I.
Eastward from Jerez, in the direction of the Sierra de Ronda, which rises in a succession of terraces, as if to form a suitable pedestal for the rightly named San Cristóbal, lie the extensive Llanos de Caulina. A bare and uniform road drags itself for two leagues through the palmettoes, and makes a halt at the foot of the first elevation, where a lazy rivulet widens in the sun, and, stagnating in summer, changes its waters into mire.
On the right is seen the castle of Malgarejo, one of the few Moorish edifices that time and his faithful auxiliary in the work of destruction, ignorance, have left standing. Time makes ruins, groups them, crowns them with garlands, and adorns them with verdure, as if he desired to have them for places of recreation and rest; but the barbarian ignorance gives no quarter—his only delight is in dust; his place of repose, the desert waste; his end, nothingness.
The angles of the castle are flanked by four large towers. These, as well as the walls of the whole enclosure, are surmounted by well-formed turrets, perfect still, and without notch or break in their beautiful uniformity. The castle took its name of Malgarejo from a knight of Jerez, by whom its reduction was accomplished in a manner so curious, that we cannot resist the inclination to relate it, for the benefit of those who are unacquainted with the tales of partisan exploits that abound in the annals of Jerez.
In the beginning of the thirteenth century, a hundred and fifty Moors, with their families, occupied the castle. They went clothed in white, according to the custom of their nation, and mounted gray horses. Shut up as they were, they procured their subsistence by foraging the country at night, and carrying to their stronghold whatever booty they could seize.
Malgarejo resolved to get possession of this formidable place. It was surrounded, at that time, by a wide moat. This moat—opened by the Moors for their protection, and afterward serving them for a sepulchre—no longer exists.
The Christian cavalier had a slave that was a most accomplished horseman, and to him he promised liberty if he would swear to devote himself to the proposed undertaking. The slave, agreeing, was entrusted by his master with a mare of singular agility, and was directed to train her to leap a ditch, which was to be enlarged, by degrees, to the width of the one that surrounded the Saracen castle.
This being accomplished, Malgarejo called together his followers, disguised them as Moors, caused them to cover their horses with white cloths, and, one night, when the garrison had sallied out upon a raid, approached the fortress. Those within, taking his host for the one they were expecting, viewed its approach without suspicion. When the Christians came nearer, they saw their mistake, and would have raised the bridge, but the slave of Malgarejo had already leaped the moat, and cut the cords, so that it could not be lifted; and the Jerezanos made themselves masters of the castle.
The sight of this stronghold, over which the destroyer Time has passed leaving as little trace as would the footstep of a bird, transports the beholder to the past with such vividness of illusion, that he is surprised not to see the pennon of the half-moon fluttering above its towers, and misses a snowy turban from behind every one of its turrets. No fitter place could be found for the representation of a fight or of a tournament between Moors and Christians.
The road to Arcos leaves on its left the sleeping stream and the dead fortress, within whose precinct, like ants in a skeleton, laborers plying the tools of peaceful husbandry are moving.
Ascending this first step of the mountain, the traveller crosses other plains, covered as far as the eye can see with rich harvests, and, finding no nearer inn or stopping-place, takes his siesta at the grange of La Peñuela, formerly the property of the Carthusian fathers—an order so pious, so severe, so worthy and respected, that the country folk still ask each other, "And was there indeed a power that could, and a hand that would dare to touch such men and such things?"
As the country rises, it covers itself with olive groves, as if it would shelter white and ancient Arcos in the pride with which she preserves her title of city, her venerable privileges, and her state parchments, in spite of decline, or, better said, in spite of her still life, in the midst of the progress that waits upon the march of time—a progress at once gentle, deliberate, and spontaneous.
True to the guerilla traits of her Moorish founders, Arcos appears to the traveller, wearied with the ascent, alternately advancing and retiring, until, passing between two high rocks, he enters unexpectedly into a city so beautiful for situation as to astonish and delight even those who are rarely moved by the charms of nature or the enchantments of the picturesque.
One afternoon, in the year 1840 or thereabout, a crowd of people might have been seen entering a poor-looking house in the barrier of San Francisco. From this house they had carried, on the previous day, the body of one who had been its mistress, and the neighbors were now uniting for the condolement required by the rigorous etiquette which is observed by the people, and which manifests the instinctive courtesy and dignity that distinguish them. For all etiquette and all ceremonial are founded upon these bases, and are not the ridiculous and superficial things, either in public or private life, that the revolutionary spirit of the age, and the anxiety to escape from every rein, material and moral, would make us believe. Ceremonial and etiquette, in the right acceptation of the words, are external conduct, disposed so as to give worship to things divine, consideration and respect to things human.
