She was a beautiful Andalusian pony, sorrel, with black feet, with a small, thin head, sinewy legs, curved and shining hoofs, a coat dazzlingly bright, dilated and sensitive nostrils, and an eye full of fire and sweetness; she was young, gentle, graceful, spirited, one of those animals which do honor to the race of Spanish horses by the beauty of their appearance, by their intelligence, and by their noble and generous natures. Augustin Cuero was lavish in his praises of the animal, affecting to be grieved at parting from so precious a treasure.
“I assure you, Señora, that a finer horse is not to be seen to-day on the Castellana. She has not a single blemish. And she is a saint—a skein of silk; an infant could manage her. Spirited as she is, she is incapable of playing a trick. So that a man becomes attached to her, and when one sells her, it is like parting, one might almost say, with one of the family.”
“I assure you, Señora, that a finer horse is not to be seen to-day on the Castellana.”
“Yes,” answered Señora Pardiñas, who had an eye for a bargain, “but you won’t attempt to deny that this kind of horse is not now in fashion. The horses that are in style now have a neck a mile long, and are shaped like a tooth-pick.”
“Yes, the English horses; a ridiculous fashion, like a great many others. And those are for a certain kind of young gentlemen and certain circumstances. For the hippodrome and that sort of nonsense. A pony like this will always be of use. Anxious enough the Baraterin, is to buy her from me; only we can’t come to an agreement about the price. The Señorito there can tell you so.”
“That is true, mamma,” affirmed Rogelio, stroking the silky coat of the gentle animal. “I can bear witness to it. Augustin asked him the same price that he has asked you, and the bull-fighter offers him two ounces less; he is wild about her; he is all the time hanging around her; he makes her more visits!”
“Let him give up hanging around her then, for she is yours,” exclaimed the mother, with decision, enjoying the sight of the happiness depicted on the countenance of her son, who, on hearing those heavenly words, with a spontaneous movement threw his arms around the neck of the pony and planted a hearty smack on her soft black nose.
The price and the time of payment being agreed upon, Doña Aurora proposed to leave the pony in the care of Augustin for the present. But Rogelio, almost wild with delight, would not hear of this or of any other definite arrangement being made. “You know nothing about it, mamma,” he cried. “I will take charge of that, leave it all to me. Likely, indeed, that I should spend a whole day without knowing how my pony goes! Every morning and evening I must have a look at my lady pony. Leave it all to me, I say.” Doña Aurora ended by acceding to his wishes, and investing him with full powers in the matter, saying, “Very well, arrange it to suit yourself, then.” When the question arose as to a name for the pony, the young man said, smiling, “I will call it ‘Suriña.’”
The cardinal affections of the human soul are at times marvelously clear-sighted counselors. Señora de Pardiñas had divined, enlightened by maternal affection, that with a young man of twenty—and one young for his age—a woman can have no more dangerous rival than a fine horse. The horse is not merely a distraction for a couple of hours daily, but an occupation and a preoccupation from sunrise to sunset. To make investigations with regard to what it has eaten, and whether it has been robbed of its feed; to see if it has been rubbed down, and if all the operations of its toilet have been performed—and the toilet of a fine horse occupies almost as much time as the toilet of a beautiful woman; then the affectionate understanding that establishes itself between the horseman who for the first time enjoys the possession of a horse, and the animal; the tenderness that springs from ownership, the exchange of caresses, the sugar robbed from the breakfast table to take to it; the fresh bread put away in the waistcoat pocket, the pleasure produced by the joyful whinny of the animal when its keen sense of smell and its delicate perception tell it that its master is approaching with the dainty. Then the anxieties regarding its health—a horse gives as much anxiety in this respect as a child. “Señorito, I don’t know what is the matter with the pony, it hasn’t eaten its feed to-day. I notice that its eyes look dull—” “Señorito, to-day the pony has not—” But who can enumerate the ailments from which a pony may suffer. With all these cares, there are others of a different order, having relation to what may be called the wedding-finery of horsemanship—the saddle of the best pig-skin, small, fanciful, that crackles at the touch; the saddle-cloth of handsome felt, adorned with English ciphers; the steel stirrup, the fine head stall that gives free play to the graceful movements of the slender head; and for the rider, the whip with its chased silver handle, the Tyrolese gloves, the cravat with white horseshoes on a gray ground. All is excitement, all is delight in the enchanting honeymoon of the young man and his pony. And what emotion when it is brought out of the stable! What pride in displaying it before his friends! What ineffable joy to ride up and down the shady walks of Moncloa, seated on its back; to see a carriage approach in which some black-robed beauty reclines, and under the fascinating gaze of the beautiful unknown to make it rear and prance and show off its grace and spirit until it is covered with foam and sweat! What delight to put it through all its paces,—passing from the measured pace to the quick trot, then to the fiery gallop, and, as he strokes with his palm the neck of the obedient brute, to hear it snort with pleasure, thrilling through all its sensitive nerves and its vigorous and sinewy muscles like a young girl when the arm of her agile partner encircles her waist as he leads her to the dance!