| CONTENTS. | |
|---|---|
| PAGE | |
| Author's Prologue | [1] |
| [CHAPTER I] | |
| In the Street | [5] |
| [CHAPTER II] | |
| The Soirée at the Elorza Mansion | [16] |
| [CHAPTER III] | |
| The Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus | [47] |
| [CHAPTER IV] | |
| How the Marquis of Peñalta was converted into Duke of Thuringen | [76] |
| [CHAPTER V] | |
| The Road to Perfection | [100] |
| [CHAPTER VI] | |
| In Search of Menino | [122] |
| [CHAPTER VII] | |
| Husband or Soul | [144] |
| [CHAPTER VIII] | |
| As You Like It | [161] |
| [CHAPTER IX] | |
| Excursion to El Moral and the Island | [178] |
| [CHAPTER X] | |
| The Excursion Continued | [195] |
| [CHAPTER XI] | |
| A Strange Circumstance | [217] |
| [CHAPTER XII] | |
| Gathered Threads | [230] |
| [CHAPTER XIII] | |
| In which are told the Labors of a Christian Virgin | [257] |
| [CHAPTER XIV] | |
| Pallida Mors | [281] |
| [CHAPTER XV] | |
| Let Us Rejoice, Beloved | [303] |
| [CHAPTER XVI] | |
| The Marquis of Peñalta's Dream | [325] |
THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA.
——
AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE.
THE work which I now have the honor of presenting to the public is not based upon ordinary every-day occurrences; nor are the incidents narrated in it such as we are wont frequently to witness. Very likely it will be called untrue or improbable, and regarded as a fanciful production, remote from all reality. With resignation I bow myself in advance to these criticisms, though I claim the right to protest in my own heart, if not publicly, against the unfairness of such a charge. For the chief events of this novel—I must say it, though my glory as an originator may be destroyed—have all actually taken place. The author has done nothing more than recount them and give them unity.
I have the presumption to believe that, though Marta y María may not be a beautiful novel, it is a realistic novel. I know that realism—at the present time called naturalism—has many impulsive adepts, who conceive that truth exists only in the vulgar incidents of life, and that these are the only ones worth transferring to art. Fortunately this is not the case. Outside of markets, garrets, and slums, the truth exists no less. The very apostle of naturalism, Emil Zola, confesses this by painting scenes of polished and lofty poetry, which assuredly conflict with his exaggerated æsthetic theories.
The character of the protagonist of my novel is an exceptional character. I take delight in acknowledging this. But to be exceptional is not to be less true to nature, less human. Mystic temperaments are not apt to abound in Madrid: the frivolous and sensual life of the court is little adapted for their development. But all who have lived in a province will have known, just as I have, certain passionate and pious souls, who, without any motive of a temporal kind, have renounced the world and consecrated themselves to God. Take the periodicals, and scarcely a day will pass without your seeing the announcement of some young woman becoming a nun. Among these young persons are beautiful girls, daughters of wealthy families, rejoicing in all the gifts of nature and the flatteries of society. Is not, peradventure, the careful study of such souls worthy of the literary man, even though he call himself a naturalist?
The motive or occasion of this book being written is as follows: I found myself one afternoon in Don Fernando Fe's bookstore, turning over recent publications and periodicals, when there fell into my hands a number of the Ilustración Española y Americana, in which appeared a capital cut representing "The Taking of the Veil in a Convent of Carmelite Nuns." A pretty young girl was seen on her knees before the inner door of the convent, from which three sisters, bundled up in great thick robes of black, were coming forth to receive her, with a coarse wooden cross. In the background an aged bishop was calling down upon her the blessing of heaven; and a lady, in whom the mother was to be instantly recognized, was looking on with ecstatic and troubled eyes. Still farther back there was a numerous group of people, pre-eminent among them being two other young ladies, elegantly dressed, whose resemblance to the novice quickly told that they were her sisters. The first was sadly contemplating the ceremony, while the other hid her face in her hands, as if she were trying to smother her sobs.
I felt impressed in presence of this scene so admirably interpreted by the artist, and as a natural consequence I was assailed by many memories and not a few reflections connected with the same subject, and I came to the conclusion that it was worth while to make a study of it. It did not deal with anything ancient and remote which might serve merely as a theme for the investigations of the historian, but with a most curious and interesting fact taking place before our very eyes. The enthusiasm, the ardent raptures, the ecstasies, and even the frenzies of these souls at once simple and passionate, who find no way to quench the thirst devouring them, to calm the unrest torturing them, by intercourse with the world, and who seek in the mystery of the cloister, medicine for their ills, seemed to me a theme worthy for the contemporary novelist to master and offer with due respect to the consideration of the public. A certain series of events which took place a few years ago, and happened to come under my observation, occurred to my mind, and instantly the desire seized me to write a novel. But one circumstance proved to be a stumbling-block. It had never entered into my calculations to write novels with transcendental themes, especially those based upon religious subjects. This I declared without qualification in a little line of parenthesis which I put under the title of my first novel, El Señorito Octavio (a novel without transcendental thought). And in truth I was afraid to bring myself so soon into conflict with my æsthetic programme in a country where everything is pardoned except contradiction. But among the honorable pleasures conferred by the Supreme Creator upon the heroic Spanish public, there is none more keen and delectable than that of breaking the laws and programmes which they have freely imposed upon themselves. In this particular, sybaritism has reached the point of making itself every morning some rule for the pleasure afforded by breaking it in the afternoon. Therefore as soon as I saw the contradiction, the problem was solved. I will write the novel, I said, for my conscience, so that I may have to endure fifteen literary sessions of the Athenæum without stirring from my place.