A Wedding Trip

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

The châlet hired at Vichy by the families of Miranda and Gonzalvo bore the poetic name of “Châlet of the Roses.” In justification of its name, along its open-work balusters had been trained the airy festoons of a wilderness of climbing roses, at the extremities of whose branches languidly drooped the last roses of the season. Roses of a pale yellow contrasted with flame-hued Bengal roses; and dwarf-roses, of a warm flesh-tint, looked like diminutive faces, curiously peeping in at the windows of the châlet. In the peristyle grew in graceful confusion roses of all sorts and colors. Pink Malmaison roses lifted themselves proudly on their stems; tea-roses dropped their leaves languidly; roses of Alexandria, beautiful and stately, poured from their cups their intoxicating perfume; moss-roses smiled ironically, with their carmine lips half hidden by their luxuriant green mustaches; white roses rivaled the snow with their cold pure beauty, their modest primness like that of artificial flowers. And among her lovely sisters the exotic viridiflora hid her sea-green buds, as if ashamed of the strange lizard-like hue of her flowers, of her ugliness as a monstrosity, interesting only to the botanist.

The châlet had the usual two stories,—the entresol, consisting of a dining-room, kitchen, small parlor, and reception-room; the main floor being reserved for the bedrooms and dressing-rooms. Along the main story ran a balcony protected by a railing of lace-like delicacy, and along the entresol ran a similar balcony, which was almost completely covered by trailing vines. A delicate iron railing separated the châlet from the public road—an avenue bordered with trees; low walls performed the same office with respect to the adjoining houses and gardens. At either side of the entrance stood, on a massive gray column, a bronze figure of a boy, holding up in his chubby arms a ground glass globe, which protected a gas-jet. It was evident at a glance that the châlet, with its thin wooden walls, could afford but slight protection to its inhabitants against the cold of winter or the heat of summer; but in the mild and genial autumn weather this fanciful building, with its light and delicate ornamentation, carved like a drawing-room toy, adorned with blooming rose-garlands, was the most coquettish and delightful of abodes; the most appropriate nest possible to imagine for a pair of loving turtle-doves. I regret to have to give these charming dwellings, which abound in Vichy, the foreign name of châlet, but how is it to be avoided if there is no corresponding term in our own tongue? What we call cabin, cottage, or country house is not at all what is understood by the word châlet, which is an architectural conception peculiar to the Helvetian valleys, where art, deriving its inspiration from nature, reproduced the forms of the larches and spruce trees and the delicate arabesques of the ice and the hoar-frost, as the Egyptians copied the capitals of their columns from the lotus-flower. The châlets of Vichy are built solely for the purpose of being rented to foreigners. The wife of the concierge undertakes the management of the house, the marketing, and even the cooking; the concierge himself attends to the cleaning of the house, prunes the plants in the little garden, trains the vines, sweeps the sanded walks, waits at table, and opens the door. The Mirandas and the Gonzalvos, then, installed themselves in the châlet without further trouble than giving the concierge their wraps and taking their places at the dining-room table.

Although Lucía, and still more Pilar, felt fatigued after the long railway journey, they could not help admiring the beauty of the abode which fate had allotted them. The balcony, especially, they thought delightful for sewing or reading. It brought to Pilar’s mind the many water-color scenes, landscapes painted on fans, and sentimental pictures that she had seen representing the now hackneyed subject of a young girl with her head framed in foliage. Lucía, on her side, compared her house in Leon, antique, massive, bare and gloomy, with this dwelling, where all was neat and bright, from the shining waxed floors to the curtains of blue cretonne adorned with clusters of pink bell-flowers. When Lucía sprang out of bed on the day following that of their arrival, her first impulse was to go out into the balcony; from thence she went down into the garden, fastening up her morning gown with pins, to keep it from being wet by the damp grass. She looked at the roses, fresh from their bath of dew, lifting themselves proudly on their stems, each with its necklace of pearls or diamonds. She inhaled the odor of each in turn, passing her fingers over their leaves without daring to pluck them. At this hour the roses had scarcely any perfume; what she perceived was, rather, the aroma of the general freshness and moistness that rose from the beds of flowers and from the surrounding trees. In Vichy there are trees everywhere; in the afternoon, when Lucía and Pilar went out to see something of the town, they uttered exclamations of delight at every turn at the sight of some tree, some alley, or some park. Pilar thought Vichy had an elegant aspect; Lucía, less well-informed in matters of elegance and fashion, enjoyed simply the spectacle of so much verdure, so much nature, which rested her eyes, making her think at times that, notwithstanding its crowded streets and its brilliant shops, Vichy was a village, exactly suited to gratify her secret desire and need for solitude. A village of palaces, with all the adornments and refinements of comfort and luxury characteristic of our age, but a village after all.