On entering the house, the women assembled in the parlor of the mourner's habitation.[160] Opposite this room was another, which had been lent by a neighbor for the accommodation of the men.
Upon a mat in the middle of the apartment first mentioned was extended a handkerchief, into which each person, as he entered, threw one or two copper coins, destined for the stipend of the Mass of San Bernardino. This custom is observed not only among the poor, but also among those who are well-to-do, for this Mass must be owed to charity. Let sceptics and rationalists explain this as best suits them. We look upon it as an act of humility, joined to the desire of uniting many suffrages. And although we may be more impressed with terrestrial honors, such as a splendid funeral, a showy catafalque, and a proud mausoleum, the fervent petition of the heart, the coin given in charity, the prayers of the church, are better suffrages for heaven. In a corner of the room, upon a low chair, was the principal mourner, a little girl of eight years. Wearied with weeping for her mother, and with remaining so long in one position, she had leaned her head against the back of the chair, and fallen asleep—for sleep is a lover of children, and hastens to their relief whenever they suffer in body or spirit.
"Poor Lucia," said one of the mourners, a kinswoman of the deceased, glancing at the child, "how she will miss her mother!"
"This was the thorn that poor Ana carried to the grave fastened in her heart," observed a neighbor.
"But," asked another, "of what did she die?"
"Only the ground that covers her knows what ailed her," answered the relative, "for Ana did not complain. If she had not been so thin, you might have drunk her; as yellow as a waxen flower, and so weak that a shadow could have knocked her down, no one would have thought that she was on her way to Holyfield."
"She died of a broken heart!" exclaimed an energetic-looking young matron; "all the world knows it; and because we have an alcalde that is afraid to strap his breeches to the work and cast out of town with the devil's sling these trulls of strangers who come among us to set up drinking-houses, and chouse married men, to their perdition and the ruins of their families!"
"Yes, yes, the alcaldes have eyes of fishes for all these things," said the relative of the deceased, "just as they have owls' eyes for some others. But they'll get their pay, woman; for though God consents, 'tis not for ever!"
"Yes," answered the first—"consents to the death of the good, and lets the bad live, and crow on. God reserves the justice of heaven for himself. The rod of earthly justice he puts into the hands of men; and a fine account they'll have to give of the way they use it! I'd like to break the one our alcalde carries upon his shoulders!"
"Neighbor," said an old woman, "you are more hasty than a spark from the forge; you attack like the bulls, with eyes shut. Think whom you are speaking of; and bear in mind that 'evil wounds heal, but evil fame kills.' Poor Ana was never well after her last confinement. Death does not come without a pretext: the summer pulled her down, and September finished her; for 'from friar to friar,[161] God be our guard!'"
"Of course, Aunt Maria," retorted the young woman, "it's quite proper for you, because you are aunt to Juan Garcia, and cousin to the alcalde, to say so; for 'with reason or without it, aid us God and our kin.' But I tell you that my José is not to set his foot inside of La Leona's[162] gin-shop; and I'll see that he don't! A man may be as honest as Job, but in 'the house of the soap-maker he that doesn't fall slips.' And say what you please, you who are a widow, with the coolness of age in your veins, I shall not go back of what I have said. 'He that jumps straight, falls on his feet,' and I say, and resay it: they ought to flay alive the good-for-nothing calamary of a she-sergeant, with her sentry-box figure, and face darker than an oil-skin, so full of pock-marks that it looks as if she had fallen into a bed of chick-peas, and more hair on her lip than a grenadier! Remember the proverb, 'Salute the bearded woman at a distance!'"
"And her children," said the mourner—"little imps that she keeps so greasy and neglected! They look like a nest of calamaries."
"But she thinks them little suns," added another.
"Ya!" exclaimed the first who had spoken; "said the black beetle to her young ones, 'Come hither, my flowers!' and the owl calls hers 'drops of gold.' Who ever saw such a thing, sirs," she continued, growing excited—"who ever saw anything so wicked as to dupe a married man, the father of children, ruin him, pull down his house, and murder his wife by inches! And this is known and permitted! I tell you, such a thing sinks deep!"
