The Marquis of Peñalta (Marta y María): A Realistic Social Novel

by Armando Palacio Valdés

Ricardo grew as pale as death.

"What is it, colonel? what is it?"

"Don't be alarmed, child;[12] I happened to learn that she wasn't very well."

Ricardo understood perfectly, and fell into the colonel's arms, shedding a flood of tears. That night he took the train for the north.

The dismal night spent in that journey remained deeply impressed upon his mind. When the engine whistled, and his comrades, who had come to see him off, standing on the platform, waved their adios, he went and sat in a corner of the carriage, wrapped up in his cloak, feigning to sleep, in order better to abandon himself to his painful, gloomy thoughts. Oh, how painful and gloomy his thoughts! He imagined the guardian angel of his infancy, the mother of his heart, dying alone, without receiving her son's last kiss, perhaps calling for him with yearning in the supreme moment of her agony. He remembered that when he had last left her, her health was rather feeble, and the embrace which she gave him was much longer than usual, and her kisses more numerous, as though the poor woman had felt a presentiment that she should never see him again. In her wide, moist eyes he read a fervent silent prayer that he would abandon his profession and not leave her. But he, pleased with the vanities of society, and seduced by the voice of selfishness, had paid no heed to this prayer which the unhappy woman had not dared to formulate with her lips. He felt deeply angry with himself, and called himself the most insulting and humiliating names. From time to time he put his head out of the window and breathed the cool night air, to prevent the sobs from choking him. The vague, mysterious outline of the undulating landscape, wrapt in shadows, transformed his despair into grief, which gradually changed into a solemn melancholy like the gloomy clouds hovering above the still more gloomy earth. The silent majesty of inanimate nature calmed his agitation, but it made him think with cold chills of the perfect loneliness awaiting him. The tie that bound him to earth, and through which he felt that all human beings were his kin, was cut; now he had no one in the world whom he could call his own. The wind, stirred by the swift rush of the train, hummed in his ears and seemed to say to him, Alone! alone! The harsh racket of the wheels and engine violently excited his morbid state of mind, giving him a sensation almost of pain like that caused by the thoughts rushing through his brain. The noisy, metallic rhythm of the wheels likewise seemed to say, with still more relentless accent, Alone! alone! His sad face followed the far-off line of the horizon, and this came back to him in quivering, prophetic reflections, which barely sufficed to cleave asunder the network of shadows, gloom upon gloom. The light from the engine cast a reddish gleam, tingeing as with blood the ground and the trees lining the track. Where there were no trees, the telegraph poles flew past him with bewildering rapidity like the happy hours of his youth. Above his head floated the huge black plume of the smoke, emitted by the smoke-stack of the engine, and this, as it disappeared in the atmosphere, in dying made a thousand strange and monstrous phantasms. These phantasms, as they fled away, rolling along just above the ground, seemed also to say mournfully, Alone! alone! Thereupon, being no longer able to endure the icy breath of the deserted landscape which penetrated his breast and parched his eyes, he shut the window and again returned to his corner and his tears.

In the car were four other people: an elderly señora and a young man of twenty or twenty-five, a girl of eighteen or twenty, and a little girl of five or six years old,—all of whom seemed to be her children. The señora went to sleep, though she kept opening her eyes to watch the child, who was incessantly running from one side to the other; the two young people were chatting quietly and confidentially together. The sight of this mother surrounded by her children and often looking at them lovingly still more deeply affected Ricardo. The gentle murmur of the brother and sister's conversation, repeatedly broken by repressed laughter, roused in his heart a keen, melancholy envy. The young girl was beautiful, with a noble, fascinating face. Ricardo, without realizing it, watched her all night, but she seemed to give no heed to him. When the guard of the station shouted, "Cordoba! twenty minutes for refreshments!" all hastily got up and collected their things in preparation to leave the train. Then only the young lady gave him a long, sweet look, and as she went out, said with a sad, sympathetic smile, "Good night, and a happy journey to you."[13] There was no doubt that she had noticed his grief.