Pilar and Miranda began to take the waters simultaneously, although with the difference of method required by the different natures of their maladies. Miranda drank the powerful water of the Grande Grille, undergoing at the same time a complicated course of treatment of local effusions, baths and douches, while the anæmic girl drank in small doses the pungent, gaseous, and ferruginous water of the Source des Dames. From this time forth a constant struggle went on between Pilar and those who had charge of her. It was necessary to use heroic efforts to prevent her leading the same life as the fashionable visitors, who spent the entire day in displaying their toilets and amusing themselves. From this point of view the presence in Vichy of some six or eight Spanish ladies, acquaintances of the Gonzalvos, who intended to remain till the end of the season, was pernicious to Pilar. The best and most brilliant part of the season was over; the races, the pigeon-shooting, the public excursions in chaise and omnibus to the Bourbonese, beginning in August, had ended in the early part of September. But there still remained the concerts in the Park, the promenade on the asphalt-paved avenue, the nightly entertainments in the Casino; the theater, which, now soon to close, was more and more crowded every night. Pilar was dying to join the dozen or so of her fashionable compatriots who were participating in the short-lived round of watering-place gayeties. The physician at Vichy who attended Pilar, while he recommended amusements for Miranda, prohibited strictly to the anæmic girl every species of excitement, advising her strongly to avail herself of the semi-rural character of the town to lead a country life as far as was possible, going to bed with the chickens and rising with the sun. This regimen required a great deal of perseverance on the part of the patient, and, more than this, to have some one constantly at her side who should oblige her to follow strictly the doctor’s orders. Neither Miranda nor Perico was calculated for this office. Miranda complied with the social requirements, exhorting Pilar to “take care of herself,” and “not to be imprudent,” with that fictitious interest which egotists display when the health of another is in question. Perico grew angry at seeing his sister pay so little heed to the advice of the doctor, a neglect that might delay the cure, and consequently prolong their stay in Vichy; but he was incapable of watching over her and seeing that she carried out the orders she had received. He would say to her at times:

“I hope the devil will fly away with you, fly away with you, and that you may be as yellow as a lemon this winter. You will have it so, so let it be.”

The only person, then, who devoted herself to the task of making Pilar observe the regimen prescribed by the doctor, was Lucía. She did so, moved by that need of self-sacrifice experienced by young and vigorous natures, who must have an outlet for their superabundant energy, and by the instinct which impels such natures to feed the animal neglected by every one else, or to protect the child abandoned in the street. There was no one within Lucía’s reach but Pilar, and on Pilar Lucía placed her affections. Perico Gonzalvo did not sympathize with Lucía, whom he thought very provincial and very little womanly, as far as the art of pleasing was concerned. Miranda, now somewhat rejuvenated by the favorable effects of the first week of the waters, went with Perico to the Casino and to the Park, holding himself erect and twisting his mustache once more. The two women, then, were thrown upon each other’s society. Lucía subjected herself in everything to the mode of life of the patient. At six she softly rose and went to awaken the sick girl, so that prolonged sleep might not induce debilitating sweats. Then she would take her out on the balcony on the ground floor to breathe the pure air of morning, and both enjoyed the country sunrise, which seemed to electrify Vichy, causing it to thrill with a sort of matutinal expectancy.

The business of the day began very early in the town, for almost all of the inhabitants kept boarders during the season, and were obliged to do their marketing and be ready to give breakfast to their guests by the time these should have returned from drinking their morning glass of water. Usually the mornings were rather cloudy, and the summits of the tall trees rustled as the breeze played through them. Now and then some workman would pass by with long beard, ill-washed and shy face, shuffling his feet, only half awake, unable to shake off fully the leaden sleep which had overpowered him, exhausted by fatigue, the night before. The domestic servants, with their baskets of coal on their arms, their large aprons of gray or blue cloth, and their smoothly combed hair—like that of a woman who has but ten minutes in the day for her toilet, and who makes good use of them—walked with quick step, fearing to be late. From a neighboring barracks came the soldiers, holding themselves erect, their uniforms tightly buttoned across their chests, their ears red from the vigorous rubbing they had given them during the matutinal ablutions, the backs of their heads close shaven, their hands in their trousers’ pockets, and whistling an air. An old woman, with a clean white cap, her gown turned up, carefully swept up the dead leaves which strewed the asphalt pavement, followed by a lap-dog that sniffed, as if trying to recover the scent, at each heap of leaves swept up by the diligent broom. There were vehicles in great number, and of various forms and sizes, and Lucía amused herself by watching them and noting the different styles and shapes to be seen. Some, mounted on enormous wheels, were drawn by little donkeys with pricked-up ears, driven by women with harsh and weather-beaten countenances, who wore the classic Bourbonese hat, a species of straw basket with two black velvet ribbons crossing each other over the crown; these were milk-wagons; at the back of the wagon was a row of tin cans containing the milk. The carts employed in the transport of earth and lime were more clumsy than these and were drawn by strong percherons, with harnesses adorned by tassels of red wool. Going for their load, they rolled along with a certain carelessness; while, returning laden, the driver cracked his whip, the horse trotted along spiritedly and the bells of the harness tinkled. When the weather was fine, Lucía and Pilar would go down into the little garden and stand with their faces pressed to the iron railing, looking out into the avenue; but on rainy mornings they remained on the balcony, sheltered by the carved projections of the châlet, and listening to the noise of the raindrops plashing fast, fast on the leaves of the plane trees that rustled with a silky murmur.

But the weather seemed determined to favor the travelers, and shortly after their arrival in Vichy began a series of days as brilliant and serene as it was possible for days to be in autumn, that season so peculiarly serene, especially in its early part.

The sky was clear and cloudless, the air genial, vegetation in all the plenitude of its splendor of coloring and growth; the afternoons were long, the mornings were bright, and Lucía availed herself of this conjunction of favorable circumstances to persuade Pilar to take a trip into the country in accordance with the doctor’s advice. It was a part of the treatment that Pilar should take rides on a donkey in order that the uneven trot of the animal might serve her as exercise, setting her blood in motion without fatiguing her; and although the sick girl cordially detested this species of conveyance, and, until they emerged from the town, persisted in going on foot, dragging herself laboriously along rather than mount it, yet she consented to do so when they were outside the town. The exercise excited her, and imparted a faint color to her cheeks. Lucía would joke with her about her appearance.

“You see how beneficial it is to ride a spirited steed,” she would say. “You look splendid; you look like a different person; see, to make a conquest, all you have to do is to take a turn up and down as you are now, before the Casino, when the band is playing.”