Raphael entered. “Good-day, aunt! Good-day, my cousin! How is the heir of Algares?”
“As well as we could desire,” replied the countess.
“Then, my dear Gracia,” continued the cousin, “it seems to me it is time to quit your retreat. Your absence is an eclipse of the sun, which has thrown the whole city into consternation. The habituées of the fêtes sigh unanimously. Soon, in sign of mourning, all the trees of our promenade, las Delicias, will be despoiled of their foliage. The Baron de Maude has added to his numerous collection of questions, that which regards your invisibility. This excess of maternal love scandalizes him. He says that in France they permit ladies to compose beautiful verses on this subject, but they will not tolerate a young mother who exposes her health, destroys the freshness of her complexion, by depriving herself of repose and food—forgetting, in fine, her individual well-being for love to her child.”
“What extravagance!” cried the marchioness. “Can there be in the world a country where the mother leaves for a single instant her sick child?”
“The major is worse still,” continued Raphael. “When he learned the sacrifices you were making, countess, he opened his eyes wider than ever, so astonished was he, and declared he had not believed the Spaniards so backward as to be deprived of the advantages of a nursery.”
“What is that?” asked the marchioness.
“Why, he said,” pursued Raphael, “that it was the Siberia of English children. Sir John says he will bet that you have become so thin and so frail that you will easily be taken for the daughter of Zephyr, with greater reason than the Andalusian mares, to whom they affix this origin, and who, spurred on by the prick of lances, will very soon be outrun by his English mare Atalante, when even to distance her you scatter barley in her path. Cousin, the only one who is at all consoled in your absence, is Polo, who weeps for you in publishing a volume of poems. But,” continued Raphael, on seeing Stein enter, and playing upon the word, “here, is the most esteemed of precious stones, stone as melodious as Momo. Don Frederico,” he said, “you, who are an observer of physiognomy, will see that in Spain, under all circumstances of life, the equality of humor, good-nature, and even joy, are unalterable! Here we have not the schwermuth of the Germans, the spleen of the English, nor the ennui of our neighbors. And do you know why? It is because we do not demand too much of life, because we do not aspire to a refined felicity.”
“It is,” affirmed the countess, “because we are accustomed to have no other tastes than those of our age.”
“And that our beautiful sky reflects the well-being of our souls,” added the countess.
“I believe,” said Stein, “that these are all the causes, joined to the national spirit, which makes poor Spain content with a morsel of bread, an orange, and a ray of the sun.”