"Yes, it is worse than stabbing with a knife," exclaimed one woman.
"It cries to God!" added another.
"It is a scandal of the monstrous kind," proceeded the first. "Poor Ana, though I did not see much of her, I loved her well. Almond-paste is not milder than she was, and as meek and free from malice as a sheep in the hands of the butcher. O men! men! There is a curse on them that pull their clothes on over their feet; and that is the reason our dear Lord would not wear breeches, but always dressed in a tunic."
"Come, daughter," said Aunt Maria, "nothing is mended by malediction, nor by spitting out the quinine. Let us pray for the soul of the departed, for that is what will really benefit her."
These words were the signal for complete silence. Aunt Maria took her rosary, the rest following her example, and, after saying the act of contrition and a solemn credo, proceeded to recite the rosary of souls, repeating three times after the Paternoster, and instead of the Hail Mary,
"O Lord, by thy infinite mercy,"
the others answering in chorus,
"Grant to the souls of the faithful departed peace and glory."
Nothing was now heard in the mourning room of the women but the grave murmur of the prayers and suppressed sighs of pity and sorrow.
The other parlor presented a very different spectacle. The widower, serene as a glass of water, and cool as a fresh lettuce, now that the day of the burial had passed, considered himself dispensed from the attitude of mourning, and smoked, listening and talking to all, just as usual, as if death had entered his house and departed without leaving either trace or impression of his awful presence.
The indifferent ones followed his example, so that, had not all worn cloaks, no one would have supposed that this was a condolement, a tribute of love and respect to a life that had ended, and of sympathy with an overwhelming sorrow. The only figure that appeared to be in harmony with the object of the reunion was that of a boy thirteen years old, the son of the deceased, who sat near his father with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands, weeping inconsolably.
"What kind of day has it been?" asked the widower.
"Unhealthy," answered one.
"And the sky?"
"Patched; I think the rain is not far off. There was fog this morning, and 'fog is the rain's sponsor and the sun's neighbor.'"
"The wind will soon sweep the cobwebs from the sky," said a third, "for it blows from sunset side. The rain is shyer than sixpences."
"No matter," answered the first, "last year it did not rain till All Saints; and a better year, or another of the same piece, hasn't been seen since the creation. Laborers, farmers, and tenants all got tired of gathering, and had more than enough—the barley, in particular, grew so thick that you couldn't set a spade between the blades."
"The month of January is the key of the year. If the sky does not open in January, there will be no harvest."
"Hola! Uncle Bartolo!" all exclaimed, as a small, vigorous old man entered the apartment. "Where do you hail from? where have you been ever since we missed you from here?"
Uncle Bartolo, after offering to the mourner the usual condolences, seated himself, and, turning toward his interrogators, replied:
"Where do I come from? The district of Doñana, without varying from the most direct line. Since the French war ended, and I took the road, I have been water-carrier[163] to the You Sirs.[164] They have them there in Doñana of all complexions—legitimate, grafted, cross-breed, and supposititious, even English. Caballeros! Deliver us; but those Swiss of the French are the ones! Stout fellows; very white; very ruddy; very fair-haired, and very puffy. But as to spirit, they have no more than they drink; and grace, they have not any. They carry their arms like the sleeves of a capote, and set their feet down like pestles. Whenever I saw those feet that resembled jabeques,[165] I used to say to myself,
'A good foot and good ear
Signs of a good beast are.'
For talking, they make use of a kind of jargon that, in my opinion, they themselves don't understand. These parleys that I don't comprehend displease me, for I never know whether I am being bought or sold.
"There was one—the size of a tunny-fish—they called Don 'Turo.[166] He fell to me. To see him blowing and sweating over those sands made one pity him, for a league finishes them; the sun offends them; the heat makes them weak, and dissolves them entirely. That platter face would persist in doing everything contrariwise, as they do it in his country. Once he took it into his head to use my clasp-knife to eat with, and cut himself. With that he got out a medicine-chest as big as a surgeon's. 'Go along!' said I to myself, 'a spider bit me, and I bound the wound up in a sheet.' He was as hard-headed as a corner. Another time he made up his mind that he ought to shoot a partridge, and, though I told him it was against the law to shoot partridges at that season, he fired, and would have fired if his father had stood before the mouth of his gun. He fired and killed an urraca.[167] 'Sir,' said I, 'what has your honor done?' Says he to me, 'Killed the partridge.' 'Why, sir, it isn't a partridge, it's an urraca.' 'It's all right,' said the big bungler, quite composedly. 'But it is not right,' answered I; 'the killing of urracas is prohibited.' 'And who prohibits it?' he asked, putting on his face of a lion. 'I have my license, that cost me three thousand reals.' 'But, sir, that is for large game—you understand? The urracas mustn't be killed. You comprehend?' Says he to me, 'In this country of Santísima María'—for, as I have told you already, he said everything reversed, as they do in his—'in this country there's no end of privileges, and do the very urracas have them?'
