“What did they say?”
“Oh, girl's talk. That she is handsome, and plays the piano very well; that they were going to make her father a marquis, and so forth and so on. It seems that the girl is not a beggar. I understand that her father has a fat income.”
“And how is it that my uncle can carry off such a prize, rich, beautiful, and young? He must have nerve!”
“Are you crazy? What is there to despise in your uncle? Because he did not care to study much, that does not prove that he is not quick-witted and a great manager. He has almost as much political influence as Don Vicente himself, and is certain of a political future. Come now, don’t be stupid. Go to the wedding and try to ingratiate yourself with your dear little auntie. Don’t be glum, for it will be all the worse for you if you are.”
“Well, now, you surprise me. If any one should hear you run on, who does not know me, he would think that I am deluding myself with false hopes in regard to inheriting my uncle’s money, and that I am disappointed at seeing it escape from my grasp.”
“That’s not the question,” argued my friend, resenting my words a little; “I don’t assert that you are capable of any meanness for the sake of a bit of cash, or of running after it. But what I do say is that, until you finish your education, you cannot get along without your uncle—and I fancy that you don’t want to be left in the lurch.”
Before many hours passed, I began to see that my friend was right, and had talked common sense. And as our own errors seem plainer, when we see them committed by other people, whom we consider inferior to ourselves in mental capacity and culture, I more clearly perceived the necessity of making the best of the situation, after reading a letter which the postman brought me the next day.
I recognized its handwriting at once, and saw by its thickness that it was stuffed with furious complaints and outpourings, such as spring to the lips or flow from the pen under the shock of unexpected events. In order to be able to read it quietly, I repaired to a little coffee-house near by, which was entirely deserted at that hour.
The waiter, after the regular “what’ll it be?” brought me some beer, and left me in peace. I took a swallow, and while enjoying the bitter flavor of the fermented hops, broke the seal, and pored over the thin sheets written in a clear, small, Spanish hand-writing, with several slight errors in spelling, particularly in the use of double r’s which indicated great vehemence of temper; without a suspicion of punctuation, or division into paragraphs, or capital letters. Although it may seem strange, all these things lend a certain forcible iteration and rapidity of movement to this kind of angry, feminine letters, really doubling their effect.
It was just what I had imagined it to be, a furious tirade against Uncle Felipe’s marriage, alternating with the narration of events, some of which were entirely new to me. I will copy a few paragraphs without adding so much as a period or comma, or disentangling the grammar, or suppressing the repetitions: