“The family name of the Dukes of Albe is Alvarez,” said Stein, “and it is also that of my host, a brave and honest retired merchant. I find it astonishing that in this country names the most illustrious are equally common to classes the most elevated, and to those the most infamous. It is for this strangers ask, Do all Spaniards believe themselves of noble blood?”
“It is a confusion of ideas,” answered Raphael, “as with every thing that regards Spain. Thus there is not a single foreigner who does not write in good faith respecting us, that all laborers wear at their side the sword of a gentleman. The same names of families are, without doubt, very common in Spain; but that arises in a great degree from the fact that formerly lords who possessed slaves gave their names to them on their emancipation. These names, which the free Moors already adopt, multiply, and more particularly those of great lords in proportion to the number of the slaves emancipated. Some of these new families became illustrious, and were ennobled, because many among them descended from Moors of noble race; but the grandees of Spain, who bear these names, need not be confounded with these families any more than with those of artisans whom they find in the same condition. We may also remark that many of these families have taken the names of places from whence they came; thus we have hundreds of Medina, Castillo, Navarre, Toledo, Burgos, Aragones, &c. As to these pretensions to nobility, so rife among Spaniards, I declare that the remark is not without foundation: it is certain there is in our country a great deal of pride joined to delicacy and an innate distinction; but we must not confound this salient point of the national character with the ridiculous affectations of nobility which we have seen in our time. The Spanish people do not aspire to embellish themselves with rags, or to quit the sphere in which Providence has placed them; but they attach as much importance to the purity of their blood as to their honor; above all in the northern provinces, where the inhabitants glory in not having any Moorish blood in their veins. This purity is lost by an illegitimate birth, by an alliance more or less doubtful with Moorish or Jewish blood, as also by their employment as mule-drivers, or public criers, and by ignominious penalties.”
“Dear me!” said Rita, “how tedious you are with your nobility! Will you, Raphael, do me the pleasure to continue the history of my uncle?”
“Again!” said the marchioness.
“Aunt,” replied Raphael, “I know of nothing more tiresome than an obstinate story-teller. Then, Don Frederico, Santa-Maria and Cabeza de Vaca united like two doves. Very often I have heard said that my aunt, the marchioness here present, has wept with joy and tenderness on seeing a union so well assorted. But he who was much astonished, as was everybody, and more than everybody, was my dear uncle, when, after due time, the Cabeza de Vaca gave birth to a little Santa-Maria as large as a fan, and who appeared to be the fruit of a union of an X and a Z. The Cabeza de Vaca was more proud than was Jupiter at the birth of Minerva. They had on this occasion a grand matrimonial discussion. The señora wished the sweet fruit of their love to be named Panoracio, a name which, since the battle of the plains of Tolosa, had been that of the first-born of the family. My uncle was obstinate, and wished that the future representative of the venerable Santa-Marias should have no other name than that of his father—a name sonorous and warlike. My aunt reconciled them by proposing to baptize the creature with the names of León Panoracio; and so the father has always called him Panoracio.”
This recital was suddenly interrupted by the general, who entered the saloon pale as death, his lips closed, and his eyes inflamed with anger.
“Powerful God!” said Raphael, in an under-tone, “I wish I were a hundred feet under ground, with the Roman statues which served the Moors to construct the foundations of the Giralda.”
“I am furious,” said the general.
“What is the matter, uncle?” the countess, red as a pomegranate, asked of him.
Rita lowered her head on her embroidery, and bit her lips to stifle her desire to laugh.