A Christian Woman

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

I was not one of the most hard-working students, nor yet one of the most stupid—I say it as shouldn’t. I could grind away when it was necessary, and could exercise both patience and perseverance in those branches where, the power of intellect not being sufficient, one must have recourse to a parrot-like memory. I failed to pass several times, but it is impossible to avoid such mishaps in taking a professional course in which they deliberately tighten the screws on the students, in order that only a limited number may graduate to fill the vacant posts. I was sure of success, sooner or later; and my mother, who paid for the cost of my tuition, with the assistance of her only brother, was as patient as her disposition would allow her to be with my failures. I assured her that they were not numerous and that, when I finally emerged a full-fledged civil engineer, I should have in my pocket the four hundred and fifty dollar salary, besides extras.

Nor were all my failures avoidable, even if I had been as assiduous as possible in my studies. I was all run down and sick for one year, finally having an attack of varioloid; and this reason, with others not necessary to enumerate, will explain why at the age of twenty-one I found myself still in the second year of the course, although I enjoyed the reputation of being a studious youth and quite well informed—that is to say, I yet lacked three years.

The year before, the first year of the course strictly speaking, I was obliged to let some studies go over to the September examinations. I attribute that disagreeable occurrence to the bad influence I was under, in a certain boarding-house, where the evil one tempted me to take up my abode. The time I passed there left undying recollections in my memory, which bring a smile to my lips and indiscreet joy to my soul whenever I evoke them. I will give some idea of the place, so that the reader may judge whether Archimedes himself would have been capable of studying hard in such a den.

There are several houses in Madrid at the present date—for example, the Corralillos, the Cuartelillos, the Tócame Roque—all very similar to the one I am about to describe. Within that abode dwelt the population of a small-sized village; it had three courts with balconies, on which opened the doors of the small rooms,—or pigeon-holes one might call them,—with their respective numbers on the lintels. There was no lack of immodest and quarrelsome inmates; there were street musicians singing couplets to the accompaniment of a tuneless guitar; cats in a state of high nervous excitement scampering from garret to garret, or jumping from balustrade to balustrade—now impelled by amorous feelings, now by a brick thrown at them full force. Clothes and dish-cloths were hung out to dry; ragged petticoats and patched underwear, all mixed up pell-mell. There were pots of sweet basil and pinks in the windows; and in fact, everything would be found there that abounds in such dens in Madrid—so often described by novelists and shown forth by painters in their sketches from real life.

The third suite on the right had been hired by Josefa Urrutia, a Biscayan, the ex-maid of the marchioness of Torres-Nobles. At first her business was pretty poor, and she sank deeper and deeper in debt. At last she got plenty of boarders, and when I took up my abode in the “dining-room bed-room,” the place was in its glory; she had not a single vacant apartment. All the boarders paid their dues honestly, if they had the money, with certain exceptions, and the reason of these I will reveal under the seal of profound secrecy.

A certain Don Julián occupied the parlor, which was the best room on the floor. He was a Valencian, jolly and gay; a great spendthrift, fond of jokes and fun, and an inveterate gambler. They said that he had come to Madrid in quest of an office, which he never succeeded in getting; nevertheless the candidate lived like a prince, and instead of helping with his board to keep up Pepa’s business, it was whispered about that he lived there gratis, and even took from time to time small sums from her, destined to go off in the dangerous coat-tails of the knave of hearts.

However, these little private weaknesses of Pepa Urrutia’s would never have come to light, if it had not been for the green-eyed monster. The Biscayan was furiously jealous of a handsome neighbor, who was fond of flirting with all the boarders opposite, as I have indubitable evidence. In a fit of desperation Pepa would sometimes shriek at the top of her lungs, and would call out “swindler; rogue!” adding, “If you had any decency, you would pay me at once what you have wheedled out of me, and what you owe me.”

On such occasions Don Julián would stick his hands in his pockets, firmly shut his jaws, and, silent as the grave, pace up and down the parlor. His silence would exasperate Pepa still more, and sometimes she would go off into hysterics; and after showering injurious epithets on the Valencian, she would rush out, slamming the door so as to shake the whole building.

Then a stout, florid, bald-headed man, about fifty years old, with a nice pleasant face, would appear in the passage-way, and with a strongly marked Portuguese accent, inquire of the irate landlady:

“Pepiña, what ails you?”