One Sunday morning Señora de Pardiñas awoke her son with the following intimation: “To-day we must make some visits; there is no help for it; we owe visits to everybody. I sent to Augustin’s livery stable for the landau; he says it will be at the door punctually at two o’clock. Ah, and what do you think? I shall go dressed so that if I look at myself in the glass I won’t know myself. The dressmaker brought me my black velvet gown, trimmed with jet and lace, yesterday; the hat to match is ready, too. I shall put on all my finery. You must stop in at the barber’s after breakfast; your hair needs cutting.”
Rogelio grumbled not a little; he declared that he had two or three indispensable tasks to perform that day, but all in jest, for he saw very well that Señora Pardiñas was resolved not to go to bed that night without having laid a grand sacrifice on the altar of social duty. At a quarter before two Rogelio had finished fastening the first row of buttons of his English frock-coat, before his bureau glass. Fortunately it was Sunday, when the neighborhood of the University is of all places the one where a student is least likely to be met with. For a pretty teasing he would have to stand if any of his college companions should chance to meet him in his present guise, dressed like a gentleman, with gloves and a silk hat. Accustomed to the cloak and the low, broad-brimmed hat, he felt at first as if to wear a frock-coat were like going disguised. There lay the silk hat, shining and resplendent, on the table of the study, and beside it the gloves, the cane, the Russian leather card-case and the handkerchief with its handsome embroidered initial. He took note of all these articles, placed his hat a little to one side, over his carefully smoothed hair, and was proceeding to draw on his gloves with the ill humor that was habitual to him when performing this operation, when his mother entered.
“Heavens! mater admirabilis!” he exclaimed. “How magnificent you look! Ho! for our handsome women, our stately and aristocratic dames.”
What Doña Aurora really looked was very uncomfortable, with all this finery, which only on state occasions could she bring herself to wear. She never wanted anything better than her comfortable mantle, her merino gown, and her large fur cape. All this frippery was enough to put one out of temper. The weight of the hat, with its high bows, obliged her to bend her head; the steels of the skirt impeded her movements. But there was nothing for it but to submit to this tyranny of fashion at least twice a year. She, like Rogelio, carried a card-case, and a list of the houses where she owed visits. Peeping out from her mink muff was a handsome lace handkerchief, perfumed with some delicate extract, and in her ears were two fine solitaires—the modest elegance of a lady who aspires only to dress in a style suited to her station. And yet such is the power of the arts of the toilet and of dress that Doña Aurora seemed to have left ten of her fifty odd years inside the door of her dressing-room; her face glowed with pleasurable animation, and in her bearing there was an unaccustomed dignity.
Esclavita stood behind with her wrap, which she was to take in the carriage lest the afternoon should turn cold, busying herself—with that admiring interest which attached servants display when they see their masters or mistresses in gala dress—in giving a touch here and there to her gown, smoothing out its folds and brushing off some almost imperceptible speck of dust from the bottom of the flounce. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes and exclaimed, casting a glance of frank admiration at Rogelio:
“Our Lady of the Hermitage! how fine the Señorito is!”
“He looks like a fashion-plate, does he not? Turn round, Rogelio, turn round—so. The coat looks as if it grew upon you.”
“Mamma!” protested Rogelio. But he was obliged to allow himself to be examined and re-examined by Esclavita, and even to consent to her giving the collar of his coat a touch with the brush. The girl’s eyes told him with innocent speech that he looked well. She arranged his cuffs and when they were going downstairs, she even called after him:
“There! There is a bit of the wool of the carpet on the right leg of your trousers.”
The first visit was to the house of Don Gaspar Febrero, to see the daughter of the worthy dean, who was on the eve of her departure for the Philippine Islands with her husband, a staff-officer, who had been ordered to Manilla. They talked about the voyage, the climate, the hurricanes, the clearness of living there, and of the old gentleman, who was to be left behind alone. Fortunately, he had never been in better health, never more animated nor more gay. Only a moment before, taking advantage of the pleasant weather, he had gone out, leaning on his crutch, for a little walk in the sun. Gratified by this satisfactory account, they left the abode of Nuño Rasura, and proceeded to make other visits more or less of the same ceremonious nature. At some of the houses they merely left cards, and these were the most pleasing visits for Rogelio, who, as he approached each door, repeated under his breath the customary aspiration: “I pray the saints they be not in!”