Ricardo felt deeply sorry to have them take their departure, as though some tide of affection bound him to that family, and he felt an inclination to say to the mamma, "Señora, I have just lost my mother; I am alone in the world, and I have no one to love me, and no one to love. Won't you take me home with you as your son?" The car door closed with a bang, the bell rang, the hoarse shriek of the engine was heard, and the train sped on its way with its metallic clatter, which ceaselessly cried in the silence of the night, Alone! alone! alone!

A few relatives and friends were waiting for him, and they went with him silently to his home, where they left him after a few meaningless words. During the days that followed he received many visits of condolence from people who extolled his mother's virtues and recommended great resignation. All called him Señor Marqués. Never did he suffer so much as at such times. The only person with whom he enjoyed talking was Don Mariano Elorza, who had been a good friend of his father's, and whose house he visited very familiarly whenever he came to Nieva during his vacations. Don Mariano, who was cordial and friendly to everybody, could not well help showing himself doubly affectionate to him on account of the sorrowful situation in which he was placed. His house during the period which followed the marquesa's death, was a place of refuge for our young friend, where his grief was consoled, and he found a little of that family life which he so greatly missed. On the other hand, it must be said that Ricardo had always felt toward Don Mariano's eldest daughter a strong admiration and affection, which easily changed into love when age and occasion offered, and frequency of intercourse stimulated it, and there was still greater reason for it since neither he nor she had ever been in love before. Long before they were formally engaged, the marriage of the young Marqués de Peñalta and the Señorita de Elorza used to be talked about in the city. It was a marriage desired and demanded by public opinion; for it must be remarked that the families of Peñalta and Elorza were the richest in town, and the public always consider it logical for wealth to seek wealth as rivers seek the sea. Accordingly, Ricardo and Maria were declared husband and wife not long after they were born, and the truth is, the gossips of the town would never have forgiven them if they had failed to carry out the edict passed by all the tertulias of Nieva. We know on good authority that the young people had no thought of any such intention, and that they had accepted the sovereign decree with the greatest meekness.

Returning now to where we left off, it is sufficient for us to remark that Ricardo very quickly reached the porch of the house of Elorza, which was large and gloomy. From the great solid door, darkened by time and use, hung a bronze knocker, with which he rapped. He was immediately admitted into a rather large court, with a fountain in the centre. A broad flight of stone steps with balustrade of the same material led from it. It was now somewhat the worse for wear, and needed repairs in many places. On the first landing this stairway divided into two arms, one of which led to the apartments of the owners, the other to those of the servants. The former ended in a wide corridor, or gallery, from which one looked through windows into the court. The whole house presented the same elegance as that of the old palaces, although it was built at a comparatively modern period. It had the advantage over those old ancestral mansions, like the Marqués de Peñalta's, in that it had not been designed to minister so much to the vanity of its masters as to the suitable distribution of its rooms for the conveniences of daily life. It was not dark and gloomy, as those are apt to be; on the contrary, its whole interior spoke of joy, comfort, and elegance. It was, in fact, a great building, without being pretentious, and comfortable, without falling into the unpleasing vulgarity of many modern constructions. It held a conciliatory middle course between aristocratic and middle-class ideals, combining the proud lordliness of the one and the practical luxurious tendencies of the other.

The house in a certain way mirrored the position of its master and mistress. Both were children of the most important families not only in Nieva, but in the whole province in which the city is situated. The señora was sister of the Marqués de Revollar, who cut such a figure in Madrid a few years ago by his incredible dissipation and prodigality, and who afterwards, being totally ruined and driven away by his creditors, had taken refuge in the army of the Pretender, whom he served as minister and adviser. Don Mariano came from a family less ancient and glorious but far more opulent. His grandfather had made an immense fortune in Mexico during the final years of the last century, and with it he had become the most important landowner in Nieva, and had built the house of which we are speaking. Not only himself, but his son and his son's son, had succeeded in giving lustre to their millions by allying themselves with noble families.