fan, her little feet, her black eyes, and her walk, so sprightly and so graceful.”
“But does this gentleman not know that we consider ourselves as Parias.”
“Do you seek to convert him? I will present you.”
Arias left precipitately, with this thought: Eloise has a tender heart; and more, she has become very romantic. She has every quality to please the major.
The countess, during this time, asked the duke if his Filomena of Villamar was handsome.
“She is neither handsome nor ugly,” replied the duke. “She has a tint very brown, and her features are not absolutely regular; but she has very beautiful eyes, and the ensemble does not differ from what you see everywhere in our country.”
“Since her voice is so extraordinary,” said the countess, “we must, for the honor of Seville, make her a prima donna at once. Can we not hear her?”
“When you like,” replied the duke. “I will bring her here one of these evenings with her husband, who is himself an excellent musician, and who has been her teacher.”
The hour to retire had arrived.
When the duke approached the countess to take leave, she held up her finger in sign of menace.
“What does that mean?” demanded the duke.
“Nothing,” she replied. “It only says: Take care!”
“Take care of what?”
“Do not feign not to understand me. None are so deaf as those who will not hear.”
“You puzzle me keenly, countess.”
“So much the better.”
“Will you, as a favor, explain to me?”
“I will explain myself, since you oblige me to do so. When I said to you, Take care, I meant, Do not enchain yourself.”
“Ah! countess,” replied the duke with warmth; “for God’s sake, let no unjust and false suspicion tarnish the reputation of this woman before any person knows her. This woman, countess, is an angel!”
“Without any doubt: one is not smitten of love by a devil.”
“And yet you have a thousand adorers,” replied the duke, smiling.
“I am not a devil,” said the countess; “but I have the gift of second-sight.”
“To go past the mark is not to attain it.”
“I will give you six months, invulnerable Achilles!”
“Cease, for goodness, countess; that which on your lips is but a light jest, would become a mortal poison in the mouths of those vipers who multiply in society.”
“Have no fears; it will not be I who will cast the first stone. I am indulgent as a saint, or as a great sinner, without being either the one or the other.”
This conversation did not completely satisfy the duke. Near the door he was stopped by Gen. Santa-Maria.
“Duke, have you ever seen any thing like it?”
“What thing?” replied the duke, almost irritated.
“You demand what thing?”
“Yes, and I desire a reply.”
“A colonel of twenty-three years old!”
“Indeed, it is a little precocious.” And the duke smiled.
“It is a blow struck at the army.”
“Certainly.”
“A solemn lie given to common sense.”
“Evidently.”
“Poor Spain!” sighed the general, pressing the duke’s hand, and lifting his eyes to heaven.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE duke had procured for Stein and his wife a boarding-house kept by a poor but honest family. The good German had found in the drawer of a bureau, which they had given him the key of when he took possession of his apartments, a sum of money which would have sufficed for his wants, however exaggerated. This money was accompanied by a note thus worded: “Here is the just tribute due to the service of a surgeon. Sincere gratitude and friendship alone can recompense the care and the watchfulness of a friend.”
Stein was transfixed with confusion.
“Ah! Mariquita,” he cried, showing this writing to his wife, “this man is grand in all he does. He is grand by his race, grand in heart, grand in his virtues. Like God he raises to his height the small and the humble. He calls me his friend, I who am a poor surgeon; he speaks to me of gratitude, I who am overwhelmed with benefits!”
“What is all this gold to him?” replied the Gaviota; “a man who has millions, as the hostess tells me, and whose farms are large as provinces! And without you would he not have remained a cripple all his life?”
The duke entered at that moment. He cut short the expressions of gratitude of which Stein was prodigal, and addressed himself to Marisalada —
“I came,” he said, “to ask a favor; will you refuse me, Maria?”
“What could we refuse you?” quickly replied Don Frederico.
“Very well, then,” continued the duke. “Maria, I have promised one of my intimate friends, that you will go and sing at her house.”
Maria made no reply.
“She will go, without any doubt,” said Stein. “Maria has not received from heaven a gift so precious, a voice so admirable, without incurring the obligation to let others of the same tastes participate.”
“It is then a thing agreed upon,” added the duke. “As you, Stein, are as good a pianist as distinguished flutist, you will have this evening a piano at your disposal, with a collection of the best gems of the modern opera. Thus you can choose those which please you the most, and study them; for Maria must triumph and be covered with glory. On this evening will depend her reputation as a singer.”