"That question was so foolish, or else meant to be ironical, that I didn't care to set him right; so I told him, 'Yes, privileges that were granted to them in very ancient times, by Doña Urraca herself.' He took out a blank-book and wrote that down. 'Let the ball roll,' said I in my jacket, 'it isn't my business to stop it.'"
"But, Uncle Bartolo, why may they not kill urracas in the district?" asked a young man.
"Because they are the ones that planted the pine woods," answered Uncle Bartolo.
"Oh! none of that! you are not talking to platter-face," replied the youth.
"So I perceive, since his swallow for novelties was too big; and you—for a blockhead of those who believe only what they see—haven't any. Nevertheless, sir, that the urracas do plant the pines is a truth as evident as a house. They open the ripe cones, and pick out the seeds for food. Being very saving birds, they bury those that they can't eat; and, being very brainless ones, they forget all about it and never go back to look for them; and the seeds sprout. If it were not true, why would the dukes prohibit the killing of urracas, when they are thicker in the district than sparrows on a threshing-floor? Therefore, Alonso, no one may say, 'This camel can't enter the eye of my needle'; for, of two silly birds, the one that always keeps his bill shut is more silly than the one that has his always open. But you were a dunce from the beginning; and, as you grow older, you are gaining upon Blas, that ate horse-beans."
"And at night, uncle, what did those people do with themselves there in the province?" asked the listeners.
"The Englishmen ate and drank, for their honors are made hollow, in order that they may always be putting things into their mouths. That is the reason they are so fat and big. Platter-face told me one day—with an air as if God had just revealed it to him—that I was able to go so long without getting tired because I was lean; and that he would give a thousand dollars, or some such sum, to be as lean as I. I answered—shouting to make him understand better—'Your worship has only to eat gazpacho[168] to dry up your flesh, and raw onions and garlic to sharpen your senses."
"And the Spaniards—how did they pass the evenings, Uncle Bartolo?"
"The Spaniards? Talking through the very stitches of their garments; bawling till you would have thought they were echoes: and quarrelling about things of the government. For, nowadays, everybody wants to know everything himself, and to command: the very beetles set up their tails and complain of a cough. I tell you, sirs, there are no more such Spaniards as there were in the time of the French war. We were as one man then, and all of one mind. Now there are moderates and extremists. I, who am an extremist only when it concerns my gun, my wife, and my children, could wish the devil would fly away with so much gab. It made me want to say to them: 'Gentlemen, where there is less tongue, count on more judgment,' and 'so much grass chokes the wheat.'"
"One night, one of the You Sirs called me, and wanted to know if I was in the war against Napoleon. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'I was a guerilla.' 'Well, then,' said he, 'you just come here, for I am going to read you the will he made.'"
"What! did that man make a will, Uncle Bartolo?" asked some of the oldest of the listeners.
"Yes, and before he died, it is supposed.
"'But, your worship,' I asked, 'what had that kingdom-thief to give away? Did they not then make him throw up everything he had taken?'
"The You Sir had an open book, and began to read. Gentlemen, that soccarron,[169] in his will, went on distributing everything, his goods, his arms, his body, and his heart. I was perplexed. 'Well, what do you think of it, uncle?' said his honor, when he had ended. 'Sir,' I answered, 'from what I can see, that unbeliever thought of everything; but neither in his life nor in his death did he remember his soul.'"
"Why did you join the guerillas, Uncle Bartolo?" asked one of the company.
"What a question!" exclaimed the guerilla, looking at the one who had asked it, and weaving himself backwards and forwards with much composure.
"'He that asks does not err,' Uncle Bartolo."
"Yes, but this is a case of 'He that asks does not err, and I ask if they bury the dead with the deceased?'"
