Martí showed me all the grounds, although without much pleasure or pride. Business, past and future, burdened him; he did not know how to throw it off. It was only when we came to a corner next the beach that he was enough distracted for a few moments to point out to me a summer-house in the Greek style that was admirably introduced into this smiling landscape. It was adorned within by carved furniture brought from Italy, statues and vases. It had a little lookout balcony towards the sea, and over the door was inscribed a name that caused me a slight tremor.
"The building of this summer-house was a thing of my wife's. That is why I had her name put over the door."
From thence we returned to the house by new and ever more beautiful and embowered pathways. Before reaching it, we came upon a little artificial hill, and, topping it, a bit of a castle. About it was a little pond of water, imitating a moat. We crossed it by means of a drawbridge, and ascended by a narrow footpath between hedges of box and orange, arriving at the top in the time that it takes to tell of it. The path, because of its artful windings, produced the effect of being measured by rods, instead of by inches. Over the door of the little castle was engraved another name that also made me tremble, although in a very different way.
"The idea of the little artificial hill was my friend Castell's, and, naturally, it bears his name—which is all the better that it exactly suits it," he added, laughing.
For me the pun had much less charm. Perhaps the antipathy with which the subject inspired me had part in this. We entered the diminutive castle and ascended to its roof. From there were admirably revealed not only the park, which did not seem so vast, but also a good part of the cultivated grounds, all the harbor, and the Puerto Nuevo and the grand expanse of the sea. Above its innumerable wavelets, above the freshness and dark depths of the water hung the crystal vault of the sky, dappled with delicate tints of rose. The sun flung a river of gold across the waves. Among the flowery fields and the fields of maize shone the little white cottages nestled among their oranges and cypresses. Beyond Valencia was Miguelete, and in the distance the encircling mountains, that at this hour seemed all of violet and mauve and lilac.
"What is this hut?" I asked, disagreeably impressed by the sight of an ugly brick structure which reared itself up on the confines of the park.
"Nothing—that was an attempt at a beer manufactory," replied Martí dryly.
And again his brow was furrowed by the frown.
"And did it not get to the making of it?"
"Yes, there was some made. It turned out badly on account of the quality of the water. The maker, whom I got here from England, did not explain this to me in time, and I was obliged to waste money enough uselessly."