At these last words a light sparkled in the eyes of the Gaviota.
“Will you sing, Maria?” asked the duke of her.
“And why not?” she replied.
“I know,” said the duke, “that you have already seen all that Seville contains remarkable. Stein nourishes his enthusiasm, and he knows Seville at his fingers’ ends; but what you have not yet seen is a bull-fight. Here are tickets for that of this evening. I depend on you, my friends – you will be near me: I wish to witness the impression this spectacle will produce.”
They conversed together some time longer, and then the duke retired.
When after dinner Stein and his wife arrived at the place assigned for the bull-fight, they found it already filled with people. A brief and sustained animation preceded the fête. This immense rendezvous, where were gathered together all the population of the city and its environs; this agitation, like to that of the blood which in the paroxysms of a violent passion rushes to the heart; this feverish expectation, this frantic excitement, kept, however, within the limits of order; these exclamations, petulant without insolence; this deep anxiety which gives a quivering to pleasure; all this together formed a species of moral magnetism: one must succumb to its force, or hasten to fly from it.
Stein, struck with vertigo, and his heart wrung, would have chosen flight: his timidity kept him where he was. He saw in all eyes which were turned on him the glowing of joy and happiness; he dare not appear singular. Twelve thousand persons were assembled in this place; the rich were thrown in the shade, and the varied colors of the costumes of the Andalusian people were reflected in the rays of the sun.
Soon the arena was cleared.
Then came forward the picadores, mounted on their unfortunate horses, who, with head lowered, and sorrowful eyes, seemed to be – and were in reality – victims marching to the sacrifice.
Stein, at the appearance of these poor animals, felt himself change to a painful compassion; a species of disgust which he already experienced. The provinces of the Peninsula which he had traversed hitherto, were devastated by the civil war, and he had had no opportunity of seeing these fêtes so grand, so national, and so popular, where were united to the brilliant Moorish strategy the ferocious intrepidity of the Gothic race. But he had often heard these spectacles spoken of, and he knew that the merit of a fight is generally estimated by the number of horses that are slain. His pity was excited towards these poor animals which, after having rendered great services to their masters, after having conferred on them triumph, and perhaps saved their lives, had for their recompense, when age and the excess of work had exhausted their strength, an atrocious death which, by a refinement of cruelty, they were obliged themselves to seek. Instinct made them seek this death; some resisted, while others, more resigned or more feeble, went docilely before them to abridge their agony. The sufferings of these unfortunate animals touched the hardest heart; but the amateurs had neither eyes, attention, nor interest, except for the bull. They were under a real fascination, which communicated itself to most of the strangers who came to Spain, and principally for this barbarous amusement. Besides, it must be avowed, and we avow it with grief, that compassion for animals is, in Spain, particularly among the men, a sentiment more theoretical than practical. Among the lower classes it does not exist at all.
The three picadores saluted the president of the fête, preceded by the banderilleros and the chulos, splendidly dressed, and carrying the capas of bright and brilliant colors. The matadores and their substitutes commanded all these combatants, and wore the most luxurious costumes.
“Pepe Vera! here is Pepe Vera!” cried all the spectators. “The scholar of Montés! Brave boy! What a jovial fellow! how well he is made! what elegance and vivacity in all his person! how firm his look! what a calm eye!”
“Do you know,” said a young man seated near to Stein, “what is the lesson Montés gives to his scholars? he pushes them, their arms crossed, close to the bull, and says to them, ‘Do not fear the bull – brave the bull!’ ”
Pepe Vera descended into the arena. His costume was of cherry-colored satin, with shoulder-knots and silver embroidery in profusion. From the little pockets of his vest stuck out the points of orange-colored scarfs. A waistcoat of rich tissue of silver, and a pretty little cap of velvet completed his coquettish and charming costume of majo.
After having saluted the authorities with much ease and grace, he went, like the other combatants, to take his accustomed place. The three picadores also went to their posts, at equal distance from each other, near to the barrier. There was then a profound, an imposing silence. One might have said that this crowd, lately so noisy, had suddenly lost the faculty of breathing.