"What I mean is, when did you leave your house, and how did you happen to fall in with the partida?"[170]
"Ya! those are other questions, Lopez. Some French horsemen came here—they call them colaseros (cuirassiers)—my wife was more afraid of them than of a contagion, and every time she heard the clarionets, she would say to me, in a fright, 'They are sounding the charge.' 'No, wife,' I would tell her, 'they are sounding the premonition.' One day the cornet—they used to call him Trompi—came in tipsy, and insulted my wife. I, who was not afraid of any three that might come, and never stopped to think of consequences, said to him, 'Out of here, little soul of a pitcher, and Barabbas cut a slice from you!' With that he drew his sword, and would have cut me, but I snatched my knife, and finished him at once; and then, catching up mantle and blanket, took the wind for the mountains. I stopped in Benamahoma with the Padre Lovillo—and there you have it all."
"The Padre Lovillo was the captain of the partida?" questioned a youth.
"Yes, the Padre Lovillo. Candela! That was a man you could call a man! No talker—not he; but the words he used were few and good. If any one wanted to brag of his doings, he would say, 'Let them be seen, not heard. You understand, cackler? Stabs with steel, not with the tongue; balls of lead, not of wind.' Sirs, that man was ready for everything, as you would have declared with two tongues if you had had them. When we were going to attack the French, he used to say, 'Listen, sons, our fathers died for their country, and we are not to be less than they.' Then, drawing his sword, he would shout, 'Now let us see who has pluck!' and charge like another Santiago,[171] and we after him, as if he had led us to Paris in France. We felt neither hunger nor weariness; it was a fight without drum or trumpet, but it made the Frenchmen shiver. They named us the 'Briganes[172] of the Black Mountain,' and were more afraid of us than of the trained soldiery.
"Don 'Turo, who knew that I had been a brigan, called me into the parlor one evening, and, when he had squeezed himself into a chair, told me to sit down. I began to wonder where all these Masses were going to end.[173] Surely, I thought, he cannot want me to clean his gun! But I waited for the mountain to bring forth, and presently he asked me to explain the trafica[174] of guerilla fighting. When I saw him come out with that ladder, I got angry, and told him, 'No;' that my pronouncing was very bad, and his understanding worse. But all the others insisted, and, not to seem disobliging, I repeated a very good and well-versed poem, that was going the rounds then."
"And what was it about, Uncle Bartolo?"
"It relates a conversation between Malapart[175] and that Indian, Munrá, Duke of Ver."[176]
"Go on, uncle, say it," exclaimed all present.
The following romance, which the old guerilla recited, was very popular at that time among the people. It owes its humor to the fact that neither its unlettered composer, nor those who recited it, had any suspicion that they were giving a caricature. They considered it a simple and probable account of what would take place between Napoleon and Murat when they saw their last troops vanquished. Even the conclusion is in no way inconsistent with their ideas of the antecedents and characters of the personages:
Nap. How is this, friend Munrá!
Why are you here again?
Why have you left your capital?
What sent you out of Spain?
Speak on, and don't delay;
We have no time to spare;
Tell me, in terms exact,
What has happened there.
Mur. Easy, sir, if you please;
Sire, do not press me so;
Only let me get breath,
I'll tell you what I know.
But, first, send for a chair,
That some rest we may take
While I tell you the tale,
For, indeed, my legs ache.
Nap. Right, for you have grown fat,
And glad am I to see
Proof that the airs of Spain
So well with you agree.
Mur. Sire, you are mistaken;
But let the matter go,
For things of more account
Your majesty should know.
And, come to what must come,
Without any more ado—
For, believe me or not, sire,
All I tell you is true.
Nap. Why, what has happened now?
Good Heavens, man, speak out!
What have you seen in Spain
To put you so about?
Mur. Great Emperor of France,
Your force has been in vain;
Nor did flatteries avail—
You cannot conquer Spain.
No notice will they take
Of your promises of pay,
And peace, and rank to all,
And bull-fights every day.
Nap. But, my soldiers, do not they
In the mountains still remain?
Mur. Yes, captives they remain
With their general, Dupon,
And the eagles of France;
And every sword and gun
Might as well be a distaff,
For Castaños and his men
Have settled their account.
Nap. Peste! Because you tell it,
The tale I must believe;
From another I would not
A word of it receive.
No doubt, in Zaragoza
Our cause has better speed,
In humbling them at last
We surely must succeed.
