“To some,” he said, “but nothing serious.”
“Well, you need not speak of your annoyance as a mere trifle,” said the marquesa, vexed that Leon should speak lightly of a matter that it suited her to treat as important. “The poor child is blindly attached to you: her love for you is the ruling motive of her life, and your reputation as an atheist is a standing misery to her. And you know that my daughter’s opinions are as independent and as indomitable as the beasts of the desert.” Leon nodded a sad assent.
“You can understand that she sees your lack of religion with very great pain; that is but natural. We have instilled a faith in which she will live and die. But she weeps with despair because you will not go to prayers every day as she does, will not confess once a month, will not spend your money on trumpery—it is really quite absurd! How I lectured her last night—in short, she vexed me, I got angry, I hammered away at her as if her stupid little head had been an anvil, and at last....”
“Well—at last?...”
“At last I convinced her that it was preposterous to expect men to carry out practices, which, in us, are all very well, but, in them, would be ridiculous, purely ridiculous. The men of the present day have something else to do than to be sitting in church. It seems to me that María and you—she spending her time in devotions, and you spending yours at your studies—may both be very happy. What is the use of discussion? You do not want to prevent her praying to her heart’s content. The men of the present day have their own ideas and it is senseless to try to combat them. No one need be more religious than I am, but I have no notion of enquiring into things that I do not understand. Women are not learned; their part is to believe, believe, believe.
“That a married couple should quarrel over that appears to me the height of folly. But do you know that her ambition is to convert you? To lead you to abhor your own views and devote yourself to hers—upon my word I can hardly help laughing when I think of it. Do you know what she says? That it would be her highest happiness to burn all those books of yours—what a sin! So beautifully bound as they are! Much I should care whether my husband were as regular at Mass as I am, so long as he loved me and cared for no one else—jealous of his books! Not I indeed, such a woman must be a perfect fool!
“You cannot think how strongly I spoke to her; I told her that you were the best man living—to that she agreed—I told her that you were far superior to her—infinitely superior; that all this talk about atheism is a mere bogey; that though we hear people speak of atheists there are no atheists—just as we talk of magicians but there are no magicians. I told her that she was not to think of such nonsense as trying to convert you, and that the best thing she could do was to keep the peace in her home and get rid of her monomania—do not you think so?—She had better change her confessor—do not you think so? She should do as I do. I am extremely religious, I perform all my devotions with the greatest exactitude, I give all I can afford to the church, but that is all; do not you think that María should do the same?”
Leon did not reply; he sat silent and gloomy. Suddenly he seemed to shake off some depressing idea, as we wave off a bee that buzzes in our ears, and looking at his mother-in-law he said:
“I will send you that money to-day.”
“Ah! is that what you were thinking about?” cried the marquesa and her face shone with satisfaction till it seemed positively phosphorescent. “Very good; do so, and I will give you a receipt.... But here I have stayed chattering, and in your delightful society I forget that I have business to attend to—heaps of business! Eleven o’clock! I shall be too late for Mass!”