The alcalde gave the signal, the clarions sounded, and, as if the trumpet of the Last Judgment had been heard, all the spectators arose with the most perfect ensemble; and suddenly was seen opened the large door of the toril, placed opposite to the box occupied by the authorities. A bull, whose hide was red, precipitated himself into the arena, and was assailed by a universal explosion of cheers, of cries, of abuse, and of praise. At this terrible noise the bull, affrighted, stopped short, raised his head, his eyes were inflamed, and seemed to demand if all these provocations were addressed to him; to him, the athletic and powerful, who, until now, had been generous towards man, and who had always shown favor towards him as to a feeble and weak enemy. He surveyed the ground, turning his menacing head on all sides – he still hesitated: the cheers, shrill and penetrating, became more and more shrill and frequent. Then, with a quickness which neither his weight nor his bulk foretold, he sprang towards the picador, who planted his lance in his withers. The bull felt a sharp pain, and soon drew back. It was one of those animals which in the language of bull-fighting are called boyantes, that is to say, undecided and wavering. It is for that he did not persist in his first attack, but assailed the second picador. This one was not so well prepared as the first, and the thrust of his lance was neither so correct nor so firm; he wounded the animal without being able to arrest his advance. The horns of the bull were buried in the body of the horse, who fell to the ground. A cry of fright was raised on all sides, and the chulos surrounded this horrible group; but the ferocious animal had seized his prey, and would not allow himself to be distracted from his vengeance. In this moment of terror, the cries of the multitude were united in one immense clamor, which would have filled the city with fright, if it had not come from the place of the bull-fight. The danger became more frightful as it was prolonged.
The bull tenaciously attacked the horse, who was overwhelmed with his weight and with his convulsive movements, while the unfortunate picador was crushed beneath these two enormous masses. Then was seen to approach, light as a bird with brilliant plumage, tranquil as a child who goes to gather flowers, calm and smiling at the same time, a young man, covered with silver embroidery, and sparkling like a star. He approached in the rear of the bull; and this young man of delicate frame, and of appearance so distinguished, took in both hands the tail of the terrible animal, and drew it towards him. The bull, surprised, turned furiously, and precipitated himself on his adversary, who, without a movement of his shoulder, and stepping backwards, avoided the first shock by a half-wheel to the right.
The bull attacked him anew; the young man escaped a second time by another half wheel to the left, continuing to manage him until he reached the barrier. There he disappeared from the eyes of the astonished animal, and from the anxious gaze of the public, who in the intoxication of their enthusiasm filled the air with their frantic applause: for we are always ardently impressed when we see man play with death, and brave it with so much coolness.
“See now if he has not well followed the lesson of Montés! See if Pepe Vera knows how to act with the bull!” said the young man seated near to them, and who was hoarse from crying out.
The duke at this moment fixed his attention on Marisalada. Since the arrival of this young woman at the capital of Andalusia, it was the first time that he had remarked any emotion on this cold and disdainful countenance. Until now he had never seen her animated. The rude organization of Marisalada was too vulgar to receive the exquisite sentiment of admiration. There was in her character too much indifference and pride to permit her to be taken by surprise. She was astonished at nothing, interested in nothing. To excite her, be it ever so little, to soften some part of this hard metal, it was necessary to employ fire, and to use the hammer.
Stein was pale. “My lord duke,” he said, with an air full of sweetness and of conviction, “is it possible that this diverts you?”
“No,” replied the duke, “it does not divert, it interests me.”
During this brief dialogue they had raised up the horse. The poor animal could not stand on his legs; his intestines protruded, and bespattered the ground. The picador was also raised up; he was removed between the arms of the chulos. Furious against the bull, and, led on by a blind temerity, he would at all hazards remount his horse and return to the attack, in spite of the dizziness produced by his fall. It was impossible to dissuade him; they saw him indeed replace the saddle upon the poor victim, into the bruised flanks of which he dug his spurs.
“My lord duke,” said Stein, “I may perhaps appear to you ridiculous, but I do not wish to remain at this spectacle. Maria, shall we depart?”
“No,” replied Maria, whose soul seemed to be concentrated in her eyes. “Am I a little miss? and are you afraid that, by accident, I may faint?”
“In such case,” said Stein, “I will come back and take you when the course is finished.”
And he departed.