Mur. All your force is useless;
The knaves will not submit.
If you wish to lose France,
And make an end of it,
Send it to Zaragoza,
It will find a bloody tomb,
And remain there, buried,
Until the Day of Doom.
Nap. Can nothing, then, be done
With those troops of Arragon?
Mur. We have none that on them
Will venture to advance.
Nap. But Moncey's triumphant
In the kingdom of Valence?
Mur. Sire, he has dropped his ears,
And slunk away, ashamed;
Those Valencians have a way
Their enemies to tame.
They mount on swiftest steeds,
And, running a swift career,
Unhorse the astonished foe
Before he is aware.
Nap. It seems, then, that maxims,
And lying, and caution
Have failed in that country;
But who had a notion
That Spain would be equal
To France in a contest?
We now can do nothing
But send for Funest.[177]
Mur. And how can he get here,
When the Portuguese men,
With the Spaniards united,
Have him closely shut in,
With sentinels stationed?
No help can avail him,
For surrender he must,
When eatables fail him.
The best thing to do, is
To yield to their clamor,
And give back the king
That Spaniards all honor.
Perhaps, sire, if—with him
Appeased and delighted—
They will let our troops go,
Your throne may be righted;
For upset it they will
At the rate they are making,
And cut off your head,
And from me be taking
My fine dukedom of Ver;
Or, if we escape, sire,
The fate I am dreading.
We'll have to sweep chimneys
Again for a living.
I've forgotten the trade,
And lost my dexterity;
But you, who were master,
Would mount with celerity.
Nap. Only a pitiful knave
Such memories would renew.
Mur. Well, sire, if that don't suit,
I've another thing in view;
We'll seek a brighter sphere,
And a foreign city find,
Where through the streets we'll rove,
Crying "Sci-i-issors to gri-ind."
"And which did he do, uncle?" asked one—"sweep chimneys or grind scissors?"
"He sweep chimneys!" exclaimed Uncle Bartolo. "Such people always fall into feather-beds! They carried him to St. Helena—beyond Gibraltar—where he had it quite comfortable till he died raving, after the devil had helped him to make that will."
"Here comes Uncle Cohete," said a man who sat by the window.
"Make him a sign to come in," said the person nearest him, in a low tone.
Uncle Cohete was a simple, good old man, who acted the merry-andrew for the purpose of obtaining alms for a religious house of which he was demandante.[178] He could mimic to perfection the songs of all birds; the near and distant barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat; and so excelled in imitating the peculiar hiss and crackling of a kite in the air, as to have obtained the nickname of cohete (kite), by which he was known. He had, besides, a stock of simple verses, ballads, riddles, and odd scraps of humor, which he would repeat with inimitable expression and drollery. The sources from which he drew his supplies could not be told. This, he had learned in a town on the Llanura; that, in a village of the Sierra; another at the fireside of the manse. But, in his mimicry of the birds, they themselves had been the teachers, aided by unusual flexibility of organs, and great patience and perseverance on the part of the disciple. For, in all branches—whether important or insignificant—perseverance yields great results.
It having been intimated to Uncle Cohete that the company wished him to tell something diverting, he began by saying The Commandments of the Rich Man and the Poor Man—a collection of ironical precepts, which enjoyed great popularity at that time—as follows:
"The commandments of the rich man, nowadays, are five, namely:
"The first. Thou shalt have no end of money.
"The second. Thou shalt despise all the rest of the world.
"The third. Thou shalt eat good beef and good mutton.
"The fourth. Thou shalt eat flesh on Good Friday.
"The fifth. Thou shalt drink both white wine and red.
"These commandments are included in two:
Let all be for me, and nothing for you."The commandments of the poor man are five, namely:
"The first. Thou shalt never have any money.
"The second. Thou shalt be despised by all the world.
"The third. Thou shalt eat neither beef nor mutton.
"The fourth. Thou shalt fast, even if it be not Good Friday.
"The fifth. Thou shalt taste neither the white wine nor the red.
"These commandments are included in two:
Scratch thyself, and bear everything for the love of God."
"Uncle, did not the son of Roba-Santos[179] who is heaping money, give you an alms?" asked one.
"No, he gave me nothing," answered Uncle Cohete.
"Like father, like son," said Uncle Bartolo.
"Next year, uncle, you will get a pile, for 'when the fields have, the saints have.'"
