From the French of Pitre Chevalier.
I.
It was harvest day at a house in the little village of Panola, in Castile, on the 25th of August, 1838. The great sheaves of corn had been borne, amidst universal rejoicing, to their resting-place in the granary. All the village inhabitants had shared in this pleasant task, and now, following an ancient custom, they had erected a trophy composed of a few last sheaves of corn, round which the young girls and men began to dance gaily, to the sound of guitars and castanets.
Within the house, in a room which overlooked this charming scene, were two men.
The first, seated at a table, was an old man over sixty, but enfeebled rather by cares than by age. His venerable head, crowned with white hair, drooped upon his breast with patriarchal dignity. The old man, who had been a soldier in the Spanish army, was Don Pedro de la Sarga, a Castilian as noble as he was poor. His companion was his son, Don Stephano, a young man of twenty, considered the most accomplished man in Panola. He was handsome; his warm, brown skin, his large, black eyes, the regular features, which wore that expression of national pride which distinguishes a Castilian from any other race, and his raven-black hair were eminently the Spanish type in all its grace and haughtiness. The young man wore the Spanish holiday costume, the richness of which has made travellers exclaim, more than once, that no European prince is clothed like a simple peasant of Castile. Stephano had on a short vest of black cloth, lined with yellow silk, ornamented with fringes and bunches of ribbons; an embroidered shirt with open collar revealing a waistcoat with gilt buttons, knee-breeches of black silk confined at the knees by bunches of ribbons, shoes and gaiters of fine brown leather, while a black felt hat with drooping plume completed his costume.
Stephano's gloomy face contrasted with his gay attire. He leant against the open window, carelessly holding in his hand a bouquet of faded jasmine, whilst he gazed with melancholy eyes upon the festive scene before him, and only by a shake of the head and a sad smile replied to the light badinage of the dancers as they passed the window. But now and then his eyes lighted up, and he sighed deeply as a certain dancer, prettier than the rest, approached him.
"How pretty she is!" he murmured, as he followed her retreating form.
"Stephano!" called out the old man, who had been watching his son for some time.
"How gracefully she dances," continued the handsome dreamer, wrapt in his thoughts.
"Stephano!" repeated the old man.
"Yes, father," cried Stephano, with a start, and coming forward. "Do you wish to speak to me?"
"From your mysterious air and endless sighs these last few days, Stephano, I conclude that you are in love," said his father.
"In love!" stammered the young man. "You think I am in love?"
"I do not think, my son—I am sure of it; and I have only one reproach to make to you, and that is that you have not made me a confidant of your secret before."
"You shall know all, father," said Stephano, drawing a chair close to Don Pedro.
"For the last month," he continued, "I have had in my heart a love which nothing can subdue, and the object of my passion is a young girl here, a glance from whose eyes is worth more to me than all the world besides; but she shuns my love, and on every occasion strives to avoid me. She hardly permits me to speak to her for fear that the passion she reads in my eyes will break into words."
"Bah!" said the old man, merrily; "it is very likely that she shuns you for the reason of your not opening your mouth; you scare the young girl with your morose airs."
"Oh, if that were only true," sighed the disconsolate swain.
"Now," said the old man, "there only remains for me to know the name of my future daughter-in-law."
The young man was about to pronounce the name which already trembled on his lips when a sudden clamour interrupted the most interesting portion of this conversation. The peasants, followed by the partners, were rushing towards the house, and in the twinkling of an eye the room was filled with the animated and noisy throng. The new-comers wore rich costumes, more or less copies of Stephano's; some carried guitars, others castanets, while most of them leaned upon tall peeled rods, forked at the top, and ornamented with ribbons of all colours; each carried on the left side of his vest a bouquet similar to that of Stephano. The young girls in their silken bodices, short skirts, red stockings and mantillas, rattled their castanets as they entered with their partners. The joyous crowd surrounded Don Pedro, whilst cries of "Rosita! Rosita!" resounded from all sides.
"Well, well, my children, what is it you want?" demanded the village Nestor of his clamorous audience.
"We want Mlle. Rosita," they repeated.
"What, my niece? But is she not with you? I thought it was she whom you were leading just now round the corn sheaves."
"That is true," replied one of the foremost of the crowd; "everything went smoothly until we wished her to take part in our usual ceremony of 'The Maiden's Choice.'"
"Did you explain to her," asked the old man, "what is the ceremony?"
"Yes, we told her all that was necessary: that it is an old custom in Panola on harvest day, after having escorted the daughter of the house round the last sheaves of corn, for all her admirers in the village to present her, each in his turn, with a bouquet; that she must then choose the one she loves amongst them by retaining his bouquet, whilst the others are rejected. She answered us by saying that she had only been in Panola a few months, and was therefore not forced to adopt our customs, and leaving us with these words she fled from us and escaped through the little granary door."
"The little shrew!" Don Pedro exclaimed, who, like an amiable old man, was always on the side of the young folk. "But my friends," he added, "you are but poor Lotharios to be flouted by a young girl; you must follow her and bring her back."
"That is just what we have done; but one cannot catch a bird without also having wings. She seemed to fly as we followed her, and on reaching the granary she entered and slammed the door in our faces; so we have come, as a last resource, to you, Don Pedro, to ask her to comply with our wishes."
"You are right," replied the old man, with all the gravity of a judge, "you must be satisfied at once"; and he looked round for Don Stephano, who was standing more moody than ever behind a giggling group of young peasants.