The bull had disposed of a sufficiently good number of horses. The unfortunate courser which we have mentioned, was taken away, rather drawn than led, by the bridle to the door, by which he made his retreat. The other, which had not the strength again to stand up, lay stretched out in the convulsions of agony; sometimes they stretched out their heads as though impelled by terror. At these last signs of life, the bull returned to the charge, wounding anew with plunges of his horns the bruised members of his victims. Then, his forehead and horns all bloody, he walked around the circus affecting an air of provocation and defiance: at times he proudly raised his head towards the amphitheatre, where the cries did not cease to be heard; sometimes it was towards the brilliant chulos who passed before him like meteors, planting their banderillas in his body. Often from a cage, or from a netting hidden in the ornaments of a banderillero, came out birds, which joyously took up their flight. The first inventor of this strange and singular contrast, could not certainly have had the intention to symbolize innocence without defence rising above the horrors and ferocious passions here below, in its happy flight towards heaven. That would be, without doubt, one of those poetic ideas which are born spontaneously in the hard and cruel heart of the Spanish plebeian, as we see in Andalusia the mignonette plant really flourish between the stones and the mortar of a balcony.
At the signal given by the president of the course, the clarions again sounded. There was a moment of truce in this bloody wrestling, and it created a perfect silence.
Then Pepe Vera, holding in his left hand a sword and a red-hooded cloak, advanced near to the box of the alcalde. Arrived opposite, he stopped and saluted, to demand permission to slay the bull.
Pepe Vera perceived the presence of the duke, whose taste for the bull-fight was well known; he had also remarked the woman who was seated at his side, because this woman, to whom the duke frequently spoke, never took her eyes off the matador.
He directed his steps towards the duke, and taking off his cap, said: “Brindo (I offer the honor of the bull) to you, my lord, and to the royal person who is near you.”
At these words, casting his cap on the ground with an inimitable abandon, he returned to his post.
The chulos regarded him attentively, all ready to execute his orders. The matador chose the spot which suited him the best, and indicated it to his quadrilla.
“Here!” he cried out to them.
The chulos ran towards the bull and excited him, and in pursuing them met Pepe Vera, face to face, who had waited his approach with a firm step. It was the solemn moment of the whole fight. A profound silence succeeded to the noisy tumult, and to the warm excitement which until then had been exhibited towards the matador.
The bull, on seeing this feeble enemy, who had laughed at his fury, stopped as if he wished to reflect. He feared without doubt that he would escape him a second time.
Whoever had entered into the circus at this moment, would sooner believe he was assisting in a solemn religious assembly, than in a public amusement, so great was the silence.
The two adversaries regarded each other reciprocally.
Pepe Vera raised his left hand: the bull sprang on him. Making only a light movement, the matador let him pass by his side, returned and put himself on guard. When the animal turned upon him, the man directed his sword towards the extremity of the shoulder, so that the bull continuing his advance, powerfully aided the steel to penetrate completely into his body.
It was done! He fell lifeless at the feet of his vanquisher.
To describe the general burst of cries and bravos which broke forth from every part of this vast area, would be a thing absolutely impossible. Those who are accustomed to be present at these spectacles, alone can form an idea of it. At the same time were heard the strains of the military bands.
Pepe Vera tranquilly traversed the arena in the midst of these frantic testimonials of passionate admiration, and of this unanimous ovation, saluting with his sword right and left in token of his acknowledgments. This triumph, which might have excited the envy of a Roman emperor, in him did not excite the least surprise – the least pride. He then went to salute the ayuntamiento; then the duke, and the “royal” young lady.
The duke then secretly handed to Maria a purse full of gold, and she enveloped it in her handkerchief, and cast it into the arena.
Pepe Vera again renewed his thanks, and the glance of his black eyes met those of the Gaviota. In describing the meeting of these looks, a classic writer said, that it wounded these two hearts as profoundly as Pepe Vera wounded the bull.
We who have not the temerity to ally ourselves to this severe and intolerant school, we simply say that these two natures were made to understand each other – to sympathize. They in fact did understand and sympathize.
It is true to say that Pepe had done admirably.
All that he had promised in a situation where he placed himself between life and death, had been executed with an address, an ease, a dexterity, and a grace, which had not been baffled for an instant.
For such a task it is necessary to have an energetic temperament and a daring courage, joined to a certain degree of self-possession, which alone can command twenty-four thousand eyes which observe, and twenty-four thousand hands which applaud.