"Uncle Cohete, take these two coppers, and tell us The Commandments of the New Law," said the man who had called him in:
"The commandments of the new law are ten, namely:
"The first. Let there be no money in Spain.
"The second. Let the world turn upside-down.
"The third. Let every one play gentleman.
"The fourth. Let not a single copper come from America.
"The fifth. Let there be no end of drafting.
"The sixth. Let the new law come from abroad.
"The seventh. Let there be fewer people that are not wanted.
"The eighth. Let them distribute biscuits in Navarra.
"The ninth. Let every one look out for himself.
"The tenth. Let all be at variance.
"These commandments are included in two:
Some say yes, and others say no."
"Tell us a riddle, uncle."
"Fifty ladies and five gallants: the fifty ask fowl; the five ask bread," said the old man, of whom nature, and the kind of life he led, had made the personification of ready and good-humored obedience.
"The Rosary! I knew that," said a little boy. "Tell another."
"The mantle of Lady Leonor
Sinks in the river, but covers the shore."
"We give it up, uncle."
"It is the snow, gentlemen."
At this moment they were interrupted by the ringing of the sunset bell, and, all rising, stood with uncovered heads.
"Will you recite the prayer, Uncle Bartolo," said the widower.
Uncle Bartolo repeated the Angelus, adding a Paternoster for the deceased. And now the grief of the sobbing child in the corner broke forth in bitter crying.
"Stop that, Lucas!" said his father. "You have been going on in that way, hic! hic! like an old woman, for two days. You ought to have gone into the women's room. Let me hear you crying again! You understand?"
"Let me tell you, Juan Garcia," said Uncle Bartolo, "that you are the first man I ever heard rebuke the tears of a son for his mother! You see me, with my years, my beard, and my guerilla life; well, I remember mine, and weep for her still!
"But, uncle, 'frown, and frown again, of a bad son makes a good one.' Lucas here is a regular Marcia Fernandez,[180] brought up in the folds of his mother's skirts. I must teach him that men resist, and do not allow themselves to be overcome by tribulations."
Uncle Bartolo shook his head. "Time and not ointment will cure the patient. If you had died, his mother would not have been the one to rebuke your son for the tears he shed over you."
Juan Garcia continued his former life, abandoning himself with more liberty to the wicked woman of whom the friends of his dead wife had spoken at the condolement. She was called La Leona in allusion to her native island of Leon, where she had married a sergeant, who was afterward sent to serve in America. Like all bad women, La Leona was much worse than men of the same class, inasmuch as, in the subtle organization of woman, the delicacy that is given to her for good turns into a refinement of evil, and her instinctive penetration into malignant sagacity. Not satisfied with having attracted to herself Juan Garcia, who possessed a small patrimony, La Leona, impelled by the bitter envy which a lost woman feels toward one who is honest, undertook to render him indifferent to his wife, and succeeded not only in this, but also in causing him to ill-treat and abandon her. Juan Garcia was a weak man, easily subjugated by those who knew how to obtain an influence over him, and, by way of compensating himself for this complaisance, very obstinate and overbearing in his treatment of others. By degrees, it came to pass that his mistress would not receive him with favor unless he brought her, as an offering, the relation of some act of coldness or cruelty to the victim whose only crime was that of affording, by her right, and by her silent and prudent endurance, the most patent condemnation of the conduct of these two, a condemnation all the more ignominious because of the great purity of manners which prevails in country places. And in order to gain our assertion credit with those who are disposed to accuse us of partiality for the country people, we hasten to say that this purity may naturally be attributed to the wholesome influence of labor, which, in putting indolence to flight, puts to flight with it the vices it generates, and to the blessed poverty, which, being without the means of satisfying them, hinders their birth. Having convinced utilitarians with these reasons, we will add to them others of our own; namely, the salutary ideas of morality and rooted principles of honor that many centuries of Catholicism have fixed in the hearts of these people—principles renewed, in each successive generation, by the unchanging zeal that is the property of religion, and that never wearies or grows lukewarm.
Like all other general rules, the above has its exceptions. Juan Garcia furnished one. His unkindness, united with the grief and shame his conduct caused her, had certainly hastened the death of poor Ana, whose last act of affection as a wife, and duty as a Christian, had been to forgive him. Alas! the soul of the husband was so deeply mired that even this saintly death could awaken in it neither pity nor remorse. Not that he was utterly perverse, but his eyes, like those of many another in this world of error, were covered by one of those veils which must fall on the day of God's judgment, when the light of truth will be the first punishment that awaits the willingly blind.