"My son," he said, "go and bring your cousin here. If she refuses, tell her that I particularly wish her to come."
"I will go, father," said Stephano, after a second's hesitation; and he went out.
There was a slight pause; then shouts and acclamations and rattling of castanets burst forth, as Rosita, with downcast eyes, entered the room, led by Stephano. Well might they welcome with fervour such a charming creature. Rosita was just eighteen. She wore upon her golden brown hair a black lace mantilla, which contrasted with her creamy complexion and the liquid depth of her large brown eyes. A brown velvet bodice showed off to perfection her slight yet rounded figure; and her silk skirts just revealed her pretty ankles and small feet in their silk stockings and neat shoes.
Rosita was a native of Navarre. She had quitted Tafalla, her native village, on the death of her father and mother, who had been victims of the Civil War which at this time desolated the country, and had been conducted not without peril to her uncle's house at Panola, in which she had since taken up her abode.
"Rosita," said Don Pedro to his niece, taking her hand, "I have made your apologies to your friends for the trick you have played them. It is your turn now to atone for your misdeed, by submitting to an old custom. Among the brave Castilians who surround you there are many suitors for your hand. There must be one among them whom you secretly favour. Your choice is entirely free, and even the favoured one after the ceremony will then have only the right to please you and to merit your hand."
"But, uncle——" faltered the young girl.
"I will take no denial, my dear," interrupted the old man.
Rosita strove in vain to protest, but her imperturbable uncle would not listen, and gave a sign to the peasants to begin the ceremony, in which he seemed to take as keen an interest as they did themselves. Thereupon the majority of the young men, darting furious glances of jealousy at one another, prepared for the contest. Rosita, at her uncle's side, stood at one end of the room. At her right and left were grouped the young peasant girls, admiring without envy the queen of the fête, and forming her court. Stephano stood behind with dejected mien. Those with guitars touched their instruments lightly now and then, and upon this scene, worthy of the pencil of Leopold Roberts, the sun, now setting at the horizon, cast a calm and solemn light.
The first peasant who came forward was a tall young man, with a ruddy complexion.
"My name is Geronimo Caldaroz, and I am twenty-five. It has been the talk of the village why I did not marry, and it has been said it was because I had never yet seen a maiden beautiful enough to please me. But now I have found her; it is you, Rosita. Will you accept my bouquet?" He presented his bouquet to the young girl, who blushed as she received it, and then let it fall.
"Refused! Refused!" whispered the spectators, whilst the young man disappeared into the crowd, and a second one took his place. But the same thing occurred, and with the same result. Soon the jasmine bouquets covered the ground round the young girl's feet. The rejected suitors multiplied so fast that they could no longer hide their discomfiture amongst the others. Restless and smiling, Don Pedro wondered why his niece was so severe, and the remaining suitors seemed to hesitate whether to advance into the lists or not. Then the last three timidly advanced one by one toward Rosita. The two first were not even heard to the end of their speech, and then all eyes were fixed with interest upon the last. Rosita let him finish his discourse, took his bouquet, which she scrutinized demurely, and then uttering a deep sigh let it fall upon the amorous trophy piled at her feet.
A murmur rose amongst the stupefied villagers. Don Pedro approached his niece.
"Well, my child," he said, "have you thought of what you have done?"
"Yes, uncle," Rosita replied. "Did you not tell me yourself that I was perfectly free?"
"Free to choose, without doubt; but not to send all your suitors away."
Rosita cast down her eyes and made no reply.
"Pardon me, father, but there still remains one," said Stephano, breaking the silence.
"Where is he?" everyone asked at once.
"Here he is."
Rosita trembled so violently that she was compelled to lean for support upon her uncle's arm, and Don Pedro, more astonished than anyone, rushed towards his son.
"What, Stephano?" he said joyfully. "It is your cousin whom——"
"Yes, father," replied the young man. "It is she whom I love."
In the midst of such general interest Stephano, pale with emotion, advanced towards his cousin.
"Rosita, I love you," he said, simply. "Will you keep this bouquet which I offer to you?"
The young man pronounced these words with a voice so sweet and expressive, and the gesture with which he offered the symbolic flower was so imploring and passionate, that a sympathetic thrill ran through the spectators, and tears bedimmed Don Pedro's eyes.
"'ROSITA, I LOVE YOU,' HE SAID."
Rosita, not less pale than her cousin, took the bouquet with a trembling hand, gazed upon it tenderly, then made a movement as if to throw it down, paused, and then at last, with head turned aside, let it fall.
"Santa Maria! He also!" cried the crowd, mournfully.
"Do not condemn me without hearing my justification," cried Rosita, turning to Don Pedro.
"Your justification?" repeated Stephano, with relief.
"Uncle," she said, after a pause, "there is a secret which I may have been wrong in concealing from you hitherto, but I must confide it to you alone."
"To me!" cried the astonished old man.
"I will come with you at once," and, seizing Rosita's hand, he led her away, making signs to the peasants as he did so to disperse.
Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadows were beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted only by the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carried along in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orange groves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars and castanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells.
When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lower hall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, and hurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone.
"One word, father," said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will she also become my wife?"
"You must forget Rosita," replied the old man. "You must tear from your heart even the remembrance of your love."
The young man abandoned himself to despair.
"I shall never forget her," he said, passionately. "My love for Rosita will only cease with my life."
And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.