His boy and girl remained orphaned and neglected, and would have been entirely forsaken but for that active charity which makes women constitute themselves fervent protectors of the helpless and severe judges of the wrong-doer. The wives of Juan's neighbors took care of the children, and obliged him to feed and clothe them, freely casting in his face his evil conduct, while, with imperturbable coolness, they prescribed to him his obligations.
Ah charity!—some proclaim and others comprehend thee; some would guide thee, and thou guidest others! Why art thou not found in the palaces that philanthropy builds for thee? Why dost thou appear in all thy brightness in the dwellings of the poor, delighting thyself with the widow's farthing? It is because thou wilt be queen and not a slave!
The children could not be consoled for the death of their mother. Isolated as they were, all the sentiments of their hearts became converted into love for each other, and sorrow for their loss.
Lucas, however, who was five years older than his sister, did his best to enliven and distract her.
"Don't cry so, Lucia," he said to her one night, not long after the condolement. "Mother will not come back for crying, and you make me cry. What shall I do to amuse you?"
The child made no answer.
"Shall I sing you a romance?"
Lucia inclined her head in token of assent, and the boy sang in his clear, sweet voice the following ballad:
Holy Saviour of La Luz,
Teach a child's tongue how to tell
A thing that happened in Seville,
Right, and worthily, and well.
Of a mother who lived there,
And two daughters that she had;
One was humble, mild, and good,
The other one was proud and bad.
They marry with two brothers,
Who are brothers but in name—
Under the same roof nurtured,
But in nothing else the same.
The younger sells his portion,
And loses the whole in play;
The elder follows the plough,
And works in his field all day.
Then the younger dies, and leaves
His wife, all alone and poor;
Her children weep for bread,
And she seeks her sister's door,
Praying, "In God's name, sister,
And for his sweet Mother's sake,
Give my little children bread,
And his word in payment take."
"Go, Mary," cries the sister,
"Beggar, take yourself away!
Was my lot better than yours
Upon our wedding-day?"
Weeping and broken-hearted,
The poor mother turns again;
To know her cause of sorrow
The neighbors ask in vain.
Of the parlor of her house
She had made a room for prayer
To our Lady of the Beads:
And now she enters there,
And, with her little children,
Before the altar falls
Of our sweet princess Mary,
And on her name she calls.
Now, homeward in the evening
The good brother turns his feet;
Finds table spread and waiting,
And he sits him down to eat.
He takes a loaf and breaks it,
But throws it away again,
For blood runs out of the bread,
On his hand he sees the stain.
Then he takes and breaks another,
But still the red blood falls—
"Oh! what is this?" astonished,
To his trembling wife he calls.
"Tell me, I say! what is it?"
For to tell she is afraid:
"In vain to me, this morning.
For bread my sister prayed!"
"And she that, without pity,
To a sister refuses bread,
To God's Mother doth refuse it,"
Then the angry husband said.
Six loaves the young man gathered,
And in haste to the abode
Of his sister and her children
He straightway took the road.
The window-shutters were closed,
And locked were windows and doors;
But the gleam of many lights
Shone out through the apertures—
Shone on six angels of God,
All kneeling upon the floor
Round six bodies of mother and children
That would never hunger more.
"Farewell, my soul's dear sister,
And sweet nephews of my heart!
Though gold I have, and plenty,
I would gladly give my part
For yours in the blessed country
Where sorrow is all forgot,
And the labor of life exchanged
For the eternal better lot!"
"And did she let her sister starve to death?" asked the child, her eyes refilling from her already surcharged heart.
"Yes, yes; she was a good-for-nothing; but don't cry, Lucia, a story isn't a thing that ever happened."
"If it had never happened, they would not have put it in the romance," said the little girl.
"They made it up," replied Lucas. "Don't you believe it, dear. When I am a man and can earn, the least piece of bread I may have, I must divide with my heart's little sister. You know that before mother died she put you in my care, and I made her a promise never to forsake you."
"And will you keep it?"
"So may God give me his glory!"
"And if you ever forget it, I am to sing you this romance, to put you in mind of what you say now."
"That is so; you must learn it." And the boy set himself to teach his sister the romance.
TO BE CONTINUED.